The Wilson Deception (16 page)

 

W
hile the war raged, Fraser saw lots of soldiers in Paris. They came from Britain and Australia and America and France, from Africa and Asia. Soldiers on leave, still wearing helmets and muddy boots, tended to approach the city with a mixture of awe and anticipation. Moving in small groups or alone, most had read or heard about Paris but never expected to see it. After a quick look at the Eiffel Tower, many went in search of something to take their minds off the dangers they soon would return to. Staff officers, assigned to Paris for the duration, tended to be conspicuous for their self-importance. Occasionally, Fraser saw a full unit on the march or a cavalry contingent mounted and spurred, or even a convoy of trucks or a few of the new tanks that looked so terrifying but too often broke down.

With the war over, the soldiers on the streets were all French. From the back seat of a taxi, he saw full infantry units installed deep into neighborhoods, lined up for evening meals at street-corner field kitchens. This was an occupying army, one that spoke the same tongue as those it occupied. It shared the history of the people who hurried past them nervously. But it still was an occupying army.

He had been lucky to find a taxi so soon after the fighting, though once more he had to walk the last mile to his destination, a café in Montmartre. The street fighting hadn't reached the volatile neighborhood. Rather, Montmartre had carried the struggle to the rest of the city. Local residents faced careful scrutiny and close questioning at a police checkpoint, but Fraser was waved through, his uniform working its magic. A group of sullen young men sat on a curb, watched by several soldiers.

For Speed, who sought anonymity, Montmartre was a natural perch. The neighborhood had long been a magnet for the discontented of Paris, of France, of the world. Rents were low. People came and went at irregular times. Neighbors, assuming checkered pasts, asked few questions. The residents mistrusted, misled, and sometimes actively resisted any government agent. Over almost four months—ever since Joshua escaped from the army—Cook had lived at seven different addresses in the neighborhood, moving when faces seemed too familiar, when aloof nods of greeting threatened to evolve into words.

Fraser found Speed and Joshua in a scruffy café several doors down from the Place Pigalle. Their table, with a jug of red wine and three glasses, was an island of calm amid shouts and arguments. Some faces displayed fresh bruises and cuts, presumably earned during the unpleasantness at the Place de la Concorde. Father and son were angled so they didn't look at each other. Neither seemed happy to be there.

Cook poured Fraser a glass of wine. They toasted the evening, though Joshua lifted his glass halfheartedly. Fraser asked if Cook had developed the photos of Dulles' documents.

“Sure did,” Cook said. “I could've used one of those gas masks in that dark room at the
pharmacie.
” He wrinkled his nose. “Those chemicals are something.”

“Gas masks,” Joshua muttered. “You've got no idea what you're talking about.”

“Maybe not,” Fraser said to Joshua with a smile, “none of us old folks does. But we're lucky that your father's many talents include developing photographs.”

Cook dismissed the praise. “I never could afford to put many photos in that newspaper. Couldn't get out to take that many, anyway. That damned rag was pretty much a one-man band, you know. But photos sure did liven it up.” He drank some wine and gazed at Fraser. “So I'm hoping there was a good reason for me to eat those fumes developing pictures of documents about oil in Mosul, wherever the Sam Hill that is.”

Fraser smiled and poured himself a second glass of wine. He began to relax. The noise of the café reassured him, covering their conversation so it couldn't be heard even a foot away. He sat back and told the story of his burglary, abetted by Lawrence of Arabia. “And if Dulles truly didn't suspect anything funny was going on, our nation's spy business is in very shaky hands indeed.”

Cook began to laugh. Even Joshua cracked a smile.

His father raised his glass again. “To shaky hands and honor among thieves!”

They drained their glasses. Cook waggled two fingers at a barmaid, ordering another jug.

“That Lawrence,” Joshua said, “he sounds cool as a cucumber. Like his reputation.”

“Don't I get any credit?” Fraser demanded.

“For what?” Cook laughed. “For doing what he told you?”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Cook kept right on laughing. Joshua shook his head in bemusement.

