The Secret Warriors Page 5

  So would his very knowledge of the inner workings at the top of COI. For these reasons, if he became “difficult” Donovan would have to have him sit out the war at a remote base in Alaska or Greenland. It might even be necessary for Donovan to order his “hospitalization for psychiatric evaluation.” In the opinion of Roosevelt’s attorney general, the legal right of habeas corpus did not apply to mental patients. If Canidy were “hospitalized,” it would be for the duration.

  Captain Douglass could not threaten Canidy with any of this when he asked to return to the Navy. What he did say to him was that he should sit and think a moment about why it might be impossible for him to pin his golden naval aviator’s wings back on. Canidy, who was by no means stupid, saw what the writing on the wall was, and agreed—by no means enthusiastically—to stay on.

  “No,” Douglass said to Donovan. “He’s hardly what you could call a happy volunteer, but he seems to have reconsidered his situation.”

  “If he were a happy volunteer,” Donovan said, “that would worry me.” Donovan was pleased, and relieved. He liked Canidy personally, and it would have been unpleasant to order his “hospitalization.” And he agreed with Eldon Baker, the longtime professional intelligence officer in charge of the Moroccan operation, that Canidy was one of those rarities who have the strange combination of intelligence, imagination, courage, and ruthlessness that an agent needs. It would have been a pity had it been necessary to lock those talents up for the duration.

  Captain Douglass chuckled.

  “Okay,” Donovan said. “Then he’s the man. Have Chief Ellis get him out of the lady’s bed, tell him what he has to know, and then let him handle it. Didn’t you tell me you’d gotten him a marshal’s badge?”

  “It’s in the safe.”

  “Well, give it to him,” Donovan said. “Send Ellis along with him.”

  Chief Boatswain’s Mate Ellis was an old China sailor from the Yangtze River Patrol. Ellis was Douglass’s jack-of-all-trades in Washington.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And maybe you better go with them too. Sit in the car or something, where nobody can see you. Just make sure that letter is not intercepted.”

  “If I have any trouble, I’ll call you back,” Douglass said. “Otherwise, I will call you when Whittaker is safe in the house on Q Street.”

  “Fine.”

  “How are you, Colonel?” Douglass asked.

  “I’m sitting up in bed drinking rat poison and Scotch whiskey,” Donovan said. “Thank you for asking, Peter.”

  “Good night, Sir.”

  Somewhat bitterly, Donovan thought he was spending much too much time in political warfare with the ranking member of the American military establishment. But it couldn’t be helped. His allegiance belonged to Roosevelt, and no one else.

  PART TWO

  1

  ALAMEDA NAVAL AIR STATION

  ALAMEDA, CALIFORNIA

  APRIL 4, 1942

  The twin-engine B-25 Mitchell medium bomber taxied up to the Alameda transient parking ramp and killed its engines. Mounted just below the pilot’s-side window on the fuselage was the single silver star insignia of a brigadier general on a red plate the size of an automobile license plate.

  A door opened in the bottom of the fuselage and a short ladder appeared. A lieutenant, wearing aviator’s wings and the insignia of an aide-de-camp, descended the ladder and started toward base ops just as a Navy captain and an Army captain walked out of the base ops building.

  The lieutenant and the Navy captain exchanged salutes. The Army captain, hands jammed into his pockets, nodded at the lieutenant.

  “Hold it down there a minute,” a voice called from the pilot’s window of the B-25. A moment later, the pilot, who wore the stars of a brigadier general on the epaulets of his horsehide zippered jacket, came out of the airplane and walked toward the others.

  Another salute was exchanged.

  “Good evening, Captain,” the general said, offering his hand. “I’m General Jacobs. What’s this all about?”

  “Captain Farber, Sir,” the Navy officer said. “I’m the air operations officer. This is your passenger.”

  “My name is Whittaker,” the Army officer volunteered conversationally.

