The Wilson Deception (18 page)

 

C
ook's fist crashed down on the desk in Fraser's hospital office.

Fraser didn't worry about the noise. It was late. Most of the offices were vacant, their occupants already demobilized and sent back home, a few sent to the Rhine Valley to care for the Army of Occupation. Every day patients left, one way or the other. Only three of the ten wards were still in use. In a few weeks, the U.S. Army would relinquish the hospital to the Paris authorities. Empty crates stood in the corner, waiting for him to start filling them with personal items for shipment home. Since he didn't really have any personal items, the crates stood neglected. If all went well, Fraser himself would soon board a ship for America.

“These are some rotten bastards,” Cook fumed.

“Yup.”

“What about Clemenceau?”

“I've gone by his house the last two mornings, but he won't see me. I even tried to slip in with his gymnastics trainer. No soap. As far as Clemenceau's concerned, as far as the whole French government's concerned, we don't exist any more.”

“So much for America's first ally,” Cook said. “So, it's down to Dulles, getting him to do something to get Joshua's conviction reversed.”

“Not necessarily. Someone once told me there are always alternatives. You just have to think of them.”

Cook sat back and waited.

“We could leave Joshua on the president's staff, let him go back to Washington with Wilson, then look for an opening there.”

“Oh, come on, Jamie.” Cook stood and began to pace. “That doesn't work. Who knows if Wilson even remembers saying Joshua can go back home with him or if the butler or whoever's in charge back in Washington would accept him? And who knows if he could even get in with his phony identity. He doesn't have a passport or anything else that identifies him as John Barnes. He has no history as John Barnes. Dulles is the one who would control all that. Even if we get over all those hurdles, all we've done is make him John Barnes, servant.” He stopped at the window and looked out at the dark street. “Aurelia and I didn't raise that boy to be a servant. He's got a college degree. He's smart, people like him. He's got so much going for him. He can be somebody, somebody who matters in this world. One thing he's not going to do is shine white people's shoes all his life. There's nothing I won't do to stop that.”

Fraser kneaded his temple with one hand and grimaced. “Okay, that makes it harder, but okay.” He looked at Cook. “Let's think about what we have on Dulles. We've got that memo I took from his room. The more I think about it, the less I feel good about it. Dulles could say a million things to explain it away. He could claim he was just using Joshua to watch out for other spies breaking into Wilson's residence, that it was a countermeasure. Or that Joshua lied and fooled him about who he really was. Then, like Boucher, Dulles takes a bow for his splendid work in unearthing this dangerous escapee and wishes us good-bye and good luck.”

Cook started to pace again. “Even if Dulles would be worried about the memo,” he said, “why do we think a puppy like him can actually arrange to get Joshua's conviction reversed?” He stopped still and spoke to the wall in front of him. “Listen, Jamie, I can't get it out of my mind. What about the health information?”

“About Wilson? About him being sick?” Fraser made another face and shook his head. “If I do that, reveal a patient's private information, it means throwing in the towel as a doctor. It would be a total violation of the president's trust.”

Cook leaned over the desk on his fists. “Joshua's looking at prison for years and years.”

Fraser looked away, then back. “What about Lawrence?”

Cook snorted. He started pacing again.

“Think about what Lawrence was doing in Dulles' room,” Fraser said. “He claimed he was looking for ties between the oil industry and his own government. The documents he photographed bear that out. But isn't he a wild card here? He certainly isn't acting for the British government. Maybe he's working for Prince Feisal, maybe just for himself.”

“So? Where are you going with this?”

“Maybe we can throw in with him. Maybe together we can get more from Dulles.”

“What does he care about Joshua? The black boy, he called him.” Cook spat out the last sentence.

“Why did he help out the Arabs during the war? Why's he still helping out the Arabs, instead of his own people? The man likes underdogs. Or he doesn't like overdogs, which is close to the same thing.”

“Okay, assume we persuade him that he should help us, or that we can help each other. How?”

“Out of this whole lousy war, name three heroes.”

“Come on.”

“You come on.”

“Sergeant York. Maybe Eddie Rickenbacker. There's Henry Johnson, but he was just a black boy, so no one remembers him. Okay, fine. Lawrence is a big hero.”

