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"His father is the Fulmar of Fulmar Elektrische Gesellschaft, and his mother is Monica Carlisle, the actress." Now that Charley had the other Disciples' rapt attention, Donovan knew that silencing him was going to be damned near impossible. "I didn't know she was even married. Or was that old," C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." said.
"Very likely to make sure that her dark secret-a son that old-did not become public knowledge," the Near East Disciple went on, "she sent him to school in Switzerland. Where Sidi el Ferruch, conveniently for us, was also a student."
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"This is off the wall, Charley," Martin said.
"But where in Switzerland? What school?"
"Bull's-eye, Holds worth," the Near East Disciple said.
"La Rosey. Where your boy was." C. Holds worth Martin snorted.
"I'll be damned," he said. "And then el Ferruch and Fulmar went to Germany-to Phillip's University in Marburg an der Lahn-for college.
Where they apparently took honors in Smuggling 101. The pair of them have made a fortune smuggling gold, jewels, currency, and fine art out of France-not to mention the hundred thousand we paid them to get Grunier out. Fulmar now has over a hundred thousand in the Park and Fifty-seventh Street branch of the First National City Bank. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was more money in Switzerland," "This Fulmar chap was supposed to come out with Grunier?" Italy asked, and when the Near East Disciple nodded, asked: "Then why didn't we bring him out?"
"That was part of the deal," the Disciple said, relishing his role as spy master. He has a surprising talent to be a sono/abitch, Donovan thought, but so long as it's in a good cause... "He thought we were going to bring him out," the Disciple went on. "The Germans were breathing down his neck. They knew about the smuggling, and the son of a prominent Nazi industrialist should be in umiform, preferably with the Waff en SS in Russia. Since he knew that it was a bit below the salt to have made himself rich by helping the French move their assets out from under the benevolent control of the Thousand-Year Reich, he really wanted to get himself out of Morocco. It made him very cooperative. "If we said we would bring him out, then why didn't we?"
Italy continued, his sense of fair play offended. "It wasn't nice, Henry," Donovan said.
"But it was considered necessary. It gave Sidi el Ferruch a choice.
He could turn Fulmar in, and cover himself with the Germans. Or he could continue to protect him, and leave the door open to us. And of course, when we're talking about el Ferrucb, we're talking about Tbami el Glaoui. For the moment, at least, He's decided to leave the door open.
Fulmar is in the pasha's palace at Ksar es Souk.
"And what does this Fulmar think of us for leaving him behind when we promised to 2et him out of Morocco?"
"I don't suppose he thinks very kindly of us," Donovan said. "We'll have to deal with that when we come to it. If we come to it. As I said, the decision whether or not to try to use Thami el Glaoui's Berbers has not yet been made," "If I were Fulmar," the Italy Disciple said, "I would tell you to go straight to the devil." Donovan suppressed a smile.
"We'll have to burn that bridge when we get to it," he said.
"I don't think waving a flag at him will be very effective, but he likes money."
"Good God!" the outraged Disciple said in disgust. "Anything else?"
Donovan asked, looking at them one at a time. There were only verbal reports, nothing that required discussion. When these were concluded, Donovan's visitors shook his hand and left. He drained the Scotch in his glass, had another, and then turned the light off. But his mind would not let him go to sleep. He poured more Scotch and drank that.
He wondered if he would die. He didn't want to die now. Not, he thought, until the tide had turned. Not while he was having so much fun. He went to sleep vowing to obey the doctor's command to stay in bed until the embolism dissolved.
Donovan had been asleep an hour when one of the telephones on his bedside table rang. He had three telephones there: a house phone, a s personal, unlisted telephone. The last was ringing. It was probably Ruth, he thought as he reached for it. He wondered what his wife wanted at this time of night. Instead, it turned out to be Barbara Whittaker. Barbara owned Summer Place, the mansion in Deal, and had made it available without cost or question when Donovan told her he needed it. Barbara Whittaker was a very old friend of both Ruth and Bill. She was also the widow of his lifelong friend Chesly Whittaker, and, he remembered, the aunt of Jimmy Whittaker, who was in the Philippines in the Air Corps, Turning over Summer Place and the house on Q Street to Donovan was the only way she could imagine of helping Jimmy. "I'm sorry if I woke you, Bill, but I had to say thank you."
"For what?" Donovan asked, confused. "Jimmy just called. He's in San Francisco." Donovan concealed his surprise. The best hope he had had for Chesly Whittaker's nephew was that he would somehow survive both the debacle in the Philippine Islands and the certain confinement in a Japanese POW camp. "He's in San Francisco?" he asked, still confused.
"All right, Bill," Barbara Whittaker said.
"I understand. But thank you and God bless you."
"He got out of the Philippines?" he asked. "Okay, I'll tell you," she said, gently sarcastic, humoring him. "So in case anyone asks you, you'll know. He got out of the Philippines with Douglas MacArthur, and Douglas sent him from Australia with a letter to Franklin Roosevelt.
They're flying him to Washington tonight with it."
"I had nothing to do with this, Barbara," Donovan said.
"But of course I'm delighted to hear it," "God bless you, Bill," Barbara said emotionally "You're really a friend."
"I hope I am," he said. Then the phone went dead. She really thinks I went to Franklin Roosevelt and got him to give Jimmy special treatment.
