by Ken Follett
Volodya continued to ignore Heinrich’s questions. ‘The Nazis will be defeated, one day. That day could come sooner, with your help.’
‘If you’re a Gestapo agent hoping to entrap me, don’t bother. I’m a loyal German.’
‘Do you notice my accent?’
‘Yes – you sound Russian.’
‘How many Gestapo agents speak German with a Russian accent? Or have the imagination to fake it?’
Heinrich laughed nervously. ‘I know nothing about Gestapo agents,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject – very foolish of me.’
‘Your office produces reports of the quantities of armaments and other supplies ordered by the military. Copies of those reports could be immeasurably useful to the enemies of the Nazis.’
‘To the Red Army, you mean.’
‘Who else is going to destroy this regime?’
‘We keep careful track of all copies of such reports.’
Volodya suppressed a surge of triumph. Heinrich was thinking about practical difficulties. That meant he was inclined to agree in principle. ‘Make an extra carbon,’ Volodya said. ‘Or write out a copy in longhand. Or take someone’s file copy. There are ways.’
‘Of course there are. And any of them could get me killed.’
‘If we do nothing about the crimes that are being committed by this regime . . . is life worth living?’
Heinrich stopped and stared at Volodya. Volodya could not guess what the man was thinking, but instinct told him to remain quiet. After a long pause, Heinrich sighed and said: ‘I’ll think about it.’
I have him, Volodya thought exultantly.
Heinrich said: ‘How do I contact you?’
‘You don’t,’ Volodya said. ‘I will contact you.’ He touched the brim of his hat, then walked back the way he had come.
He felt exultant. If Heinrich had not meant to accept the proposition he would have rejected it firmly. His promising to think about it was almost as good as acceptance. He would sleep on it. He would run over the dangers. But he would do it, eventually. Volodya felt almost certain.
He told himself not to be overconfident. A hundred things could go wrong.
All the same, he was full of hope as he left the park and walked in bright lights past the shops and restaurants of Unter den Linden. He had had no dinner, but he could not afford to eat on this street.
He took a tram eastwards into the low-rent neighbourhood called Friedrichshain and made his way to a small apartment in a tenement. The door was opened by a short, pretty girl of eighteen with fair hair. She wore a pink sweater and dark slacks, and her feet were bare. Although she was slim, she had delightfully generous breasts.
‘I’m sorry to call unexpectedly,’ Volodya said. ‘Is it inconvenient?’
She smiled. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
He stepped inside. She closed the door, then threw her arms around him. ‘I’m always happy to see you,’ she said, and kissed him eagerly.
Lili Markgraf was a girl with a lot of affection to give. Volodya had been taking her out about once a week since he got back to Berlin. He was not in love with her, and he knew that she dated other men, including Werner; but when they were together she was passionate.
After a moment she said: ‘Have you heard the news? Is that why you’ve come?’
‘What news?’ Lili worked as a secretary in a press agency, and always heard things first.
‘The Soviet Union has made a pact with Germany!’ she said.
That made no sense. ‘You mean with Britain and France, against Germany.’
‘No, I don’t! That’s the surprise – Stalin and Hitler have made friends.’
‘But . . .’ Volodya tailed off, baffled. Friends with Hitler? It seemed crazy. Was this the solution devised by the new Soviet foreign minister, Molotov? We have failed to stop the tide of world Fascism – so we give up trying? Did my father fight a revolution for that?
(iii)
Woody Dewar saw Joanne Rouzrokh again after four years.
No one who knew her father actually believed he had tried to rape a starlet in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The girl had dropped the charges; but that was dull news, and the papers had given it little prominence. Consequently, Dave was still a rapist in the eyes of Buffalo people. So Joanne’s parents moved to Palm Beach and Woody lost touch.
Next time he saw her it was in the White House.
Woody was with his father, Senator Gus Dewar, and they were going to see the President. Woody had met Franklin D. Roosevelt several times. His father and the President had been friends for many years. But those had been social occasions, when FDR had shaken Woody’s hand and asked him how he was getting along at school. This would be the first time Woody attended a real political meeting with the President.
