The Wilson Deception (13 page)

 

“M
y daughter says there have been bookstalls here on the riverbank for hundreds of years.” Fraser was standing with Joshua before uneven shelves that overflowed with books about French history. “It's wonderful to learn from your own child.”

Joshua, an inch taller than Fraser but with the slender build of the young, reached for a volume. He fanned the pages. “They're all in French.” He reshelved the book with a smile. “I can parley when I have to, certainly with the mam'selles, but my reading of French is strictly limited to street signs and menus.”

As they strolled to the next stall, Fraser said, “Your father's late.”

“It's a family joke that the name Speed was meant for someone else, but Daddy was late being born so he got the name by mistake.”

“I never noticed that about him.”

Joshua paused at the stone wall separating the street from the drop to the river. He leaned on his elbows to look out. Fraser joined him. The river flowed dark on the overcast day, with green flashes of reflected light.

“The old man says I can trust you. As a rule, he doesn't say that about white folks. But then it turns out you don't even know he'll be late to his own funeral.”

A boat worked its way up the river, its flat deck a nest of ropes and pulleys. The two-man crew made no effort to impose order on the clutter around them, preferring to scan the passing riverbanks.

“Okay,” Fraser said.

“So, why does he trust you?”

“We have some, I suppose you'd call it some history together.” Fraser admired the buildings rising above the far shore, the walled riverbank of Île Saint-Louis. The stone structures seemed ageless, destined to last far longer than the puny two-legged animals who scurried in and out of them. “A long time ago.”

“That history doesn't seem to include being friends.”

“Oh, I don't know. Friendly enough.” He looked over at Joshua. “It's true we haven't kept up much.”

“You're not giving me much to go on.”

“I guess I feel like it's your father's story to tell.” Fraser straightened and began to move down the walk. Joshua followed. “But you should know I trust him, too.” When Joshua said nothing, Fraser said, “Tell me, how are things with Mr. Wilson?”

“It's indoor work, no heavy lifting.”

“No, I meant with the man himself.”

“I see more of him than I expected. He and Mrs. Wilson have decided the French staff can't be around him, they can't be trusted, so that just leaves a few of us Americans who can.”

“What's he like?”

“We don't exactly pal around together, but not as bad as I expected—you know, for a Southern man.” When Fraser turned a questioning eye, Joshua added, “He's the boss, no two ways about that, and he's been pretty patient with my mistakes, since I didn't know the first thing about being a valet. But he's got more personality than I thought he would. You know, he was reciting limericks the other day.”

“Any good ones?”

Joshua smiled. “God, they were terrible.”

“Anything off color?”

“Nah. Probably why they were so bad. But he thought they were great, amused the hell out of himself. It was sort of cute.”

Fraser struggled to think of the president as cute. “And young Dulles? How's it going with him?”

Joshua shrugged. “We meet. I tell him what I know, which ain't a lot. Mostly about who comes to the house, how long they stay.”

“Does he go away satisfied?”

“Damned if I know. Keeps coming back.”

“So what's this I hear?” Speed Cook's deep voice came upon them from behind. They stopped and formed a small knot with the new arrival. Speed glared at Fraser. He lowered his voice but retained its urgency. “Now instead of my boy going to prison for twenty years, you're going to get him shot as a spy for France?”

“Whoa, there,” Fraser said, “It's not just Joshua. I'm supposed to be supplying Colonel Boucher with news, too.” He stared evenly at Cook. “If I saw a way to say no, I wouldn't have signed either of us up.” He waited a beat. “Have you got one?”

“Damn it, Jamie, there's always alternatives,” Cook said. “You just got to think of them.”

“Fine. Hop on it. I could use some good alternatives.”

“Hey,” Joshua said. “Is there room for me in this conversation?”

The two older men looked down at their shoes.

“Listen, I've got no problem with the French. If I'm working with them, then there's less danger I'll get picked up on these streets or at least there's one more place I can go for help if I do. The Frenchies have treated me better than the US Army ever did.”

“Are you prepared,” his father asked, “to become a Frenchman?”

“I don't know. If it means I don't have to be a nigger.”

Cook glared at his son. “What's to stop the British from pulling the same stunt, make you report to them? Both of you? And the Germans? How about the Russians and the Poles?” He waved a hand back at the buildings lining the riverside. “There could be five spies watching us all right now.”

Joshua turned to Fraser. “What do you think—will the British come around after me, too?”

Cook broke in. “What are you asking him for?”

“You said I could trust him.”

“Yeah, I said that, but that doesn't mean he gets a vote,” Cook said.

“He and I are the ones doing the spying. We've got the only votes here.”

