This guy wants to know who Galahad is.
As a friend of the Old Man, he thinks he’s got an in with me.
Fuck you, you three-name sonofabitch!
“And as does, of course, Alejandro Graham,” Dulles added.
Jesus!
“I had dinner with Alex several nights ago in Washington,” Dulles went on. “We have been friends for a long time.”
Frade didn’t reply.
“Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein,” Dulles said.
“Excuse me?”
“Is Galahad,” Dulles said.
That’s nothing but a guess.
“Who?”
Dulles smiled at him.
“Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein is Galahad,” Dulles said. “Which is something the FBI, the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Army’s Chief of Intelligence, and of course SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg—and others—would dearly like to know.”
Jesus, he knows about von Deitzberg?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Frade said.
Dulles smiled at him, then took a sip of his drink.
“Well, they won’t hear it from me,” Dulles said.
“Hear what from you?”
“The identity of Galahad.”
“We’re back to the fact that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Dulles smiled at him.
“Let me tell you about my dinner with Alex Graham,” Dulles said. “Your drink all right? Need a little top-off?”
“My drink is fine, thank you.”
“It was in the Hotel Washington,” Dulles said. “You know it?”
Frade shook his head.
“Right around the corner from the White House,” Dulles said, “which is convenient when the President, as he did a couple of nights ago, wants to have a private dinner away from the White House.”
“The President?” Frade blurted.
“The Secret Service just rolls his wheelchair into a laundry van, drives it around the corner to the service entrance of the Washington, then rolls him through the kitchen in the basement to the service elevator, and on up to an apartment they keep for him there.”
“He can’t walk?” Frade blurted.