“And why the hell didn't you let me know they were all still up there? What was with that shrug of the shoulders I got in the hotel lobby?”

“Now, hang on,” Cook protested. “A shrug's a shrug, am I right? It means I don't the hell know. I'd been all over that hotel locking stuff down for the demonstration and I didn't know where anyone was. You're the one was so steamed up you thought my shrug meant the coast was clear.” He smiled. “I'm glad you did. Turned out all right.”

Fraser decided not to quibble. He wanted to talk about something else. “There's something on my mind about all this,” he said. “I wonder if we might've just acquired a new partner, our British pal. What's to keep him from trying to use Joshua for his own purposes, now that he knows about him?”

His question vanquished the pleasant feelings around the table. Each man stared at his wine glass, feeling the beginnings of headaches.

“That Lawrence,” Cook said softly. “He's a man gets talked about. Around the Crillon, I mean. I heard he isn't really part of the British delegation any more. Something about how they stripped him of his credentials and he's here in Paris on his own dime now.”

Fraser made a face. “So why's he still here? He told me he's looking for connections between the oil business and the British government. But he's wearing the uniform of the British government. Spying on his own government? For the Arabs? For himself?”

“Might even remind a body,” Cook said, “of Dulles sending Joshua to spy on his own president.”

The three men lapsed back into rumination. Cook spoke again. “One thing I noticed in those photos I just did for him—couldn't help but read them—there's something going on with the Germans. Seems that Germany owned part of this Turkish Petroleum Company, which the British control now, though maybe there's still some Germans in it.”

“Enemies on the battlefield and partners in business?” Fraser asked.

“Wouldn't be the first time, would it?”

Fraser frowned. “But where does Dulles fit in? They're his papers, even though he's not being all that careful with them. Does he want the US in on this oil deal or is he trying to stop it? Or squeeze in for his own slice?”

Joshua snorted. “You folks need to stop worrying about the wrong things. This is all swell about the Germans and the Turks and the British and the goddamned Hottentots, but how's this all going to end for me? I'm still reporting every couple of days to Dulles and to Colonel Boucher, and maybe now to this Lawrence, if he decides he wants to track me down.”

“Actually,” Fraser said, “Boucher hasn't been after me for a few days. It's been nice not to deal with him. What's he asking you?”

“How the president's doing, mostly—his health, you know, which is still touch and go. Boucher's not as interested in who's coming to the residence, not like Dulles is. I suppose Boucher knows that, anyway. He's got plenty of eyes watching the front door—from both sides of it.”

“How much did you tell him about that business between me and Wilson and Grayson the other night?”

“Just that Wilson took sick again, which is the official statement anyway. The president's still going to those meetings with the other leaders, so they can see for themselves how sick he is.”

Speed sat up a bit. “What business the other night?” After Joshua filled him in, he asked, “So how sick is the man?”

“He seems to bounce back pretty good, you know,” Joshua said. “It's pretty surprising. One day he looks half dead. Next morning he's up singing hymns.”

Fraser shook his head. “He's very sick, and the worst thing is, I don't think he appreciates how sick he is. That fool Grayson certainly isn't telling him.”

Cook tapped his chin with a forefinger. “Does it affect his mind?”

“Sure could,” Fraser said. “It's making me wonder about a lot of things. You see in the papers about China, where they're letting Japan keep this province the Germans bullied the Chinese out of a while back? They're giving this piece of China—no argument about it, it's part of China—to Japan. How could Wilson possibly think that was self-determination for the Chinese? It's straight-up land-grabbing, yet there's Wilson agreeing to it. He did something like that for the Italians, too, some piece of Serbia or something like that. Seems like he's junking every principle he sent us off to war to defend. Things like that make me worried.”

Cook kept tapping his chin. “That's dynamite you're sitting on, Dr. Fraser. You're saying the American president doesn't have all his marbles. Imagine if the world knew about it.”

