meet him outside and bring him in through the kitchen,” Donovan said.
They went back to the cobblestone driveway that separated the mansion from the stable—still so called, although it had been converted to a five-car garage—as a Cadillac limousine, bristling with shortwave radio antennae, rolled majestically in.
There were two neatly dressed young men in the front seat, one of whom jumped out to open the door the instant the car stopped.
J. Edgar Hoover, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, got out.
“Hello, Edgar,” Donovan said. “I’m glad you could find the time.”
“It’s always a pleasure, Bill,” Hoover said, firmly shaking his hand. He nodded curtly to Captain Douglass. “Douglass, ” he said.
“Mr. Director,” Douglass said.
“And you know Miss Hoche, I believe, Edgar?”
Hoover beamed.
“How nice to see you, my dear,” he said. “And how is your father?” Before Charity could open her mouth, he went on, “You be sure to give both your mother and father my kindest regards.”
“Of course,” Charity said.
“Would you like a little belt, Edgar?” Donovan asked. “Or would you rather go right in to dinner?”
“This is one of those days when I would dearly like a little taste,” Hoover said, “and just don’t have the time.”
“Well, we’ll give you a rain check,” Donovan said. “I’m trying to be very nice to you, Edgar.”
“That sounds as if you want something,” Hoover said, jovially, as they entered the house through the kitchen.
“Actually,” Donovan said, “I was hoping you might have a contact with the state police in Virginia.”
“I can probably help,” Hoover said. “What is it you need?”
“You know somebody that can fix a speeding ticket?” Donovan asked.
Hoover looked at him in genuine surprise.
“Seventy-three-point-six in a thirty-five-mile zone,” Donovan said, straight-faced. “The cop said that we’d probably lose our C-ration sticker, too.”
Hoover smiled.
“Darn you, Bill,” he said. “You really had me going there for a minute.”
“Oh, Edgar, you know better than that. I’d never ask you to fix a speeding ticket.”
“You didn’t really get one, did you?” Hoover asked.
“Less than an hour ago,” Donovan said. “On the way here. But don’t worry about it, Edgar. I’m going to ask the boss for a presidential pardon.”
Hoover’s smile was now strained.
“As soon as we get our business out of the way, Edgar, we’re headed for Warm Springs,” Donovan said. “On his way down there, Franklin’s always in a very good mood. He’ll take care of the speeding ticket, I’m sure.”
Hoover marched ahead of him toward the dining room. He knew the way.
Donovan glanced at Charity Hoche. She smiled and gave him a nod of approval. He had put Hoover off balance, and with consummate skill that Charity appreciated. First, by the suggestion of an insult: that the nation’s ranking law-enforcement officer, Mr. G-Man himself, would fix a speeding ticket, and then with the announcement that he was going to Warm Springs with President Roosevelt (whom he was privileged to call by his first name) on a trip on which Hoover had obviously not been invited.
There were very few people who could discomfit J. Edgar Hoover. Donovan, Charity thought, could play him like a violin.
The table was set for three.
Charity waited until they were seated, then started to leave.
“I’ll serve now, if that would be all right,” she said.
“Fine,” Donovan said, and then, as if he had just thought of it, “Oh, Charity, there was one more cable from London, a personal to me from Stevens.”
“Something I should know about?”
“I want you to get it decoded,” Donovan said. “The message is ‘Katharine Hepburn’s Fine by Me.’ ”
She smiled at him. It needed no decoding. Donovan had apparently cabled Lt. Colonel Ed Stevens, Deputy Chief of London Station, asking how he felt about Charity’s being transferred there. Making light of her Main Line Philadelphia accent, Charity was known as “Katharine Hepburn.”
“Oh, Uncle Bill,” Charity blurted, and ran to him and kissed him wetly on the cheek. “Thank you!”
“Serve dinner, Miss Hoche,” Donovan said. “The Director looks hungry.”
Hoover did not turn over his glass when a middle-aged maid produced the bottle of Chateau de Long ’35.
Donovan interpreted this as a good sign: that Hoover had not come to this meeting with a litany of OSS offenses against the FBI.
The relationship between the Director of the FBI and the Director of the OSS was complex. When a new broom had been needed to sweep out the scandal-ridden Federal Office of Investigation, the post had been offered to Donovan, both because of his public image as a war hero of untainted honesty, and because of