by Lee Jackson
Sudden trepidation seized Fourcade. “What is it?” she said. “Just tell me.”
“Madame, I’m so sorry to be the one to bring this news,” Gabriel said. “We heard it a short while ago.” He took a breath, and his voice broke as he said, “Henri was executed two days ago.” Then a ferocious growl entered his voice. “He will be avenged.” He stopped talking as Maurice came around the desk.
Fourcade reeled, holding back sobs as Maurice wrapped his arms around her. “I sent him on that mission,” she cried. “It’s my fault he’s dead. He was my friend. I loved him dearly.”
Léon stood respectfully aside while Maurice and Gabriel tried to console her. Chantal entered the room and stood close to her, at a loss for what to do.
“He’ll be avenged,” Gabriel repeated. “I promise you.”
Fourcade shook her head and fought for composure. “That would harm the Resistance,” she said through anguished moans. “Henri would not want that. We must carry on.”
68
November 26, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
Stephenson called Paul into his office. “The second part of our planned deception that you had objected to is about to trigger. As you know, Senator Burton Wheeler has made himself a particularly useful tool. His rants against the administration have been so loud, frequent, and vociferous that his reactions to anything are predictable. We’ll make use of that.
“A US Marine lieutenant colonel is coming here this morning, but he won’t be in uniform. He’ll appear familiar to you, but I assure you that the two of you have never met. Depending on the message he brings, I’ll send a wire to London. It will set several things rolling. I’ll show it to you before I send it.
“Meanwhile, regarding Senator Wheeler. He spread rumors that the map the president referenced in his speech on Navy Day was a forgery, and he even stated on the senate floor that ‘perhaps it originated in New York, in the minds of gentlemen closely associated to the British government.’” He harrumphed. “Maybe Wheeler can get the family of Gottfried Sanstede to believe that rubbish.”
“Who, sir?”
“The late Mr. Sanstede. He was a German military attaché in Argentina. He copied the original map that his ambassador had held. I don’t know why he did it or what he intended to do with it, but the fact is that it was taken from his courier by British agents in South America organizing anti-Nazi resistance movements in case Hitler attempts military operations there.
“Unfortunately for Sanstede, after the president’s Navy Day speech, the Gestapo traced the leak to him and executed him. So much for Mr. Wheeler’s theory.
“Still, the senator will be useful. Remember that the objective is to get Germany to declare war on the US, not the other way around.”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation, and a secretary escorted in the man Stephenson had been expecting. Then she left, closing the door behind her.
When Paul first saw the man’s face, he recognized that Stephenson had been correct, the officer did look familiar, but at first Paul could not discern why that was the case. Then the officer extended his hand and introduced himself. “Lieutenant-colonel James Roosevelt,” he said, and when Paul almost gaped, he added, “I get that a lot, and yes, I am the president’s son, and yes, I’m going bald.”
“He’s an excellent conduit,” Stephenson said, chuckling while offering a seat. “People expect to see him at the White House, and they don’t follow him.” He turned to James. “So, what’s the word?”
James’ face turned grim as he sat down. “My father says that negotiations with the Japanese are leading nowhere.”
“I didn’t expect that they would be positive,” Stephenson said in an equally foreboding tone. “I’ll inform the prime minister.”
November 27, 1941
London, England
Prime Minister Churchill read Stephenson’s telegram three times to be sure he had understood it correctly, although the message was quite simple. It said, “JAPANESE NEGOTIATIONS OFF. SERVICES EXPECT ACTION WITHIN TWO WEEKS.”
69
Washington, DC
A US Army captain in full uniform hurried up the stairs of the senate office building carrying a briefcase. He stopped at the information desk and then followed directions to the office of Senator Burton K. Wheeler of Montana, where he presented himself and requested to speak with the senator on a national security matter of utmost urgency. When asked for his name, he stated that he preferred to remain anonymous. At that point, the intern screening him noticed that the captain had removed his nametag from his jacket.
“If I can’t speak with him, at least allow me to put what I have into the hands of his chief of staff or someone with a clearance high enough to know its contents. It’s marked top secret.” He leaned over and spoke quietly in conspiratorial tones. “I’m not supposed to have taken this out of the facility where I work.” He jutted his chin toward the White House. “I’m doing this out of concern for the American people. I don’t want to see us go to war.”
Now fully attentive, the intern pushed a button, and soon a tall, thin man appeared with round spectacles and scarcely any vestige of personality or hair. The intern conferred with him in whispers, the two glancing furtively at the captain at intermittent intervals. Then the thin man approached him.
“May I see what you’ve brought?”
“Certainly, sir, if you’ll take me to a secure facility. Are you cleared for classified material?”
“I assure you that I am, Captain. I’m the senator’s chief of staff. Would his office be suitable? He’s not here now and you’ve already broken classified material-handling protocol. You can show it to me there or I can call security. Either way, if what you have in that briefcase is truly top secret, you’re not leaving this office with it.”
