I shook my head. "If it's the last thing Z-2 ever does, Admiral," I told him, "I still want to make a Major-General get up early in the morning in order to see me."
Ballister grinned. "Grant," he said. "How come you never thought of joining the Navy. We could use men like you. Get in touch with me if anything happens to Z-2. This here war may be just about won but then there's no armistice in the battle of Washington."
[CHAPTER 18]
There is no point in describing the various problems of logistics involved in my reaching General Wakely's office in the Pentagon early on Sunday morning. All the Pentagon stories have been invented and told, including my favorite yarn of the German spy who was told to bomb the building but decided to disobey his orders because there was no point in robbing the Third Reich of its greatest asset.
Wakely was a bluff, hearty type of soldier, with more bluff than heart, who greeted me without emotion, waved me to a chair and proceeded to get down to cases.
"I've decided, Grant, and the Chief of Staff agrees," he informed me, "that the time has come to liquidate Z-2. All of these irregular agencies have been nothing but a nuisance since before Pearl Harbor. Z-2 has been in the Army's hair for years. We've heard nothing good of your outfit."
"You are fully entitled to your point of view, General,"—I have observed that Generals do not go for "Sir!" as eagerly as Admirals—"but the decision rests with the White House. All I do is to follow my orders."
General Wakely exhumed a ghastly smile. "The White House ain't what it used to be, Grant," he continued. "While Roosevelt was President we couldn't do much about it, but now, by gad! the time has come to coordinate the White House. This Z-2 business is played out anyhow."
I started to say something soothing but the Chief of Military Intelligence refused to yield the floor.