The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  “Your concern is the old man?”

  “It should be yours, too. He can seem an eccentric anachronism with those prissy gloves, the droopy mustache, the way he closes his eyes and seems to drift off during meetings. But he’s a tough old bird with a single idea he has held without interruption since 1870. Stop the Boches! Stop the Boches! But he cannot stop history. Germany is richer than France. Germans work harder than the French. There are more of them. And now everything he does to protect his cherished France will sharpen Germany’s passion for revenge.”

  “Surely the president sees this.”

  “He does, but I fear he cannot resist Clemenceau. Single-mindedness is a great advantage in a negotiation, especially when combined with an unmediated willingness to be rude. Clemenceau cares nothing for courtesy. Cleverness and courtesy are no match for single-minded bad manners.”

  “Mr. Wilson has been quite single-minded about his League of Nations.” Dulles smiled around the pipe stem.

  Lansing waved a hand dismissively. “If only it mattered.”

  Dulles took the pipe from his mouth. “Speaking of which, do you know the joke making the rounds?” He took his uncle’s silence as license to continue. “The negotiators are working for a treaty that will ensure the world a ‘just and lasting war.’”

  “Dear God, Allie. Speak to your second valet. Perhaps he can save us.”

  Chapter 19

  Thursday, April 10, 1919

  “My daughter says there have been bookstalls here on the riverbank for hundreds of years.” Fraser was standing with Joshua before uneven shelves that overflowed with books about French history. “It’s wonderful to learn from your own child.”

  Joshua, an inch taller than Fraser but with the slender build of the young, reached for a volume. He fanned the pages. “They’re all in French.” He reshelved the book with a smile. “I can parley when I have to, certainly with the mam’selles, but my reading of French is strictly limited to street signs and menus.”

  As they strolled to the next stall, Fraser said, “Your father’s late.”

  “It’s a family joke that the name Speed was meant for someone else, but Daddy was late being born so he got the name by mistake.”

  “I never noticed that about him.”

  Joshua paused at the stone wall separating the street from the drop to the river. He leaned on his elbows to look out. Fraser joined him. The river flowed dark on the overcast day, with green flashes of reflected light.

  “The old man says I can trust you. As a rule, he doesn’t say that about white folks. But then it turns out you don’t even know he’ll be late to his own funeral.”

  A boat worked its way up the river, its flat deck a nest of ropes and pulleys. The two-man crew made no effort to impose order on the clutter around them, preferring to scan the passing riverbanks.

  “Okay,” Fraser said.

  “So, why does he trust you?”

  “We have some, I suppose you’d call it some history together.” Fraser admired the buildings rising above the far shore, the walled riverbank of Île Saint-Louis. The stone structures seemed ageless, destined to last far longer than the puny two-legged animals who scurried in and out of them. “A long time ago.”

  “That history doesn’t seem to include being friends.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Friendly enough.” He looked over at Joshua. “It’s true we haven’t kept up much.”

  “You’re not giving me much to go on.”

  “I guess I feel like it’s your father’s story to tell.” Fraser straightened and began to move down the walk. Joshua followed. “But you should know I trust him, too.” When Joshua said nothing, Fraser said, “Tell me, how are things with Mr. Wilson?”

  “It’s indoor work, no heavy lifting.”

  “No, I meant with the man himself.”

  “I see more of him than I expected. He and Mrs. Wilson have decided the French staff can’t be around him, they can’t be trusted, so that just leaves a few of us Americans who can.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “We don’t exactly pal around together, but not as bad as I expected—you know, for a Southern man.” When Fraser turned a questioning eye, Joshua added, “He’s the boss, no two ways about that, and he’s been pretty patient with my mistakes, since I didn’t know the first thing about being a valet. But he’s got more personality than I thought he would. You know, he was reciting limericks the other day.”

  “Any good ones?”

  Joshua smiled. “God, they were terrible.”

  “Anything off color?”

