The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Failing upward, that’s how Lansing thought of him.

  Despite Bliss’ limitations, or perhaps because of them, Lansing found the general a useful source of information. Lansing’s exile from Wilson’s inner circle was nearly complete. Though excluded from almost every important decision, he still hankered to exercise some influence, somehow to win a seat at the table, or even a view of the table.

  “I spoke with General Pershing last evening,” Bliss began. “He insists that the Allies can resume the fighting, no matter what those fool French generals say.”

  “I see.”

  Bliss would not allow the Secretary of State’s reserve to deflect him from delivering his full remarks. “Between you and me, Lansing, invading Germany now, why, it’s preposterous. It’s really quite a large country. We have insufficient troops, ordnance, supplies, transport. And what I really fear”—he nodded to underscore an insight that Lansing fully expected to be worthy of an eight-year-old—“are the political repercussions. A resumption of the war would trigger revolution in half the Allied nations. It would be a bonanza for the Bolsheviks. After four years of bloody fighting and an armistice, the great powers go back to war.”

  “You make an excellent point,” Lansing said, happy to applaud another mundane thrust by the general. “The Socialists in Berlin are demonstrating the total unfitness of their breed to hold power. They’re driving the world right back to the brink of catastrophe. Quite frankly, I believe their game is to drive us all over that brink.”

  “What can they possibly be thinking? Most of them opposed the war in the first place. Many of them refused to fight.”

  “Ah, General Bliss, we must remember our Emerson. ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgobblin’ and all that. The Socialists know that the German people don’t feel like they’ve been beaten, and yet we dictate the peace, demanding that they accept the blame for starting the war and that they pay us billions. We behave as though our army currently occupied Berlin, and didn’t sit five hundred miles away, steadily dwindling with de-mobilizations. Any German politician who signs the treaty signs his political death warrant.”

  “But the Germans can’t fight a war now any more than we can. Even less.” The general rubbed an eye, no doubt feeling the strain caused by the absence of corrective lenses.

  “Is there any sign the president is weakening on the terms of the German treaty?”

  “Good heavens, no. Lloyd George, apparently, has become the cowardly character in the room. I heard the president mutter that nothing short of a thrashing might work with the PM.”

  “You could sell tickets to that,” Lansing observed with a smile, “but is that really a wise position for Mr. Wilson? Wasn’t it Lincoln who said that after you’ve beaten a man, you should let him back up easy? Mr. Lloyd George might be on to something.”

  “As near as I can tell, the president’s completely dug in now. We won’t give an inch to the Germans. If they try to negotiate any of these terms, they’ll be shown the door. Strictly take it or leave it.”

  “Interesting, General. I must confess that I’ve long since given up predicting the president’s course. I find him stoutly defending provisions now that he attacked a month ago.”

  “Politics. It’s a damnable business.”

  “Yes, so it is,” Lansing agreed, again happy to do so.

  After the general left, Lansing lit a cigar and gazed out at the plaza and the river beyond. The French had finally removed the captured howitzers. Traffic lurched through the huge space, occasional horse-drawn carts bedeviling the motorcar drivers who longed to demonstrate the power of their vehicles. In his splendid isolation, Lansing was accomplishing nothing, but at least he had a wonderful office in which to be useless. It was a solace, a small yet profound one, that Colonel House simmered in comparable impotent isolation in his corner suite, also far from the center of the conference.

  Lansing sat with a sigh. Even from his exile, he was doing what he could. The thing was to scrounge up a few presentable Germans to sign the treaty. Renewing the war was unthinkable, no matter what that lunkhead Pershing thought. Lansing had put Foster and Allen in touch with that American colonel in the Berlin embassy. The colonel had developed an excellent contact in the German government, a realistic man—not a Socialist—who had recently entered the cabinet. At least he was in the cabinet this week. It was a start.

  Money certainly was no object. Lansing and Cromwell had seen to that. He hoped his nephews knew what they were about. This sort of thing was never easy.

