The Wilson Deception (8 page)

 

O
nly two mornings later, as directed by Allen Dulles, Cook and Fraser approached a modest house on Rue Benjamin Franklin, the home of French Premier Georges Clemenceau. The address seemed to promise French benevolence toward American supplicants.

Cook was on edge. He had barely slept, his mind cycling through the different ways to explain Joshua's troubles and ask for Clemenceau's help. A scratchy, anxious feeling was making him irritable. He worried about the words he should use, the best way to start, the expressions he should place on his face. He wore his good black suit and white shirt with a new Parisian necktie. He knew he would have only a couple of minutes with the French leader.

They passed through a small sidewalk crowd that had gathered to watch Clemenceau depart for his day. A tall, bulky army officer answered the door. With a short bow but not a word, he took them straight back to the library, then retreated to a far corner of the room, still silent. Clemenceau sat behind a massive U-shaped desk of gnarled, reddish wood. His sad-looking eyes studied a paper. His white mustache needed trimming.

“Gentlemen.” He spoke brusquely, with not much accent. “I have only a few moments. How may I help you?” Engagement washed the sadness from his eyes. He was all business.

Cook began in a rush, his overnight planning instantly forgotten.

After no more than three sentences, Clemenceau stood, halting him in mid-sentence. “You see before you on my desk the problems of all France, not to mention those of Africa and Asia and Italy and Greece, of many other nations. Do you really expect me to turn from these matters and kneel to put a bandage on this small problem of a single American, when it is your own government you should be speaking with?”

“I have tried speaking to my own government for weeks,” Cook said. “And this is my son, who fought with your French soldiers. His life will be ruined.”

“Not by France it won't.” Clemenceau paused and stared at him. “I cannot weep for your son any more than I can weep for every French son who has died in the last four years. It is terrible to be a father. The worst things in my life have involved my children, things I could not change. I cannot help you.” The premier began stuffing papers into a worn leather briefcase.

The large army officer emerged from his corner. Still silent, he gestured the way out.

A cold wind whipped their faces as Fraser and Cook stepped from the house onto the pavement. The citizens waiting for Clemenceau turned away in disappointment. Minutes before, Cook had overflowed with jagged energy. Now it was an effort to follow Fraser's slow sashay down the street, hunched against the wind.

Cook spoke first. “The Congress convenes at ten this morning.” He shook his head. “And I couldn't care less about any Pan-African business right now.”

“Speed.” Fraser rummaged for something to say.

“This was a long shot. I knew it.”

“We'll think of something else. Maybe try Dulles again. Maybe figure something out for when we're back in the States.”

“How can you be so dense?” Cook's energy surged. “Colored men in jail don't just mosey on out. They rot in there.”

“For Pete's sake, Speed. We got you into that house. We'll just have to try something else.”

Cook shook himself against the cold. It hadn't bothered him before. “I should get over to the Congress. Make myself useful to someone.”

Fraser watched him stride away. He hadn't been an easy person eightteen years ago, and he wasn't any easier now. Then again, his son was facing the ruin of his life. Fraser didn't know how he would respond if Violet were in a fix like that. Girls didn't get into that sort of trouble, but they had their own sorts. He realized that Cook was walking in the wrong direction to get to the Grand Hotel, where the Pan-African meeting was. After a moment's hesitation, Fraser set off after him.

At the sound of a ragged cheer behind him, Fraser looked back. Clemenceau was climbing into the rear seat of an official-looking car. The driver slammed the door, sat in front, and started off. The waiting men and women called out and waved. The car passed Fraser and turned left at the next corner. Clemenceau was staring straight ahead.

Fraser turned the corner in time to see a man in shabby clothes step into the street behind Clemenceau's car, level a pistol, and begin firing. One. Two. Three. Fraser froze in disbelief. Four. Five. The car swerved to the right. It rammed the curb, ran up on it and fell back. The gunman pivoted. He kept shooting. Six. Seven. Fraser broke out of his trance. He ran toward the car.

Cook got to the gunman first, tackling him from behind. A group of Frenchmen leapt into the scrum, scrabbling over each other to get at the shooter. Fraser ran past the pile. He pushed aside several people who surrounded Clemenceau's car, shifting and shoving to get a better look, their voices animated and their words incomprehensible. The motor was still running.

