‘‘Then why the offer? I’m a lawyer, Colonel Donovan,’’ Cynthia said.
‘‘The most difficult personnel problems we have, doing what we’re doing—’’
‘‘What is it, exactly, that you are doing?’’ she interrupted. ‘‘I’ve been wondering about that for a long time.’’
He didn’t reply immediately, and Cynthia correctly suspected he was very carefully, lawyerlike, framing his answer. She was suddenly aware that she was fencing with one of the best legal minds in the country.
‘‘Franklin Roosevelt has asked me to organize and operate an intelligence organization which will control all the other intelligence agencies during the war,’’ he said.
‘‘And where would I fit in?’’ she asked.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he confessed. ‘‘Which brings us back to what I was saying about our most difficult personnel problem.’’
‘‘Which is?’’
‘‘Recruiting people who can function under pressure,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘There is no way to prejudge that. Forgive me if this sounds insensitive, Cynthia, but you have just demonstrated how well you function under pressure.’’
‘‘The . . . circumstances . . . of Chesty’s death?’’
‘‘A very awkward situation,’’ he agreed, nodding his head, ‘‘that you handled as skillfully, as—forgive me— ruthlessly as you considered necessary.’’
‘‘Is that a compliment?’’
‘‘And a statement of fact,’’ he said.
‘‘That brings us back to my question. Where would I fit in?’’
‘‘I don’t know. For the moment, I would want you to take over the house on Q Street. Starting immediately, we’re going to have to think about security precautions, communications . . .’’
‘‘About which I know nothing,’’ she said. ‘‘It sounds like you want a housekeeper.’’
‘‘You didn’t really think I was going to ask you to go to Berlin and make eyes at Adolf Hitler, did you?’’
That annoyed her.
‘‘I have a responsible job at the State Department,’’ she said. ‘‘And I have been led to believe that I can be commissioned into the WAC.’’
That, in turn, annoyed Donovan.
‘‘If you went in the Women’s Army Corps,’’ he said, ‘‘you would spend the war as a clerk in uniform. If you stay at the State Department, you will spend the war performing legal functions that your superiors feel are unimportant enough to be handled by a woman. If you complain, you will be told that is the sacrifice you must make for the war effort. Your naiveté surprises me, frankly.’’
She successfully fought down the urge to express the rage she felt. They rode along in silence for five minutes.
‘‘I want you on board,’’ Donovan said, finally breaking the silence, ‘‘as an asset in place, someone I can put to real work as soon as the need arises. In the meantime, I want you to take over the house on Q Street. I have to have absolute faith in the ability, common sense, and even ruthlessness of whoever is running it for me. If you consider that beneath your dignity, there is no point in continuing this discussion. Please forget it ever took place.’’
She didn’t reply at first, but a moment later said, ‘‘Chesty’s Packard, the convertible, is in the garage. And he has personal things. Should I load it all up and send it to Summer Place?’’
‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘Barbara told me she wants nothing from the house on Q Street, and unless she changes her mind, I’m going to leave it that way.’’
‘‘I’ll pack his personal things and put them in the attic,’’ she said. ‘‘And I’ll run the Packard every couple of days. If it’s all right, I’ll move into the house.’’
She had accepted his offer.
He looked at her, and they laughed together. Later they stopped in Philadelphia for a late supper, boiled lobsters at Bookbinder’s, and then drove on to Washington.
Iba, Luzon Commonwealth of the Philippines 1205 Hours 9 December 1941
As the sixteen P40-E aircraft returning from a fruitless patrol over the South China Sea approached Iba, a single dirt runway auxiliary field in the hills forty miles from their regular base at Clark Field, Second Lieutenant James M. C. Whittaker went on the horn.