The Wilson Deception (20 page)

Eliza grimaced. “That deadline for the treaty could be delayed again, couldn't it? It seems they've been making this peace for years.”

“We might have to keep up our vigil for as long as a couple of weeks.”

Eliza's face filled with dismay. “This suite could get a bit pricey.”

“How long were you planning to stay?”

“Of course, I didn't know. We'll just find someplace less posh.”

“I didn't say it was a good plan.”

“Tell me, Daddy,” Violet said as she entered the room in her bathrobe, brushing her hair. “Will I have to spend more time with Allen Dulles?” She struck a theatrical pose, the back of one wrist pressed to her forehead. “Yet another sacrifice by the fair maiden!”

 

T
he train from Paris to Frankfurt covered only 350 miles, but it carried Allen Dulles through several different civilizations. It sped from the glitter of revived Paris through patches of clover and wide fields of yellow blooms. It ground to a crawl through the brutalized landscape of the late war. Soldiers in khaki, in olive, and in blue trudged on roads that passed blasted trees and orphaned chimneys charred by fire. Dulles' train was shunted onto side tracks while troop trains hauled men and munitions east toward Germany. Empty trains passed the other way.

On the far side of what had been the front, Dulles and his fellow passengers switched trains. Gaining speed, they pounded through Luxemburg, then the Rhineland, which bore some traces of the Allied occupation. Narrow country lanes housed neat stockpiles of German arms, organized either by the departed troops of the Kaiser or the arriving Allied soldiers. The German countryside, untouched by the war, looked orderly, trim, admirable. Dulles thought he could be crossing farmlands of central New Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania.

Frankfurt dashed any illusion of German prosperity or at least of German comfort. When the train slowed on the outskirts of town, he watched hunched figures scouring trash heaps. They looked gray and pinched, their clothes worn. Though it was early June, men wore short-brimmed caps and women covered their heads with bonnets and scarves.

On the short walk from Frankfurt's train station, Dulles felt conspicuous in his freshly pressed suit. The people on the street took no notice of him. Gaunt faces always seem sad, he thought. He searched the eyes of those he passed, hunting for a spark, a fire. Most seemed involved in some internal conversation, devoting little attention to the world around them. He stepped around a man in an army uniform who sat on the walk, leaning back against a building, an Iron Cross at his throat. A crutch lay next to the empty trouser leg. His military cap was upside down to receive coins. Dulles couldn't imagine such ghostly figures resuming the war against the Allies.

The meeting place, Schlueter's Beer Garden, was a mile from the station, wedged into a narrow lot. It held a dozen steel tables sunk into gravel, each surrounded by rickety wooden chairs. Small firs reached hopefully for sunlight between two buildings. Patrons wore coats and jackets. Some rubbed their hands together for warmth. In the back rank of tables, an American army officer sat alone, his cap on the table next to a large ceramic stein. He was blond, with ruddy cheeks and a mustache so pale as to be an illusion. They nodded to each other as Dulles approached.

“Colonel Conger?” Dulles asked.

“Excellent guess. Was it the uniform?”

“I'm Dulles.”

The officer's face betrayed no emotion. “Surely they meant to send your father.”

Dulles sat, then looked for a waiter. His wave seemed to snag a short, dark-haired man with an apron doubled over his middle.

“The beer is rat piss,” Conger said, “thereby eliminating the one remaining reason to visit this bedraggled place.”

Dulles ordered beer anyway.

Conger raised an eyebrow. “You speak Swiss German. And not too shabby Swiss German.”

“I was posted in Bern. During the war.”

“That wasn't your father in Bern?”

Dulles smiled. “Colonel, perhaps we should get to business. I have only two hours here.”

“Yes, business.” Conger cleared his throat and sat straighter. He nodded to a table on their right. “The man in the unfortunate plaid suit.”

Dulles was surprised. “That's the first well-fed German I've seen. So many look like a puff of wind would sweep them away.”

Conger allowed himself a small smile. “Ah, you see before you the benefits of public service. The people who were running things had to look after themselves. And don't be fooled by the hungry people. The Germans starved the home folks to feed the troops. That's why it's a mistake to think we'll just brush the German army aside if the treaty isn't signed. These people, they're lousy at giving up.”

“That man isn't your contact in the government?”

“No,” Conger drank some beer and grimaced. “My contact is just that,
my
contact. I don't want you or anyone else fucking that up.”

“So, this man is?”

“He's the cutout. Highly trusted and all that. The name's Heinzelmann.”

The waiter brought Dulles' beer. He saluted his companion with it and took a swallow. “Wow.”

Conger grinned nastily. “You won't get used to it. But at least the Germans aren't making it illegal to have a beer, even a bad beer. I'll give them that.” With a determined expression, Conger drank again.

“Yes, Prohibition takes effect in January.”