“
Je suis un médicin
,” Fraser announced. For once, his Ohio pronunciation did the job. The people made way for him. He pulled open the rear door.

Clemenceau sat upright, staring forward. His face was white. He turned to Fraser. “You?”

Fraser repeated that he was a doctor.

“So am I,” the premier said.

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes. Maybe not so bad. They must not see. Jacques!” The driver was slumped over the steering wheel.

The opposite door of the car opened and a gendarme's head appeared. “Monsieur Clemenceau! Are you shot?”

“Yes, but it is nothing. Drive me to my house—”

“You must go to the hospital.”

Clemenceau closed his eyes and opened them. “If I am not driven to my house immediately, you will regret it. This man is my physician”—he waved a hand at Fraser—“they are his instructions.” Clemenceau closed his eyes again.

The gendarme hesitated.

Without opening his eyes, Clemenceau said, “Now.”

Fraser climbed into the back seat while the gendarme pushed aside the driver—who had begun to moan—and took his place. The driver's head had cracked the windshield.

Fraser put his arm around the premier. “The bullets, they entered in the back?”

“Where else does a coward shoot you? Only one, I think.” Clemenceau opened his eyes and spoke to the gendarme. “You know the way?”

“Everyone knows where Monsieur Clemenceau lives,” the gendarme answered.

“It would seem so.”

 

 

 

When Fraser opened Clemenceau's front door from the inside, he enjoyed the astonished look on Allen Dulles' face.

“Really, Major,” the younger man said, “I shall have to give up being surprised by you.” Dulles turned to the older gentleman with him. “Colonel House, allow me to present Major Fraser of the medical corps.” While the other two shook hands, Dulles continued. “Does this mean you're responsible for the premier's miraculous recovery?”

“That can be attributed, I believe, to the man himself, who has the hide and disposition of an alligator.”

House smiled. “But they call him ‘The Tiger.'”

Fraser made way for the two callers. “That will do, too, I suppose. I leave it to the premier to explain the medical situation. He acts as his own physician. I offer suggestions. He rejects any that don't coincide with his.”

The visitors kept their coats on as Fraser led them back to the small garden behind the house. Clemenceau was walking slowly around a stone bench in the thin, cold sunshine.

“You are the eighth wonder of the world,” Colonel House said as he embraced the premier. “I hope to grow as strong as you when I reach your age.” His soft twangy voice suggested quiet toddies on a warm porch at twilight.

Clemenceau smiled. “Not so bad for seventy-eight, eh, Colonel?”

“The newspapers say that the doctors won't take out the bullet.”

“They are fine physicians, the newspapers. I find I am sentimental. After all the trouble that demented anarchist went to in order to insert the bullet, it would be ungrateful to remove it.”

Dulles shook hands with Clemenceau, adding his wonder that the bullet would not be extracted.

“At my age,” Clemenceau shrugged, “it won't trouble me very long.”

“And your doctors agree?” House looked back at Fraser as he raised the question.

Clemenceau sat heavily on the stone bench. “What can they do? I am a physician and I am
le premier!
Having Doctor Fraser here with our Parisian doctors allows me to ignore medical advice in two languages.”

“But,” House added, “such an appalling episode. You have the president's deepest sympathies and fervent wishes for a speedy recovery.”

“Yes, it was a shameful episode. A Frenchman stands not ten feet from me and fires seven times. Yet he hits me only once! Who will respect French marksmanship? Our honor is forever stained. It will cause men in Berlin to think about invading France again.” Clemenceau sighed. “Of course, men in Berlin need very little encouragement to think such thoughts.”

“The president instructed me to urge you to take all the time you need to recuperate. Your able colleagues can assist you with the negotiations. France cannot afford to lose you.”

“Pah.” Clemenceau moved to stand. He accepted Dulles' steadying hand under his elbow. “My colleagues have the souls of rabbits. And this negotiating, as you know too well, requires little energy.” He nodded to House. “I am like the hedgehog.” He shrugged. “I yield nothing. The hedgehog does not grow tired. Come, Colonel House, let us walk and talk. If I stop moving, I may not begin again.”

