"Where, for Christ's sake? In the bushes in Al Ezbekia Park, no doubt? For three G.o.dd.a.m.n days? He's not in a hotel, we know that. And he's not with any high-cla.s.s wh.o.r.e, or we'd know that, too . . . and G.o.dd.a.m.n, I found it embarra.s.sing to have to call the Egyptian cops and ask them to check their wh.o.r.es for him. . . ."

He stopped and looked out the window at Opera Square again.

"The Chrysler here?" he asked, reasonably calmly, when he turned around a moment later.

"Yes, Sir," his deputy said.

"n.o.body stole the wheels? The driver is present and sober?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be back," Wilkins said, and headed for the door.

"Going to the airport, Sir?"

Wilkins glared at what he considered to be a stupid question.

"I'll lay even money he'll show up for the flight, Skipper, " his deputy said rea.s.suringly.

"And if he doesn't? What if he got tired of waiting for them to fix the engine and hitchhiked a ride to Brisbane? That MATS flight isn't the only plane headed in that direction. How the h.e.l.l am I going to say anything to Donovan without looking like a horse's a.s.s?"

With an effort, Wilkins kept from slamming the door after him.

The 1941 Chrysler Imperial was equipped with the very latest in automotive transmission technology. This was called "fluid drive." In theory, it eliminated the need to shift gears. In practice, it didn't work, the result being that it crawled away from a stop. The Chrysler was, Wilkins decided on the way from Opera Square to the airfield, north-east of Cairo, probably the worst possible automobile in the world for Cairo traffic, less practical than a water buffalo pulling a wooden-wheeled cart.

At the MATS terminal, he sought out the military police captain in charge of security, showed him his OSS identification, and said that it was absolutely essential that he locate one Captain Whittaker, James M. B., USAAC.

Ten minutes later, three military police brought Captain Whittaker and a strikingly beautiful woman to the MP captain's office. A flyboy, Wilkins decided somewhat sourly. A good one, to judge by the DFC. He wondered what the OSS wanted from a flyboy.

"This gentleman wishes to see you, Captain," the MP captain said.

Whittaker smiled.

"As long as it won't take long," Whittaker said with a smile. "They're loading my plane."

"You won't be making that flight, Captain," Wilkins said.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"And who are you?"

"That's not really important," Wilkins said. "You'll have to take my word for it. You're coming with me."

Whittaker looked at him with amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes, his left eyebrow c.o.c.ked quizzically.

"That just won't wash," Whittaker said.

Wilkins took his OSS ident.i.ty card and held it out.

Captain Whittaker fumbled in his pockets and came out with a nearly identical card and held it out. Wilkins saw that there were two differences in the cards. His own card bore the serial number 1109 and was signed "for the Chairman, The Joint Chiefs of Staff" by Captain Peter Dougla.s.s, Sr., USN. Whittaker's card bore the serial number 29 and was signed by Colonel W. J. Donovan, GSC, USA. Obviously, this handsome flyboy had been in the OSS almost from the beginning.

"What is all this, mon cher?" the Frenchwoman asked, softly, in French.

"Nothing at all," Whittaker replied, in French, and then looked at Wilkins, waiting for an explanation.

Wilkins handed him the radiogram from Donovan.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Whittaker said. "When's my plane?"

"Tomorrow," Wilkins said. "At 0915. You had a seat on this morning's flight, but you missed it."

"It appears," Whittaker said to the Frenchwoman in French, "that we're going to have to climb the Great Pyramid again."

She blushed attractively.

"There are quarters available, if you've checked out of your hotel," Wilkins said.

"That's very kind of you, Sir," Whittaker said. "But that won't be necessary. I'll be staying with a friend."

The Frenchwoman blushed attractively again.

"War is h.e.l.l, isn't it?" Whittaker, smiling broadly, asked Mr. Wilkins.

3.

VIRGINIA HIGHWAY 234 NEAR WASHINGTON, D.C. 25 JANUARY 1943.

There were four men in the 1942 black Buick Roadmaster, riding in silence.

There had been a little snow, but the road was clear, and the illuminated needle of the speedometer pointed just past seventy miles per hour. There was virtually no traffic on the road, not even the glow of distant headlights over the gentle hills before them.

When the flashing red signal lantern suddenly appeared in the road before them, Chief Ellis was startled. But, even as the driver started stabbing at the brakes, Ellis reached under the seat and came out with a Thompson machine-pistol.

In the backseat, Colonel William J. Donovan looked up from the doc.u.ment he was reading. Ellis had rigged a really nice reading light on a flexible shaft. The light turned automobile rides into work sessions rather than wastes of time.

"What is it?" Captain Peter Dougla.s.s asked.

"Dunno," Ellis replied, and then, almost immediately, "It's the f.u.c.king cops!"

"How fast were we going?" Donovan asked calmly.

"About seventy, Sir," Staley, the driver, said.

Staley was in civilian clothing. Ellis was in uniform, except for his brimmed chief's cap, which was on the seat beside him. But in his blue, insignia-less overcoat, he appeared at casual glance to be a portly, ruddy-faced civilian.

