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“Who the hell is this ‘Tiny,’ Bill?” Roosevelt interrupted. “We are getting one hell of a lot of information from one source. And I can only gather that he’s also involved with where the Russian names came from.”
“First, he is far from being our only source—it was the Sparrow, an American citizen whose parents are Russian, who sold us one short list of purported spies in Los Alamos, which Allen says Tiny is checking against Abwehr lists. Second, while it is a lot from one source, everything he has given us has been good. Everything, Frank. Tiny is even writing a book documenting how he’s helping bring down Hitler. He lists who’s who in the German High Command, what war crimes they’re committing, et cetera, in anticipation of them being brought to justice after the Reich collapses.”
“A book, you say?”
“A book,” Donovan confirmed. “He works on it in Dulles’s office, and keeps it locked up there for safekeeping. And of course Allen uses it for a reference.”
“So then these Russian names are from the Abwehr,” FDR said.
“Canaris, as you would expect of the head of German military intelligence, has his agents keeping a close eye on Stalin. And, in the course of that, it’s logical that the Abwehr could come across such information.”
“What’s Tiny’s real name?” FDR pursued, handing back the messages.
Donovan, stalling, folded the messages and put them in his shirt pocket. Then he took a sip of his drink, put it down, and took his fishing rod out of its holder. He raised the tip as he checked on his fishing lure.
FDR turned to him and repeated, “What’s his real name, General?”
Donovan, the formal tone and use of his rank not lost on him, met FDR’s eyes.
“Mr. President, I believe you will agree that what Tiny has told us thus far has proven to be invaluable. As Allen Dulles will tell you, it is extremely difficult for us to get anti-Nazi Germans to stick out their necks to help us when all they hear is that the Allies will not make any separate peace.”
“So that is what the line about ‘unconditional surrender’ being a problem is about?” FDR pursued, his tone now icy. “That if Germany must surrender, any negotiations as to who takes over will be rendered null and void? You’re telling me that this Tiny—or even Admiral Canaris—has no desire whatsoever to become head of a post-Hitler Germany?”
“What I know is that there are Germans who fervently believe that Hitler has lost the war and that the most important thing that they can do is remove him to stop the destruction of Germany and its people.” He paused, then went on, “Mr. President, the fewer people who know of Tiny, the better. With all due respect, if I do not tell you, then it would be impossible for you to accidentally reveal his identity. And we cannot afford to lose him. I promise to share more as soon as possible.”
FDR grunted, broke off eye contact, then silently turned his attention to his fishing lure. He looked to be in deep thought.
* * *
Ten minutes later, with not another word uttered between them, FDR suddenly pointed toward a twenty-two-foot-long Chris-Craft luxury motorboat. It was moving down the Potomac at full speed. The captain of the vessel and two other men waved to the Sequoia.
I think I know that boat, Donovan thought.
FDR said: “With your luck, Bill, that Chris-Craft is going to get close to your lure and scare off all your fish.”
As the boat passed, the gold lettering painted on its transom came into view:
CIRRHOSIS OF THE RIVER
GEORGETOWN
Yeah. I do know that boat.
Wonder who’s aboard and where they’re going?
Just as Donovan was going to reply to FDR, the brightly varnished red mahogany vessel made a sweeping U-turn and began to bear down on the stern of the Sequoia.
“Who the hell is that?” FDR idly wondered. “And who the hell would name their boat that?”
Jimmy Whittaker would, Donovan thought.
U.S. Army Captain James M.B. Whittaker (Harvard ’39) was on an OSS mission in the Philippines. He had attended Saint Mark’s prep school with Dick Canidy, and came from family wealth beyond imagination.
He who calls you “Uncle Frank” and owns not only the Georgetown mansion that we use as a safe house but God Only Knows What All Else. And who is unafraid of pissing you off.
That’s who, Mr. President.
But I’m damn sure not going to bring him up now.