They went in through the main entrance of the West Wing, passed through the entrance lobby, and stepped into a large waiting room; and there she was.
Woody stared at her in delight. She had hardly changed. With her narrow, haughty face and curved nose she still looked like the high priestess of an ancient religion. As ever, she wore simple clothes to dramatic effect: today she had on a dark-blue suit of some cool fabric and a straw hat the same colour with a big brim. Woody was glad he had put on a clean white shirt and his new striped tie this morning.
She seemed pleased to see him. ‘You look great!’ she said. ‘Are you working in DC now?’
‘Just helping out in my father’s office for the summer,’ he replied. ‘I’m still at Harvard.’
She turned to his father and said deferentially: ‘Good afternoon, Senator.’
‘Hello, Joanne.’
Woody was thrilled to run into her. She was as alluring as ever. He wanted to keep the conversation going. ‘What are you doing here?’ Woody said.
‘I work at the State Department.’
Woody nodded. That explained her deference to his father. She had joined a world in which people kowtowed to Senator Dewar. Woody said: ‘What’s your job?’
‘I’m assistant to an assistant. My boss is with the President now, but I’m too lowly to go in with him.’
‘You were always interested in politics. I recall an argument about lynching.’
‘I miss Buffalo. What fun we used to have!’
Woody remembered kissing her at the Racquet Club Ball, and he felt himself blush.
His father said: ‘Please give my best regards to your father,’ indicating that they needed to move on.
Woody considered asking for her phone number, but she pre-empted him. ‘I’d love to see you again, Woody,’ she said.
He was delighted. ‘Sure!’
‘Are you free tonight? I’m having a few friends for cocktails.’
‘Sounds great!’
She gave him the address, an apartment building not far away, then his father hurried him out of the other end of the room.
A guard nodded familiarly to Gus, and they stepped into another waiting room.
Gus said: ‘Now, Woody, don’t say anything unless the President addresses you directly.’
Woody tried to concentrate on the imminent meeting. There had been a political earthquake in Europe: the Soviet Union had signed a peace pact with Nazi Germany, upsetting everyone’s calculations. Woody’s father was a key member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and the President wanted to know what he thought.
Gus Dewar had another subject to discuss. He wanted to persuade Roosevelt to revive the League of Nations.
It would be a tough sell. The USA had never joined the League and Americans did not much like it. The League had failed dismally to deal with the crises of the 1930s: Japanese aggression in the Far East, Italian imperialism in Africa, Nazi takeovers in Europe, the ruin of democracy in Spain. But Gus was determined to try. It had always been his dream, Woody knew: a world council to resolve conflicts and prevent war.
Woody was 100 per cent behind him. He had made a speech about this in a Harvard debate.
When two nations had a quarrel, the worst possible procedure was for men to kill people on the other side. That seemed to him pretty obvious. ‘I understand why it happens, of course,’ he had said in the debate. ‘Just like I understand why drunks get into fistfights. But that doesn’t make it any less irrational.’
But now Woody found it hard to think about the threat of war in Europe. All his old feelings about Joanne came back in a rush. He wondered if she would kiss him again – maybe tonight. She had always liked him, and it seemed she still did – why else would she have invited him to her party? She had refused to date him, back in 1935, because he had been fifteen and she eighteen, which was understandable, though he had not thought so at the time. But now that they were both four years older, the age difference would not seem so stark – would it? He hoped not. He had dated girls in Buffalo and at Harvard, but he had not felt for any of them the overwhelming passion he had had for Joanne.
‘Have you got that?’ his father said.
Woody felt foolish. His father was about to make a proposal to the President that could bring world peace, and all Woody could think about was kissing Joanne. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I won’t say anything unless he speaks to me first.’
A tall, slim woman in her early forties came into the room, looking relaxed and confident, as if she owned the place; and Woody recognized Marguerite LeHand, nicknamed Missy, who managed Roosevelt’s office. She had a long, masculine face with a big nose, and there was a touch of grey in her dark hair. She smiled warmly at Gus. ‘What a pleasure to see you again, Senator.’
