“Some recover, those who can. The others . . .”
“Ah, yes, la guerre. Generals should visit hospitals on the day before battle, rather than the day after. Perhaps then we might have less battles.”
“Why did you ask me to come?”
“These reports we receive from you and your friend, Monsieur. . . Barnes, is it?”
Fraser nodded.
“We wish to end this arrangement. It is no longer necessary.” Fraser raised his eyebrows.
“The information, it was not so good. The peace conference, it begins to be finished. Monsieur Barnes, he may return to his life with no further concern for this office.”
Fraser straightened. “Colonel, you can’t do that. That’s completely unfair.”
“Ah, do you mean that you and Monsieur Barnes wish to continue reporting to the Deuxième Bureau?”
“That’s not what I mean at all. As you well know, the one thing Monsieur Barnes cannot do is to return to his life. He’s not John Barnes, but Sergeant Joshua Cook of the American Expeditionary Force. At considerable risk, he’s been assisting you and your colleagues in order to gain French assistance in removing an unjust conviction against him. At considerable risk, I also have been meeting with you. The price for this assistance from both of us was clear from the start—that the French government would intercede with the United States to rehabilitate Sergeant Cook. You must do so now.”
Boucher clucked. “Must? I must do it? I think that is not the way to say that. I must do what my superiors direct. Yes, those are things I must do. And that, Major Fraser, is what I am doing now. Monsieur Barnes and you helped us a little, yes. And we helped Monsieur Barnes very much. We did not reveal him to the American authorities so he has not been in the prison. That has been very good for him, has it not? And if Monsieur Barnes wishes to leave our country, we will cause him no problem. I make that pledge to you. Also very good for Monsieur Barnes. The Deuxième Bureau is not his enemy. It is not his friend. This is not what I would call a bad deal for Monsieur Barnes.”
“I would call it a very bad deal. You know the risks he’s taken to assist France. Right under the president’s very nose. You owe him your help. That was your promise.”
Boucher dropped his eyes to the single piece of paper on his desk. “By all means, Major Fraser, please tell Mr. Barnes to stop taking those risks, tout de suite, at least to stop taking them for France. And of course, we say merci beaucoup to a friend. We also say bon chance. That is what we say, and it is all we will say.”
“This is outrageous.” Fraser stood, heat rising from his face and neck. “You realize that Sergeant Cook and I are in a position to reveal how you have undermined the security of the American president, how you have betrayed the ally who saved France against the Germans. What do you think the response will be when that becomes public knowledge?”
Boucher stared at Fraser, then allowed a trace of a smile to show. “I think a few more newspapers may be sold. I think some speeches may be made. The dogs will bark, the caravan will move on.” The colonel sat back reflectively. “I also think a few Frenchmen may wonder how this Boucher at the Deuxième Bureau was so clever that he placed an agent so close to the American president. No, he placed two agents so close to the American president. Perhaps they will think this Boucher should no longer be a mere colonel, but should be a general. It could be. Stranger things have happened.” The Frenchman nodded toward the door. “Au revoir, Major Fraser.”
“I shall take this to the premier.”
“Bon chance, Major.”
Chapter 26
Friday evening, May 16, 1919
Cook’s fist crashed down on the desk in Fraser’s hospital office.
Fraser didn’t worry about the noise. It was late. Most of the offices were vacant, their occupants already demobilized and sent back home, a few sent to the Rhine Valley to care for the Army of Occupation. Every day patients left, one way or the other. Only three of the ten wards were still in use. In a few weeks, the U.S. Army would relinquish the hospital to the Paris authorities. Empty crates stood in the corner, waiting for him to start filling them with personal items for shipment home. Since he didn’t really have any personal items, the crates stood neglected. If all went well, Fraser himself would soon board a ship for America.
“These are some rotten bastards,” Cook fumed.
“Yup.”
“What about Clemenceau?”
