“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to get your seat wet.”
“That’s the least of my troubles,” said Keegan.
“Drive down to your right, past the station. You can cross the tracks there.”
As they crossed over the railroad, Laster told him to take a sharp left. A hulking steam engine loomed through the fog. They drove past the black leviathan. Steam curled from around its enormous wheels and undercarriage as it hissed idly, waiting to be stoked up. The private train was seven cars long and was dark except for slender shafts of light streaming from under drawn shades. As they drove the length of the train, Keegan could see the vague forms of bodyguards moving about in the darkness. Then Laster suddenly ordered, “Stop here,” as they neared the last car.
Keegan slammed on the brakes. A slender woman with a wide-brimmed hat came out of the last car, her collar turned up around her ears. A plainclothesman helped her down the steep metal steps, then they scurried through the mist around the back of the car. A moment later Keegan saw automobile headlights flash on the opposite side of the Pullman car. Then he heard an auto drive off.
“Okay, pull down to the end of the train,” Laster said and after hesitating a moment, added: “You might forget what you just saw.”
“I didn’t see a thing,” Keegan said.
Laster smiled without looking at him. “This’ll be fine,” he said.
Keegan stopped the car and they got out.
“Just a minute, please,” Laster said as he mounted the steps on the back of the Pullman. He disappeared inside. Keegan lit a cigarette and turned up the collar of his suit coat. The mist was so heavy it collected on the brim of his fedora and dripped off.
Keegan now understood why the president’s private train from Hyde Park to Washington was sidetracked in this virtually nonexistent village. Through the years, Keegan had heard newsmen joke among themselves about FDR’s “lady friend.” It was a reporter’s inside joke; no one ever hinted at it in print. But Beerbohm had confided to Keegan once that her name was Lucy Rutherford and she lived someplace in New Jersey and that Roosevelt had been in love with her since before the war; a twenty-five-year love affair which the press chose to ignore.
A minute or two passed and Laster appeared at the door to the Pullman car and motioned Keegan in. He climbed the steps and entered the private car.
It was laid our as an office, its walls lined with dark wood paneling, the floors covered with thick piled carpeting. A large oak desk dominated the middle section of the car. Behind it was a bar and to its left a large leather sofa with Tiffany floor lamps on either end. An antique chair sat in front of the desk. The lighting was subdued and the tasseled silk shades were fully drawn.
President Roosevelt sat behind the desk in his electrified wheelchair, dressed in a scarlet smoking jacket and a dark blue silk ascot, his pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, a glass of scotch at his elbow. His face broke into the familiar warm, broad grin as Keegan entered the car.
“Well, Francis, what a grand surprise after all these years,” the president said, offering his hand.
“Mr. President,” Keegan said as they shook.
“Pour yourself a drink and sit down there in front of me,” Roosevelt said, nodding toward the chair. “Sorry about the rain. I trust the trip from the big city wasn’t too uncomfortable.”
“Not a bit,” Keegan said. He poured himself a sour mash highball and sat down. “I appreciate your taking time to see me.”
“I can hardly pass up a chance to say hello to an old friend,” Roosevelt said, enunciating every syllable in his refined accent. “I can’t thank you enough for your contributions to the party over the years, Francis. You’ve been a generous and loyal supporter.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President,” Keegan said. “Are you going to break precedent and go for a third term?”
“Still up in the air, old man,” Roosevelt answered. “My advisers have mixed feelings about it.”
“For what it’s worth, I hope you do,” Keegan said.
“Thanks. You look hardy, Francis. I trust things have gone well for you.”
“No complaints, sir.”
“Excellent, excellent. Before we chat I would like to request that you keep our meeting confidential,” the president said. His eyes had an almost mischievous glow. “A policy of mine, permits me to let what little hair I have down.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Keegan answered.
“One other thing. You mentioned national security. Would you consider letting an adviser of mine, Bill Donovan, sit in?”
Keegan recognized the name immediately. He had heard that Wild Bill Donovan, of the old Fighting 69th, was organizing an information-gathering agency. It would collect intelligence information and analyze it as part of Roosevelt’s attempt to overhaul the entire intelligence system, such as it was—which wasn’t much.
“That’ll be fine, Mr. President,” Keegan replied. But Roosevelt could see a tinge of disappointment in Keegan’s face. He leaned forward in his chair with his hands on the edge of his desk and fiddled with a cigarette, finally putting it in a long, ivory holder and lighting it.
“Francis, do you know how many spies we had when the world war started?” he asked, and held up two fingers before Keegan could answer. “Two.”
“Two!” Keegan said with a chuckle of disbelief.
“That’s right, my friend, ridiculous as it may sound, we had two spies and two clerks supporting them. That was our entire intelligence service. And to make matters worse, what intelligence sources we