  Brigadier General Jacobs did not like the appearance of the captain. He was wearing a horsehide aviator’s jacket over his tropical worsted uniform; that was not only against uniform regulations, it was unsightly, for the leather jacket did not cover the blouse. Moreover, he was annoyed at being ordered to divert to Alameda to pick up a priority passenger who turned out to be nothing but a lowly captain.

  “Your appearance, Captain,” he said, “is disgraceful.”

  “I’ve been traveling, General,” Whittaker told him.

  “And you have been drinking,” the brigadier general snapped. “I can smell it!”

  “Yes, Sir, I have been drinking,” Whittaker confessed cheerfully.

  “I have been informed that he is on a high-priority mission,” Brigadier General Jacobs said to the Navy captain. “My first reaction is to order him back to his unit.”

  Whittaker chuckled.

  “You’re amused?” the general flared.

  “That might be a little hard to do, General,” Whittaker said.

  “General,” the Navy captain said, “this officer just came out of the Philippines.”

  “Oh?” The general’s tone softened, but just barely. He looked at Whittaker. “I’m sure,” he said, “that you have seen difficult service. But that’s really no excuse for looking slovenly. Or drinking on duty. Let me see your orders, Captain.”

  “Sir,” the Navy captain said, “Captain Whittaker’s orders are classified Secret.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “Yes, Sir,” the Navy captain said. “Captain Whittaker has the highest possible priority to facilitate his movement to Washington.”

  That explained, then, General Jacobs thought, why he had been ordered to Alameda Naval Air Station. Brigadier generals bound for Washington on their own important business are not routinely ordered to divert for passenger pickups.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He looked at Whittaker.

  “How did you get out of the Philippines?”

  “In a PT boat,” Whittaker said.

  The story of MacArthur’s escape—General Jacobs privately thought of it as “personal retreat”—from the Philippines was well known. It was logical to conclude that this young officer had been with him.

  “Well, get aboard, Captain,” he said. “We’ve got a long flight ahead of us, and we’re only going to stop for fuel.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Whittaker said to the Navy captain.

  General Jacobs waited until Whittaker and his aide had disappeared into the fuselage. Then he looked at the Navy captain.

  “You can’t tell me what this is all about?”

  “I’ve had two telephone calls already from Washington,” the Navy captain said, “asking for his schedule. All I know is that he’s headed right for the White House.”

  “Very interesting,” General Jacobs said. He gave his hand to the Navy captain, then walked to the airplane. As he started up the ladder, the port engine starter began to grind.

  2

  It was a long and cold flight from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. The aircraft’s weapons had been removed, but the pieces of Plexiglas intended to cover the weapons ports had not been replaced, and cold wind whistled through the fuselage from the moment they began the takeoff roll.

  When they were at altitude, General Jacobs went back into the fuselage and expressed regret that it was uncomfortable for Whittaker, but that he could unfortunately do nothing about it.

  In Salt Lake City, while they took on fuel, Whittaker stole a case of paper towels from the men’s room in base operations. As soon as they were airborne again, he stuffed the towels in the openings in the nose. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it helped.

  When they refueled again at the
Air Corps field at Omaha, Nebraska, it was a toss-up, Whittaker reflected, whether the general was more annoyed with him for the appearance of the airplane, or with the people at Omaha for not having the parts to fill the gaps in the windows.

  The paper towels were removed and replaced with strips of blanket, taped in place. General Jacobs’s ire had preceded them to the Air Corps base at Columbus, Ohio, and when they landed there to refuel again, a captain and two sergeants were waiting with the missing pieces of Plexiglas.

  From Columbus to Washington, it was not quite as cold in the fuselage, but Whittaker’s blood was still thin from the tropics, and he spent the flight huddled under a thick layer of blankets.

  When the B-25 landed at Bolling Field, a Follow Me pickup led it far away from the lights of Base Operations and the hangars to a distant spot on the parking ramp.

