The Hunt

Keegan turned off the main highway just before he got to the city limits of Princeton and drove about four miles to the tiny village of Allamuchy. It was dark and the misting rain that had plagued him all the way from New York had turned to fog. He might have missed the railroad station completely had he not been stopped a hundred yards from it by four cars blocking the road.

A tall, gaunt-faced man with his hat pulled over his eyes emerged from the fog and shined his flashlight in the car.

“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” he said in a flat, no- nonsense voice.

“My name’s Keegan. To Visit Car C.”

“May I see some identification?”

Keegan handed him his wallet and his passport. The agent checked the license signature against the name in the passport. He flashed the light in Keegan’s face again, then back down to the passport photo.

“Very good, sir. Mr. Laster will drive down with you if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Laster was a handsome, pleasant man impeccably dressed, although soaking wet. He shook the rainwater off his hat before he got in.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to get your seat wet.”

“That’s the least of my troubles,” said Keegan.

“Drive down to your right, past the station. You can cross the tracks there.”

As they crossed over the railroad, Laster told him to take a sharp left. A hulking steam engine loomed through the fog. They drove past the black leviathan. Steam curled from around its enormous wheels and undercarriage as it hissed idly, waiting to be stoked up. The private train was seven cars long and was dark except for slender shafts of light streaming from under drawn shades. As they drove the length of the train, Keegan could see the vague forms of bodyguards moving about in the darkness. Then Laster suddenly ordered, “Stop here,” as they neared the last car.

Keegan slammed on the brakes. A slender woman with a wide-brimmed hat came out of the last car, her collar turned up around her ears. A plainclothesman helped her down the steep metal steps, then they scurried through the mist around the back of the car. A moment later Keegan saw automobile headlights flash on the opposite side of the Pullman car. Then he heard an auto drive off.

“Okay, pull down to the end of the train,” Laster said and after hesitating a moment, added: “You might forget what you just saw.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” Keegan said.

Laster smiled without looking at him. “This’ll be fine,” he said.

Keegan stopped the car and they got out.

“Just a minute, please,” Laster said as he mounted the steps on the back of the Pullman. He disappeared inside. Keegan lit a cigarette and turned up the collar of his suit coat. The mist was so heavy it collected on the brim of his fedora and dripped off.

Keegan now understood why the president’s private train from Hyde Park to Washington was sidetracked in this virtually nonexistent village. Through the years, Keegan had heard newsmen joke among themselves about FDR’s “lady friend.” It was a reporter’s inside joke; no one ever hinted at it in print. But Beerbohm had confided to Keegan once that her name was Lucy Rutherford and she lived someplace in New Jersey and that Roosevelt had been in love with her since before the war; a twenty-five-year love affair which the press chose to ignore.

A minute or two passed and Laster appeared at the door to the Pullman car and motioned Keegan in. He climbed the steps and entered the private car.

It was laid our as an office, its walls lined with dark wood paneling, the floors covered with thick piled carpeting. A large oak desk dominated the middle section of the car. Behind it was a bar and to its left a large leather sofa with Tiffany floor lamps on either end. An antique chair sat in front of the desk. The lighting was subdued and the tasseled silk shades were fully drawn.

President Roosevelt sat behind the desk in his electrified wheelchair, dressed in a scarlet smoking jacket and a dark blue silk ascot, his pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, a glass of scotch at his elbow. His face broke into the familiar warm, broad grin as Keegan entered the car.

“Well, Francis, what a grand surprise after all these years,” the president said, offering his hand.

“Mr. President,” Keegan said as they shook.

“Pour yourself a drink and sit down there in front of me,” Roosevelt said, nodding toward the chair. “Sorry about the rain. I trust the trip from the big city wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“Not a bit,” Keegan said. He poured himself a sour mash highball and sat down. “I appreciate your taking time to see me.”

