Jack 1939 (30 page)

“Given that we’re mere weeks from hurling all of Europe into war,” Willi mused, “I’d have expected Heydrich to act. He should be forcing your father, for instance, to secure those American loans. Or approaching Mr. Churchill with the demand that he stand idly by while Neville Chamberlain stumbles. But I understand even the effort to thwart Roosevelt’s third term has faltered completely. Why, Jack? Can you explain it?”

Jack turned to look at Willi, waiting for his next words.

“The account book is gone. And with it, Heydrich’s greatest weapon. Diana took it.”

A surge of feeling swept through Jack’s gut. Emotion so ragged, he clenched his jaw against it. She was still gone. Her blood all over his hands.

“She died without telling him where it is,” Willi persisted. “Not even the knife got the truth out of her.”

Screaming. She died screaming.

“You thought it was to punish
you
.” Dobler grasped his shoulder and shook him. “Let yourself off that hook. She died in pain—because she made the choice.”

The lights from the lanterns wavered and blurred. The damn salt in his eyes, again.

“We’ve got to find it, Willi,” he whispered. “The account book. We owe her that much.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer, Jack,” Dobler said gently, “to let sleeping dogs lie?”

FIFTY-ONE.
SLEEPING DOGS

HE HAD NEVER PARTICULARLY CARED
about what was safe.

He left Kick and Joe and Torby and his father at Eden Roc and grabbed a taxi back to the château alone. He needed silence between himself and the momentous things Willi Dobler had said. Silence to consider this faint hope: that Diana had died for something much more important than a sick college kid from Boston. Jack wanted to believe it. It would ease the guilt he carried in his pocket. Fingering it like a piece of the true cross.

High up in his bedroom, he watched the night slip past without the comfort of sleep. Moonlight paved a road through the open French window as the hours wore away. Diana might just walk down that glimmering path and sit beside him on the bed, her cold fingers tugging at his hair; so he stayed alert, watching the moon as it shifted across his floor. When it slid up the far wall and disappeared, he turned restlessly under the single sheet, his nude body damp with fever.

Dobler was right. She’d taken the account book. Where was it now?

If she’d left it among her things, it was lost to them—Heydrich had probably dumped her clothes and luggage in a trash bin weeks ago. But no: he’d have searched Diana’s belongings first; he’d be desperate to recover his prize. And he hadn’t. As Willi said: There was no hint of behind-the-scenes blackmail in these last crucial weeks before war.

“Come on, Diana,” Jack muttered. “Tell me the truth. Where’d you hide Daisy’s records?”

It’s the only place I’m allowed to go alone,
she replied.

A bathroom?

He could not begin to search the women’s lavs of every gilded cage she’d used over the past three months.

She was still trying to steal the book when he deserted her in Prague; he was certain of that. She would never have stood by and watched the Spider kick him in the teeth if it was already in her hands. She’d have run to Jack that day, instead of walking deliberately across the Charles Bridge.

So she’d lifted Daisy’s records from Heydrich’s special strongbox sometime between Jack’s birthday, the twenty-ninth of May, and the day he’d found her dead in Warsaw—the twenty-fifth of July. As soon as Heydrich discovered her treachery, he’d turned on her. The interrogations and the manipulations began.

He thought of Diana’s sightless eyes on the bed in Warsaw and shivered.

Where’d you hide it, sweetheart?

She’d taken her last clues with her, into the silence of that final scream.

And yet—had she?

He sat up in his airless room.

There was one thing she’d left behind.

The evening bag he’d bought her in Danzig.

Steel and platinum, and totally inappropriate to carry in the daytime. Even as he’d stumbled toward her body, obscenities streaming from his mouth, his mind had snagged on that minor detail. He was enough Kick’s brother to know the purse was all wrong, that it should never have been in her hands, much less lying on his hotel-room floor. He’d dismissed his doubt as soon as he’d tucked the bag into his pocket. Grateful to have something, anything, of Diana to remember.