“It's enough to make a man wonder what he was fighting for. The Europeans may slaughter each other, but at least they'll let you take a drink.”

“How do we proceed?”

“Patience, Mr. Dulles. Herr Heinzelmann will join us when he feels like it.”

Feeling no inclination to flog the conversation with the loutish Colonel Conger, Dulles sat back. A light breeze brought a chill as the sun slipped behind slate-colored buildings. The beer garden's clientele was young. They were neat and clean. They didn't have the near-ghostly detachment Dulles saw on the street. These people talked quietly. Some smiled. A few laughed. Maybe Germans were always detached on the street. Spirits here, to be sure, were not hilarious. No one was singing any of the jolly or sentimental drinking songs that he had heard in Switzerland. It was still afternoon.

“Do you have a light?”

Heinzelmann approached their table with a cigarette poised between two fingers.

While Dulles fumbled for his matches, Conger tossed a box of them on the table. Heinzelmann took a seat with a grunt and set to work lighting his Lucky Strike, cupping his hands around the flame. Upon closer inspection, the green plaid of his suit was even more appalling. Spectacles made his round face seem perfectly circular. A bushy mustache tilted up at either end.

Dulles hadn't seen waxed mustache tips since he left Bern.

“Thank you, Colonel,” the German said.

“My pleasure.” Conger cocked his head at Dulles. “He's the money man.” After a brief pause, the American officer continued. “I, too, wish he were older, but we must use those tools that come to hand.”

With a smile, Heinzelmann nodded at Dulles. “I have grown used to the colonel's bad manners, Herr Dulles. Imagine what he would be like if America had lost the war.”

Dulles grinned. “A terrifying prospect.”

Heinzelmann spoke to Dulles. “We must make our arrangements.”

“Yes. I understand we're talking about a million marks.”

Heinzelmann chuckled softly. “That should satisfy you, Colonel,” he said to Conger. “Herr Dulles may be young, but he is a Yankee trader like all Americans.”

Conger smiled but said nothing.

Heinzelmann sat back. “The price, my young sir, is
three
million marks. Compared to the cost of a renewed war, it is a trifle.”

Dulles put a concerned look on his face. “That can't be right. That's not the figure mentioned in my briefing. And, as you say, we Yanks're pretty careful about numbers.”

“The quality of your briefing is not my affair,” Heinzelmann said, waving his cigarette, “nor is your attempt to win some praise for reducing the price. The price is three million marks. Our marks, you see, they shift in value every day, never to the good. So there must be many.”

“So it will take three million marks,” Dulles said, “to persuade the German government that it must perform the most basic duty it owes to its citizens, to end the war it has long since lost.”

“Ah,” Heinzelmann sat forward, “you are young. You wish to talk philosophy, but that would be a mistake, Herr Dulles. We Germans may lose a war, but never a philosophical discussion.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. It blew back onto his sleeve. “The marks you provide will not teach my colleagues anything. They know full well how the war ended. The money will give them courage to sign the treaty. They need courage. Signing the treaty, it will not be a popular thing.”

“Courage to do what they know they must do anyway,” Dulles said.

Heinzelmann shrugged. “It is one of the puzzles of life—it so often feels foolish to do something merely because it's right.” He held up a finger. “But, Herr Dulles, if there is also profit in it, if there is advantage to one's family, then a thing becomes so much more attractive. It becomes even the honorable thing to do.” He took a drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Three million marks.”

Dulles looked away while the German used Conger's matches to light another cigarette. He wondered how much of the money would go straight into Heinzelmann's pocket, never getting anywhere near the senior politicians who were the target of the operation. It didn't much matter. Avoiding a resumption of war was worth ten times three million marks, but he knew he had to haggle over the price. It was manly.

They swiftly settled on a price of two million marks.

“We must,” Dulles said, “have a protocol for contacting each other.”

Conger roused himself. “No official channels,” he said. “As far as the U.S. State Department is concerned, this isn't happening.”

“But Herr Dulles is part of the American government,” Heinzelmann said agreeably.

Conger snorted. Dulles said nothing.

Heinzelmann turned suddenly cold eyes on Dulles. “There is not much time,” he said, puffing on his cigarette. “You must get the money to Weimar soon.”

“It's not so simple. The arrangements must be made carefully. The deadline for signing the treaty is bound to be delayed, anyway. We will deliver the money in Paris, not Weimar.”

Heinzelmann shifted his gaze between Dulles and Conger. Then he shrugged. “All right, Paris. But in ten days. After that, it may be too late.”

“We'll try,” Dulles said. He leaned forward. “If you provide me with a means to contact you. . . .”

“Yes, of course.” He handed Dulles a small piece of paper that included two names, each with a Berlin address and telephone number. “Look at it carefully. Then hand it back to me.”

Dulles did as told.

Heinzelmann stood and walked away. His stocky form and short-legged walk called to Dulles' mind a penguin, one with a bad tailor.

