Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [1]
Twenty-three of Roosevelt's sixty-two years had been spent in a wheelchair. Yet he had been the most vibrant man Donovan had ever met, exuding health and virility and energy. The president had possessed a sheer physical magnetism. But in the three weeks since their last meeting, Roosevelt's skin had taken on a ghastly pallor and a translucence that revealed the skull beneath. The bags under his eyes had darkened, and his lips had acquired a blue tinge. Stray strands of his hair flitted like insects in the lamplight above his head. The president was wearing a tweed jacket so old that it was shiny.
Roosevelt inhaled the smoke deeply then let it trail out his nostrils. He abruptly lifted his head in the manner that led many to suppose he was arrogant but which simply allowed him to see through his spectacles. "Can you spare me all the reading, Bill? It's late."
Bill Donovan was in plainclothes, as always. He was a small man, and scrappy, with ajuttingjaw and a boxer's nose. Harry Hopkins, called him the Irish terrier because the OSS chief always seemed on his hind legs at the end of a leash waiting for his master to let him go. Tonight he would try again.
"Mr. President, I will summarize the contents of my envelope in three sentences."
Roosevelt grinned appreciatively.
"First, each and every day the war in Europe continues, twenty- eight thousand men, women, and children die."
The president's smile vanished.
"Second, a group of German staff officers is ready to assume leadership of the Third Reich if an opportunity arises, and will instantly surrender."
Roosevelt's eyes lost their avuncular angle and became unreadable. He lowered the cigarette holder to an ashtray.
"Finally, Mr. President, we have confirmation of General Eisenhower's report that the German SS is preparing a national redoubt in the Bavarian Alps, where Hitler may be able carry on the war for another two years."
President Roosevelt started to speak but his throat rattled, and he bent low over the blotter, caught in a coughing fit that left him breathless and even more pale. He lifted the glass of water with a shaking hand. Water splashed to the desktop. He sipped carefully.
He was finally able to rasp, "The bastard is going to outlive me, isn't he?"
Donovan avoided the question. "Hitler has recently pledged, and I use his words, that he will fight 'until five minutes past midnight.'"
The president blinked several times, and his mouth silently moved. He seemed awash in melancholy. He gripped the wheelchair rims and backed away from the desk. Carpet in the Oval Office had been removed to allow the wheelchair to move more easily. He rolled to a window overlooking the lawn. Most Americans had long before taken down their blackout curtains, but Roosevelt liked "to remain on war footing," as he once told Donovan. The president pushed aside the curtain, a small act that seemed to consume the last of his strength. It was ten o'clock in the evening. Streetlights and garden lamps and the Washington Monument were dark for the duration, so there was nothing to be seen through the window.
Yet he peered into the blackness for a full minute. Then without turning away from the window, he said softly, as if in the presence of the dead, "You take care of it, Bill."
That was just enough. General Donovan rose from the chair, retrieved the manila envelope, and fairly sprinted out of the office.
PART ONE
1
BERLIN APRIL 7, 1945
OTTO DIETRICH was curled on the metal cot under a tattered blanket that smelled of urine and old blood. The blanket was alive with biting and burrowing vermin, yet he lay motionless, 1 too uncaring to scratch. His eyes were closed tightly and his mouth was pulled taut in fear.
They always came at noon. A few more minutes. They had left him his