  When Whittaker climbed down the ladder and, ducking his head, walked away from the airplane, he found a number of people waiting for the B-25. There were two cars: an olive-drab Chevrolet staff car, driven by a buck sergeant, which Whittaker presumed was for him, and a black Buick Roadmaster sedan, driven by a Navy chief boatswain’s mate.

  A tall, erect General Staff Corps colonel approached him first and asked if he was Captain Whittaker. When Whittaker nodded, he announced that he was from the Office of the Chief of Staff and that he had been sent to take possession of the letter Whittaker was carrying.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” another voice—oddly familiar, Whittaker thought—broke in, “but I have been sent to welcome Captain Whittaker home, and to take charge of him and the letter.”

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Whittaker said, really surprised. “Canidy!”

  Richard Canidy had been James M. B. Whittaker’s best friend since they had been adolescents at St. Mark’s School. Until this moment, Whittaker had believed that Canidy was in China as a Flying Tiger. Which meant that Canidy, if he wasn’t dead, was in the deep shit there at least as much as he himself had been in the Philippines.

  “May I ask who you are?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m a deputy United States marshal, Colonel,” Canidy said. He took a small wallet from his pocket and extended it, open, for the colonel’s examination.

  “What the hell is all that?” Whittaker asked.

  “Just shut up and get in the Buick, Jimmy,” Canidy said. “I’ll explain later.”

  “I can’t imagine how the Department of Justice has become involved in this,” the colonel said. “But I’ll tell you this, Mr.—What did you say your name was?”

  “Canidy,” Canidy furnished.

  “I’ll tell you this, Mr. Canidy,” the colonel went on. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me. I am from the Office of the Chief of Staff, and I have every intention of assuming responsibility for this officer and any material he may have in his possession.”

  “Colonel,” Canidy said, “the Justice Department has just assumed responsibility for this officer. If you have any questions, may I suggest you refer them to the Attorney General?”

  “This officer’s not important,” the colonel said. “You can have him if you like. But I must have the letter he has in his possession.”

  “Colonel,” Whittaker said matter-of-factly, “General MacArthur told me to deliver the letter in person.”

  “And I’m telling you, Captain, that I am here to take it from you. That’s an order.”

  The muscular, stocky Navy chief petty officer who was driving the Buick walked up.

  “Chief, would you put Captain Whittaker in the car, please?” Canidy said.

  “Yes, Sir,” Ellis said. “If you’ll come with me, please?”

  “Now, just a minute!” the colonel fumed. “I will have that letter!”

  “I’m sorry about the mix-up, Colonel,” Canidy said. “But I have my orders. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  He walked quickly after Whittaker and Captain Ellis.

  The colonel made one last attempt. “I order you, Captain,” he called after them, “to give me that letter.”

  “Sorry,” Whittaker said over his shoulder. The confrontation and the colonel’s frustration seemed to amuse him. “I don’t know who you are, Colonel, but Marshal Wyatt Earp and I are old friends. I think I’d better go with him.”

  He opened the rear door of the Buick and got in. There was a man sitting against the far door, wearing a blue overcoat.

  “Welcome home, Captain Whittaker,” he said. “My name is Douglass.”

  “What about your luggage, Captain?” Chief Ellis asked.

  “Luggage?” Whittaker parroted incredulously. “Luggage?”

  Chief Ellis grinned, closed the door, and quickly got behind the wheel. Canidy trotted in front of the Buick and slipped beside Ellis.

  “Get out of here, Chief,” he said, “before that colonel has a chance to think of something to do.”

  After they were moving, Whittaker asked, “What the hell was that U.S. marshal business all about? What are you doing here, anyway? The last I heard, you were in China, flying P-40s for the Flying Tigers.”

  “That was fun for a while,” Canidy said. “But then they started shooting at me, so I came home.”

  “And became a U.S. marshal?” Whittaker asked. “Clever, Richard! An essential occupation that keeps you out of uniform.”