Fraser held up his hands to calm the two men. “All this talk about spies. Makes me think about going someplace more private.”

 

Cook's hotel room was narrow and chilly. The window looked out on an air shaft. A bare bulb, suspended by a cord in the center of the room, cast a sickly light. He sat in the single hard chair. Fraser and Joshua sat on the edge of the narrow bed.

“Are you changing your hotel every day, like the old days?” Fraser asked him.

“Haven't been,” Cook said, “but I'll move after you boys leave today.”

Joshua asked, “What's all this about, changing hotels?”

“Ancient history,” Cook said, “the only kind two old coots can have. I'll tell you sometime.”

“All right, Speed,” Fraser said, leaning back against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling and was sorry he had. A squadron of flies circled the light bulb. He looked back at Cook. “Just what are those alternatives that Joshua and I have?”

“Okay, let's try this to get ourselves thinking. Let's try turning it around. Maybe we're worrying too much about what
they
can do to
us,
and not thinking enough about what we can do to them.”

“Oh, come on, Daddy,” Joshua said. “They're planning to put me in jail for twenty years. What can I do to match that?”

“Wait,” Fraser said. “Hear him out.”

Cook rubbed his forehead with a gnarled hand. “Let's think about what these people are doing, really doing. That pretty boy Dulles is sending a man to spy on his own president. Since he picked you to do the spying, he's ignoring the verdict of an authorized military court. Near as we know, he can't be sure if Joshua actually deserted or not. Doesn't seem to matter to him.” Cook took a moment, gathering his thoughts. “And this Boucher, the Frenchman, he's spying on his own ally. If President Wilson already was thinking about going home early, what might he do if he found out that France was turning his personal staff into their own spies?”

“Hell,” Joshua said, “he's got that on the brain already.”

“Exactly,” Cook said. “Where would that leave Clemenceau, with everything he wants to do to Germany?”

“But it would be just my word against these big shots,” Joshua said. “The word of a colored man. A deserter.”

“Hold the phone, there,” Fraser said. “I'm not colored. And I'm an army officer.”

Cook smiled a smile with an edge. “Yeah? This time, you'll stick with me? All the way?”

“What exactly have I been doing since you tapped me on the shoulder at the Hotel Majestic? Playing checkers?” Fraser took a breath to control his temper. “Listen, I don't think we can afford to rely on Dulles to fix Joshua's situation forever. I don't trust him enough for that.”

“Amen,” Cook said. “Now you're talking my language.”

“I spoke to a lawyer I know over at the judge advocate's office. About a hypothetical situation, I said, just something I was curious about.”

“Smart,” Cook said. “He'd never see through that.”

Fraser ignored him. “He said the president could fix a situation like Joshua's. Wilson can reverse any military sentence, but he'd have to do it within a certain amount of time, which we're already pretty far past.”

“Naturally,” Joshua said.

“Hang on, hang on. That just means when we get the president's order of reversal, or whatever it's called, we have to get it backdated. That lawyer gave me the form of what the order should look like. The trick will be getting it approved.”

“Signed by Wilson?” Cook asked.

Fraser nodded. “And backdated.”

A quiet fell over the group.

“Okay,” Cook said, his voice a thoughtful rumble. “So, look, this is what we should've been thinking about from the beginning. We've got to give someone in power—American or French, Dulles or Wilson or Boucher or Clemenceau—a powerful reason to give Joshua his life back. So what's that reason? Maybe it could be hard evidence of the dirty business they're making you two do.”

“Like what?” Joshua asked.

“Damned if I know for sure. We might have to steal it. We might have to make up some of it. We just need to have something to trade with.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Let's take them one at a time. What about Boucher? What can we get on him or from him?”

Fraser shook his head. “I don't know about him. His office must be in a military building somewhere, so there's bound to be guards all around. And we have no connection to the French anyway. My uniform can get me into some places run by the Americans, but it doesn't work so well with French guards.”

“Okay, what about Dulles?” Speed asked.

“That's easier,” Fraser said. “He's staying in a public hotel, one where my uniform works a whole lot better.”

“And I'm at the president's residence,” Joshua suggested.

“Wilson won't have anything that shows you're a spy,” Speed said. “Dulles is keeping that a secret from him.”

Joshua burst out, “Criminy, I'm not stupid, I know that. Maybe I can get a look at something else, something that we still might use to trade with.”

The three men grew quiet again.

“If we take something from Dulles or the president,” Fraser offered, “they'll come after us to get it back.”