“I can hardly pass up a chance to say hello to an old friend,” Roosevelt said, enunciating every syllable in his refined accent. “I can’t thank you enough for your contributions to the party over the years, Francis. You’ve been a generous and loyal supporter.”

“My pleasure, Mr. President,” Keegan said. “Are you going to break precedent and go for a third term?”

“Still up in the air, old man,” Roosevelt answered. “My advisers have mixed feelings about it.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you do,” Keegan said.

“Thanks. You look hardy, Francis. I trust things have gone well for you.”

“No complaints, sir.”

“Excellent, excellent. Before we chat I would like to request that you keep our meeting confidential,” the president said. His eyes had an almost mischievous glow. “A policy of mine, permits me to let what little hair I have down.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Keegan answered.

“One other thing. You mentioned national security. Would you consider letting an adviser of mine, Bill Donovan, sit in?”

Keegan recognized the name immediately. He had heard that Wild Bill Donovan, of the old Fighting 69th, was organizing an information-gathering agency. It would collect intelligence information and analyze it as part of Roosevelt’s attempt to overhaul the entire intelligence system, such as it was—which wasn’t much.

“That’ll be fine, Mr. President,” Keegan replied. But Roosevelt could see a tinge of disappointment in Keegan’s face. He leaned forward in his chair with his hands on the edge of his desk and fiddled with a cigarette, finally putting it in a long, ivory holder and lighting it.

“Francis, do you know how many spies we had when the world war started?” he asked, and held up two fingers before Keegan could answer. “Two.”

“Two!” Keegan said with a chuckle of disbelief.

“That’s right, my friend, ridiculous as it may sound, we had two spies and two clerks supporting them. That was our entire intelligence service. And to make matters worse, what intelligence sources we did build up during the war have mostly been abandoned since the armistice. You’ve been to Germany, Francis, you’ve seen firsthand what’s happening over there. We desperately need a first-class intelligence agency. Bill Donovan will take on the task.”

“Sir, you don’t have to.

Roosevelt waved a hand at Keegan and cut him off.

“What I’m telling you is public knowledge. But if national security is involved in this matter, I would appreciate your sharing the information with him. If this is a purely personal thing, he’s waiting in the club car so I’m sure he won’t get too bored if we leave him there.”

“I think intelligence might very well enter into it,” Keegan said.

“Good.” The president reached under his desk and pressed a button.

A minute or two later a tall, well-built man in his late forties entered the car from the front. Keegan recognized him from photographs. He stood very erect and was dressed in a blue double-breasted suit, starched white shirt and a flaming red tie. He was carrying a drink.

The president made the introductions. “William, this is my friend Francis Keegan. Bill Donovan, Francis.”

Donovan’s handshake was sturdy and his blue eyes stared straight into Keegan’s eyes. “Good to meet you, Keegan,” he said brusquely.

“Colonel,” said Keegan. “It’s an honor.”

Donovan’s poker face did not change. If he was flattered by Keegan’s remark, he did not show it. He sat against the wall on the leather sofa, crossed his legs and sipped his drink. He did not take his eyes off Keegan. Donovan had been a U.S. district attorney in western New York state for several years and Keegan wondered what was going through his mind, sitting in on a meeting with the president and an ex-rumrunner—a man he might have prosecuted a few years earlier—discussing national security. Keegan sensed an incipient skepticism from Donovan. If Keegan had any credibility, obviously it ‘would have to come from the president.

“Congratulations on your new job,” Keegan said. “From what I hear, we need you.”

“Actually it’s pretty dull stuff,” Donovan said.

“Dull?” Keegan said.

“Sure,” Donovan said. “College graduates sitting in offices monitoring foreign broadcasts, reading foreign publications, sifting through diplomatic reports. They dig up information and then the experts decide if it’s pertinent. The fun stuff, the movie stuff, that’s a small part of it.”

“How about the embassies?” Keegan pressed.

“Embassies?” Donovan asked innocently.

