And Donovan knew that Frade was Major Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, an OSS agent presently in Argentina.
Donovan had no idea what Graham wished to talk to him about vis-à-vis Major Frade, but he suspected he wasn’t going to like it at all. And he was sure that Colonel Graham wasn’t going to like at all what he was planning to tell him vis-à-vis Major Frade. He had planned, until he found Graham’s interoffice memo on his desk, to send him one. It would have read much the same: “Alex, I need to talk to you about Frade. I’ll be here all morning. WJD.”
Donovan leaned forward and depressed the talk switch on his intercom device.
“Helen,” he said. “Would you please ask Colonel Graham if he has a minute for me? Bring in coffee, and then no calls—except from the President—until we’re through. Okay?”
[THREE]
Colonel A. F. Graham was ushered into Donovan’s office. Graham was a short, trim, tanned, barrel-chested, bald-headed forty-eight-year-old with a pencil-line mustache; he wore a superbly tailored double-breasted pin-striped suit that Donovan strongly suspected had come from London’s Savile Row. Helen placed a silver coffee service on a low table and left.
“I hope I didn’t interfere with your schedule, Bill,” Graham said. “But we really have to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” Donovan said. “I had dinner with the President last night and—”
“How nice for you!” Graham interrupted, mockingly. “And was the First Lady there?”
Colonel Graham was not an admirer of either the President or his wife. It was more or less common knowledge that he had been one of the largest individual contributors to the campaign of his friend Wendell Willkie, who had run against—and been soundly beaten by—Roosevelt in the 1940 presidential campaign.
“No, she wasn’t,” Donovan said, just a little sharply.
“Well, since we’re swapping social tidbits, I had a couple of drinks with Marcus Howell last night.”
“How nice for you,” Donovan offered sarcastically.
“Yes, indeed. I walked into the bar of the Union League in Philadelphia, and he ‘just happened’ to be there.”
Donovan decided that he would let Graham tell him what Howell—who was chairman of the board of Howell Petroleum; a close friend of Colonel Robert R. McCormick, owner of The Chicago Tribune, whose pages often reflected his deep hatred of Franklin Delano Roosevelt; and Major Cletus Howell Frade’s grandfather—had said or wanted before he told him what the President had said and wanted.
“And what did you and Mr. Howell talk about?”
“A number of things, but topping the list was that he wants us to bring Cletus Frade home from Argentina.”
“Well, now, isn’t that an interesting coincidence? Just last night the President wondered if that might not be a good idea.” Donovan paused. “He really wants to know who Galahad is, Alex.”
Graham met his eye for a moment. “I’m afraid your friend the President is going to be disappointed again. Frade’s not going to tell him, and, further, says the situation there precludes his leaving.”
He laid Frade’s radio message on Donovan’s desk.
Donovan read it, then looked at Graham incredulously.
“He has new information regarding Galahad’s connections that he’ll only give personally to you?” Donovan exploded. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”
“He knows who he is, and that’s the problem,” Graham said.
“You’re not telling me, Alex, that you’re even thinking of going down there?”
“I’m on the Pan American Grace clipper out of Miami tomorrow night. I wanted to tell you where I would be, and I wanted to urge you as strongly as I can to do everything within your power to turn off all these people who are trying to find out who Galahad is.”
“What I’m tempted to do is order you not to go, and to order that arrogant young man onto the next Panagra Clipper to Miami.”
“That would force me to resign, and he wouldn’t come. We’ve been over all this before. Is that what you want?”
It was a full thirty seconds before Donovan replied.
“One time, when we reach that point, I’m going to say, ‘Yes, Alex, it is.’ ”
“But not this time?”
Donovan shook his head.
“What do you think he means about Galahad’s connections?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But I know him well enough now to know he really thinks it’s important.”
Donovan nodded.
“Okay. Go down and see what he has to say.”
“I will.”
Graham headed for the door and was halfway there when Donovan realized he hadn’t gotten into the second thing Roosevelt had brought up at dinner.
While Donovan held Alex Graham in very high regard, it was also true that their personalities clashed, almost always because Graham was one of the very few people in the world who was not afraid to tell Donovan no and then was uncowed when this inevitably triggered Donovan’s temper.
And it just happened again. He told me no, and I became annoyed to the point where not only didn’t we have the friendly cup of coffee I set up but, also, I forgot I promised FDR I would have Graham implement his latest friendly suggestion for the OSS.
“Hold it a second, will you, Alex?” Donovan called.
Graham turned.
“There’s something else,” Donovan said. He waved at the couch and the coffee service. “Have you time for a cup of coffee?”
Graham recognized the olive branch.
“Thank you. I’d love one.”
He walked to the couch and sat down. Donovan walked to the coffee table carrying a cigar humidor, offered a cigar to Graham, lit it for him, and then poured the coffee.
“Why does this little bird on my shoulder keep whispering, ‘Beware of Irishmen bearing gifts’?” Graham said.
“Because you have a cynical streak in your character,” Donovan said.
“True,” Graham said.
“FDR had dinner with Hap Arnold night before last,” Donovan began. “During which Arnold told him how well aircraft production is going.”
General Henry H. Arnold was commanding general, Army Air Forces.
Graham nodded and waited for Donovan to go on.
“Arnold apparently got carried away and said something about almost being at the point where we have more airplanes than we need.”
“That’s hard to accept,” Graham said. “From what I hear, there have been awful losses in Europe.”
“It seems Arnold wasn’t talking about bombers and fighters,” Donovan said. “What has apparently happened, Alex, was that cost-plus contracts were apparently let for all kinds of aircraft, not only fighters and bombers and the larger transports. The aircraft industry rose to the challenge and went on an around-the-clock, no-weekends-off production schedule and has churned out, for example, large numbers of aircraft—the models in question here are Lockheed’s Lodestar and Constellation—”
“You mean that Queen Mary-size wooden airplane Howard Hughes is building?”
“No. I don’t know what they call that wooden airplane, but that’s not it. You know what the Lodestar is, of course?”
“Uh-huh. What’s the Constellation?”
“Another of Hughes’s designs. Great big, four-engine, forty-odd-passenger airplane. It has three tails. It can fly across the Atlantic. Or to Hawaii.”
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“Well, neither airplane fits comfortably into the Army Air Force. The Lodestar carries only fourteen people and the door isn’t large enough to conveniently drop parachutists. The Douglas DC-3—the C-47—carries twenty-one people and the door is big enough for paratroopers. The Constellation is really a better airplane than the DC-4—it cruises at better than three hundred miles an hour; the DC-4 only goes a little better than two hundred—but the decision was made early on to go with the DC-4 as the standard, and that Lockheed should produce the P-38 fighter instead of more Constellations.” He paused and looked at Graham. “You see where I’m going, Alex?”