Speed sat up. “Why would they think it was us who stole anything? There's got to be hundreds of spies here in Paris right now—French, British, Bolsheviks, Germans—all sneaking around stealing things from each other. It's a regular spy convention.”

“Speed,” Fraser said, “I've got a thought. My daughter has this new camera. It takes photos in regular light. Why don't we use it? We won't have to actually steal anything. We can just take a photo of it, which will prove it really exists.”

“Sure,” Joshua said. “Or we could get photos of them actually doing things—like photos of Dulles or Boucher talking to me as John Barnes, tie them directly to me.”

Speed offered a thin smile. “Okay, so we've got some ideas, some alternatives. Maybe we start watching Dulles, his habits, the kinds of things he carries around, how he carries them.”

The others nodded.

“Joshua, you'll see him at the residence if he turns up there. And I can keep an eye on him at the Crillon.”

“I don't know, Speed,” Fraser said. “If you hang around there too much, you'll get pretty conspicuous.”

Now Cook was grinning. “I'm going to be very conspicuous. It turns out the hotel has been looking for an English-speaking bartender who can mix up some of those fancy new cocktails the Americans like. I wowed them with a drink Johnny Williams has been making up in Harlem. He calls it a sidecar. They're going to feature it, play it up big.”

“That's good,” Fraser said. “That's very good. Bartenders hear a lot of things.”

“It won't hurt to have some work to keep some money coming in, either,” Cook said, gesturing to their grim surroundings. “My expenses have been outrunning my resources.”

Joshua broke in. “I don't mean to rain on this parade, but what makes you think we can do all these things, run around learning secrets and facing down the US government. I haven't had a whole lot of luck facing down the US government.”

“These two devious old minds,” Speed answered, nodding at Fraser, “are capable of more than you're giving them credit for. Especially when we can call on strong young legs.” After a beat, he added, “We need to move fast. This peace conference can't last forever, and God knows where they'll take Joshua after that.”

 

C
olonel Boucher, not naturally a cheerful man, smiled during his early morning ride to Clemenceau's house. Paris in mid-April was in full bloom. The magnolia shimmered pink and white in the breeze. Chestnut trees wore delicate blossoms. He had dreamt of seeing this again, a Paris spring without war. Despite four years of man's worst efforts, the world was still alive.

He had much to feel cheerful about. France prevailed in the long war by a hair's breadth, staggering to the armistice on a sea of American soldiers, British grit, and the willingness of more than a million Frenchmen to march to their deaths. Now France was poised to win the peace, as well.

Clemenceau received him in his study. “Forgive me if I don't get up,” the premier said. “I have felt some dizziness in these last days.”

“Monsieur Premier,” Boucher said, “I am dizzy, too—dizzy with your great success! After all of Wilson's fine speeches about justice and benevolence, you have won English and American guarantees—they will defend France against German attack?”

Clemenceau nodded in confirmation. He allowed himself a small smile.

“It's a miracle! That will be the pièce de résistance, which makes all of your other successes even greater.”

Raising a finger, Clemenceau said, “Never underestimate the hedgehog. But Colonel, you will be my favorite intelligence officer even if you do not flatter me.”

Still standing, Boucher answered, “But why should I take such a chance?”

“Very wise, I'm sure.” Clemenceau reached for a paper to the side of the desk. “As for business, I think it's time for us to address issues other than Germany. I fear I have neglected them. We may have missed some, ah, opportunities.” He held his hand out for the intelligence officer to sit down, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He laced his fingers together over his midriff and began. “Some subjects, of course, we may ignore. Let us pass over the Italians and the Greeks and their demands for lands they last occupied two thousand years ago. Both are preposterous.”

“Exactly so.” Boucher was searching for papers in his briefcase. He pulled out a handful and sat back. “Our view on both is that their appetites are greater than their digestive powers.”

“Boucher, you are disgusting. Military men should leave the metaphors to those with literary sensibilities.” Clemenceau looked over his nose at the man. “I am interested in the argument between Japan and China over the Shantung Peninsula. What do you and your wise colleagues make of that?”

“From a military standpoint, we are content to have Japan and China fight. So long as they fight each other, it should make our position in Indochina safer.”

Clemenceau gathered his brows in concentration. “Should we not fear Japan? Their fleet grows. Their army expands. They are modern and extremely ambitious.”

“We fear everyone,” Boucher said, “but China is a very great meal for even the most ambitious nation to swallow—”

Clemenceau held up his hand. “No digestive metaphors, my dear Colonel. I would like to hear more from your men who follow Japan.”

“Of course.”