“Come on, Colonel,” Keegan said. “Everybody knows the diplomatic services are fronts for espionage. The German embassy in Paris is nothing more than an intelligence unit for a major named von Meister.”

Now how the hell would he know that? Donovan wondered. “But,” Keegan said, “since Mr. Hull thinks spying is ungentlemanly all our embassies do is give parties and kiss ass.”

Roosevelt leaned back in his chair and howled with glee. “Well, what do you think of that analysis, William?”

Donovan’s cold countenance softened slightly. He chuckled and said, “Not bad. Want a job, Keegan?”

“No thanks,” said Keegan with a smile. “I tried that in 1917. I don’t take orders too well.”

“You took them well enough to win a Silver Star at Belleau Wood,” Donovan said casually.

Touché, thought Keegan.

“Well, what do you have for us, eh?” Roosevelt asked pleasantly.

“Look, Mr. President, I think you know I’m not some nut from the boondocks. I say that because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound pretty crazy. The thing is, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure it’s true.”

“Uh huh,” the president said eagerly. He was clearly intrigued. Donovan continued to stare from a poker face.

“A man I consider above reproach has passed information on to me that there is a German sleeper agent living in this country,” Keegan began. “He’s been here for several years. This man is a master agent and his mission, if he’s successful, could neutralize the United States in the event England and France go to war with Hitler.”

“Neutralize us?” Donovan said, showing only mild interest. “What the hell is he planning to do?”

“Whatever their plan is, this man—his code name is Siebenundzwanzig, Twenty-seven—is working directly for Hitler. According to my information, whatever their plan is, it could prevent us from declaring war on Germany.”

“And you have no idea what this assignment is?”

Keegan shook his head.

“That’s ridiculous,” Donovan sneered, showing his first hint of emotion. “What could one man possibly do that would compromise us to such an extent?”

“I don’t know, Colonel, but I can tell you this. The information came from a Nazi agent in Germany who had infiltrated an underground organization. He was caught and tortured. He gave up the name of three agents. The information on the other two was accurate and they were both killed.”

“What underground organization?” Donovan asked, his face once again a mask of control. Not a man to play poker with, thought Keegan.

“My source is impeccable,” Keegan insisted.

“Where did you get this tip?” asked Donovan.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I think I can promise you the information will never leave this room,” Roosevelt said softly, his smile still staunch. “Don’t you trust us, Francis?”

“Of course I do, Mr. President. But I made a promise.”

“I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. ‘On the other hand, Bill has a point. It would help if we can judge the validity of your information.”

“Have you ever heard of an organization called Black Lily?”

A flicker of recognition in Donovan’s eyes. Roosevelt looked at him with eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Donovan said.

“It came from the head of Black Lily.”

“You know the head of Black Lily?” Donovan said, disbelief in every syllable.

Keegan nodded. Donovan was skeptical. He looked at the president and rolled his eyes. Keegan decided it was time to take a round or two in this mental boxing march.

“His name is Avrum Wolffson,” Keegan said, and Donovan’s amazed reaction told Roosevelt that Keegan had won the first knockdown in the delicate match.

“Does that jibe with your information, Bill?” the president asked.

“I’ve heard the name mentioned,” Donovan said cautiously, still not willing to give up the round.

“Wolffson is unquestionably the head of Black Lily,” Keegan said with finality. “He’s been head of it since it was formed at the University of Berlin in 1933. One of his chief lieutenants was a young man named Joachim Weber. Weber was murdered by Nazi agents in Zurich two years ago. Wolffson’s reaction was radical. He struck back, killed one agent in Zurich and another in Vienna. But the one known as Siebenundzwanzig is still alive because he’s here in America.”

Roosevelt settled back in his wheelchair, getting rather perverse enjoyment out of watching the two men spar with each other. Donovan, a bit flabbergasted by the flood of information, was subdued.

“And how did this Wolffson find out there was a spy in his outfit?” Donovan asked, still skeptical.

