‘‘Did I understand you correctly?’’
‘‘I said he was dead. Is that what you mean?’’
‘‘Where are you?’’
"At the house on Q Street," she said.
‘‘I’m going to send my deputy, Captain Douglass, right over, Cynthia,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘He’ll take care of the matter. ’’
‘‘It would be better if you came yourself,’’ she said.
‘‘Captain Douglass will leave immediately,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘You’re there, I presume?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘He’ll leave immediately,’’ Donovan said sharply, and hung up. He reached for a notepad and scrawled the address.
‘‘Go over there, Peter, please,’’ he ordered. ‘‘See a Miss Chenowith. Do whatever has to be done.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Captain Douglass said.
‘‘Cynthia Chenowith? Is that Tom’s daughter?’’ the President asked.
‘‘Yes,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘She’s a lawyer in the State Department. Chesty rents her his garage apartment.’’
‘‘Is something wrong?’’
"She said that Chesty is dead, Mr. President," Donovan said.
EIGHT
1
Captain Douglass left the White House through a basement exit and went to the visitors’ parking lot. He had a gray Navy Plymouth, which a young sailor normally drove, but today he found behind the wheel a long-service boatswain’s mate first class who’d responded to the attack on Pearl Harbor by leaving his sickbed in the Washington Navy Yard Dispensary and reporting for duty. The young driver was now guarding the perimeter of the Navy Yard.
Douglass found the old sailor huddled in his peacoat in the front seat of the Plymouth.
‘‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you wait inside with the other drivers?’’
‘‘With all respect, sir. I don’t mind filling in in a pinch, but I won’t consort with them candy-asses.’’
Douglass, hiding a smile, handed him the slip of paper with the address Donovan had written on it.
‘‘Can you find this?’’ Douglass asked. ‘‘It’s somewhere near Dupont Circle.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ the sailor replied.
Soon Douglass found himself standing outside a ten-foot brick wall, pushing a doorbell.
Then a faint noise caught his attention, and he looked in the direction of the sound. Eighty feet away a young woman appeared on the sidewalk. She had a kerchief over her head and was wearing a trench coat.
‘‘Miss Chenowith?’’ Douglass called.
‘‘I think you’d better bring the car inside,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said.
Douglass signaled the boatswain’s mate to move the car, and he walked down the sidewalk toward the young woman. She looked a little pale—not entirely, because she was wearing makeup. She was shaken. But she also looked in control of herself.
‘‘I’m Peter Douglass, Miss Chenowith,’’ he said. He offered his hand. She neither replied nor took the hand, but she gave him a little smile.