Clemenceau's eyes passed over Boucher's head to the wall beyond. “Talk to me of Syria and Lebanon. Many tell me that we must acquire them. In some fashion that Mr. Wilson finds acceptable, of course. But the reasons I am given are nothings. To protect Christians? To restore the glories of the crusader knights? France has been bled white in this war. We have no blood left for such sentimental matters.”

“For business, sir.”

“For business. I shall tell one million mothers of one million poilus moldering in their graves that their sons died to make Frenchmen more rich. Boucher, it is not only your metaphors that are disgusting.” Clemenceau used a forefinger to stroke one side of his exuberant mustache.

Boucher remained silent.

“There is the matter of oil in Mesopotamia. It doesn't go so well. Mr. Lloyd George is impossible. The man will say anything. We have sympathetic talks. He is charming. He is agreeable. But when I return here I realize I have gained nothing. So I stop having sympathetic talks. We argue. We shout. I return here and still I have gained nothing. Perhaps we must fight a duel.”

Boucher smiled at the premier, who had survived a dozen duels and near-duels.

Clemenceau made a face. “All right. No duel. Did you bring the map?”

Boucher pulled from his briefcase a map of the now-defunct Turkish Empire. He spread it on the desk before Clemenceau. Both men leaned over as Boucher traced the route a pipeline might take between Mosul and Damascus, perhaps five hundred miles long, and then on to the Mediterranean.

“My predecessors were stupid in that agreement with Sykes,” Clemenceau said. “We cannot give up Mosul. We must have part of the oil.”

The two men straightened up.

“There are advantages,” Boucher said, “to pursuing a commercial arrangement for the oil in Mosul, rather than a political one. We tell the English that we will build the pipeline for them and keep it safe across Syria and Lebanon, so long as they give to Frenchmen part of the oil of Mosul. Then we leave to England the pleasures of dealing with that country and its quarrelsome people.” He leaned over to point again. “It also allows us to confine ourselves to our historical claim for Syria and Lebanon, where the Christians are most dense. It would have the advantage of being consistent with what France has said before.”

Clemenceau's eyes fixed on Boucher without actually seeing him. “I wonder about this Gulbenkian and his Turkish Petroleum Company? We would use him for this?”

Boucher shrugged. “Ah, the Armenian. When one lies down with dogs, one . . .”

“Yes, yes, but the British have decided that fleas with petroleum are not so bad, and so do I.”

Boucher shrugged again.

“So, I shall haggle with this Armenian and Mr. Lloyd George over shares in the Turkish Petroleum Company on behalf of prosperous Frenchmen who despise me.”

Boucher nodded.

The premier waved for Boucher to remove the map. “The prince of Arabia was here yesterday. He is most impressive. He could be in the cinema. He spoke of this commission of Wilson's to determine public opinion in Syria and Arabia.”

“Yes, sir, the Americans continue to want that.”

Clemenceau allowed himself a smile. “I told the prince that France would support a sort of independence for local communities in the area. No matter how that was translated into his language, it will commit us to nothing.”

“We should be,” Boucher said, “concerned about that Colonel Lawrence. He is always buzzing around the prince. He didn't come here with the prince yesterday?”

Clemenceau shook his head. “We didn't know where he was, which is troubling. Among the British and Americans, no doors are closed to Lawrence. He seems to cast a sort of spell over them.”

“And the Jews are also troublesome over these scraps of desert?”

“They, too, find no British or American doors closed to them.”

Boucher plunged ahead. “You have not selected any French members for this commission of the Americans?”

“No. I say confusing things. I marvel at the weather. The spring is beautiful, no?”

“My office might have some suggestions for proper commissioners.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“That is well.”

“Yes, I shall wait. The president and Mr. Lloyd George, they cannot stay in Paris forever, but we, Colonel Boucher, we live here.” Clemenceau smiled. “Only the British could muddle a situation so totally, confusing it with this Armenian and the saintly Colonel Lawrence. But they cannot quarrel with France over this bed of sand.” He pulled himself upright. “What do they care of Arabs or Jews? It's sentimental nonsense. France will have Syria, Britain will have Mesopotamia, we will share the petroleum. The Arabs, they will have their cinema star. And the Jews will have the same nothing they've always had.”

“What of Mr. Wilson and his Fourteen Points? The promise of self-determination of peoples.”

“Yes, the inscrutable Mr. Wilson. He's like the heavens on a cloudy night. He opposes, he preaches, he opposes, he scolds, he grows ill, he recovers, he grows ill, he still opposes. And then—poof! He agrees.” Clemenceau spread his arms in mock wonder. “He is like a storm that moves on the wind. When the storm is done, ah, that is when the hedgehog scurries out and gathers up his berries.”