  Chapter 31

  Wednesday morning, June 18, 1919

  Fraser joined his wife and daughter at an outdoor table on Rue Royale, the entrance to the Crillon visible from their seats, but not from his. The breeze ruffled the umbrella that shaded the ladies from the bright morning light.

  “Jamie,” Eliza said, “you look terrible.”

  “I’ve completed Colonel Siegel’s plan for the invasion. It pretends that we can provide first-class medical care for the American Expeditionary Force as it fights its way into the heart of Germany. However fantastic the exercise is, Siegel was delighted to receive it.” He wiped his hands across each other. “So now I’m done with that foolishness.”

  “Daddy, not another war.”

  Fraser tried to attract a waiter who resolutely failed to see him. “I’ve never been much of a praying man, but I pray it will never happen.” Another waiter approached their table from another direction. Feeling silly, Fraser gestured to the women. “Yum-yums, ladies?”

  “I can’t pass up a croissant,” Eliza said, “though I have had more than my share over the last couple of weeks.”

  Violet also chose the croissant, but Fraser was hungrier than that. He ordered an omelet and sausage with his.

  “The newspapers,” Violet said, “say the deadline for the Germans to sign the treaty won’t be extended anymore. Father, I hope that’s true. This is getting dull.”

  “Really, dear,” Eliza added, “we are becoming honorary members of the staff of the café and the hotel. I suppose our French is getting better.”

  “I’ve lost track,” Fraser said. “When is the current deadline? It’s been extended so many times.”

  “Only three days away, Father.”

  The waiter brought their coffee, which Fraser fell upon greedily, then sat back and looked across the street at the hotel. “If anything’s going to happen with those Dulles boys, it’ll be soon.” He asked Eliza, “Any sign of them this morning?”

  “Not yet. Though I could recite to you this fascinating item on page four of the newspaper about sewer repairs in the twelfth arrondissement. I’ve read it at least ten times.”

  “After we’ve eaten, you two should take off. Come back for a late lunch. Say, at two?”

  “Yes. Violet and I can search for something on the menu here that we haven’t ordered yet. That will be great fun, won’t it, Violet?”

  “All right, all right,” Fraser said. “Just a few more days. Say, where’s the camera?”

  “In the bag.” Violet pointed to a black canvas carryall that sat in the fourth chair at their table. “Really, Daddy, how likely is it that our friends will meet some German scoundrels in broad daylight, then stand for a well-framed photograph? Isn’t that the sort of meeting that happens at night, in dark and obscure corners? We can hardly show up and ignite flash powder in a deserted alley.”

  Fraser finished his coffee and poured more from a pot left by the waiter. He was feeling more human. “Of course, you’re right, my dear. That’s why we respectable people are here. So if we see something—even at night—we can attest to those events and perhaps even be believed. As opposed to our friends the Cooks, pere et fils.”

  “Really, Daddy? They wouldn’t be believed just because they’re Negroes?”

  Fraser took a moment. “I wish I could say otherwise.”

  “I am curious about this Sergeant Cook,” she continued. “What a terrible time he’s been through. It’s qui
te tragic. I don’t know how he holds up.”

  Wednesday afternoon, June 18, 1919

  Slicing limes and lemons for the evening trade, Cook was at his favored spot behind the bar, the one with the best view of the Crillon’s lobby. The bar still had no slow nights. Every night brought a ménage of national leaders and the men who whispered in their ears, plus the lawyers and investors, the businessmen hawking goods, and revolutionaries lusting after power. All leavened with a sprinkling of spies, impostors, and swindlers.

  When Fraser arrived in a civilian suit and tie, he leaned on an elbow and ordered a boxcar.

  Cook finished the lime he was cutting, wiped his hands on a towel, and stepped down the bar to make the drink. When he delivered the cocktail, he said, “Jokes don’t ever grow old for you.”

  “Neither do you or I.”