“Right,” Fraser said. “The press, the reporters, the politicians, the whole world loves him. If he accuses the American government of doing something stupid, something wrong, the whole world will notice.”

“Sounds pretty far-fetched.” Cook sat down. His shoulders slumped. “Is that how desperate we are?”

The silence grew between them.

Finally, Fraser said, “We'll come up with something, Speed.”

Cook sighed. “We sure don't have it yet. I keep feeling like there's something right in front of us, something a blind man could see, but we can't.” He looked across the desk at Fraser. “This place seems empty. Everyone's going home. Your family still here?”

“They went up to Brussels on a tour to see the devastated regions. You know, everyone has to see just how awful it was.”

“Sure. If we all see the ruins, then none of it will ever happen again.”

“It can't hurt for people to understand what really happened.”

Cook shook his head once. “It doesn't matter. The evil's inside us. Sometimes it comes out.”

 

“I
t's a profoundly bad outcome for the Arabs.” Lawrence barely moved his lips as he spoke, his voice low yet audible. His face showed no expression. “Clemenceau has absolutely hung Lloyd George out to dry. Just what you would expect. Do you know that that filthy frog actually changed some of the terms of the German treaty while it was being printed, without telling any of his so-called allies? There's nothing he won't do.”

He and Fraser strolled among early morning bargain hunters at Les Halles, the fresh food market sometimes called the stomach of Paris. The stalls bristled with yellow and green asparagus stalks, carrots and potatoes still dusted with the soil that nurtured them, cheerfully leafy spinach, turnips with their glowering purple sheen. Fraser's eye snagged on the early strawberries, which made his mouth water, and the chard leaves with bright veins of yellow, pink, and purple. A jumble of races and ages, bags looped over their arms, poked and prodded the goods under the baleful glare of vendors still weary from rising in the middle of the night to bring their produce to market.

Joshua and his father were in the next aisle over, pretending to examine vegetables while keeping an eye on Fraser and Lawrence. Without his Arab headdress and army uniform, Lawrence looked ordinary, though oddly proportioned. Fraser had slid into a tall man's slouch to avoid looming over the Englishman, who seemed as indifferent to his surroundings as he always did.

“How is it so bad, this deal?” Fraser asked.

Lawrence's reply was crisp. “Under the deal, France would grab Lebanon and Syria, with Damascus. France also grabs one-fourth of the Turkish Petroleum Company. France also builds the pipeline that gives it control over the marketing of all production of Turkish Petroleum. There's no point to having oil if you can't get it to market. Prince Feisal and his Arabs? They get precisely nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Lawrence stopped to peer dubiously at an immense bin of mushrooms. It rose to a pinnacle of fungi that plainly made the Englishman uncomfortable. He resumed his stroll without comment. “No Arab nation. No Arab control over the oil. No oil money for Arabs. It's shameful. No deal at all would be acres better than this deal. Clemenceau can't last forever. He may be too tough to kill, but he's bound to be driven from office fairly soon. The French are fickle, and he's always been rather good at making himself unpopular.”

“So you want the Americans to blow up this deal for you?”

“Ah, you've been reading those documents I photographed.”

“Well, the United States seems like the only Great Power not to get anything out of the deal.”

“True enough. One of the few matters on which Lloyd George and Clemenceau see eye to eye is that the less President Wilson knows about this arrangement, the better.”

“So we both want the president to do something. I want him to reverse Joshua's conviction. You want him to blow up this deal. You must have some idea how to make such a thing happen.”

They rounded the end of the aisle and began down the next one, passing by Joshua and Cook without acknowledging them.

“There is something I recently heard about,” Lawrence said, “which you might want to look into. There's supposedly an American official here who's talking to the Germans.”

“The Germans,” Fraser said, unable to keep his surprise out of his voice. “About what?”

“War. Peace. Profits. The things statesmen amuse themselves with. Perhaps your black boy”—Fraser stiffened, but Lawrence didn't notice—“could find out something about that.”

“Which Germans?”

