The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘I’m even more flattered,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’d love to break bread with a descendant of the True Prophet—and to continue talking with another smart American.’’ He paused a moment and then added casually, ‘‘Oh, by the way, when you’re not breaking bread with a descendant of the True Prophet, how do you spend your time in Morocco?’’

‘‘I try very hard not to wear out my welcome,’’ Fulmar said, and laughed. ‘‘There aren’t many Europeans who speak Arabic that they trust. Within limits, they trust me.’’

Baker nodded, and then Fulmar went on. ‘‘They don’t all sleep in tents on the desert, you know, tending camels. They’re in business. And just because the French lost the war doesn’t mean that the French have stopped trying to screw them.’’

‘‘It must be interesting,’’ Baker said.

‘‘Sometimes,’’ Fulmar said.

When Sidi Hassan el Ferruch appeared at the door of the bar, with his enormous Senegalese bodyguard, N’Jibba, Fulmar and Baker joined him. There was a Delahaye waiting for them at the door of the Crillon, with a Peugeot sedan in line behind it.

The restaurant was small, the lobsters were delightfully fresh, and Sidi el Ferruch told Eldon C. Baker more than he really cared to know about the deplorable state of French racing stables under the German occupation—and absolutely nothing else of interest.

When Baker had undergone his formal training as an intelligence officer, he had been told that the error most often committed by men in the field was their failure to transmit what seemed to be unimportant information because they could see no use for it. Odd facts from various sources often could be put together to form valuable data.

Thus, with that in mind, after he had returned to the Crillon he put together another report on Fulmar, Eric, in which he stated that he had come to suspect that there was more to Fulmar than was immediately apparent. In other words, under the cover of his lounge-lizard image sponging on the son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, he was up to something— something that very likely could be put to use by ‘‘our team’’ when the time came.

Hyde Park, New York August 21, 1941

The President of the United States, Colonel William B. Donovan could tell from the glint in his eyes, was about to be witty. But he was in the process of chewing a cracker smeared with Liederkranz cheese, so the remark had to wait until he finished.

‘‘With Eleanor off spreading the pollen of goodwill,’’ Franklin D. Roosevelt said, ‘‘it will not be necessary for us to play bridge before we can move on to the serious drinking. May I suggest we all go in the library?’’

There were appreciative chuckles from the three other men at the table. None of Roosevelt’s political cronies were present. That and the presence of William B. Donovan and a Navy commander named Douglass convinced J. Edgar Hoover that Roosevelt wanted more from him than the pleasure of his company at dinner.

Roosevelt’s valet, a large black man in a white jacket, moved to the President to push his wheelchair.

‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And that will be all, thank you. We are now going to tell bawdy stories in private.’’

He got another appreciative chuckle.

They followed him down a corridor to the library, where decanters of whiskey, a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac, and a silver ice bucket had been laid out on a table so Roosevelt could play the host and make the drinks.

‘‘As your Commander in Chief, I grant you immunity from the regulation which proscribes drinking on duty, Commander Douglass,’’ Roosevelt said.

‘‘The commander is on duty?’’ Hoover asked.

‘‘Yes,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And I really think he needs a little liquid courage before he tells you what he has to say.’’

‘‘I always thought Edgar was unshockable, like a clergyman, ’’ Donovan said.

Hoover ignored that.

‘‘You’re ONI1, aren’t you, Commander?’’ he asked.

Hoover took some pride in knowing who was involved in intelligence, and he was not reluctant to let the President, and for that matter Donovan, see again that there was very little that escaped his professional attention.

‘‘No, sir,’’ Commander Douglass said. ‘‘I’m now with COI."

Hoover could not conceal his surprise.

Commander Peter Stuart Douglass, USN, was a sandy-haired, freckle-faced, pleasant-looking man of forty-two who had spent his Navy career moving between deep water (his last assignment had been as commanding officer of a destroyer squadron) and intelligence.

‘‘Take a stiff belt, Commander,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘Give it a moment to warm you, and then get going.’’

‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Douglass said.

‘‘Let me lay the groundwork,’’ Roosevelt said, changing his mind. ‘‘Some months ago, Alex Sachs came to me bearing a letter from Albert Einstein and some other eggheads at that level. They believe it is possible to split the atom.’’