  “Nah. Probably why they were so bad. But he thought they were great, amused the hell out of himself. It was sort of cute.”

  Fraser struggled to think of the president as cute. “And young Dulles? How’s it going with him?”

  Joshua shrugged. “We meet. I tell him what I know, which ain’t a lot. Mostly about who comes to the house, how long they stay.”

  “Does he go away satisfied?”

  “Damned if I know. Keeps coming back.”

  “So what’s this I hear?” Speed Cook’s deep voice came upon them from behind. They stopped and formed a small knot with the new arrival. Speed glared at Fraser. He lowered his voice but retained its urgency. “Now instead of my boy going to prison for twenty years, you’re going to get him shot as a spy for France?”

  “Whoa, there,” Fraser said, “It’s not just Joshua. I’m supposed to be supplying Colonel Boucher with news, too.” He stared evenly at Cook. “If I saw a way to say no, I wouldn’t have signed either of us up.” He waited a beat. “Have you got one?”

  “Damn it, Jamie, there’s always alternatives,” Cook said. “You just got to think of them.”

  “Fine. Hop on it. I could use some good alternatives.”

  “Hey,” Joshua said. “Is there room for me in this conversation?”

  The two older men looked down at their shoes.

  “Listen, I’ve got no problem with the French. If I’m working with them, then there’s less danger I’ll get picked up on these streets or at least there’s one more place I can go for help if I do. The Frenchies have treated me better than the US Army ever did.”

  “Are you prepared,” his father asked, “to become a Frenchman?”

  “I don’t know. If it means I don’t have to be a nigger.”

  Cook glared at his son. “What’s to stop the British from pulling the same stunt, make you report to them? Both of you? And the Germans? How about the Russians and the Poles?” He waved a hand back at the buildings lining the riverside. “There could be five spies watching us all right now.”

  Joshua turned to Fraser. “What do you think—will the British come around after me, too?”

  Cook broke in. “What are you asking him for?”

  “You said I could trust him.”

  “Yeah, I said that, but that doesn’t mean he gets a vote,” Cook said.

  “He and I are the ones doing the spying. We’ve got the only votes here.”

  Fraser held up his hands to calm the two men. “All this talk about spies. Makes me think about going someplace more private.”

  Cook’s hotel room was narrow and chilly. The window looked out on an air shaft. A bare bulb, suspended by a cord in the center of the room, cast a sickly light. He sat in the single hard chair. Fraser and Joshua sat on the edge of the narrow bed.

  “Are you changing your hotel every day, like the old days?” Fraser asked him.

  “Haven’t been,” Cook said, “but I’ll move after you boys leave today.”

  Joshua asked, “What’s all this about, changing hotels?”

  “Ancient history,” Cook said, “the only kind two old coots can have. I’ll tell you sometime.”

  “All right, Speed,” Fraser said, leaning back against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling and was sorry he had. A squadron of flies circled the light bulb. He looked back at Cook. “Just what are those alternatives that Joshua and I have?”


  “Okay, let’s try this to get ourselves thinking. Let’s try turning it around. Maybe we’re worrying too much about what they can do to us, and not thinking enough about what we can do to them.”

  “Oh, come on, Daddy,” Joshua said. “They’re planning to put me in jail for twenty years. What can I do to match that?”

  “Wait,” Fraser said. “Hear him out.”

  Cook rubbed his forehead with a gnarled hand. “Let’s think about what these people are doing, really doing. That pretty boy Dulles is sending a man to spy on his own president. Since he picked you to do the spying, he’s ignoring the verdict of an authorized military court. Near as we know, he can’t be sure if Joshua actually deserted or not. Doesn’t seem to matter to him.” Cook took a moment, gathering his thoughts. “And this Boucher, the Frenchman, he’s spying on his own ally. If President Wilson already was thinking about going home early, what might he do if he found out that France was turning his personal staff into their own spies?”

  “Hell,” Joshua said, “he’s got that on the brain already.”

