“You might be English,” the shabby man said; his tone was conversational. “Might be, but I doubt it. Canadian?”
“American.”
The shabby man sighed. “That is exactly as I feared.” “You think President Kuhn has sent me because he wants you for himself?” Von Steigerwald pushed the muzzle of his Luger against the nape of the shabby man’s neck, not too hard.
“I do.”
Von Steigerwald’s left hand jerked back the shabby man’s coat and expertly extracted a large and rather old-fashioned pistol. “It would be out of the fire and into the frying pan for you, even if it were true.”
“I must hope so.”
“You can turn around and face me now, Mr.
Churchill.” Von Steigerwald stepped back, smiling. “Is this the Mauser you used at Omdurman?”
Churchill shook his head as he straightened his shabby coat. “That is long gone. I took the one you’re holding from a man I killed. Killed today, I mean.”
“A German?”
Churchill nodded. “The officer of the guard. He was inspecting us—inspecting me, at the time. I happened to say something that interested him, he stayed to talk, and I was able to surprise him. May I omit the details?”
“Until later. Yes. We have no time to talk. We’re going back. I am still an S.S. officer. I still believe you to be an English traitor. I am borrowing you for a day or two—I require your service. They won’t be able to prevent us without revealing that you escaped them.” Von Steigerwald gave Churchill a smile that was charming and not at all cruel. “As you did yourself in speaking with me. They may shoot us. I think it’s much more likely that they’ll simply let us go, hoping I’ll return you without ever learning your identity.”
“And in America . . . ?”
“In America, Donovan wants you, not Kuhn. Not the Bund. Donovan knows you.”
Slowly, Churchill nodded. “We met in . . . In forty-one, I think it was. Forty would’ve been an election year, and Roosevelt was already looking shaky in July—”
They were walking fast already, with Churchill a polite half-step behind; and Von Steigerwald no longer listened.
Aboard the fishing boat he had found for them, Potter cleared away what little food remained and shut the door of the tiny cabin. “Our crew—the old man and his son—don’t know who you are, Mr. Prime Minister. We’d prefer to keep it that way.”
Churchill nodded.
“If you’re comfortable . . . ?”
He glanced at his cigar. “I could wish for better, but I realize you did the best you could. It will be different in America, or so I hope.”
Potter smiled. “It may even be different on the sub. I hope so, at least.”
Churchill looked at von Steigerwald, who glanced at his watch. “Midnight. We rendezvous at three AM, if everything goes well.”
Churchill grunted. “It never does.”
“This went well.” Potter was still smiling. “I know you two know everything, Mr. Prime Minister, but I don’t. How did he get you out?”
Still in uniform, Von Steigerwald straightened his tunic and brushed away an invisible speck of lint. “He got himself out, mostly. Killed an officer. He won’t tell me how.”
“Killing is a brutal business.” Churchill shook his head. “Even with sword or gun. With one’s hands . . . He trusted me. Or trusted my age, at least. Thought I could never overpower him, or that I would lack the will to try. If it was in my weakness he trusted, he was nearly right. It was, as Wellington said of a more significant victory, a near run thing. If it was in my fear, the captain mistook foe for friend. What had I to lose? I would have been put to death, and soon. Better to perish like a Briton.”
He pulled back his shabby coat to show the Mauser. “Perhaps it was seeing this. His holster covered most of it, but I could see the grip. Quite distinctive. Once upon a time, eh? Once upon a time, long before either of you saw light, I was a dashing young cavalry officer. Seeing this, I remembered.”
“The Germans have pressed every kind of pistol they can find into service,” von Steigerwald explained. “Even Polish and French guns.”
Churchill puffed his cigar and made a face. “What I wish to know is where I tripped up. Did you recognize me? The light was so bad, and I’d starved for so long, that I thought I could risk it. No cigar, eh? No bowler. Still wearing the clothes they took me in. So how did you know?”