“The infiltrator used the name Isaac Fish. The real Fish was a prisoner at Dachau. He was executed along with fifty other inmates as an example after an aborted escape attempt. Wolffson got a list of the hostages who were murdered

“Oh, now really Donovan started but Keegan cut him off. He handed him the tattered list of dead hostages.

“This is the list,” said Keegan.

Donovan took the sheet reluctantly and scanned it. He looked up at Keegan suspiciously.

“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t tell you that.”

“You expect us to believe you’re privy to this kind of information?”

“I think it speaks for itself,” Keegan answered. “Wolffson was . . . coaxing. . . information out of Fish when he spilled the beans about the three agents.”

“Wait a minute,” said Donovan, shaking his head. “I know for a fact that Black Lily isn’t involved in that kind of thing.”

“It is now, Colonel. It isn’t a Freiheit movement anymore. It has become a full-fledged active underground operation. The three agents were members of a unit called Die Sechs Fuchse, the Six Foxes, a small, elite intelligence unit headed by a psychologist named Wilhelm Vierhaus and accountable only to Hitler.”

“Jesus!” Donovan exploded. “Where the hell did you learn all this?!”

“The first name on that list is Jennifer Gould,” Keegan said. “She was my fiancée and Avrum Wolffson’s half-sister.”

There was stunned silence in the railroad car.

“Do you know about this unit, Bill?” Roosevelt interrupted. Donovan nodded slowly.

“And she was executed?” Roosevelt asked Keegan, gently.

“She was buried alive,” Keegan said. “Along with fifty other prisoners.”

“Good God!” Roosevelt exclaimed. A silence followed, a respectful silence that was finally broken by a now soft-spoken Donovan.

“How fresh is this information?”

“I learned it eight days ago.”

Roosevelt leaned back in his chair again and stared at a corner of the car. According to Hoover, there were several Nazi agents in America. The FBI had been investigating their ties to the German-American Bund for over a year. But Hoover had never come up with such specific information.

“Do you have anything else on this man?” Donovan asked.

Keegan decided to hedge a little. He knew he had them both going. He shook his head slowly.

“So we’ve got a sleeper agent with the code name Twenty- seven, living somewhere in the U.S. with a plan to keep us out of the war? That’s it?”

“Yes sir, except I assure you again, this is not hot air. I am convinced that Twenty-seven exists and knowing Vierhaus, I think whatever their plan is, it has some validity. Why take a chance?”

“There’s no place to start!” Donovan said. “We have no source of information in Germany to back-check. We have no description, no name. The sentence died out.

“On the other hand,” said Roosevelt, “can we afford to dismiss it? It seems to me that the closer we come to war, the more frequent these threats are going to become.”

“I don’t suggest we dismiss it,” said Donovan, sighing. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand. From a jurisdictional point, this is an FBI matter.”

“No way,” Keegan said immediately and emphatically.

“I beg your pardon?” Donovan said with raised eyebrows.

“Colonel, I’m not one of Mr. Hoover’s favorite people,” said Keegan. “He has a long memory, sir. He’d probably laugh at the information, then bury it. I can’t give him specifics and I can’t jeopardize my contact. I won’t do that. That’s why I came to you, Mr. President. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Roosevelt and Donovan exchanged quick glances. Keegan had a definite point. In the matter of intelligence, Roosevelt had a problem with Hoover, a powerful and popular figure in America. Hoover had invented a weekly roll called the “Ten Most Wanted,” plastered the faces of America’s most dangerous criminals in post offices and literally declared war on bank robbers. In one year, his college-graduate machinegun squads, led by the hard case Melvin Purvis, whose credo was “shoot first, then ask questions,” had killed Pretty Boy Floyd, Ma Barker and her “Boys,” Machine Gun Kelly, John Dillinger and Homer Van Meter.

But by 1935, Hoover’s G-men were running out of quarry. And since there was still no effective intelligence service, Hoover had turned his attention to the Communist threat, placing known members of the party under surveillance, gathering information on them, and taking over the responsibility for intelligence gathering in the Western Hemisphere.