  Cook said he should look at a man at a corner table, the only customer drinking alone.

  Fraser turned sideways so he could see the lobby while he sipped his drink. The angle allowed him to take in the corner.

  The man was wiry, his ascetic appearance accentuated by his almost shaved head and pince-nez glasses. The corners of his mouth pointed downward in a scowl etched deep into his face.

  The sight called to Fraser’s mind his mother’s warning that if he kept making grotesque expressions, his face might freeze in one of them. This man’s mother should have passed him the word.

  “Third day I’ve seen him in here,” Cook said. “He’s looking for someone.”

  “With some hair, he could pass for a Dulles. What do you think, German?”

  Cook nodded. “When he paid, I saw deutschmarks in his wallet.”

  “Maybe we’re on to something.” Fraser tossed down the remains of his drink. “The ladies are off duty. I’ll be around, inconspicuous as ever.”

  Allen Dulles smoothly fell into step beside his brother in the grand terminal of the Gare Montparnasse. The station’s double-level windows admitted streams of the final light of the day. Sweat drops beaded on Foster’s face. His posture canted to the left as he struggled with a plainly weighty valise.

  “Sir,” Allen said with a smile, “have you considered a redcap?”

  Foster swerved to elude a workman in a snap-brim cap, a maneuver that threatened his balance. With a grunt, he stopped and set the grip on the floor, keeping it between his foot and the wall of the tabac stand. “Really, Allie, don’t be juvenile. I’m hardly going to hand this parcel to a redcap.”

  The younger brother kept his smile in place. “Just a professional note, Foster. On jobs like this, the idea is to not attract attention, so it’s better not to look as though you had spent the morning drowning puppies. One should appear relaxed, even bored.”

  “When I wish your professional advice, I’ll request it.” Foster mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I will admit, however, that this is not my usual line of work.”

  “I did offer to manage this business for you.”

  “The gentlemen at Turkish Petroleum insisted on turning over such treasure to a familiar face, and Mr. Cromwell agreed. As you know, Mr. Cromwell insists that accidents don’t happen, but are permitted to happen by people who fail to prepare properly. I cannot afford to have an accident happen with this.”

  “We’re rather running this down to the wire. Our German friends grow impatient.”

  Foster didn’t respond.

  “So where is Mr. Cromwell now?”

  Foster ignored that question, too.

  Allen held the door for his brother as they left the station, then hurried ahead to open the car door. Foster grunted when he swung the bag into the car. It landed with a thud. He clambered into the rear seat and sank back with a sigh. Allen entered from the other side and told the driver to take them to the Hotel de Crillon.

  “I look forward,” Foster said to his brother in a low voice, “to turning this great bundle over to you. My back and I wish you had completed the deal at the original price.”

  “That load does make one more conspicuous. The whole beast-of-burden appearance.”

  Foster made a face. “I’ll feel a great deal easier when it’s on its way to Weimar. Herr Heinzelmann says he has matters arranged, but it’s difficult to trust a man in such terrible clothes. You must be sure that the money is paid as agreed. One-third rewards the resignations of those Socialists who won’t sign the treaty, and the rest goes to salve the consciences of those who will. Neither group must know that the other is being paid, or the whole thing will fall apart.”

  “It’s quite the jumble, isn’t it,” Allen said, “keeping all those different Socialists straight?” When Foster’s only response was a grunt, his younger brother continued. “I’m sorry to pass on the news that Heinzelmann has changed the plan. The bundle is to leave from the airfield at Le Bourget. He thinks the trains aren’t safe from any of the Socialists.”

  “Yes, well, I acquired the funds. You must see to their delivery. This must be successful, or heaven knows what will come next.”

  “Of course.”

  “When does Heinzelmann propose to take off?”

  “Early in the morning.”

  Foster frowned. “Which morning?”

  “The one coming up.”

  “So in twelve hours,” Foster asked, “this wretched affair will be done?”

