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“Yes, we do,” Donovan said. “I had dinner with the President last night and—”
“How nice for you!” Graham interrupted, mockingly. “And was the First Lady there?”
Colonel Graham was not an admirer of either the President or his wife. It was more or less common knowledge that he had been one of the largest individual contributors to the campaign of his friend Wendell Willkie, who had run against—and been soundly beaten by—Roosevelt in the 1940 presidential campaign.
“No, she wasn’t,” Donovan said, just a little sharply.
“Well, since we’re swapping social tidbits, I had a couple of drinks with Marcus Howell last night.”
“How nice for you,” Donovan offered sarcastically.
“Yes, indeed. I walked into the bar of the Union League in Philadelphia, and he ‘just happened’ to be there.”
Donovan decided that he would let Graham tell him what Howell—who was chairman of the board of Howell Petroleum
; a close friend of Colonel Robert R. McCormick, owner of The Chicago Tribune, whose pages often reflected his deep hatred of Franklin Delano Roosevelt; and Major Cletus Howell Frade’s grandfather—had said or wanted before he told him what the President had said and wanted.
“And what did you and Mr. Howell talk about?”
“A number of things, but topping the list was that he wants us to bring Cletus Frade home from Argentina.”
“Well, now, isn’t that an interesting coincidence? Just last night the President wondered if that might not be a good idea.” Donovan paused. “He really wants to know who Galahad is, Alex.”
Graham met his eye for a moment. “I’m afraid your friend the President is going to be disappointed again. Frade’s not going to tell him, and, further, says the situation there precludes his leaving.”
He laid Frade’s radio message on Donovan’s desk.
Donovan read it, then looked at Graham incredulously.
“He has new information regarding Galahad’s connections that he’ll only give personally to you?” Donovan exploded. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”
“He knows who he is, and that’s the problem,” Graham said.
“You’re not telling me, Alex, that you’re even thinking of going down there?”
“I’m on the Pan American Grace clipper out of Miami tomorrow night. I wanted to tell you where I would be, and I wanted to urge you as strongly as I can to do everything within your power to turn off all these people who are trying to find out who Galahad is.”
“What I’m tempted to do is order you not to go, and to order that arrogant young man onto the next Panagra Clipper to Miami.”
“That would force me to resign, and he wouldn’t come. We’ve been over all this before. Is that what you want?”
It was a full thirty seconds before Donovan replied.
“One time, when we reach that point, I’m going to say, ‘Yes, Alex, it is.’ ”
“But not this time?”
Donovan shook his head.
“What do you think he means about Galahad’s connections?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But I know him well enough now to know he really thinks it’s important.”
Donovan nodded.
“Okay. Go down and see what he has to say.”
“I will.”