Ellis shoved the Thompson back under the front seat as the driver pulled onto the shoulder.

The Virginia state trooper, in a stiff-brimmed hat, swaggered up to the car.

"May I see your license and registration, please, Sir?" he asked, with ritual courtesy.

They were handed over.

"Sir, are you Charles D. Staley, of this Q Street, Northwest, address, in the District?"

"Yes, Sir," the driver said.

"And this vehicle is the property of . . ." He paused to examine the registration with his flashlight. ". . . W. J. Donovan?"

"Yes, it is."

"Does Mr. Donovan know you are driving his vehicle?"

"I'm Donovan," Donovan said. The trooper flashed his light in Donovan's face.

"Yes, Sir," he said. He returned his attention to the driver. "Sir, you went through a speed-detection area. You were clocked, over a measured quarter mile, at seventy-three point six miles per hour."

"I didn't realize I was going that fast," the driver said.

"Two state troopers will testify that you were, Sir," the trooper said. "I'm going to have to issue you a citation. You will be charged with reckless driving. The law is that any speed twenty miles in excess of the posted speed limit is considered reckless driving. Are you aware, Sir, that in order to conserve gasoline and rubber for the war effort, the speed limit across the nation is now thirty-five miles per hour?"

"I heard about that," the driver said dryly.

"If you are found guilty in a court of law-the place and time of your required appearance will be on the citation I am about to give you-your local ration board will be notified of this violation. You have a C sticker, which means that you agreed in writing to make a genuine effort to conserve the gasoline authorized for you. I think you will agree that driving seventy-three point six miles per hour does not conserve fuel."

"I was in sort of a hurry," the driver said.

"So are our boys in uniform," the state trooper said. "In a hurry to get the war over. And personally, I think we should do all we can to help them."

"Ellis!" Donovan warned softly.

"Can I go now?" Staley asked, taking the citation.

"Yes, Sir," the state trooper said, and marched off.

The driver cranked up the window.

"Sorry about that, Colonel," he said.

"h.e.l.l, I told you to step on it," Donovan said. "Ellis, give Staley money to pay the fine. If there are any other complications, let Captain Dougla.s.s know."

"Yes, Sir," Ellis said.

"And as soon as we're over the next hill," Donovan said, "step on it."

Twenty minutes later, the Buick was in the Rock Creek section of the District of Columbia, moving down Q Street, Northwest. They came to an estate surrounded by an eight-foot -high brick wall. The driver switched from low beam to high beam and back again, and a moment later turned off Q Street, stopping the Buick with its nose against a heavy, solid gate in the wall.

A muscular man in civilian clothing stepped out of the shadows and walked to the car. The driver turned the interior lights on for a moment, and then off again.

The muscular man touched the brim of his snap-brim hat. A moment later, the double gate swung inward. As soon as the car was inside, the gates closed after it.

"Ellis," Donovan said, "I hate to make you an orderly, but it would save us a lot of time if you went by my house and packed a bag. And get your own while you're at it. Then we can go from here to Union Station."

"Yes, Sir."

"The Secret Service sent over the pa.s.ses?" Donovan asked.

"I'll check on that, too, Sir," Ellis said.

"I don't want to find myself waving bye-bye on the platform as the President goes off to Georgia by himself," Donovan said.

"No, Sir, I'll see we're aboard the train," Ellis said.

Donovan and Dougla.s.s got out of the car and entered the turn-of-the-century mansion through the kitchen door. The kitchen was enormous and furnished with restaurant-size stoves and refrigerators.

A tall young woman with blond hair hanging to her shoulders came into the room. She wore a simple black dress, a single string of pearls, and just above her right breast a miniature pair of pilot's wings. Captain Dougla.s.s's eyes betrayed a moment's surprise and special interest in the wings. He was sure he knew their source: His wife had an identical pair, sent from London by their son. What seemed like last week, their son had seemed an eager-eyed West Point cadet; and now, at twenty-five, he was a lieutenant colonel. His son also liked this girl very much.

"Good evening," Charity Hoche said with a radiant smile. Her accent betrayed her origins: Charity Hoche had been raised on a twenty-acre estate in Wallingford, which was one of the plusher suburbs of Philadelphia, and educated at Bryn Mawr.

"h.e.l.lo, Charity," Donovan said. "Mr. Hoover here?"

"No, Sir," she said. "And no calls, either. From him."

"Time and J. Edgar Hoover wait for no man," Donovan said. "What are we going to feed him?"

"Capon," she said. "And wild rice."

"Good." Donovan chuckled. "Eating chicken with a knife and fork is not one of J. Edgar's strong points. He always makes me feel he'd rather eat one with his hands. After biting off the head, of course."

"And," Charity said, "a very nice Chateau de Long Chablis, '35."

"Where the h.e.l.l did we get that?" Donovan asked.

"Actually, I brought it from home," Charity said. "I knew this was important."

"And you wanted to b.u.t.ter up the boss, too," Donovan said.

"Guilty," Charity said with a smile.

"I might decide to keep you here for your father's cellar, " Donovan said.