“I’ve gone by his house the last two mornings, but he won’t see me. I even tried to slip in with his gymnastics trainer. No soap. As far as Clemenceau’s concerned, as far as the whole French government’s concerned, we don’t exist any more.”
“So much for America’s first ally,” Cook said. “So, it’s down to Dulles, getting him to do something to get Joshua’s conviction reversed.”
“Not necessarily. Someone once told me there are always alternatives. You just have to think of them.”
Cook sat back and waited.
“We could leave Joshua on the president’s staff, let him go back to Washington with Wilson, then look for an opening there.”
“Oh, come on, Jamie.” Cook stood and began to pace. “That doesn’t work. Who knows if Wilson even remembers saying Joshua can go back home with him or if the butler or whoever’s in charge back in Washington would accept him? And who knows if he could even get in with his phony identity. He doesn’t have a passport or anything else that identifies him as John Barnes. He has no history as John Barnes. Dulles is the one who would control all that. Even if we get over all those hurdles, all we’ve done is make him John Barnes, servant.” He stopped at the window and looked out at the dark street. “Aurelia and I didn’t raise that boy to be a servant. He’s got a college degree. He’s smart, people like him. He’s got so much going for him. He can be somebody, somebody who matters in this world. One thing he’s not going to do is shine white people’s shoes all his life. There’s nothing I won’t do to stop that.”
Fraser kneaded his temple with one hand and grimaced. “Okay, that makes it harder, but okay.” He looked at Cook. “Let’s think about what we have on Dulles. We’ve got that memo I took from his room. The more I think about it, the less I feel good about it. Dulles could say a million things to explain it away. He could claim he was just using Joshua to watch out for other spies breaking into Wilson’s residence, that it was a countermeasure. Or that Joshua lied and fooled him about who he really was. Then, like Boucher, Dulles takes a bow for his splendid work in unearthing this dangerous escapee and wishes us good-bye and good luck.”
Cook started to pace again. “Even if Dulles would be worried about the memo,” he said, “why do we think a puppy like him can actually arrange to get Joshua’s conviction reversed?” He stopped still and spoke to the wall in front of him. “Listen, Jamie, I can’t get it out of my mind. What about the health information?”
“About Wilson? About him being sick?” Fraser made another face and shook his head. “If I do that, reveal a patient’s private information, it means throwing in the towel as a doctor. It would be a total violation of the president’s trust.”
Cook leaned over the desk on his fists. “Joshua’s looking at prison for years and years.”
Fraser looked away, then back. “What about Lawrence?”
Cook snorted. He started pacing again.
“Think about what Lawrence was doing in Dulles’ room,” Fraser said. “He claimed he was looking for ties between the oil industry and his own government. The documents he photographed bear that out. But isn’t he a wild card here? He certainly isn’t acting for the British government. Maybe he’s working for Prince Feisal, maybe just for himself.”
“So? Where are you going with this?”
“Maybe we can throw in with him. Maybe together we can get more from Dulles.”
“What does he care about Joshua? The black boy, he called him.” Cook spat out the last sentence.
“Why did he help out the Arabs during the war? Why’s he still helping o
ut the Arabs, instead of his own people? The man likes underdogs. Or he doesn’t like overdogs, which is close to the same thing.”
“Okay, assume we persuade him that he should help us, or that we can help each other. How?”
“Out of this whole lousy war, name three heroes.”
“Come on.”
“You come on.”
“Sergeant York. Maybe Eddie Rickenbacker. There’s Henry Johnson, but he was just a black boy, so no one remembers him. Okay, fine. Lawrence is a big hero.”
“Right,” Fraser said. “The press, the reporters, the politicians, the whole world loves him. If he accuses the American government of doing something stupid, something wrong, the whole world will notice.”
“Sounds pretty far-fetched.” Cook sat down. His shoulders slumped. “Is that how desperate we are?”
The silence grew between them.
Finally, Fraser said, “We’ll come up with something, Speed.”