House took Clemenceau's arm and they resumed the premier's slow shuffle. The other two men, realizing they had been dismissed, went inside. Seated in the front parlor, Dulles demanded a full account of the shooting.

When he finished the tale, Fraser asked about the assassin.

“He's just some stray anarchist. They grow on trees in this country. Yet more evidence that the disease of revolution is loose in the land. Loose in every land, it seems.” Dulles narrowed his eyes. “Major, did you and your baseball-playing friend have any luck with the premier? On that young soldier's problem?”

Fraser shook his head.

“I see. Well, that may be all right. You see, I've just had an idea. Would you deliver a message to him, your speedy Mr. Cook? I have a proposition he might wish to hear.”

 

E
ntering the elegant lobby of the Grand Hotel, Fraser caught sight of Cook talking with a small, balding man with a goatee. Holding a cane with a gloved hand, the smaller man looked at home in the deluxe setting. Cook—beefier and nowhere near as well-dressed—did not. The smaller man was doing the talking, gesturing with his cane while Cook glowered.

Fraser remembered that glower. He decided to wait at the doorway for the disagreement to run its course.

Cook turned sharply on his heel and came straight at him. Falling into step with him, Fraser asked, “You all right?”

“Let's go outside.” Cook slowed when they hit the cold air. At the edge of the hotel's awning, the steady rain stopped him altogether. The moisture gave density to the powerful smells from the carriage horses drawn up closest to the hotel, and from the motorcars idling in the next lane over.

Fraser waited without speaking.

“The great Dr. Du Bois”—Cook waved back at the hotel—“chooses not to understand that people don't function like machines, whenever he wants them to, however he wants them to.”

Fraser waited.

“All right, all right,” Cook finally said. “Sorry. You came here for something, not to watch me throw a tantrum. What's going on?”

“Allen Dulles wants to see you.”

“He's got another idea?” Cook looked interested.

“Not one he shared with me. But he wants to meet you tonight at nine.” Fraser allowed himself a small smile. “He said the Eiffel Tower, on the second level.”

Cook took a moment, then smiled. “You're kidding. The Eiffel Tower? How young is this guy? He's been reading too many John Buchan novels.”

“I've never asked about his literary tastes. I figured you'd go to the North Pole to see him.”

“Damn right. You coming?”

“Speed, think about it. It's the second level of the Eiffel Tower.”

Cook grinned. “Sorry, I wasn't thinking. Still don't like high places?”

“Just the ones that are far off the ground.”

“He really said the Eiffel Tower?”

 

 

 

Sandbags huddled around the base of the tower, protecting the steelwork from any devious German assault. A few American soldiers wandered around the tower's base, staring up through the intricate struts.

Cook's ears popped as the elevator rose to the second level. Four other sightseers, swaddled in scarves and coats, huddled in the elevator with him. When he stepped out onto the tower platform, he quickly pushed up the collar of his peacoat against the wind. He missed his gloves. He forgot them when he changed clothes in the rented garret Du Bois had arranged for him. At least the rain had stopped.

Cook showed no reaction when he spotted Dulles, who was lecturing to a large group of people shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep circulation going in the frigid wind. Faces peered out from wool and fur. Some were flushed, others nearly blue with cold.

Cook walked to the east side of the tower, which had a view across the Seine, then miles of twinkling lights stretching into the inky distance. Without a moon, stars shone diffident light on mist that clung to the river. Past the river, more than a hundred miles away, Joshua sat in the army prison camp. But for how much longer? Cook could feel it all getting away from him. He had to come up with something.

Joshua had been a gentle boy, fond of every kind of animal. Even squirrels, which Cook considered mostly rat. Little Joshua would spread bread crumbs on the ground and lie down in the grass to wait for the squirrels. They would get closer, run away, get closer, then finally snatch the food and rush off. From a catalog, Aurelia ordered Joshua a book about birds. He learned their names and habits, recited their migration patterns. He never cared much for Speed's baseball stories, but he listened as if bewitched when Aurelia told him about the time the passenger pigeons roosted for three days in her hometown. Just a few years ago, when the last one of those stupid birds died, Joshua had mourned them.