  “Exactly,” Cook said. “Where would that leave Clemenceau, with everything he wants to do to Germany?”

  “But it would be just my word against these big shots,” Joshua said. “The word of a colored man. A deserter.”

  “Hold the phone, there,” Fraser said. “I’m not colored. And I’m an army officer.”

  Cook smiled a smile with an edge. “Yeah? This time, you’ll stick with me? All the way?”

  “What exactly have I been doing since you tapped me on the shoulder at the Hotel Majestic? Playing checkers?” Fraser took a breath to control his temper. “Listen, I don’t think we can afford to rely on Dulles to fix Joshua’s situation forever. I don’t trust him enough for that.”

  “Amen,” Cook said. “Now you’re talking my language.”

  “I spoke to a lawyer I know over at the judge advocate’s office. About a hypothetical situation, I said, just something I was curious about.”

  “Smart,” Cook said. “He’d never see through that.”

  Fraser ignored him. “He said the president could fix a situation like Joshua’s. Wilson can reverse any military sentence, but he’d have to do it within a certain amount of time, which we’re already pretty far past.”

  “Naturally,” Joshua said.

  “Hang on, hang on. That just means when we get the president’s order of reversal, or whatever it’s called, we have to get it backdated. That lawyer gave me the form of what the order should look like. The trick will be getting it approved.”

  “Signed by Wilson?” Cook asked.

  Fraser nodded. “And backdated.”

  A quiet fell over the group.

  “Okay,” Cook said, his voice a thoughtful rumble. “So, look, this is what we should’ve been thinking about from the beginning. We’ve got to give someone in power—American or French, Dulles or Wilson or Boucher or Clemenceau—a powerful reason to give Joshua his life back. So what’s that reason? Maybe it could be hard evidence of the dirty business they’re making you two do.”

  “Like what?” Joshua asked.

  “Damned if I know for sure. We might have to steal it. We might have to make up some of it. We just need to have something to trade with.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Let’s take them one at a time. What about Boucher? What can we get on him or from him?”

  Fraser shook his head. “I don’t know about him. His office must be in a military building somewhere, so there’s bound to be guards all around. And we have no connection to the French anyway. My uniform can get me into some places run by the Americans, but it doesn’t work so well with French guards.”

  “Okay, what about Dulles?” Speed asked.

  “That’s easier,” Fraser said. “He’s staying in a public hotel, one where my uniform works a whole lot better.”

  “And I’m at the president’s residence,” Joshua suggested.

  “Wilson won’t have anything that shows you’re a spy,” Speed said. “Dulles is keeping that a secret from him.”

  Joshua burst out, “Criminy, I’m not stupid, I know that. Maybe I can get a look at something else, something that we still might use to trade with.”

  The three men grew quiet again.

  “If we take something from Dulles or the president,” Fraser offered, “they’ll come after us to get it back.”

  Speed sat up. “Why would they think it was us who stole anything? There’s got to be hundreds of spies here in Paris right now—French, British, Bolsheviks, Germans—all sneaking around stealing things from each other. It’s a regular spy convention.”

  “Speed,” Fraser said, “I’ve got a thought. My daughter has this new camera. It takes photos in regular light. Why don’t we use it? We won’t have to actually steal anything. We can just take a photo of it, which will prove it really exists.”

  “Sure,” Joshua said. “Or we could get photos of them actually doing things—like photos of Dulles or Boucher talking to me as John Barnes, tie them directly to me.”

  Speed offered a thin smile. “Okay, so we’ve got some ideas, some alternatives. Maybe we start watching Dulles, his habits, the kinds of things he carries around, how he carries them.”

  The others nodded.

  “Joshua, you’ll see him at the residence if he turns up there. And I can keep an eye on him at the Crillon.”

  “I don’t know, Speed,” Fraser said. “If you hang around there too much, you’ll get pretty conspicuous.”