  “Perhaps a bit longer. We do need to get the right vote out of Weimar.”

  Chapter 32

  Early Thursday morning, June 19, 1919

  The moon set by four that morning, plunging the city of lights into deeper darkness. The Place de la Concorde was eerily quiet. Fraser, slumped in the shadow of a doorway a block down from the Crillon, could make out only a few parked cars and the plaza’s monuments. The last hotel guests had toddled into the building more than an hour before. A truck rumbled past. Somnolent street sweepers, homeward bound, swayed and bounced in the open truck bed.

  A soldier and a gendarme stood at each of the hotel entrances. Their postures said that they were fighting sleep, too. Two taxi drivers had parked on his block. Their foreheads rested against the steering wheels. Last time Fraser checked, Joshua was in the same posture on Rue Royale in a Ford Model T he borrowed from the president’s residence. Fraser figured at least Speed was awake at his post watching the back of the hotel. He knew he could count on Speed.

  Fraser felt like this was the night. When Speed came off his shift at 1:00 AM, he delivered news that jarred Fraser into sharp attention. The Dulles boys had gone through the lobby early that evening. The one who looked like his stomach hurt was lugging a heavy bag.

  A pre-war Peugeot entered the plaza from the Rue Royale and pulled up before the hotel. Fraser stepped out to get a better look. A horse-drawn milk wagon blocked his view. He drifted into the street for a better look. His line of sight cleared just in time to see Foster Dulles hustling into the car, carrying a valise that he had trouble managing.

  Fraser strolled toward the hotel. Dulles hauled the bag up to his lap and clutched its handle with both hands.

  Fraser turned up Rue Royale. As soon as the Peugeot pulled out, he began to run.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” he called to Joshua, banging on the Model T’s roof.

  Joshua came to full alertness. With Fraser handling the crank, they got the engine started and pulled out in pursuit.

  They spotted Dulles’ Peugeot halfway down the Champs-Élysées, moving at a stately pace. With little traffic on the streets, they could stay a distance behind Dulles without even turning on the Model T’s running lights. The Peugeot’s noise must be drowning out the Ford’s repertoire of rattles and chugs. The Peugeot began a series of turns through side streets, taking a circuitous route that moved generally east. Every time Joshua turned a corner, anxious they had lost the trail, the Peugeot was in sight, slogging along its stodgy way. The eastern sky showed no hint of dawn.

  “What d’you think he’s got in that bag,” Joshua called over the engine noise.

  “Som
ething he shouldn’t have, I hope.”

  Joshua hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand and grimaced. “I never let myself think you guys might be right about this. It’s too crazy. I’ve been afraid to believe it. But, son of a bitch, maybe you were right.” He looked over at Fraser. “It’d be something, getting my life back.”

  Fraser nodded. He couldn’t afford to get distracted by hope. Lots could go wrong. He twisted round in his seat, looking behind them, then shouted, “Where’s your father? He was supposed to follow.”

  Joshua stole a glance over his shoulder. “He must’ve heard us, with the racket this bucket makes.”

  “Damn.”

  After another five minutes, Fraser called out, “They’re just wandering around. It’s almost like they don’t need to get anywhere in particular.”

  “What’s over in this part of Paris?” Joshua asked.

  “There’s a train station. Gare de l’Est, I think. That must be where they’re going. It’s over there.” Fraser pointed across Joshua to the left side of the car.

  The Peugeot’s driver seemed to gain focus. The powerful car ceased its exploration of the Parisian traffic grid and moved straight in the direction Fraser had pointed. It stopped near the station entrance on Boulevard de Strasbourg. A broad plaza stretched in front of the station.

  Joshua pulled over a hundred feet behind the Peugeot.

  Dulles stepped out of his car, not carrying the bag. He walked back toward the Model T.

  “What do we do? What do we say?” Joshua said.

  “Damned if I know.”

  When Dulles reached them, he leaned down to peer inside the car. He looked startled. “Who are you?” he said.