“That you were Churchill? From your gun. I pulled it out of your waist band and thought, by god it’s a broom-handle Mauser. Churchill used one of these fifty years ago. I’d had a briefing on you, and I’d been interested in the gun. You bought it in Cairo.”
Churchill nodded.
“That was when it finally struck me that Spencer was your middle name. Your byline—I read some of your books and articles—was Winston S. Churchill.”
“You didn’t know about Leonard, then.” Churchill looked around for an ashtray and, finding none, tapped the ash from his cigar into a pocket of his shabby coat. “In full, my name is Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill. I should have been more careful about my alias. I had to think very quickly, though, and the only others I could seize on just then were John Smith and George Brown. Either, I felt, would have been less than convincing.”
Potter grinned. “Very.”
“In my own defense, I thought I was dealing with a German officer.” Churchill turned to von Steigerwald. “This isn’t what I wanted to inquire about, however.
How did you know I had been lying to you?”
“I wasn’t certain until I realized you were the man I’d been sent to rescue. A couple of things made me suspicious, and when I saw the bulge of your gun butt—”
“What were they?”
“Once you said ‘we’ in speaking of the prisoners,” von Steigerwald explained. “I said that the S.S. would make the prisoners eat their excrement, and you said, ‘No doubt we would.’ It sounded wrong, and when I thought about it, I realized that you couldn’t have been what you said you were—an Englishman working for the Germans. If you had been, they would have made you clean under the cars. Why did you confirm that you had been a prisoner when the Germans were denying they had him?”
“Ignorance. I didn’t know they were. I had walked for miles along those dark tracks, trying to find a way out. I couldn’t. All the tunnels ended in rubble and earth.”
“Flattened by bombs?” Potter asked.
Churchill nodded. “To get out, I was going to have to go out through the German headquarters, and I could think of no practical way of doing that. Then the colonel here came, plainly a visitor since he was S.S., not army, and because he had an escort. I hoped to attach myself to him, a knowledgeable, subservient Englishman who might inform on the commandant if he could be convinced it was safe. I would persuade him to take me with him, and when he did, I would be outside. Sergeant Lohr and any Germans in the headquarters would know who I was, of course. But if they were wise—if they spoke with the commandant first, certainly—they would let me go without a word. If they prevented me, the army would be blamed for my escape; but if they held their peace and let me go, they could report quite truthfully that I had been taken away by the S.S. With luck, they might even get the credit for my recapture later.”
Potter said, “That won’t happen.”
“I’ve answered your questions, Mr. Potter.” Churchill looked accusingly at his smoldering cigar and set it on the edge of the little table. “Now you must answer one or two for me. The colonel here has told me that I am not being taken to President Kuhn. It relieved my mind at the time and will relieve it further now, if you confirm it. What do you say?”
“That we want you, not Kuhn.” By a gesture, Potter indicated von Steigerwald and himself. “Donovan sent us. We’re from the O.S.S.—the Office of Strategic Services. Roosevelt set us up before he was voted out, and he put Colonel Donovan in charge. President Kuhn has found us useful.”
Churchill looked thoughtful. “As you hope to
find me.”
“Exactly. Kuhn and his German-American Bund have been pro-German throughout the war, as you must know. America even sold Germany munitions.”
Churchill nodded.
“But now Hitler’s the master of Europe, and he’s starting to look elsewhere. He has to keep his army busy, after all, and he needs new triumphs.” Potter leaned forward, his thin face intense. “Roosevelt, who had been immensely popular just a year before, was removed from office because he opened America to European Jews—”
“Including you,” von Steigerwald put in.
“Right, including me and thousands more like me. America was just recovering from the Depression, and people were terrified of us refugees and what we might do to the economy. Fritz Kuhn and his German-American Bund replaced the old, patriotic Republican Party that had freed the slaves. I’m sure that half the people who voted for Kuhn hoped he would send us back to Hitler.”
Churchill said, “Which he has declined to do.”
“Of course.” Potter grinned. “Who would he protect America from if we were gone? He’s getting shaky as it is.”