Hoover had been annoyed by the proposal that Donovan establish an intelligence agency. He had acquiesced only so long as Donovan stayed out of his territory. It was a touchy issue and one which Roosevelt had to juggle carefully, since Hoover and his agents had very little experience in gathering or analyzing intelligence data. The compromise he made was that Donovan’s group would operate outside North, Central and South America, leaving the entire Western Hemisphere in Hoover’s jurisdiction.

Roosevelt knew the danger in the compromise: Hoover could follow the same path which Himmler had followed in Germany. After the Reichstag fire, Himmler’s list of Communists had been used to frame the Communists for the fire, then track them down and murder over one thousand members of the party in the weeks following the lire. The lists being gathered by Hoover might also be used for political rather than national security purposes. The power-hungry FBI director was not above such abuse of his office.

Keegan’s request could precipitate a political crisis which Roosevelt could not afford at the moment. And yet the president believed Keegan’s information was probably accurate. The ex-rumrunner had presented him with an unusual dilemma.

“Do you have a suggestion?” the president asked Keegan.

“Let me go after him,” Keegan said flatly.

“What!” Donovan said.

“Just a minute, William, hear him out,” said Roosevelt.

“I need credentials that will get me into the bureau’s files and also give me credibility when I ask questions.”

“Without Hoover knowing about it?” Donovan said. “That’ll be the day.”

“I promise you, I’ll confine everything specifically to this investigation.”

“What do you know about investigating anything?” Donovan asked.

“Logic. It’s all logic. That’s all we have to go on. Logic and intuition. Maybe we get lucky. Maybe we get on his trail. Maybe we get a fingerprint, something like that. I run it through the system, see what we turn up. This is nothing but a track down, Colonel Donovan. It’s not a murder investigation.”

“I think Edgar might disagree with you there, Keegan,” said the stoic Donovan. “Even if he doesn’t believe the information, he’d get extremely ugly if he found out someone outside the bureau was stepping on his toes.”

“I only need access to the files for about four months—say March through June of 1934.”

Donovan suddenly was very interested. He leaned forward on the sofa and put his drink on the floor, his eyes narrowing. “You’re holding out on us,” he snapped.

“Anything else I could tell you would be pure conjecture.”

“Let me judge that,” Donovan said.

“What have we got to lose?” Keegan asked naively, unaware of the political implications of his request. “We know Hoover will fluff off the information anyway. Why not let me take a crack at it? Does he have to know?”

“Subterfuge, Francis?” Roosevelt asked wryly.

Keegan smiled. “I guess you could call it that, Mr. President.”

“What else can you call it?” Donovan asked.

Keegan could tell Roosevelt found the idea appealing.

“You’re talking about a lot of time and work, Francis,” the president said.

“I’ve got nothing else to do. And if I abuse the privilege you can always revoke my library card.”

“Library card, I like that,” Roosevelt said with a chuckle.

“I’ll pay my own expenses,” Keegan added.

“A dollar-a-year man, eh?” Roosevelt said. The idea was beginning to appeal to him. Since he had become president, Roosevelt had surrounded himself with unpaid advisers from many different fields who were paid a token fee of one dollar a year.

Donovan picked up his glass and took a drink without taking his eyes off Keegan.

“We’re in a curious situation,” Roosevelt said. “I think the three of us would agree that war between Germany and England and France is inevitable. But the American people don’t want to hear about it. I made a speech in Chicago the other night warning the country about the threat of fascism. I thought it would rally the people and I was certainly mistaken about that, my friend. Nobody supported my position. What an outcry! What criticism. It’s a hell of a note, boys, when you’re trying to lead the country and you look over your shoulder and there’s nobody there.”

“America just isn’t ready to face up to it yet,” Donovan offered. “The last war is still fresh in their minds. We’re still getting over the Depression.”