She’d known she was going to die. She had brought the evening bag deliberately, and left it for him to find. Trusting that the Spider would never notice.

He swung out of bed and went to his armoire.

He’d emptied his jacket pockets long ago. The evening bag lived beneath his handkerchiefs, piled carelessly in a drawer. His fingers found the beaded surface, slippery as caviar.

A blue dawn was breaking. Birdsong rising in the woods. His sleepless mind felt like somebody had bludgeoned it and his thumbs fumbled at the purse’s catch.

Inside, a few coins and notes.

A red lipstick, French.

Her cigarette case.

He opened this and sniffed the tobacco. Nothing of Diana in its scent.

There was a gambling chip from the casino in Monte Carlo; a small crucifix without a chain; and a book of matches from the Metropol in Moscow—the last time they’d made love.

She’d kept the purse to keep
him
with her. A pocket-sized Jack, for when the fear grew too much.

He turned the treasures over like a magpie. Fingering the bones. Then he turned to the bag itself.

It was lined in black silk, trapped by the steel frame. At the bottom, however, the lining’s seam was visible. And it had been opened in one corner, then neatly re-sewn. . . .

Jack dashed into his bath and found his new razor. He cut a slit in the lining large enough for his index finger and thrust it frantically through the silk.
Nothing.
His heart sank. Then he felt the edge of the flimsy cardboard scrap, tucked into the edge of the frame between the beading and the lining. The Spider had been too stupid to look for it.

His thudding pulse slowed. Carefully, he pulled the cardboard free.

It looked like a ticket from a hatcheck girl.

Praha Hlavni Nadrazi,
it said, with a number stamped beneath.

Jack closed his eyes and blessed Diana.

Daisy Corcoran’s murderous account book was at the Left Luggage counter in Prague’s main railway station.

* * *

AN HOUR LATER,
he walked into his father’s bedroom to find J.P. dressing for another round of golf.

“The Duke and Duchess of Windsor arrived in Cannes yesterday,” he told Jack with immense satisfaction. “Wallis loves a good game. And my handicap’s lower than the Duke’s.”

“He used to be King of England, for chrissake. Aren’t you
supposed
to let him win?”

“Pretending to lose is un-American,” Joe snapped. “Come along and make a fourth. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“I’m driving to Prague today,” he said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

His father stopped fussing with the buttons of his plus fours and squinted up at Jack. “Driving to Prague? Just like that? Are you out of your fucking
mind
? The borders are closed. Nobody’s getting into Czechoslovakia—or out. Do you even
listen
to your brother’s radio?”

“I need you to send a cable to Embassy Prague alerting them I’m coming,” Jack persisted.

“There
is
no Embassy Prague.” His father’s voice was a lash. “Carr left six days after Hitler marched in.”

Wilbur Carr was the ex–U.S. ambassador.

“There are still people there,” Jack said patiently. “I’ve seen the cables. The chargé’s named Kennan.”

“George Kennan?” Joe Kennedy hooted with laughter. “You’ll get a lot of change out of
him
. No flies on George. He’s an egghead of the first order, and hates political appointees’ guts. The last thing he’s going to do is babysit some college kid—much less
my
college kid.”

“You’ve got to wire him. And I’ll need a diplomatic letter of safe passage to get through the border.”

“Not on your life,” his father said flatly. “Your mother’d never forgive me. It was bad enough when Joe went haring off to the Spanish Civil War, but at least
he . . .”
he paused.

“Yeah?” Jack prompted, when his dad fell silent. “At least he could take care of himself? At least he didn’t get himself killed?—What exactly do you want to say?”

“At least Joe’s a
man
,” his father fired up. “He’s not going to fall over in a dead faint the first time he’s a few miles from a doctor. Hell, send
you
into a battle zone, Jack, and you’ll come home on a stretcher—and not because you took a bullet for anybody, either. Stay here and work on your tan.”

