Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [0]
A NOVEL
JAMES THAYER
SIMON & SCHUSTER
_ SIMON & SCHUSTER
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Copyright © 1997 by James Stewart Thayer
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are
registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc
Designed by Edith Fowler
Manufactured in the United States of America
10987654321
Library of Congress Cataloging-m-Publication Data Thayer, James Stewart Five past midnight a novel by James Thayer p cm
1 Roosevelt, Franklin D (Franklin Delano), 1882- 1945—Fiction
2 World War, 1939-1945—Fiction I Title PS3570H347F58 1997 97-12446 CIP 81354—dc2l ISBN 0-684-80025-X
My heartfelt thanks to David G. Knibb, Sally A. Martin, Daniel J. Niehans, John D. Reagh III, Jeano Riley, John L. Thayer, M.D., Joseph T. Thayer, Dexter A. Washburn, Mark A. Washburn, and my wonderful wife, Patricia Wallace Thayer.
For my mother
BURYL STEWART THAYER
and her parents
CONSTANCE MAY MACMILLAN STEWART (1902-1996) and
THOMAS WILLIAM STEWART (1898-1988)
Victory is a thing of the will.
—FERDINAND FOCH
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
PART TWO
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART THREE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Prologue
THE WHITE HOUSE APRIL 4, 1945
DONOVAN NEVER recorded the meeting in his journal, but he would remember it in fine detail to the end of his days. It began when the usher tapped lightly on the massive oak door, then pressed a small button hidden in the wainscoting to notify the Secret Service watch officer that the spymaster was about to enter the office. Above the button a portrait of Andrew Jackson glared down at them.
"He's expecting you, General," the usher said in a low voice appropriate for the august place. When he pushed open the door, the spymaster stepped through.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was sitting behind his desk, his face green in the light of a banker's lamp. The chandelier had been doused, the blackout curtains were drawn across the windows, so the walls of the Oval Office were a periphery of darkness. A mail pouch, copies of the New York Times and the Washington Post, a pitcher and glass, and several marble paperweights were on the desk.
The president waved the general into the room. Behind the desk, two tasseled United States flags hung from poles. The pennant Roosevelt had designed for himself when he was assistant secretary of the navy was displayed on a smaller staff near the fireplace. On a stand at the end of the desk was an intricate reproduction of the USS Constitution, one of the many ship models in the president's collection.
General William Donovan, director of the Office of Strategic Services, placed a manila envelope on the desk, pushing it across to the blotter so the president would not have to use the tongs he kept in a drawer. White House carpenters had raised the desk six inches to accommodate the president's wheelchair, and when Donovan sat in the low leather chair opposite the president, the desktop came almost to Donovan's shoulders.
Roosevelt chided the general by lifting the envelope and making a production of weighing it. "You are a lawyer by profession, Bill. You write briefs. But you never write anything brief."
Donovan should have chuckled dutifully. Not this night. The contents of the envelope precluded levity. Like most Americans, the general loved Roosevelt's voice, the fireside companion that had carried America through the bleak years. Every time the general heard that silky, compelling, faintly exotic voice, he felt rejuvenated and stronger. But again, not this night, not with the envelope.
Roosevelt pulled a Camel from