“You’re right, Bill,” Roosevelt said. “Americans won’t accept the reality of totalitarianism right now.” He paused for a moment and took a sip of scotch. “On the other hand, the capture of a dangerous Nazi spy in this country might have a strong effect on public opinion.”

“If such a spy exists,” Donovan said.

“He exists all right,” Keegan said. “I’m just asking you to make the job a little easier because I intend to go after him whether I have your help or not.”

“Now just a damn minute Donovan said angrily.

“Hold on, hold on, boys,” Roosevelt said, his face breaking into the wide grin again. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“There are experts in this field, Keegan,” Donovan said slowly. “Why not let them handle it?”

“Why not let them help me?”

“Listen .

Roosevelt stepped in again.

“Just a minute, Bill. Francis, I’m sure your decision to come to me with this information was not an easy one. What do you say we sleep on the matter? Do you have a card, Bill?”

Donovan handed him an embossed business card. His name was printed across the middle and in the right corner, “The White House” and a phone number. Roosevelt turned it over and scrawled “Franklin” across it, then tore it in half. He handed one half to Keegan.

“If we have a deal, you’ll be contacted by whoever has the other half of this card. Whatever happens, you must be discreet. Bill and I will know about it, possibly one or two other people. I must ask you to keep what you are doing to yourself, Francis.

It is important that we keep this information quiet. If Hoover gets wind of this there’ll be hell to pay and your investigation would be over.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, then you must assume I can’t help you.”

“However it bounces,” said Donovan, “this meeting never happened.”

“I understand,” Keegan said.

Roosevelt held out his hand. He was smiling broadly, his cigarette holder cocked toward the ceiling—a familiar pose in photographs. They shook hands.

“You’ve always been a good friend, Francis,” Roosevelt said. “And a discreet one. I assure you, I deeply appreciate this information. And I am deeply sorry about your fiancée.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m flattered you even remembered me.”

Roosevelt’s eyes twinkled. “Now how could I forget you Frankie Kee,” he said with a chuckle.

Keegan had hardly closed the door behind him when Donovan turned to the president.

“He’s awfully arrogant, Mr. President .

“Certainly, Bill, you don’t want a bunch of namby-pambies working for you.”

Donovan looked at the floor and smiled. Roosevelt did have a way of cutting through the bullshit, he thought to himself. He took another tack.

“It sounds preposterous to me,” he said. “I can’t imagine what the Huns would have up their sleeve that could, what did he say, neutralize us?”

Roosevelt didn’t answer. He fiddled with his cigarette holder for a few moments. What indeed, he wondered. The myriad possibilities fascinated him.

“I classify information by letter and number,” Donovan went on. “A-one would be top of the line, A being an unimpeachable source, one being verified information. I would classify Keegan’s data as about . . D-five.”

“I won’t disagree with your judgment on that, Bill,” the president said.

“Hoover is insanely protective of his territory,” Donovan said. “He’s made it clear that anything happening in the States is his jurisdiction. Why not give him the information?”

Roosevelt’s eyebrows rose. “Because I made Keegan a promise,” the president said. “Besides, I do agree with Keegan in one respect. If we give this information to the Bureau, nothing will be done. You know Edgar, if his people don’t initiate a project, it goes to the bottom of the pile.”

“Then he can take the rap if it turns out to be true,” Donovan said.

Roosevelt’s face clouded up for just a moment, then the lines softened again.

“We’re not talking about blame here, Bill,” he said. “What if Keegan’s information turns out to be A-one and he turns this sleeper agent up? It would be a feather in your war bonnet if Keegan were working for you.”

“And if it’s a flop?”

Roosevelt smiled. “Then, my friend, nobody will ever know the difference. The project will be classified secret. We won’t even keep a file on it.”

Donovan was still unconvinced. He stood and pressed his fists in the small of his back.