Cook sighed. “We sure don’t have it yet. I keep feeling like there’s something right in front of us, something a blind man could see, but we can’t.” He looked across the desk at Fraser. “This place seems empty. Everyone’s going home. Your family still here?”
“They went up to Brussels on a tour to see the devastated regions. You know, everyone has to see just how awful it was.”
“Sure. If we all see the ruins, then none of it will ever happen again.”
“It can’t hurt for people to understand what really happened.”
Cook shook his head once. “It doesn’t matter. The evil’s inside us. Sometimes it comes out.”
Chapter 27
Monday morning, May 19, 1919
“It’s a profoundly bad outcome for the Arabs.” Lawrence barely moved his lips as he spoke, his voice low yet audible. His face showed no expression. “Clemenceau has absolutely hung Lloyd George out to dry. Just what you would expect. Do you know that that filthy frog actually changed some of the terms of the German treaty while it was being printed, without telling any of his so-called allies? There’s nothing he won’t do.”
He and Fraser strolled among early morning bargain hunters at Les Halles, the fresh food market sometimes called the stomach of Paris. The stalls bristled with yellow and green asparagus stalks, carrots and potatoes still dusted with the soil that nurtured them, cheerfully leafy spinach, turnips with their glowering purple sheen. Fraser’s eye snagged on the early strawberries, which made his mouth water, and the chard leaves with bright veins of yellow, pink, and purple. A jumble of races and ages, bags looped over their arms, poked and prodded the goods under the baleful glare of vendors still weary from rising in the middle of the night to bring their produce to market.
Joshua and his father were in the next aisle over, pretending to examine vegetables while keeping an eye on Fraser and Lawrence. Without his Arab headdress and army uniform, Lawrence looked ordinary, though oddly proportioned. Fraser had slid into a tall man’s slouch to avoid looming over the Englishman, who seemed as indifferent to his surroundings as he always did.
“How is it so bad, this deal?” Fraser asked.
Lawrence’s reply was crisp. “Under the deal, France would grab Lebanon and Syria, with Damascus. France also grabs one-fourth of the Turkish Petroleum Company. France also builds the pipeline that gives it control over the marketing of all production of Turkish Petroleum. There’s no point to having oil if you can’t get it to market. Prince Feisal and his Arabs? They get precisely nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Lawrence stopped to peer dubiously at an immense bin of mushrooms. It rose to a pinnacle of fungi that plainly made the Englishman uncomfortable. He resumed his stroll without comment. “No Arab nation. No Arab control over the oil. No oil money for Arabs. It’s shameful. No deal at all would be acres better than this deal. Clemenceau can’t last forever. He may be too tough to kill, but he’s bound to be driven from office fairly soon. The French are fickle, and he’s always been rather good at making himself unpopular.”
“So you want the Americans to blow up this deal for you?”
“Ah, you’ve been reading those documents I photographed.”
“Well, the United States seems like the only Great Power not to get anything out of the deal.”
“True enough. One of the few matters on which Lloyd George and Clemenceau see eye to eye is that the less President Wilson knows about this arrangement, the better.”
“So we both want the president to do something. I want him to reverse Joshua’s conviction. You want him to blow up this deal. You must have some idea how to make such a thing happen.”
They rounded the end of the aisle and began down the next one, passing by Joshua and Cook without acknowledging them.
“There is something I recently heard about,” Lawrence said, “which you might want to look into. There’s supposedly an American official here who’s talking to the Germans.”
“The Germans,” Fraser said, unable to keep his surprise out of his voice. “About what?”
“War. Peace. Profits. The things statesmen amuse themselves with. Perhaps your black boy”—Fraser stiffened, but Lawrence didn’t notice—“could find out something about that.”
“Which Germans?”