Rage flooded through Jack—a rage that crashed against his self-control and overcame it in a cascade of anger and disdain. He shoved his father hard against the bedroom wall. Joe’s head snapped back and his breath left his body with a sharp grunt. In another second he’d grabbed Jack’s shoulders and pushed back. Then they were grappling in the middle of the room, Jack’s teeth bared in a furious snarl, his fists driving into his father’s chest, his words coming as hard and fast as a spray of bullets.

“Look, old man, I know what you did and how you did it. I know you funneled thousands of dollars into the nuns’ charity, from donors all over Europe and the U.S. I know the Nazis used it to buy the next election. I know you’re a traitor.”

Joe went still, staring at him. “That’s a lie.”

“You want power so badly, you’d sell your soul. Even to Hitler. Loyalty means nothing to you.”

His father’s fist slammed into his jaw. “Watch your mouth, you little—”

“There was a time I’d have covered for you”—he tasted blood and stepped back, shaking off the blow—“because you’re
my father
, because we’re Kennedys and we stand by each other. But too many people have died, Dad. You’ve lied and lied while Daisy Corcoran’s throat was slit and Katie O’Donohue got a knife in the heart and Diana . . .
Diana . . .
”

“Who the hell is she?” Joe demanded.

“A woman I loved. Your friends sliced her to pieces.”

“I know nothing about that.” Joe’s lips were set in a thin line and his gaze was dead, but he’d stopped swinging now. “I got Katie a job at the Stork Club, sure. Took her to dinner once in a while. Had a few laughs. But I wasn’t there the night she died.”

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?” Jack’s voice dropped. “
Deniability.
What you don’t know, can’t screw you. You’d stand in front of Roosevelt himself and swear you’re a choirboy.”

“Damn right,” Joe retorted. “Prove me wrong, smartass.”

“You were just unloading a few charitable bucks on the Little Sisters of Clemency,” Jack suggested. “That’s the story, isn’t it? Taking a tax deduction? But I know better, Dad. Because Daisy Corcoran kept records of every donation she got. And how they were used.”

For the first time, his father’s assurance faltered. “That’s impossible. Daisy wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“You fool—she was murdered for the account book. Everybody in Europe seems to know it but you. Reinhard Heydrich got his hands on it. You know who Heydrich is, right? Head of the Gestapo? He thought Daisy’s records were immensely valuable. Imagine the names on that list. All the people Heydrich can use. And the ways he can use them.”

“Blackmail.” Joe had gone white. He groped for a chair and sank into it. “Jesus. Are you suggesting he’ll come after me?”

“Why not? You gave him the screw to turn. You’ve got Neville Chamberlain’s ear. And Roosevelt’s. You’re a man of influence, and Heydrich needs influence. If England refuses to back its pledge to defend Poland, and doesn’t lift a finger when Germany invades, Heydrich’s happy. If England surrenders in a few months instead of fighting to the last man, the whole war’s a walk in the park for Hitler and his friends. Question is, Dad—what will you say to Chamberlain and Roosevelt when they come to you for advice? The Gestapo’s script—or your own?”

“How can you ask?” his father spluttered. His face was mottled with shame and anger. “I’ve got no choice. Not if Heydrich has that book. Not if he means to—”

“—Tell Roosevelt you paid to bring him down?” Jack stepped toward him. “Tell the President yourself, Dad, and take the consequences. There’s always a choice. You can go further down the Nazi road of lies and fear. Or you can choose to be a man of honor.”

There was a silence.

“I need time,” J.P. said. “How much time, Jack, before Heydrich moves?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why hasn’t he tried to break me already?”

Jack hesitated. “We think it’s possible somebody stole the account book. We think it’s in Prague.”

“We?” His father scrutinized his face. “How do you
know
, Jack?”

“Thesis research.”

Joe’s mouth twisted. “What the hell am I going to do?”