“There,” Conger intoned, “waddles Europe's last, best hope for peace.” He waved to the waiter for the check without smiling. “I'll maintain contact with the cabinet minister.”

“Do let me know of any developments.”

“You and your fancy-ass friends need to know only one thing. You can't afford to fuck this up.”

 

G
eneral Tasker Bliss, facing the Secretary of State in his office overlooking the Place de la Concorde, arched his eyebrows. The gesture drew attention to the general's poorly focused eyes. Bliss once again had forsaken the spectacles he so plainly needed.

That act of vanity baffled Lansing. Perhaps Bliss thought that if he pretended his vision was acute, others would think his mind was.

No one above the age of six, however, could make that mistake. Indeed, Bliss' hesitancy without his spectacles reinforced the impression that most aspects of the peace conference were well beyond his depth. Bliss' pliability, of course, was the quality that earned him the job of Pershing's chief of staff, and then commended him to the president as a peace conference delegate.

Failing upward, that's how Lansing thought of him.

Despite Bliss' limitations, or perhaps because of them, Lansing found the general a useful source of information. Lansing's exile from Wilson's inner circle was nearly complete. Though excluded from almost every important decision, he still hankered to exercise some influence, somehow to win a seat at the table, or even a view of the table.

“I spoke with General Pershing last evening,” Bliss began. “He insists that the Allies can resume the fighting, no matter what those fool French generals say.”

“I see.”

Bliss would not allow the Secretary of State's reserve to deflect him from delivering his full remarks. “Between you and me, Lansing, invading Germany now, why, it's preposterous. It's really quite a large country. We have insufficient troops, ordnance, supplies, transport. And what I really fear”—he nodded to underscore an insight that Lansing fully expected to be worthy of an eight-year-old—“are the political repercussions. A resumption of the war would trigger revolution in half the Allied nations. It would be a bonanza for the Bolsheviks. After four years of bloody fighting and an armistice, the great powers go back to war.”

“You make an excellent point,” Lansing said, happy to applaud another mundane thrust by the general. “The Socialists in Berlin are demonstrating the total unfitness of their breed to hold power. They're driving the world right back to the brink of catastrophe. Quite frankly, I believe their game is to drive us all over that brink.”

“What can they possibly be thinking? Most of them opposed the war in the first place. Many of them refused to fight.”

“Ah, General Bliss, we must remember our Emerson. ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgobblin' and all that. The Socialists know that the German people don't feel like they've been beaten, and yet we dictate the peace, demanding that they accept the blame for starting the war and that they pay us billions. We behave as though our army currently occupied Berlin, and didn't sit five hundred miles away, steadily dwindling with de-mobilizations. Any German politician who signs the treaty signs his political death warrant.”

“But the Germans can't fight a war now any more than we can. Even less.” The general rubbed an eye, no doubt feeling the strain caused by the absence of corrective lenses.

“Is there any sign the president is weakening on the terms of the German treaty?”

“Good heavens, no. Lloyd George, apparently, has become the cowardly character in the room. I heard the president mutter that nothing short of a thrashing might work with the PM.”

“You could sell tickets to that,” Lansing observed with a smile, “but is that really a wise position for Mr. Wilson? Wasn't it Lincoln who said that after you've beaten a man, you should let him back up easy? Mr. Lloyd George might be on to something.”

“As near as I can tell, the president's completely dug in now. We won't give an inch to the Germans. If they try to negotiate any of these terms, they'll be shown the door. Strictly take it or leave it.”

“Interesting, General. I must confess that I've long since given up predicting the president's course. I find him stoutly defending provisions now that he attacked a month ago.”

“Politics. It's a damnable business.”

“Yes, so it is,” Lansing agreed, again happy to do so.

After the general left, Lansing lit a cigar and gazed out at the plaza and the river beyond. The French had finally removed the captured howitzers. Traffic lurched through the huge space, occasional horse-drawn carts bedeviling the motorcar drivers who longed to demonstrate the power of their vehicles. In his splendid isolation, Lansing was accomplishing nothing, but at least he had a wonderful office in which to be useless. It was a solace, a small yet profound one, that Colonel House simmered in comparable impotent isolation in his corner suite, also far from the center of the conference.

Lansing sat with a sigh. Even from his exile, he was doing what he could. The thing was to scrounge up a few presentable Germans to sign the treaty. Renewing the war was unthinkable, no matter what that lunkhead Pershing thought. Lansing had put Foster and Allen in touch with that American colonel in the Berlin embassy. The colonel had developed an excellent contact in the German government, a realistic man—not a Socialist—who had recently entered the cabinet. At least he was in the cabinet this week. It was a start.

Money certainly was no object. Lansing and Cromwell had seen to that. He hoped his nephews knew what they were about. This sort of thing was never easy.