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Which only served to make matters worse when Hoover got word that the President was considering a new secret organization. This agency would be above all others, collecting intelligence worldwide, as well as conducting counterintelligence operations and more. And Wild Bill Donovan—whom Roosevelt had asked to draft its plans—was to head it up.
Hoover knew he had to put out this potential inferno—a real threat to the power of his FBI—fast.
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Using every bit of his finely honed political skills, he tried to impress upon the President that what this new organization did was indeed exactly what the FBI already did, simply on a larger scale, and that any such organization should be—must be, to optimize its efficiency—under the purview of Hoover.
Roosevelt, graciously and with masterful maneuvering, let the FBI director know that he valued his counsel and insight, but said that he had made up his mind. As a bone, he threw Hoover the oversight of all of North, South, and Central America.
Thus, in 1941, William J. Donovan, a civilian, was made Roosevelt’s coordinator of information, at a pay rate of one dollar per annum. And in 1942, when COI evolved into the Office of Strategic Services, he was recalled to active duty as Colonel Donovan and made its director.
Donovan noticed that Roosevelt looked more tired than usual.
Behind the frameless round spectacles clipped to the bridge of the President’s nose, there were dark sacs under his eyes. His thinning hair showed more gray working its way up from his temples. And he seemed somewhat slumped in his chair.
Not surprising, Donovan thought, not with war being waged on damned near every continent. And he’d never admit a weakness, but that polio is sapping his strength.
It was then that Donovan answered two unasked questions in his mind—where Roosevelt had just come from, and why they were meeting in the physician’s office.
The President clearly had been in his secret War Room, which was here on the ground floor of the White House, between the Diplomatic Reception Room and his physician’s office. He spent more time in there than he would ever acknowledge, though records of who came and went—and when—were, of course, meticulously kept.
That answered question one.
Donovan was one of very few who knew of the War Room’s existence. Aside from the three shifts of officers from the Army and Navy who staffed it round the clock, the only ones who knew about it were presidential advisor Harry Hopkins, Admiral William Leahy, General George Marshall, and British prime minister Winston Churchill.
It had been Churchill’s visit in December 1941 that caused it to be built. The prime minister had brought a portable version of his own War Room that he had in underground London. The traveling model was complete with reduced maps that pinpointed key information on the war.
Roosevelt liked the idea of his own full-sized War Room and quietly had one drawn up.
Now fiberboard covered the walls of a onetime ladies’ cloakroom, and maps of the world, in large scale, were affixed thereon. As intel came in, the officers continually updated the maps, marking with pins, coded by color and design, everything from the locations of ships (destroyers had round red heads) to the locations of political leaders (Stalin was a pipe, Churchill a cigar).
Donovan knew that early every morning, Roosevelt would come to the physician’s office for his daily checkup and massage, then slip undetected into the War Room next door to be briefed on the overnights.
And Donovan was a member of a group that was even smaller than the one that knew about the War Room: those who had actually been in it.
Not even Eleanor Roosevelt was allowed inside.
Clearly, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover—who, as they awaited FDR’s arrival, had idly wondered aloud why they were meeting in the physician’s office—not only had not been in the War Room but also did not know about it.
And, at least as far as tonight was concerned, would continue to be kept in the dark.
And that answered question two.
“I appreciate you gentlemen coming on such short notice,” Roosevelt said, sounding more energized than he appeared.
“Yes, Mr. President,” they said, almost in unison.
“Can I get anyone a drink or coffee?” the President asked, motioning toward the service on the desk. “Or perhaps one and the same?”
“Not for me, sir,” Donovan said.
“I would love a taste, sir,” Hoover said. “But, no, thank you. I have to get back to the office tonight. And I’ve had more than enough coffee for one day.”
“Can I get you something, Mr. President?” Donovan said.
Roosevelt shook his head, rubbing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose. “I can wait, Bill. Thank you.” He then lit the cigarette in his holder, exhaled a blue cloud, and said, “Then let’s get on with it—Edgar, any news?”
FBI director J. Edgar Hoover nodded as he reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and scanned it.