Jack crouched down beside him. “You’re going to send a cable to Kennan at Embassy Prague. So I can find the account book.”

He wondered for a fleeting instant if they’d ever looked at each other honestly, without the flash and bravado that passed for Kennedy closeness. Father and son. The tycoon and the also-ran. The ambassador and his ne’er-do-well son. Jack stared through the owlish glasses, into his father’s eyes, and saw something he’d never seen there before. Fear.

Joe looked away quickly. “You think I’m a monster,” he said. “But I did it for
you
, Jack. For all you kids. I’d do anything to make your lives better.”

Better.

Jack felt suddenly hollow. There’d been a time in his life when he thought his father was the greatest man in the world.

“I’ll find the account book before Heydrich does,” he said. “Just send the telegram. Old man.”

FIFTY-TWO.
NAME-DROPPING

PRAGUE WAS NEARLY
six hundred miles from Cannes, and given the politics of the moment, the only plausible way to get to it was by car: driving east through the top of Italy to Innsbruck, then across Austria to Vienna and Bohemia. The Germans had closed the Czech border to trains and planes and automobiles. Jack drove anyway.

He reached Czechoslovakia four days later. A long line of traffic was exiting toward Vienna: dusty cars piled high with household goods and children, overheating in August. Nobody was going the opposite way except Jack. He slowed to a halt as he reached the checkpoint; he was alone with an impressive clutch of gray uniforms, maybe ten altogether. And the Germans would be on the lookout for him. He’d been in Gestapo territory from the moment he crossed into Austria yesterday; the name Kennedy would have hit Heydrich’s desk within an hour of his passport being stamped. Jack had weighed the risk and calculated his odds. If the Gestapo wanted to ask him about a bloody hotel room in Warsaw, they could haul him in any time they liked. Jack was a far better bargaining chip for Heydrich than a vanished account book. On the other hand, snapping up one of the Kennedys—and an official diplomatic envoy at that—would spark an international incident and an American outcry. It was simply a matter of how far the Gestapo wanted to push.

To his surprise, he was allowed to sleep unmolested in Austria and depart in the morning for the Czech border. He suspected that Heydrich was content to have him watched for a while. And see where he ran.

He was thinking about these things as he rolled down his window. Trying to calm his thudding heart and ignore the sweat starting out on his brow. The border guard was saying something to him in German. He offered his passport. The man shook his head and pointed the muzzle of his Mauser at Jack.

“Sprechen Sie
English
?”

The guard frowned, glanced away, and motioned to another soldier standing in the doorway of the kiosk. He trotted over.

“The border is closed,” the second man said firmly.

“I’m on a diplomatic mission to the American embassy in Prague.”

“There is no American embassy in Prague.”

“You and I both know that’s not quite true.” Jack handed the guard his father’s typed message declaring him a special envoy. “That’s a guarantee of safe passage.”

The German scanned the single page. Was Jack imagining it, or did his eyes linger on the name Kennedy? “Your passport.”

Jack handed it over.

“Who do you wish to see at this embassy that does not exist?”

“The American chargé d’affaires. Mr. George Kennan.”

The guard studied him in silence for several long seconds. His companion muttered something low in German. To Jack’s imagination it sounded like
Let’s kill him
now.

The man holding his passport grunted and went into the border station. The other one leveled his rifle again. Jack nearly reached for the sky, but lit a cigarette instead. He adjusted his sunglasses. Offered the soldier a smoke. The German did not respond. Neither did he move his gun. The muzzle was trained on Jack’s left temple. A few of the other Germans milling aimlessly around the kiosk came up and stared; he saluted jauntily.

The soldier with his passport was on the phone. Talking to Prague? Or Berlin? As Jack watched, he replaced the earpiece on the cradle, depressed it several times, and lifted the earpiece again. So
now
he was calling Berlin. Or Prague.