‘How are you, Missy? You remember my son, Woodrow.’
‘I do. The President is ready for you both.’
Missy’s devotion to Roosevelt was famous. FDR was more fond of her than a married man was entitled to be, according to Washington gossip. Woody knew, from guarded but revealing remarks his parents made to one another, that Roosevelt’s wife, Eleanor, had refused to sleep with him since she gave birth to their sixth child. The paralysis that had struck him five years later did not extend to his sexual equipment. Perhaps a man who had not slept with his wife for twenty years was entitled to an affectionate secretary.
She showed them through another door and across a narrow corridor, then they were in the Oval Office.
The President sat at a desk with his back to three tall windows in a curving bay. The blinds were drawn to filter the August sun coming through the south-facing glass. Roosevelt used an ordinary office chair, Woody saw, not his wheelchair. He wore a white suit and he was smoking a cigarette in a holder.
He was not really handsome. He had receding hair and a jutting chin, and he wore pince-nez glasses that made his eyes seem too close together. All the same, there was something immediately attractive about his engaging smile, his hand extended to shake, and the amiable tone of voice in which he said: ‘Good to see you, Gus, come on in.’
‘Mr President, you remember my elder son, Woodrow.’
‘Of course. How’s Harvard, Woody?’
‘Just fine, sir, thank you. I’m on the debating team.’ He knew that politicians often had the knack of seeming to know everyone intimately. Either they had remarkable memories, or their secretaries reminded them efficiently.
‘I was at Harvard myself. Sit down, sit down.’ Roosevelt removed the end of his cigarette from the holder and stubbed it in a full ashtray. ‘Gus, what the heck is happening in Europe?’
The President knew what was happening in Europe, of course, thought Woody. He had an entire State Department to tell him. But he wanted Gus Dewar’s analysis.
Gus said: ‘Germany and Russia are still mortal enemies, in my opinion.’
‘That’s what we all thought. But then why have they signed this pact?’
‘Short-term convenience for both. Stalin needs time. He wants to build up the Red Army, so they can defeat the Germans if it comes to that.’
‘And the other guy?’
‘Hitler is clearly on the point of doing something to Poland. The German press is full of ridiculous stories about how the Poles are mistreating their German-speaking population. Hitler doesn’t stir up hatred without a purpose. Whatever he’s planning, he doesn’t want the Soviets to stand in his way. Hence the pact.’
‘That’s pretty much what Hull says.’ Cordell Hull was Secretary of State. ‘But he doesn’t know what will happen next. Will Stalin let Hitler do anything he wants?’
‘My guess is they’ll carve up Poland between them in the next couple of weeks.’
‘And then what?’
‘A few hours ago the British signed a new treaty with the Poles promising to come to their aid if Poland is attacked.’
‘But what can they do?’
‘Nothing, sir. The British army, navy and air force have no power to prevent the Germans overrunning Poland.’
‘What do you think we should do, Gus?’ said the President.
Woody knew that this was his father’s chance. He had the President’s attention for a few minutes. It was a rare opportunity to make something happen. Woody discreetly crossed his fingers.
Gus leaned forward. ‘We don’t want our sons to go to war as we did.’ Roosevelt had four boys in their twenties and thirties. Woody suddenly understood why he was here: he had been brought to the meeting to remind the President of his own sons. Gus said quietly: ‘We can’t send American boys to be slaughtered in Europe again. The world needs a police force.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ Roosevelt said non-committally.
‘The League of Nations isn’t such a failure as people think. In the 1920s it resolved a border dispute between Finland and Sweden, and another between Turkey and Iraq.’ Gus was ticking items off on his fingers. ‘It stopped Greece and Yugoslavia from invading Albania, and persuaded Greece to pull out of Bulgaria. And it sent a peacekeeping force to keep Colombia and Peru from hostilities.’
