looked at the others.
Sarah Child Bitter seemed close to tears.
Commander Bitter, Canidy thought, looked as if he has just farted in church.
“The first thing we have to do is get everybody bedded down,” Canidy ordered. “All right, lady prisoners, follow me. There’s a butler around here someplace, and we’ll get him to bed you down. The male prisoners will find the bar to the right.”
3
SUMMER PLACE
DEAL, NEW JERSEY
1005 HOURS
JULY 4, 1942
As his Packard rolled past the sailor guarding the private road to the Whittaker estate, Colonel William J. Donovan wanted to believe the affair at Summer Place was something like The Marx Brothers at the Seashore—because he thought it was so real, so immediate, and the security implications were so monumental that his mind couldn’t take it all in.
It was proving impossible on a bright Fourth of July, in your own car with your wife sitting beside you, riding up to a house and friends you knew well, to see a bona fide threat not only to the coming amphibious landing on the North Coast of Africa but to the Army Air Corps’ plans for the bombardment of Germany, and even to the development of the weapon that might, very likely, decide the outcome of the war.
When they approached the house, they told the chauffeur to go around to the front. The chauffeur was a former FBI agent who had a .38 in a shoulder holster. There was a Thompson .45 ACP machine pistol on the floorboard. Donovan himself carried a .32 Colt Automatic pistol—with a silencer—on his belt. He had not taken off his seersucker jacket, because he knew the sight of the pistol disturbed Ruth.
As the car rolled to a stop before the broad stairway, he saw three groups of people. Sitting at umbrellaed tables on the lawn were an extraordinarily handsome collection of young people. He recognized Canidy, Jimmy Whittaker, and young Douglass. The other men, a Navy lieutenant commander and two handsome, muscular young men wearing swim trunks and bathrobes, were obviously Bitter, young Martin, and the very interesting Eric Fulmar. Three young women were with them. One of them held a baby on her lap. On each of the tables were pitchers of iced tea, and a galvanized tub was sitting on the grass full of ice and beer.
Donovan thought that it was significant that Canidy was on the lawn with the intruders and not with one of the two groups that had formed on the porch.
The group on the right was made up of Vice Admiral d’Escadre de Verbey; his staff; their hostess, Mrs. Barbara Whittaker; and Mr. and Mrs. C. Holdsworth Martin, Jr. Two silver wine buckets held a half-dozen towel-wrapped bottles.
Probably champagne, Donovan thought.
On the left—with an iced-tea pitcher—sat “the forces of shamed righteousness”: Captain Peter Douglass, Sr., USN; a Navy commander and a young lieutenant (obviously these two were officers from the Lakehurst guard detail); Mr. Eldon C. Baker; Miss Cynthia Chenowith; and Captain Stanley S. Fine, USAAC. Donovan thought it was especially interesting that Fine sat with Douglass, Baker, and the others.
Captain Peter Douglass had the night before accepted full responsibility for what had happened and had offered his resignation. Donovan had no intention of accepting it, but when he glanced at Douglass’s crestfallen face he realized that Douglass had imagined the worst possible scenario for the situation. To judge by his face, Baker simply looked angry. Cynthia Chenowith seemed embarrassed and ashamed.
The two Navy officers had faces Donovan recognized from his own military service: The big brass hat has just arrived, and there is no telling what will happen next. Fine, as always, was a lawyer, privy to the mess before the bar but not personally involved in it.
Donovan suppressed a smile when the young lieutenant, carried away as the big brass hat started up the stairs, came to attention and saluted. That triggered an automatic reflex from the other officers on the porch. They all saluted, even the admiral.
“Good morning,” Donovan said as he reached the top. He offered his hand to Douglass and Baker, introduced himself to the other naval officers, smiled at Cynthia, and then took Ruth’s arm and crossed the porch to where Barbara Whittaker and her group waited.
The women embraced while Martin introduced Donovan to the admiral and his staff.
“We have a little problem, Barbara,” Donovan said, “that has to be talked out. Is there someplace we can go?”
“Captain Douglass suggested that we clean up the breakfast room for you, Bill,” Barbara said.
“Fine,” Donovan