 

The president stood before the window of his dressing room, feeling snug in his robe of deep blue flannel. Two blackbirds perched on the window sill, pecking at the crumbs of morning toast he had placed there. He thought they were the same two birds every morning.

He smiled, thinking of the day before, how he had surprised the others, perhaps even shocked them. When that Italian popinjay, Signore Orlando, threatened to walk out on the peace talks, Wilson didn't bat an eyelash. With the same frosty look he used while presiding over the university senate at Princeton, he had shrugged. “You must,” he had said, “ do what you think is best.” While the translator rendered his words into Italian, Lloyd George and Clemenceau exchanged one of their meaningful glances, the ones he wasn't supposed to notice. They expected him to implore Orlando to stay. Fiddlesticks on that. Wilson had no obligation to stop a man from playing his hand badly, something the Italians excelled at. So out Orlando stalked. He would be back, sooner than Wilson would prefer. And the other two had been reminded that Woodrow Wilson does no man's bidding.

The president began to hum.

Joshua knocked at the door, then entered with the president's black-button boots, freshly polished. He set them down next to the closet.

Still smiling, Wilson turned and began to sing, keeping time with his hand. “The Son of God,” he began in a low voice, “goes forth to war!”

Joshua recognized the martial stride of the hymn. It had stirred him as a boy.

“Barnes,” the president cried, “you know it! I see by your expression that you know it. Join in!” Wilson's pure tenor launched into the second verse in a stronger voice. “That martyr first, whose eagle eye, could pierce beyond the grave.”

Joshua picked up the tune, but the words were slow to come to his lips, a half beat late if at all.

Wilson conducted the hymn through the third verse.

Joshua remembered the final line of that one. He sang clearly, “They bowed their necks the death to feel, who follows in his train?” Memories of soldiers flooded Joshua's mind. He felt his emotions crowd in.

Wilson began to cough. Soon the cough was a full-fledged fit.

Joshua, pushing back his agitation, stepped over to steady the president. He helped Wilson sit.

When the hacking subsided, the president slowly regained his breath. Smiling, he patted Joshua's arm. “Thank you, Barnes, for the song and the help. It's a splendid tune. Makes the heart leap up.”

“Yes, sir. It did start to come back to me. Shall I get Admiral Grayson?”

Wilson stood a bit gingerly. “No, it was nothing. Grayson needn't know everything.”

 

Eliza winced from the sun's glare off the gilt and mirrors of Angelina's Café. After an evening at the opera, it felt very early. Jamie, who had to stay at the hospital most nights, had insisted they meet at 7:30 so he could still make his mid-morning rounds. That meant she had to tiptoe out of the hotel suite while Violet slept.

Eliza couldn't help envying her daughter's talent for sleeping. Eliza woke three or four times most nights. Mornings usually arrived like a distant shore she had been swimming to for hours. She would feel a sort of relief that she didn't have to struggle with sleep any more. An appointment at 7:30 in the morning wasn't entirely civilized, but Jamie wanted to meet then, and she had come a long way to reconcile. No point arguing over smaller matters. Not now, anyhow.

She had learned—a bit late, to be sure—the dark side of her husband's level disposition. At first, she found his even demeanor irresistible after years of accommodating the extravagant personalities and egos of her own family, not to mention the theater world where she'd worked so long. But equanimity had its own risks. It took her years to figure out that when Jamie talked about something that was very important to him, he looked and sounded very much as he did when saying something he cared little about. Perhaps a shrewder woman could perceive some telltale sign of the different intensity of his feelings, but Eliza still struggled to sort him out. She had misjudged his preferences all too often. It seemed such a basic aptitude, one that should have been natural in any loving marriage, or at least one she should have developed in nearly twenty years with the same man. Yet she had not. She found him as difficult to read now as in their first year of marriage.

Through her recent lonely days in New York, she had resolved to address the problem directly. She would simply humor him when at all possible, whether his preference turned out to be based on whimsy or passion. She applied that resolve to this request to see her at 7:30. A man could do worse things than insist on seeing her.

Listening to Eliza's clumsy French, the hostess looked severe. She swiftly walked to a table in the rear of the café, where Fraser rose. Eliza was glad he wore the dark blue double-breasted with the gray stripe. It made him look like a distinguished Englishman, not another stodgy American with a vest straining to cover an ample middle. Because he'd lost weight in France, the suit fit well.

After ordering hot chocolate and croissants—Angelina's specialties—Eliza described the Verdi opera of the night before. Jamie started to speak, then stopped. She offered an opinion on the soprano, who Violet had much admired. Jamie started to speak again. He stopped again. She decided against filling this silence.