The captain glanced around, apparently suddenly nervous. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
In the office festooned with colors and symbols of national pride, the captain looked around in wonder at the trappings of power. “I came to the right place,” he said, and smiled. “Senator Wheeler is famous for his dedication to keeping America safe from foreign wars.”
“May I see what you brought,” the chief of staff said. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” The captain sat on a fine, multicolored divan and pulled from his valise a box much like those used to store typing paper. “Here it is, sir,” he said, lifting the lid so that the cover page of a document was visible.
The staffer peered at it, his eyes widening in surprise. As the captain handed the box to him, he took it with an air of not wanting to touch it. The cover was stamped TOP SECRET, and the title read, “Victory Program,” and under it, the thesis, “Germany First.”
“This is the plan the president intends to implement to win the war,” the captain said. “That means, obviously, that he plans to go to war.” He looked at his watch. “Look, I really have to go. I’ll be missed if I’m out of my office much longer.”
The chief of staff crossed the room and set the box in the middle of the desk. “I’ll see that the senator gets it,” he said.
November 29, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
“Have you seen the report in the Chicago Tribune,” Paul asked when Stephenson entered his office.
Stephenson’s lips turned up slightly. “Read it to me,” he said. “Just the first sentence past the headline.”
Paul read the brief passage. “‘A confidential report prepared by the joint Army and Navy command by direction of President Roosevelt…is a blueprint for total war.’”
“Wheeler couldn’t keep a national secret if his mother’s life depended on it,” Stephenson said scornfully. “Certainly, he’s proven that he places his own judgment above those of the president and the national intelligence apparatus. I would say that within five days, a copy of that document will be in Hitler’s hands.”
“If I
may be so bold, sir, essentially what you believe is that the United States will be at war with Germany very soon.”
“Yes, I believe that. And further, I believe Japan will attack within the same timeframe. The Americans think so too. They just don’t know where the attack will take place, and we don’t either. We’ve had sightings of the Imperial Navy off Indochina, so a weak consensus is that Japan will attack easy prey among Britain’s Far East colonies. I’ll tell you honestly, I wish I had greater insight on that side of the planet. The Japanese are a wily bunch and very capable. They might yet surprise us.”
December 3, 1941
Bletchley Park, England
Claire hurried through the halls to Commander Denniston’s office. She knocked, but then entered without waiting to be summoned. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you should see this immediately.”
Denniston looked up from a document, surprised. “Tell me the gist.”
Claire took a breath. “This is coming straight from the German high command in Berlin. Hitler’s intelligence people have somehow got their hands on a three-hundred-and-fifty-page top-secret document that they claim was prepared at the direction of the US president. It’s titled “Victory Program,” and it purports to be Roosevelt’s plan for all-out war, with the main tenet being to defeat Germany first. The führer has seen it and is livid. He’s told his inner circle that he intends to declare war on the United States, and they are trying to talk him out of it.”
As she spoke, the commander leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing and his hands gripping the edge of his desk. “Thank you,” he said tersely. “I’ll run it up. Be sure to keep mum about it.”
“Yes, sir, although I think I’ll finish for the day and head home now, if I may. I need a stiff drink.”
“Don’t drink alone,” Denniston admonished Claire as she headed for the door. “And come in sober. Things are likely to get active over the next few days.”
“Of course, sir. I have that new girl, Penny Mamedoff in Hut 6, staying with me. We’ll commiserate and watch out for each other. And I have Timmy to look after, so I can’t get too blown away.”
“Right. Any word from your brothers?”
“Only Lance, sir. Still stashed away at Colditz.” Her voice caught. “But he seems healthy. I have no idea where the other two are, and nothing encouraging from my parents.”
“Keep a stiff upper lip. You’ll meet again. I’m sure of it.”
“Of course.”
December 6, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
“We’re on the verge,” Stephenson told Paul. “I can feel it.”
He handed across two sheets of paper. “This went to the president from London at three o’clock this morning, London time. That would be nine o’clock in DC. Read it.”
Paul took them with an ominous sense. The first was a cover sheet, marked, Triple Priority—Most Urgent—Personal and Secret to the President.
The second sheet carried the message. It read, “British Admiralty reports that at 0300 hours London time this morning two Japanese groups seen off Cambodia Point sailing westward toward Malaya and Thailand…First group, twenty-five transports, six cruisers, ten destroyers. Second group, ten transports, two cruisers, ten destroyers…”
Paul looked up anxiously. “Where are they going, sir?”
“I wish I knew, Paul. I really wish I knew.”
Washington, DC
Lieutenant Commander Alwin Kramer, USN, stared at the message received at 0128 hours. He was the Japanese-language expert on duty at the Navy Department. Stunned at the message received from Bainbridge Island at the US Navy’s intercept station in the Puget Sound, he read and re-read it several times in both Japanese and English to be sure the translation was correct. Then he grabbed his jacket and ran for the door.
“Sir, where’re you going?” his senior NCO called after him.
“To the State Department. They need to see this.”