“Ah, Major Fraser, you've driven to the heart of the matter. The Socialists control the German government, at least they do today, which means that they have to make a decision about the treaty, which makes them frightfully uncomfortable. Very little is as unpleasant to a politician as signing a treaty of surrender. Never good for the career. ‘Vote for Bob Jones: he surrendered to our enemies!' In this case, the circumstances are even less appealing. It's half a year since the fighting stopped, the Allied armies never crossed the German border during the war, and many Germans don't feel particularly defeated.” Lawrence stopped to study a stand that featured onions of several sizes, shapes, and hues. The Englishman said, “Distinctly unappetizing to see them that way, don't you think?”

“Oh, I don't know. There's a sense of bounty.” The keeper of the onion stall walked behind them, mutely encouraging them to make a purchase or make room for someone who would.

“The Socialists in Germany?” Fraser offered.

They began to amble again.

“Yes, well, some have no problem with the treaty, but some are saying that they'll never sign it. Should they stick to that position, it could get a bit dicey. It seems rather important to get the war ended. Have it down on paper, you know.”

“Surely they'll sign. They can't go back to war.”

“That's what sensible people would think. But the German soldier is a special breed, all that Prussian righteousness. For our purposes, it becomes a nice question whether the Americans have concluded that it would be best to have another government arise in Germany, one that would be better disposed to signing the treaty. The British government, I hear, is hoping for exactly that to happen.”

“Are you suggesting that President Wilson would try to manipulate who's in control of a foreign country? But that would be completely contrary to his Fourteen Points.”

“A charitable view would be that Mr. Wilson has no knowledge of such efforts in Germany. After all, no leader of a major government knows everything that's done in his name. Sometimes that's for the best. But you may be right. Perhaps the American conversations with the Germans are about strudel exports.” Lawrence took a few more strides and finally looked at Fraser. “Look here, Major, I don't presume to know your business, but your young friend presents a profoundly unsympathetic situation. In order to solve the problem of this supposedly unjust conviction for deserting his post during battle, he has used false pretenses to enter the direct service of the president. There's nothing particularly honorable in any of it.”

Fraser felt his stomach churn. This was not a fair description of Joshua's predicament. Then again, it did account for the basic facts. “What's the way out?”

“I don't know and I don't care. I would say that there's no more important question right now than war or peace with Germany. If you wish to gain the attention of any of these leaders, you might look for a way to intrude yourself on that question. Perhaps to facilitate the peace or even to provoke renewed war. You may choose.”

“So it must be the Germans.”

“Ah. You've been listening.”

Trailing about twenty feet behind them, Cook stopped to investigate some carrots. “See those three soldiers back there?” he muttered to Joshua. “I think they're following us.”

When Joshua sneaked a rearward glance, a hand gripped Cook's shoulder from the other direction. Two gendarmes stood on that side of them. One barked an order. Cook wasn't sure what he said, but responded by barking his own demand, in English, for an explanation of this outrageous conduct. The three soldiers started to close in from the other direction.

Cook said to Joshua, “Run.”

Wrenching free of the hand on his shoulder, Cook threw himself into the approaching soldiers. He barreled into the one closest to him, trying to use that one to knock down the others. He dragged two of the soldiers down in a tangle, rifles clattering on the ground. A rifle jammed into his side. Ignoring the pain, he spread his arms and legs to pin the Frenchmen to the ground.

Fraser turned at the noise and began toward it, veering around shoppers who had stopped to gawk. The two gendarmes were trying to get clear of the scrum in order to pursue Joshua while the third soldier positioned himself to deliver a kick to Cook's torso with a heavy boot. Fraser tried to jump on that one's back, but the lack of spring in his legs meant that he mostly fell on the man. Still, his greater height and weight prevailed. Gravity did the rest. They both collapsed on top of the three already down.

The five men writhed on the ground for more than a minute, each struggling for enough purchase to land a punch or a kick. Fraser and Cook played for time, trying to extend the scrimmage as long as possible.

Morning shoppers shouted encouragement to the combatants. A bunch of asparagus landed in Cook's face, stalks first—he had been pushed over onto his side by the soldiers below him—but he didn't know if the vegetables had been aimed at him. Within the battle, grunts and gasps competed with curses in two languages. Fraser lost his focus after a rifle butt collided violently with his skull.