“What the hell could this mission possibly be?” he asked. “Assassination? If, God forbid, they should kill you, it wouldn’t neutralize us, the chain would continue unbroken. Sabotage? What could one man possibly destroy that would neutralize our position?”

“I have no idea. And obviously Keegan has no idea.”

“Mr. President, I don’t have the manpower or the budget to send a team out to find some phantom running an unknown and highly suspect mission. I’m still putting my operation together.”

“And I don’t like surprises, William,” said Roosevelt. “Look here, I appreciate your skepticism. I just have a feeling about this one. Hitler’s such a devious bastard, it sounds like something he might do. After all, what has he got to lose?”

Donovan lit a cigar and blew the smoke across its tip, watching the end glow. He was deep in thought, considering the pros and cons of having an unattached ex-bootlegger running around the country with White House credentials.

“Bill, before this is over you and I are going to be doing a lot of unorthodox things,” Roosevelt said. “I don’t want to step on your toes but. . . humor me on this one, will you?”

“Of course, Mr. President . .

“I’ll get him White House security credentials,” Roosevelt cut in. “You assign a contact man to keep tabs on him, kind of give him a hand. All it will cost you is a little of your man’s time.”

“And we just cut Keegan loose by himself?”

“Why not? He has a certain.. . obsession about this. If there is a shadow agent out there, he might just get lucky.”

“We’d have no control over him

“True..

Donovan stared across the car at the president. “You like this Keegan, don’t you?”

“I know he can be trusted. I know he can keep his mouth shut. And he does have interesting connections.”

“Because he was a gangster?” Donovan said skeptically.

Roosevelt pursed his lips and sipped his drink.

“Tell me, Bill, where do you plan to find recruits for this outfit of yours? Yale? Harvard?”

“Is something wrong with your old alma mater?” Donovan asked with a grin.

Roosevelt laughed heartily. “Not at all,” he said. “But you’re also going to need people who have. special qualifications. People who’ve picked up a few scars along the way. You’re going to need a few ruffians in this outfit of yours. Francis Keegan fits that profile perfectly.” Roosevelt leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, savoring the intrigue. “Keegan understands subterfuge. He can handle himself in difficult situations. He’s very resourceful, independently wealthy, an honor graduate from Boston College. The fact that he escaped from the Gestapo and he actually knows this man Wolffson and the Nazi . . . ?“

“Vierhaus.”

“Yes . . . men you know only by name, that says something for him.”

“But he’s not interested in joining my operation, he made that patently clear.”

“We-l-l-l, if he’s any good, perhaps he’ll change his mind. He’s old-fashioned. Do him a favor and he’ll repay it.”

“The code of the underworld?” Donovan said with a smirk. “Possibly. Or perhaps he’s that rarest of things, an honorable man.”

“He’s an ex-bootlegger, for God’s sake.”

“He’s my ex-bootlegger,” Roosevelt said.

Donovan’s eyes widened with surprise. “Is that why you agreed to meet with him?”

Roosevelt took a sip of his scotch. “He also contributed a quarter-million to my first campaign and a hundred thousand in ‘36,” Roosevelt added casually.

Donovan chuckled and held his hands out at his sides. “Well, hell, in that case it’s your call . .

“No, this is your outfit. We have a deal—you run the outfit, I’ll run the country. But if it’s manpower and funding you need, I can arrange that. If you’re uncomfortable with Keegan or the situation .

“No sir,” said Donovan with a shrug. “It’s his play, let him run it out. I just hope you won’t be too disappointed when he comes up with He made a circle with thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, I hope he does, Bill,” the president said. “I sincerely hope he does.”

The president twisted a Chesterfield into his ivory cigarette holder. Donovan leaned over and held a lighter to it.

Then he walked to the bar and poured himself another whiskey. “Actually when you think about it, we’re in the same boat as Hitler,” he said. “We have nothing at all to lose, either.”

Roosevelt leaned back with a satisfied grin.

“Excellent,” he said. “Delighted you agree.”