  Now Cook was grinning. “I’m going to be very conspicuous. It turns out the hotel has been looking for an English-speaking bartender who can mix up some of those fancy new cocktails the Americans like. I wowed them with a drink Johnny Williams has been making up in Harlem. He calls it a sidecar. They’re going to feature it, play it up big.”

  “That’s good,” Fraser said. “That’s very good. Bartenders hear a lot of things.”

  “It won’t hurt to have some work to keep some money coming in, either,” Cook said, gesturing to their grim surroundings. “My expenses have been outrunning my resources.”

  Joshua broke in. “I don’t mean to rain on this parade, but what makes you think we can do all these things, run around learning secrets and facing down the US government. I haven’t had a whole lot of luck facing down the US government.”

  “These two devious old minds,” Speed answered, nodding at Fraser, “are capable of more than you’re giving them credit for. Especially when we can call on strong young legs.” After a beat, he added, “We need to move fast. This peace conference can’t last forever, and God knows where they’ll take Joshua after that.”

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday, April 16, 1919

  Colonel Boucher, not naturally a cheerful man, smiled during his early morning ride to Clemenceau’s house. Paris in mid-April was in full bloom. The magnolia shimmered pink and white in the breeze. Chestnut trees wore delicate blossoms. He had dreamt of seeing this again, a Paris spring without war. Despite four years of man’s worst efforts, the world was still alive.

  He had much to feel cheerful about. France prevailed in the long war by a hair’s breadth, staggering to the armistice on a sea of American soldiers, British grit, and the willingness of more than a million Frenchmen to march to their deaths. Now France was poised to win the peace, as well.

  Clemenceau received him in his study. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” the premier said. “I have felt some dizziness in these last days.”

  “Monsieur Premier,” Boucher said, “I am dizzy, too—dizzy with your great success! After all of Wilson’s fine speeches about justice and benevolence, you have won English and American guarantees—they will defend France against German attack?”

  Clemenceau nodded in confirmation. He allowed himself a small smile.

  “It’s a miracle! That will be the pièce de résistance, which makes all of your other successes even greater.”

  Raising a finger, Clemenceau sai
d, “Never underestimate the hedgehog. But Colonel, you will be my favorite intelligence officer even if you do not flatter me.”

  Still standing, Boucher answered, “But why should I take such a chance?”

  “Very wise, I’m sure.” Clemenceau reached for a paper to the side of the desk. “As for business, I think it’s time for us to address issues other than Germany. I fear I have neglected them. We may have missed some, ah, opportunities.” He held his hand out for the intelligence officer to sit down, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He laced his fingers together over his midriff and began. “Some subjects, of course, we may ignore. Let us pass over the Italians and the Greeks and their demands for lands they last occupied two thousand years ago. Both are preposterous.”

  “Exactly so.” Boucher was searching for papers in his briefcase. He pulled out a handful and sat back. “Our view on both is that their appetites are greater than their digestive powers.”

  “Boucher, you are disgusting. Military men should leave the metaphors to those with literary sensibilities.” Clemenceau looked over his nose at the man. “I am interested in the argument between Japan and China over the Shantung Peninsula. What do you and your wise colleagues make of that?”

  “From a military standpoint, we are content to have Japan and China fight. So long as they fight each other, it should make our position in Indochina safer.”

  Clemenceau gathered his brows in concentration. “Should we not fear Japan? Their fleet grows. Their army expands. They are modern and extremely ambitious.”

  “We fear everyone,” Boucher said, “but China is a very great meal for even the most ambitious nation to swallow—”

  Clemenceau held up his hand. “No digestive metaphors, my dear Colonel. I would like to hear more from your men who follow Japan.”

  “Of course.”

  Clemenceau’s eyes passed over Boucher’s head to the wall beyond. “Talk to me of Syria and Lebanon. Many tell me that we must acquire them. In some fashion that Mr. Wilson finds acceptable, of course. But the reasons I am given are nothings. To protect Christians? To restore the glories of the crusader knights? France has been bled white in this war. We have no blood left for such sentimental matters.”