“Ah, Major Fraser, you’ve driven to the heart of the matter. The Socialists control the German government, at least they do today, which means that they have to make a decision about the treaty, which makes them frightfully uncomfortable. Very little is as unpleasant to a politician as signing a treaty of surrender. Never good for the career. ‘Vote for Bob Jones: he surrendered to our enemies!’ In this case, the circumstances are even less appealing. It’s half a year since the fighting stopped, the Allied armies never crossed the German border during the war, and many Germans don’t feel particularly defeated.” Lawrence stopped to study a stand that featured onions of several sizes, shapes, and hues. The Englishman said, “Distinctly unappetizing to see them that way, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a sense of bounty.” The keeper of the onion stall walked behind them, mutely encouraging them to make a purchase or make room for someone who would.
“The Socialists in Germany?” Fraser offered.
They began to amble again.
“Yes, well, some have no problem with the treaty, but some are saying that they’ll never sign it. Should they stick to that position, it could get a bit dicey. It seems rather important to get the war ended. Have it down on paper, you know.”
“Surely they’ll sign. They can’t go back to war.”
“That’s what sensible people would think. But the German soldier is a special breed, all that Prussian righteousness. For our purposes, it becomes a nice question whether the Americans have concluded that it would be best to have another government arise in Germany, one that would be better disposed to signing the treaty. The British government, I hear, is hoping for exactly that to happen.”
“Are you suggesting that President Wilson would try to manipulate who’s in control of a foreign country? But that would be completely contrary to his Fourteen Points.”
“A charitable view would be that Mr. Wilson has no knowledge of such efforts in Germany. After all, no leader of a major government knows everything that’s done in his name. Sometimes that’s for the best. But you may be right. Perhaps the American conversations with the Germans are about strudel exports.” Lawrence took a few more strides and finally looked at Fraser. “Look here, Major, I don’t presume to know your business, but your young friend presents a profoundly unsympathetic situation. In order to solve the problem of this supposedly unjust conviction for deserting his post during battle, he has used false pretenses to enter the direct service of the president. There’s nothing particularly honorable in any of it.”
Fraser felt his stomach churn. This was not a fair description of Joshua’s predicament. Then again, it did account for the basic facts. “What’s the way out?”
“I don’t know and
I don’t care. I would say that there’s no more important question right now than war or peace with Germany. If you wish to gain the attention of any of these leaders, you might look for a way to intrude yourself on that question. Perhaps to facilitate the peace or even to provoke renewed war. You may choose.”
“So it must be the Germans.”
“Ah. You’ve been listening.”
Trailing about twenty feet behind them, Cook stopped to investigate some carrots. “See those three soldiers back there?” he muttered to Joshua. “I think they’re following us.”
When Joshua sneaked a rearward glance, a hand gripped Cook’s shoulder from the other direction. Two gendarmes stood on that side of them. One barked an order. Cook wasn’t sure what he said, but responded by barking his own demand, in English, for an explanation of this outrageous conduct. The three soldiers started to close in from the other direction.
Cook said to Joshua, “Run.”
Wrenching free of the hand on his shoulder, Cook threw himself into the approaching soldiers. He barreled into the one closest to him, trying to use that one to knock down the others. He dragged two of the soldiers down in a tangle, rifles clattering on the ground. A rifle jammed into his side. Ignoring the pain, he spread his arms and legs to pin the Frenchmen to the ground.
Fraser turned at the noise and began toward it, veering around shoppers who had stopped to gawk. The two gendarmes were trying to get clear of the scrum in order to pursue Joshua while the third soldier positioned himself to deliver a kick to Cook’s torso with a heavy boot. Fraser tried to jump on that one’s back, but the lack of spring in his legs meant that he mostly fell on the man. Still, his greater height and weight prevailed. Gravity did the rest. They both collapsed on top of the three already down.
The five men writhed on the ground for more than a minute, each struggling for enough purchase to land a punch or a kick. Fraser and Cook played for time, trying to extend the scrimmage as long as possible.
The Wilson Deception Page 18