Von Steigerwald cleared his throat. “It might be possible to persuade Roosevelt to come out of retirement. Potter here thinks that way. He may be right.”
“Or at least to get Roosevelt to endorse some other Democrat,” Potter said.
Churchill nodded. “I could suggest half a dozen. No doubt you could add a dozen more. But where do I come into all this? Donovan wants me, you say.”
Potter nodded. “He does, but to understand where you come in, Mr. Prime Minister, you have to understand Donovan and his position. He was Roosevelt’s man. Roosevelt appointed him, and he’s done a wonderful job. The O.S.S. worked hard and selflessly for America when Roosevelt was president, and it’s working hard and selflessly for America now that Kuhn and his gang are in the White House.”
“Yet he would prefer Roosevelt.” Churchill fished a fresh cigar from his pocket.
“We all would,” Potter said. “Donovan doesn’t think he’ll do it—he’s a sick man—but that’s what all of us would like. We’d like America to go back to nineteen forty and correct the mistake she made then. Above all, we’d like the Bund out of power.”
Rolling the cigar between his hands, Churchill nodded.
“But if and when it comes to a war between Hitler and Kuhn, we will be with Kuhn and our country.”
“Right or wrong.” Churchill smiled.
“Exactly.”
Von Steigerwald cleared his throat again. “You’re not American, Potter. You’re a refugee—you said so. Where were you born?”
“In London,” Potter snapped. “But I’m as American as you are. I’m a naturalized United States citizen.”
“Thanks to Donovan, I’m sure.”
Potter turned back to Churchill. “So far Kuhn hasn’t interned us, much less returned us to the Germans. There are quite a few people whose advice and protests have prevented that. Donovan’s one of them. We give America a pool of violently anti-Nazi people, many well-educated, who speak every European language. If you’ve been wondering why so many of us are in the O.S.S. you should understand now.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” Churchill said mildly.
“War with Hitler looks inevitable.” Potter paused, scowling. “Once I told my native-born friend here that England had stood alone against the Axis. He corrected me. America really will stand alone. She won’t have a friend in the world except the conquered peoples.”
“Which is why we freed you,” von Steigerwald added. “If Hitler can be kept busy trying to get a grip on his conquests—on Britain and France, particularly—he won’t go after America. It will give President Kuhn time to persuade the die-hard Democrats that we must arm, and give him time to do it. We’ve taken Iceland, and we’ll use it to beam your broadcasts to Britain. We’re broadcasting to Occupied Norway already.”
Frowning, Churchill returned the cigar to his pocket. “You want me to lead a British underground against the Huns.”
“Exactly,” Potter said. “To lead them from the safety of America, and to form a government in exile.”
“Already I have led the British underground you hope for from London.” Churchill was almost whispering. “From the danger of London.” Abruptly his voice boomed, filling the tiny cabin. “From the ruins of London I have led the ruins of the British people against an enemy ten times stronger than they. They were a brave people once. Now their brave are dead.”
“You,” said Potter, “are as brave as any man known to history.”
“I,” said Churchill, “could not bring myself to take my own life, though I had sworn I would.”
“You tried to kill yourself long ago,” von Steigerwald reminded him, “in Africa.”
“Correct.” Churchill’s eyes were far away. “I had a revolver. I put it to my temple and pulled the trigger. It would not fire. I pulled the trigger again. It would not fire. I pointed it out the window and pulled the trigger a third time, and it fired.”
He chuckled softly. “This time I lacked the courage to pull the trigger at all. They snatched it from me and threw me down, and I knew I should have shot them instead. I would have killed one or two, the rest would have killed me, and it would have been over.”
He turned to Potter. “What you propose—what my friend Donovan proposes—will not work. It cannot be done. Let me tell you instead what I can do and will do. Next year, I will run for president.”
Von Steigerwald said, “Are you serious?”
“Never more so. I will run, and I will win.”
For a moment, hope gleamed in Potter’s eyes; but they were dull when he spoke. “You can’t become president, Mr. Prime Minister. The president must be a native-born citizen. It’s in the Constitution.”
