"Yes, Mr. Grant--" Ballister was all but chanting as he concluded--"I'll send you over to see that prince of double-crossers, Major-General Ray L. Wakely, director of Army Counter-Intelligence, so-called. Mind you, he probably won't admit you to the Pentagon, coming from me, or if he does he'll try to frame you--" "Z-2, Admiral," I answered him, "is entirely familiar with General Wakely's methods and reputation. I can take care of myself, if you can get me into the Pentagon. I have some reports, entirely apart from the Alaska business, which belong to the Army and I should deliver them to Wakely in person. As you know, Z-2 is not allowed to take part in interdepartmental feuds." "That's all very well," Ballister barked at me, "but right is right and wrong is wrong. You're not supposed to be blind to that, are you?" "You ought to know where our sympathies lie, sir!" I snapped back. "But my orders are to see Wakely, if he's in charge of counter-intelligence." This was sheer bravado. As a matter of fact, I knew I ought to call it a day now that Ballister was in my camp but the best way to keep him on my side was to move against his Army opponents. I felt rather like a slug in a slot-machine as it starts to hit the jack-pot. I would teach the F.B.I. not to monkey with Winnie Tompkins. Z-2 had been a happy thought. So far nobody had gagged on it and with Roosevelt's papers tied up, the war would be over before any of the topside officials guessed I had invented it. Ballister calmed down enough to buzz his secretary and tell her to get General Wakely on the line, but fast. A moment later the gruff old sea-dog was talking to the double-crossing Army Counter-Intelligence Director. "Hullo, Ray? This is Ballister. How's your golf? Too bad! Neither can I.... Well, there's a civilian here you ought to see ... Grant, R. L. Not his real name, of course ... from Z-2.... Yes, Z as in zebra, two as in two.... He's just cleaned up one of our worst headaches and says he has some special reports for you.... No idea, Ray, he didn't tell me and I didn't ask him.... Z-2 doesn't talk. No, not in the least like our Edgar or Wild Bill. Can you see him today?" I shook my head. "Sorry sir!" I interrupted the Admiral. "I can't see him until tomorrow morning at seven-thirty." The Admiral winced as though a cobra had suddenly appeared on his blotter. Then he grinned maliciously. "Hold on a minute, Ray," he said. "You can have your golf this afternoon, after all. Grant says he can't see you until tomorrow at seven-thirty.... Yes, seven-thirty.... No, ten o'clock will be too late, he says.... At your office at seven-thirty, then." He hung up and turned back to me. "You know, Grant," he remarked, "I wouldn't mind belonging to Z-2 for a few days myself if I could make that scoundrel Wakely rise at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning." "His little Wac won't like it?" I insinuated.