After an eternity, the operator on the line rang back with the trunk call. The soldier listened, spoke a few words, nodded at his unseen interlocutor, and hung up.

“Mr. Kennan is coming,” he told Jack as he emerged from the kiosk. He did not return Jack’s dip passport.

“From
Prague
?” Jack asked, startled.

“Yes. He will escort you. It is required.”

“How far away is Prague?”

The guard wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps two hundred thirty kilometers. He will be several hours, I think. You will pull the car to the side of the road and remain with it, yes?”

* * *

KENNAN WAS IN A WHITE RAGE
when he showed up, three hours and twelve minutes later, in a black car with a driver. Jack was in no better mood—the sun was blazing down on the border crossing, he had no water, and a few of the German soldiers were lounging on the hood of his car, guns dangling. He’d tried to read a book—Ray Buell’s
Poland
—
Key to Europe
—but the subject seemed far too academic for his life at the moment. He thought of Diana and wondered if she’d been consumed by fear as she died—if it had overwhelmed her, controlled her mind, as it sometimes threatened to control his. He knew he had a tendency to idealize Diana now that she was dead—to believe that all martyrs died nobly. A Catholic fallacy, perhaps. But he could not forget her silent scream. The memory made him miserable.

“You’re John Kennedy?”

He’d expected a man his father’s age, but Kennan was only in his midthirties. He had a round face, large and eloquent eyes, and a balding pate. The anger was visible in the compression of his lips and the way he spat out his words.

Jack had gotten out of his car as Kennan approached and they faced each other like gunslingers. The sun beat down. He thought of mentioning they had a friend in common in Bill Bullitt—Kennan had worked for Bullitt in Moscow—then decided against it. Maybe Kennan hated Bullitt, too.

“Call me Jack,” he said. “You’re Mr. Kennan, I take it?”

The chargé swept him with his eyes. “What are you—
fifteen
? Jesus Christ.”

“I’m twenty-two. I’m sorry you had to drive all the way out here—”

“The
hell
you are.” Kennan’s eyes were blazing now. “You Kennedys don’t give a rat’s ass about anything but yourselves. Do you realize this is an occupied country in a state of war? That there’s no official American presence? No trains, no planes, and no cars allowed in or out? That we’re scrambling every hour just to keep ourselves out of the Gestapo’s hands?”

“Yes. I do. And I’m very grateful.”

“—And in the middle of this
fucking
chaos, I get a cable from
Joe Kennedy,
who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, telling me to meet his idiot son.”

“I understand you’re angry. You don’t have to be offensive.”

Kennan smiled tightly. “You waste my time, kid, I can be anything I want. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”

Jack swallowed. “Research.”

“What?”

“A fact-finding mission.” Kennan was supposed to respect scholars. “I’m working on my senior thesis. At Harvard.”

Kennan swore under his breath and turned toward his car. “Go back to Vienna, Mr. Kennedy. I’ve got better things to do than babysit a spoiled brat.”

“You might want to check with President Roosevelt first,” Jack suggested, his voice lower.

It was a huge gamble. He had no idea whether Kennan would call his bluff. Or whether Roosevelt would back him up if he did. It’d been weeks since he’d sent the President so much as hello.

Kennan stopped dead.
“Roosevelt?”
he repeated.

“Yes. He’s aware of my trip. You might say he . . . sent me.”

“Oh, shit.” Kennan looked him over with loathing. “So you’re one of
those
.”

“One of what?”

“FDR’s freelancers. His amateur specialists. His little
friends
.” The chargé’s voice was heavy with contempt. “A deadweight and a pain in the ass, at a time when I need both about as much as I need a hole in the head. Look, Mr. Kennedy. I can’t send you packing. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But you gate-crash Embassy Prague, you get twenty-four hours. No more, no less. And
none
of my people are at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

Kennan ignored him. He nodded once to his driver. “Make it good with the Krauts, Charlie. Kennedy—
follow us
. And God help you if you lose your way.”