‘All true. But in the thirties . . .’
‘The League was not strong enough to deal with Fascist aggression. It’s not surprising. The League was crippled from the start because Congress refused to ratify the Covenant, so the United States was never a member. We need a new, American-led version, with teeth.’ Gus paused. ‘Mr President, it’s too soon to give up on a peaceful world.’
Woody held his breath. Roosevelt nodded, but then he always nodded, Woody knew. It was rare for him to disagree openly. He hated confrontation. You had to be careful, Woody had heard his father say, not to take his silence for consent. Woody did not dare look at his father, sitting beside him, but he could sense the tension.
At last the President said: ‘I believe you’re right.’
Woody had to restrain himself from whooping aloud. The President had consented! He looked at his father. The normally imperturbable Gus was barely concealing his surprise. It had been such a quick victory.
Gus moved rapidly to consolidate it. ‘In that case, may I suggest that Cordell Hull and I draft a proposal for your consideration?’
‘Hull has a lot on his plate. Talk to Welles.’
Sumner Welles was Undersecretary of State. He was both ambitious and flamboyant, and Woody knew he would not have been Gus’s first choice. But he was a long-time friend of the Roosevelt family – he had been a pageboy at FDR’s wedding.
Anyway, Gus was not going to make difficulties at this point. ‘By all means,’ he said.
‘Anything else?’
That was clearly dismissal. Gus stood up, and Woody followed suit. Gus said: ‘What about Mrs Roosevelt, your mother, sir? Last I heard, she was in France.’
‘Her ship left yesterday, thank goodness.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Thank you for coming in,’ Roosevelt said. ‘I really value your friendship, Gus.’
Gus said: ‘Nothing could give me more pleasure, sir.’ He shook hands with the President, and Woody did the same.
Then they left.
Woody half hoped that Joanne would still be hanging around, but she
had gone.
As they made their way out of the building, Gus said: ‘Let’s go for a celebratory drink.’
Woody looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. ‘Sure,’ he said.
They went to Old Ebbitt’s, on F Street near 15th: stained glass, green velvet, brass lamps and hunting trophies. The place was full of congressmen, senators and the people who followed them around: aides, lobbyists and journalists. Gus ordered a dry martini straight up with a twist for himself and a beer for Woody. Woody smiled: maybe he would have liked a martini. In fact, he would not – to him it just tasted like cold gin – but it would have been nice to be asked. However, he raised his glass and said: ‘Congratulations. You got what you wanted.’
‘What the world needs.’
‘You argued brilliantly.’
‘Roosevelt hardly needed convincing. He’s a liberal, but a pragmatist. He knows you can’t do everything, you have to pick the battles you can win. The New Deal is his number one priority – getting unemployed men back to work. He won’t do anything that interferes with the main mission. If my plan becomes controversial enough to upset his supporters, he’ll drop it.’
‘So we haven’t won anything yet.’
Gus smiled. ‘We’ve taken the important first step. But no, we haven’t won anything.’
‘A pity he forced Welles on you.’
‘Not entirely. Sumner strengthens the project. He’s closer to the President than I am. But he’s unpredictable. He might pick it up and run in a different direction.’
Woody looked across the room and saw a familiar face. ‘Guess who’s here. I might have known.’
His father looked in the same direction.
‘Standing at the bar,’ Woody said. ‘With a couple of older guys in hats, and a blonde girl. It’s Greg Peshkov.’ As usual, Greg looked a mess despite his expensive clothes: his silk tie was awry, his shirt was coming out of his waistband, and there was a smear of cigarette ash on his icecream-coloured trousers. Nevertheless, the blonde was looking adoringly at him.
‘So it is,’ said Gus. ‘Do you see much of him at Harvard?’
‘He’s a physics major, but he doesn’t hang around with the scientists – too dull for him, I guess. I run into him at the Crimson.’ The Harvard Crimson was the student newspaper. Woody took photographs for the paper and Greg wrote articles. ‘He’s doing an internship at the State Department this summer, that’s why he’s here.’