The return of the two gendarmes ended the fracas. With numbers sharply against them, Fraser and Cook soon were face down on the cold cement floor, handcuffed and breathing hard.

A bruised eye already getting puffy, Cook turned to Fraser. “Joshua?”

Fraser's shoulder throbbed where he fell on it. Blood trickled down his forehead. His mind was still far from crisp. “Long gone,” he managed.

Lawrence wasn't anywhere, either.

 

 

 

Colonel Siegel had little experience retrieving staff doctors from police stations. After Eliza Fraser called him about Jamie's arrest, Siegel had spent hours telephoning American and French officials to plead for Fraser's freedom. The arrest, he insisted, was a misunderstanding. In any event, the American army desperately needed Major Fraser's services. The effort taxed Siegel's patience and his French, but he thought he was at the end of it when he picked up Mrs. Fraser and her daughter for the journey to the police station. He had received assurances that Fraser would be released and would face no charges.

The police building was stout and built of large stones. Its interior was suitably gloomy. The three men on duty affected the bored aspect of police officers everywhere, passing the time in the mechanical stroking of lush mustaches. Siegel's uniform faded before the brilliant silver buttons that festooned the gendarmes' jackets, but he still commanded the attention of one officer who wearily heard him out, then withdrew to the rear of the building. To Siegel's pleasure, he returned with the dangerous American desperado, Major James Fraser.

A knot near the top of Fraser's forehead glowed yellow and purple, but a happy smile creased his face. He waved to his team of saviors, turned to the gendarme escorting him, and promptly refused to accept his freedom unless another man named Cook also was released.

When Colonel Siegel understood what Fraser was doing, he called over in alarm, “What are you thinking? Getting you out was difficult enough.”

Fraser shook his head. “I can't leave without Cook.”

With an imploring look, Siegel won the senior policeman's permission to speak with Fraser privately. The gendarme left the handcuffs on the prisoner.

“Have you lost your mind?” Siegel demanded. “They're not going to let that man out. It's his son they were after in the first place, and
he's
apparently some sort of deserter. This fellow has no visa, no entry papers of any sort, so he's here illegally. For all I know, they're planning to send both of them to Devil's Island. I can't have anything to do with getting this Cook released. He has nothing to do with the army.”

Fraser gave a small grin. “Colonel, take a look at these cops.” He stepped aside to allow a full viewing. “They don't care about Cook. We're a nuisance between them and their evening meal.”

“Somebody cares a good deal. Someone who sent them after this man's son.”

“Believe me. We can make this whole thing blow over. There are people close to the president who will make that happen. But I need to be sure that Cook gets released. It's vital. I'm grateful for all you've done, Colonel, but we just need to do a little more.”

Siegel could not hold his tongue. “Fraser, you're a damned fool. I need you at the hospital. We've received orders to prepare to advance into Germany, of all the stupid things.” He turned in exasperation to Mrs. Fraser and her daughter, who had floated over to listen to the exchange. In the car, they had seemed reasonable women. Then again, until today he would have described Fraser as reasonable. “Can't you reason with this madman?” he asked Mrs. Fraser. “What he asks is quite impossible.”

Eliza shook her head with apparent regret. “Reason is a poor tool with him. I'm afraid he's loyal to a fault.” She directed her next comment to Fraser, asking, “Dear, if you're staying, shall I send Violet for fresh clothes?”

“No need,” he answered. “I might as well smell as bad as Cook does.”

“Fraser,” Siegel said, “I've half a mind to leave you here to rot.”

“If you kick up a fuss for Cook, I'm sure they'll let him go. Less work for them, quicker to the evening jug. They'll be glad of it. They just have to put up a bit of a show. You'll see. Give it a try.”

Fraser began to plead with the gendarmes. The senior Frenchman answered vigorously, gesturing to different parts of his body, pointing out injuries inflicted on his brother gendarmes during the ruckus at Les Halles. Fraser responded with a good-humored enactment of his own bruises and injuries.

Eliza dug a 500-franc note out of her purse and pressed it into Violet's hand. “There's a wine shop next door,” she said quietly. “Buy the finest cognac you can find. Spend it all.”