Fraser shook his head. “I don't really know it, not for sure, and I can't tell the world what I suspect, even if I knew it for sure. He's my patient. I can't issue a public statement that any patient—much less the president of the United States—isn't in his right mind.”

“Well,” Cook cocked his head, “it's worth spending some thinking time on. We're looking to find something that Dulles wants to hush up, that he'll pay a price to hush up. You may be sitting on just that thing.” He pulled a large envelope out of a bag under his chair and tossed it on the table. “Those are for Lawrence. He doesn't get the one about Joshua. You look 'em over. See if you get any idea about something we can use for ourselves.” He held up a second envelope. “I'll hang onto our set.”

“You're keeping copies of Lawrence's photos?”

“Sure am. Right now we've got no idea what might work in this crazy business.”

 

 

 

Wilson was standing at his usual window when Joshua brought his polished shoes into the dressing room. It was early but the blackbirds were there, right where they should be. Wilson missed the cardinals of Washington. Such vivid colors, such noble heads. The blackbirds of Paris were dreary by comparison, but they didn't know that so they sang just the same. He missed Washington's redbud trees, too, their delicate lavender a soothing sign of soft weather ahead. Paris had magnolias to greet spring, but he always found their blossoms excessive. He would be glad to get back home, back to afternoon drives in the country again. Grayson insisted the drives were essential for his health, but they had been quite impossible during the peace conference.

The president was traveling to Versailles that morning. They were to present the final version of the treaty to German diplomats who had been waiting impatiently for it. His tail coat hung from the valet stand, under his white waistcoat.

Joshua thought that Wilson, standing in his shirtsleeves and cravat, looked gray, a bit thin, distracted. His eye twitch raced. It had been strong for several days. After placing the shoes next to the table, Joshua stood straight. “Beautiful day, sir. Can I get anything else for you?”

Wilson was slightly surprised to hear the voice, but didn't turn to it. “Barnes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh. No. Nothing now. Except maybe a good old Presbyterian sermon.”

“Sir?”

“My father, you know, was a great man. A great man.” Wilson looked back at Joshua, his expression wistful. “I'd give a good deal to hear him again, perhaps talking about the burdens of the civilized races. He was wonderful on that subject. He really felt that burden.” The president walked to the table. He sat to put his shoes on. “Do you speak with your father, Barnes? Perhaps what I mean to ask is, do you listen to him?”

Before Joshua could answer, Wilson said, “Of course you don't. I'm being foolish. Your father's back in New York. You told me that. When you next see him, when we get back to Washington, remember my advice. Listen to your father.”

“Sir, does that mean you intend for me to return to Washington with you?”

“Of course. Even Mrs. Wilson agrees. We all think you've done fine.” Wilson groaned slightly as he leaned to pick up his shoes. “Today's a very big day.” He smiled at Joshua. “I will meet the dreaded Germans. And about bloody time, as Mr. Lloyd George would say.”

After Wilson had stared into space for a time, Joshua said, “Can I give you a hand with those shoes?”

Wilson looked down at the shoe in his hand. “No. Thank you, Barnes.”

Joshua left the room for the valet's station, an alcove off the rear corridor of the third floor. He needed to see to the president's laundry, then prepare his suit for the next day's events. Most of all he needed a cigarette. He opened the window along the corridor and lit up, holding the cigarette outside while leaning against the frame. After months of smoking them, he still didn't care much for a Gauloises, but he could afford them.

He was feeling jittery. The peace conference was starting its last lap. This arrangement with Wilson, one way or another, was going to end. That was all right with him. He no longer gloried in the constricted freedom he enjoyed as John Barnes. It wouldn't do. He recently remembered what Frederick Douglass said about the life of a slave—that if he had a bad master, he wished only for a good one, but that if he had a good master, he wished for his freedom. In twentieth-century terms, Joshua had moved from Douglass' first category to the second one. He was out of prison. He had a good master, but he hadn't yet won his life back. Not even if he went back to America with Wilson, working as John Barnes, valet. He ached for that third category, freedom, but still had no idea how to get there or whether he'd end up back in the first category.