“I am native born,” Churchill smiled, “and I shall become a citizen, just as you have. It is a little-known fact, but my mother returned to her own country—to the American people she knew and loved so much—so that her son might be born there. I was born in . . .”
Churchill paused, considering. “In Boston, I think. It’s a large place, with many births. My friend Donovan will find documentary proof of my nativity. He is a skilful finder of documents, from what I’ve heard.”
“Oh, my God.” Potter sounded as if he were praying. “Oh, my God!”
“Kuhn is a Hitler in the egg,” Churchill told him. “The nest must be despoiled before the egg can hatch. I collected eggs as a boy. Many of us did. I’ll collect this one. As I warned the British people—”
Von Steigerwald had pushed off the safety as his Luger cleared the holster. Churchill was still speaking when von Steigerwald shot him in the head.
“Heil Kuhn!” von Steigerwald muttered.
Potter leaped to his feet and froze, seeing only the faintly smoking muzzle aimed at his face.
“He dies for peace,” von Steigerwald snapped. “He would have had America at war in a year. Now pick him up. Not like that! Get your hands under his arms. Drag him out on deck and get one of them to help you throw him overboard. They starved him. He can’t be heavy.”
As Potter fumbled with the latch of the cabin door, von Steigerwald wondered whether it would be necessary to shoot Potter as well.
Necessary or not, it would certainly be pleasant.
THE HOLY CITY AND EM’S REPTILE FARM
Greg van Eekhout (With thanks to David Moles)
Em and her brother were wrestling an alligator, and nobody was even watching.
“Hey, Em, did ya see the paper this morning? The Garden’s giving away a piece of the True Cross.”
Judd had a habit of saying outrageous things at the most inconvenient moments. Just now, he was lying atop Ike, a five-footer bred right here on the farm, while Em tried to seal its jaws with tape.
Ike was struggling, Em’s bangs were getting in her eyes, and the tape was sticking to itself. “That’s nuts,” she snarled. “You don’t give away a piece of the Cross.”
Judd bore down on Ike’s head and neck with his elbows. “Well, they’re not giving it away, exactly. It’s a raffle. Spend $50 on the Temple slots, and they’ll deign to let you in the same room with it. Spend $100, and you get entered for a chance to win the splinter.”
The alligator finally secured, Em stood up to catch her breath and tried to gauge if her older brother was ribbing her. He had a stupid grin on his face, which meant he was probably being serious.
“Garden’s been in trouble for years,” he said, trying to sound as if he knew what he was talking about. “Not enough high rollers, I guess, so they’re doing whatever they can to get some attention.”
“Raffling off a piece of the Cross? So some retired pilgrim from Florida can hide it in his attic? It ain’t right.” Em wiped her hands on her apron while Judd used a pole to prod Ike out of the turtle yard he’d escaped to and back to the pond, where he belonged. She looked around the two and a half acres of trees and ponds where she’d spent all fourteen years of her life, thinking that the place had never looked worse. The pumps needed repair, the grass needed resodding, the trees needed a surgeon. Without pilgrims bringing their pilgrim dollars, there was no money for any of it. Except for Judd, and Daddy, still sleeping it off near on noon, it was just her and the critters, as Daddy liked to call the collection of crocs, gators, caymans, turtles and tortoises, rattlesnakes, Bobsey, the two-headed king snake, and Betty, the albino boa.
For years the reptile farm had been a convenient stop in the desert for pilgrims on their way to the Holy City. Here, they could fill their tanks with gas and their stomachs with burgers and slake their thirst with orange soda and milkshakes, and once they were here, they couldn’t resist touring the critters, and a lot of the pilgrims would also buy a T-shirt or a shot glass or a postcard with a picture of Bobsey or Betty on it.
Things were different now, since the Templars had built Via-40, bypassing Trail 66 and leaving so many motels and gas stations and roadside attractions, like the Oasis Town Reptile Farm, dying on an obsolete vine.
Other Earths Page 15