“That’s eight blocks away, sir. It’s freezing outside. We don’t have a duty vehicle.”
Kramer halted, breathing hard. “I’ll run it, Sergeant Major. We’re about to be at war in the Pacific.” He jammed the paper in the NCO’s face. “Read this.”
The man did. The message read, “Tokyo instructs its ambassador at the embassy in Washington, DC to inform the United States that negotiations are to cease an hour after midday, local.”
70
December 7, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
Sitting at his desk, Paul heard a loud exclamation, and seconds later, Stephenson appeared in the doorway, looking unsettled. “Come in here,” he said urgently. “You need to hear this.”
Paul bounded out of his chair and hurried into the office where Little Bill already stood by the console that held his radio, turning the dial. The receiver squawked and emitted other electronic noises before settling on the announcer’s clear voice.
“This just in,” the newsman said. “The Japanese attack on Hawaii’s Pearl Harbor continues. Within an hour and five minutes, the battleship Arizona was completely destroyed and four others severely damaged.”
Paul glanced sharply at Stephenson as the newsman continued, “Eyewitnesses say they see black smoke rising out of the naval base, and they hear the buzz of Japanese aircraft flying overhead, recognized by the red ‘rising sun’ insignias on the wings. They’ve heard multiple explosions that still continue.”
The man’s voice faded a moment, and then he was back, his tone filled with emotion. “We’re starting to get word of the death toll, and it is significant. Hangars are on fire with men trapped inside. Fighters are being shot up on the runway as they taxi for takeoff.”
He broke off momentarily and then went on. “We’ll continue with up-to-the-minute reports as more information comes in, but ladies and gentlemen, this is a cataclysmic event. As stated at the outset of this report, the United States is under attack by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. They staged a surprise raid at dawn that still continues, and it can mean only one thing. America is at war.”
Stephenson turned the radio off with a click. Walking back to his desk, he sat in his chair and leaned back. “We’re in it now,” he muttered.
Paul stared at him. Mental and emotional numbness crept through his being. “Did we know this was coming?”
“Excuse me?”
Paul stood listlessly, confused images of the past months flitting into his mind and just as quickly darting out as he struggled to formulate a rational thought. “We did everything we knew how to get the US in the war against Germany,” he heard himself say. Instinctively, he knew he was heading into muddy waters, but he could not seem to stop himself. “Was there another Stephenson-type person in Los Angeles or San Francisco working behind the scenes to develop what just happened?”
Stephenson sat up and peered at Paul. “Not that I know of. Are you joking?” By the look on his face, he might have been on the verge of severe anger. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Why not? If it was acceptable to maneuver the United States into the war in Europe and Africa, why not in the Far East? And who would have done that?”
“If it was done, I had no knowledge of it,” Stephenson said, severity creeping into his voice. “You’re challenging above your level, Captain. Please note that nothing we have done has killed Americans or destroyed their facilities, so I don’t quite see the parallel you suggest. Japan needed no provocation to invade Manchuria and its other conquests. Obviously, it sees the US as a major obstacle to its ambitions, and from what I’ve heard of the attack so far, it closely resembles what Britain did to the Italians at Taranto. Britain’s aim in our raid was to preempt the Italian navy from dominating the Mediterranean. I’d say that the Japanese had a similar objective in the Pacific and used similar means to achieve it, but their objective isn’t defensive. It’s conquest. Time will tell how successful they were.”
He stood and leaned over the
desk on tightly curled fists. “And if you’re done with pontificating, you might want to climb down from that high horse. We knew the war was coming, but not like this. The president is convening a meeting of his top advisers at three o’clock this afternoon. I’m sure Donovan will be there. I was speaking with him on the phone as the news started coming in. He says Mr. Roosevelt is angry but clearly composed and keeping his cool. He’s working on his address to the American people with Grace Tully, his private secretary, right now. We’ve got work to do to learn what the US response will be and what Britain’s should be.”
Paul listened with a sinking feeling, chagrinned that he had spoken impulsively from emotion without analysis. “I’m sorry, sir. That was wrong of me. What do you expect the president’s response to be?”
“Roosevelt will ask Congress to declare war—against Japan—and they will. I’ll call the prime minister and relay Donovan’s comments so he gets the picture as near as we can give him from the horse’s mouth. With any luck, he’ll speak to the president, but that’s far from assured. Mr. Roosevelt is rather busy.”
“How can I help?”
The ends of Stephenson’s lips lifted slightly. “Good recovery. Your heart’s in the right place, Paul, even if your brain takes a wayward stroll once in a while.” Then he looked down at some notes on his desk. “Call down to our embassy. Get a directory of the Japanese delegation. Write up a background synopsis of the ambassador and his chief advisors. Also, we should know soon which Japanese commanders and ships were involved in the attack. Get me as much information as you can on the principals. If you have any trouble getting cooperation, use my name, but be judicious about it. That should keep you busy for a while. We’ll talk more when we know more. Meanwhile, keep an ear open for a call from Donovan. If I’m busy, interrupt me.”