  “We’re from the Office of the Coordinator of Information,” Douglass said.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Colonel Donovan runs it, Jimmy,” Canidy said.

  “And we work for Colonel Donovan,” Douglass said, “and he wants to make sure you deliver that letter to the President.”

  “Where are we going?” Whittaker asked.

  “To your house,” Douglass said. “We’re using it now as sort of a hotel. We’ll see that you get a good night’s sleep—you must be exhausted—and in the morning we’ll see about you delivering your letter.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Whittaker said. “How would I do that? I can hardly walk up to the White House gate and announce I’ve got a letter for Uncle Franklin.”

  “We’ll take care of it in the morning,” Douglass said.

  “Who the hell are you guys?” Whittaker asked again. “What do you mean, Dick, you’re working for Bill Donovan? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Can you hold your curiosity overnight, Captain?” Douglass asked. “We’ll explain it all in the morning.”

  “Jimmy,” Canidy said. “For tonight: Colonel Donovan tells us what to do, and he told us to meet you. Asking questions around here is like farting in church.”

  Whittaker and Chief Ellis laughed.

  “Are you hungry, Captain?” Douglass asked.

  “Starved,” Whittaker said.

  “We asked the cook to stay up,” Chief Ellis said, “in case you would be.”

  “You’re in the house, Dick?” Whittaker asked. “Living there, I mean?”

  “Your house is now sort of a fraternity house for strange people,” Canidy said. “Like you and me.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Whittaker said.

  “And you’ll be surprised, no doubt, to hear that our house mother is Cynthia Chenowith,” Canidy said.

  “No kidding?” Whittaker said.

  He had been in love with Cynthia Chenowith, the daughter of a close family friend, since he was seven and she was ten. At those ages, the age difference seemed to be an insurmountable problem. Now, he thought, it seemed like a minor inconvenience, even though Miss Chenowith showed no more romantic interest in him than she had at ten.

  “There’s something you ought to know about her, Jim,” Canidy said.

  “I really think that should wait until morning,” Douglass said quickly.

  “I don’t,” Canidy said. “I think he should know before he sees her, and she’s likely going to be there when we get there.”

  “What should I know?” Whittaker said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Whittaker realized Canidy was waitin
g for permission to continue.

  “Okay,” Douglass said. “Tell him. Maybe you’re right.”

  “They did get word to you about Chesly?” Canidy asked.

  Chesley H. Whittaker was Whittaker’s uncle.

  “Yeah,” Whittaker said. “Uncle Franklin took care of that. He ordered MacArthur to find me and tell me.”

  “Uncle Franklin”—Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the President of the United States—was not really Whittaker’s uncle, but the families were so close that Whittaker had grown up calling Roosevelt “Uncle Franklin”—and thinking of him that way.

  “He was with Cynthia when he died,” Canidy said. “At the house.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Whittaker said.

  “I mean with her, Jimmy,” Canidy said.

  It took Whittaker a moment to digest that.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said softly. “Does my aunt know?”

  “Chesly was at a ball game in New York, with Colonel Donovan, when they got the word about Pearl Harbor,” Canidy said. “Then he came to Washington with Donovan. Donovan went to the White House. Chesly went to the house on Q Street. To Cynthia’s apartment. He suffered a stroke. Just dropped dead.”

  “In the saddle?” Whittaker asked lightly.

  Canidy, embarrassed, did not reply.

  “Jesus,” Whittaker said. “That’s only supposed to happen in a dirty joke.”

  “Cynthia called Donovan at the White House. He couldn’t leave, so he sent Captain Douglass and the chief. They took care of things, so there was no scandal. I don’t think your aunt knows.”

  “How did they ‘take care of things’?” Whittaker asked.

  “We fixed it so the body was found in his shower,” Chief Ellis said.

  “You carried his body from her apartment to his room?” Whittaker asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Ellis said.

  “Thank you,” Whittaker said. And then, a moment later, he asked, “How tight a secret is this?”