A minute or two later a tall, well-built man in his late forties entered the car from the front. Keegan recognized him from photographs. He stood very erect and was dressed in a blue double-breasted suit, starched white shirt and a flaming red tie. He was carrying a drink.
The president made the introductions. “William, this is my friend Francis Keegan. Bill Donovan, Francis.”
Donovan’s handshake was sturdy and his blue eyes stared straight into Keegan’s eyes. “Good to meet you, Keegan,” he said brusquely.
“Colonel,” said Keegan. “It’s an honor.”
Donovan’s poker face did not change. If he was flattered by Keegan’s remark, he did not show it. He sat against the wall on the leather sofa, crossed his legs and sipped his drink. He did not take his eyes off Keegan. Donovan had been a U.S. district attorney in western New York state for several years and Keegan wondered what was going through his mind, sitting in on a meeting with the president and an ex-rumrunner—a man he might have prosecuted a few years earlier—discussing national security. Keegan sensed an incipient skepticism from Donovan. If Keegan had any credibility, obviously it ‘would have to come from the president.
“Congratulations on your new job,” Keegan said. “From what I hear, we need you.”
“Actually it’s pretty dull stuff,” Donovan said.
“Dull?” Keegan said.
“Sure,” Donovan said. “College graduates sitting in offices monitoring foreign broadcasts, reading foreign publications, sifting through diplomatic reports. They dig up information and then the experts decide if it’s pertinent. The fun stuff, the movie stuff, that’s a small part of it.”
“How about the embassies?” Keegan pressed.
“Embassies?” Donovan asked innocently.
“Come on, Colonel,” Keegan said. “Everybody knows the diplomatic services are fronts for espionage. The German embassy in Paris is nothing more than an intelligence unit for a major named von Meister.”
Now how the hell would he know that? Donovan wondered. “But,” Keegan said, “since Mr. Hull thinks spying is ungentlemanly all our embassies do is give parties and kiss ass.”
Roosevelt leaned back in his chair and howled with glee. “Well, what do you think of that analysis, William?”
Donovan’s cold countenance softened slightly. He chuckled and said, “Not bad. Want a job, Keegan?”
“No thanks,” said Keegan with a smile. “I tried that in 1917. I don’t take orders too well.”
“You took them well enough to win a Silver Star at Belleau Wood,” Donovan said casually.
Touché, thought Keegan.
“Well, what do you have for us, eh?” Roosevelt asked pleasantly.
“Look, Mr. President, I think you know I’m not some nut from the boondocks. I say that because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound pretty crazy. The thing is, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure it’s true.”
“Uh huh,” the president said eagerly. He was clearly intrigued. Donovan continued to stare from a poker face.
“A man I consider above reproach has passed information on to me that there is a German sleeper agent living in this country,” Keegan began. “He’s been here for several years. This man is a master agent and his mission, if he’s successful, could neutralize the United States in the event England and France go to war with Hitler.”
“Neutralize us?” Donovan said, showing only mild interest. “What the hell is he planning to do?”
“Whatever their plan is, this man—his code name is Siebenundzwanzig, Twenty-seven—is working directly for Hitler. According to my information, whatever their plan is, it could prevent us from declaring war on Germany.”
“And you have no idea what this assignment is?”
Keegan shook his head.
“That’s ridiculous,” Donovan sneered, showing his first hint of emotion. “What could one man possibly do that would compromise us to such an extent?”
“I don’t know, Colonel, but I can tell you this. The information came from a Nazi agent in Germany who had infiltrated an underground organization. He was caught and tortured. He gave up the name of three agents. The information on the other two was accurate and they were both killed.”
“What underground organization?” Donovan asked, his face once again a mask of control. Not a man to play poker with, thought Keegan.
“My source is impeccable,” Keegan insisted.
“Where did you get this tip?” asked Donovan.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I think I can promise you the information will never leave this room,” Roosevelt said softly, his smile still staunch. “Don’t you trust us, Francis?”
“Of course I do, Mr. President. But I made a promise.”
“I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. ‘On the other hand, Bill has a point. It would help if we can judge the validity of your information.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called Black Lily?”
A flicker of recognition in Donovan’s eyes. Roosevelt looked at him with eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” Donovan said.
“It came from the head of Black Lily.”
“You know the head of Black Lily?” Donovan said, disbelief in every syllable.
Keegan nodded. Donovan was skeptical. He looked at the president and rolled his eyes. Keegan decided it was time to take a round or two in this mental boxing march.
“His name is Avrum Wolffson,” Keegan said, and Donovan’s amazed reaction told Roosevelt that Keegan had won the first knockdown in the delicate match.
“Does that jibe with your information, Bill?” the president asked.
“I’ve heard the name mentioned,” Donovan said cautiously, still not willing to give up the round.
“Wolffson is unquestionably the head of Black Lily,” Keegan said with finality. “He’s been head of it since it was formed at the University of Berlin in 1933. One of his chief lieutenants was a young man named Joachim Weber. Weber was murdered by Nazi agents in Zurich two years ago. Wolffson’s reaction was radical. He struck back, killed one agent in Zurich and another in Vienna. But the one known as Siebenundzwanzig is still alive because he’s here in America.”
Roosevelt settled back in his wheelchair, getting rather perverse enjoyment out of watching the two men spar with each other. Donovan, a bit flabbergasted by the flood of information, was subdued.
“And how did this Wolffson find out there was a spy in his outfit?” Donovan asked, still skeptical.
“The infiltrator used the name Isaac Fish. The real Fish was a prisoner at Dachau. He was executed along with fifty other inmates as an example after an aborted escape attempt. Wolffson got a list of the hostages who were murdered
“Oh, now really Donovan started but Keegan cut him off. He handed him the tattered list of dead hostages.
“This is the list,” said Keegan.
Donovan took the sheet reluctantly and scanned it. He looked up at Keegan suspiciously.
“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t tell you that.”
“You expect us to believe you’re privy to this kind of information?”
“I think it speaks for itself,” Keegan answered. “Wolffson was . . . coaxing. . . information out of Fish when he spilled the beans about the three agents.”
“Wait a minute,” said Donovan, shaking his head. “I know for a fact that Black Lily isn’t involved in that kind of thing.”
“It is now, Colonel. It isn’t a Freiheit movement anymore. It has become a full-fledged active underground operation. The three agents were members of a unit called Die Sechs Fuchse, the Six Foxes, a small, elite intelligence unit headed by a psychologist named Wilhelm Vierhaus and accountable only to Hitler.”