Cook had worried that Joshua wouldn't be tough enough, even encouraged him to go off to war. As soon as Joshua shipped out for Europe, Cook remembered the story of Abraham and Isaac. It wouldn't let him go. At least Abraham could say that God told him he had to to sacrifice his own son. Who says no to God? What could Cook say—that vanity made him do it? That he was ready to sacrifice his son in pursuit of the mirage that his race would advance?

He had to look it in the eye. He had been a fool, pure and simple, to push his son to fight.

“Hello.” Dulles had left his group, which was clustered around the elevator, stomping and snorting. “You're an easy chap to pick out.”

“All over France.”

Dulles stood next to him and took in the view. “Sorry for the melodramatic setting, but I'm devilishly busy. Since I was deputed to explain Monsieur Eiffel's genius to some of the more provincial members of our delegation, I thought to save time by meeting you at this memorable yet easy-to-find spot.” He looked up at the top of the tower. “It's quite something, you know. This tower caught Mata Hari. Yes, it's true. Those clever French put a radio antenna way up at the top and used it to intercept her most secret messages. And then they hanged the poor woman.”

Cook was cold and getting colder. “Why are we here?”

“Yes, well.” Dulles cleared his throat and resumed his study of the eastern horizon. “I arranged to review the war record of your son, Sergeant Cook. He's been a brave soldier. The French thought the world of him.”

Cook nodded but didn't turn. A few boats plowed through the river in both directions. “Can you help?”

“I can't arrange Joshua's release. The only person with the power to do that is President Wilson, and he's not even here in France. He's coming back in a couple weeks, but I just don't see it as a case that would move him right now.”

“You mean, Joshua's colored.”

“Not solely, but that's part of this picture.”

Cook waited. Dulles had to have something on his mind.

“I do have an alternative. I believe I can arrange for Sergeant Cook to be misplaced.”

This time Cook turned his head. “Which means?”

“The army will have to move him from his current . . . location so he can be shipped home. During that process, it might happen that he would be left unsupervised. The army misplaces things constantly. During the fighting, they misplaced entire regiments.”

“And?”

“Sergeant Cook need simply absent himself and make his way to a certain address I can provide. It's in the Montmartre district here in Paris. That area has rather a wide variety of residents. He's not likely to stand out there.”

“Sounds dangerous. He could get shot as an escaped prisoner.”

“I can't entirely rule that out, of course. You may well prefer that he serve his sentence. I believe it was twenty years? You can see him when it's over.”

Dulles turned to leave, but Cook grabbed him by the bicep and squeezed hard. “Tell me the truth. Is it dangerous?”

Dulles smiled with an unexpected benevolence. “Life, my dear man, is dangerous. Look at poor Monsieur Clemenceau, who was only leaving for work one morning.”

“What happens when Joshua gets to that address?”

“He'll be safe there.” Cook let go of his arm. Dulles took from his pocket a folded paper. “For a time. I expect to make use of him, of course. I cannot yet say how. That part of the plan is not yet ripe. But I will. He must be prepared for that. If he is not”—Dulles assumed a facial expression that apparently was meant to be intimidating—“then the army will find him again, with all of the consequences that would flow from that discovery.”

“This use you'll make of him. Does it involve anything dangerous?”

“Mr. Cook, I just answered that question. You seem to forget that Sergeant Cook—without any assistance from his father—has charged German trenches. I'm sure he's equal to any challenges he might confront in peacetime Paris.”

When Cook accepted the paper, Dulles added, “Get word to me through Dr. Fraser within the next forty-eight hours. He seems a sound fellow. The good doctor can come and go at the Hotel Crillon without drawing the attention that you doubtless would. I can give him the details for the misplacing. Sergeant Cook will be transferred from Chaumont in three days. After that, I can't help you.”

Cook watched Dulles cross the platform and press the button to summon the elevator. He hated that young man for his cockiness, his education, his relatives. But he needed him. Lord, Cook thought, Dulles had better know his business.

The younger man grew impatient waiting for the elevator. He walked over to the metal stairs and began trotting down them. After waiting a decent interval, Speed walked over to the stairs and looked down. They zigzagged back and forth and back and forth as far as he could see. Dulles was already a dozen flights down. Cook's knees ached at the thought of using them. He moved in front of the elevator doors and settled in to wait.