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