by Ken Follett
Carla said: ‘You were terribly brave, Mother. I admire you so much for what you did today.’
Maud said wearily: ‘I don’t feel admirable. I’m so ashamed. I despise myself.’
‘Because you didn’t love him?’ said Carla.
‘No,’ said Maud. ‘Because I did.’
14
1942 (III)
Greg Peshkov graduated from Harvard summa cum laude, the highest honour. He could have gone on effortlessly to take a doctorate in physics, his major, and thus have avoided military service. But he did not want to be a scientist. His ambition was to wield a different kind of power. And, after the war was over, a military record would be a huge plus for a rising young politician. So he joined the army.
On the other hand, he did not want actually to have to fight.
He followed the European war with heightened interest at the same time as he pressured everyone he knew in Washington – which was a lot of people – to get him a desk job at War Department headquarters.
The German summer offensive had started on 28 June, and they had swiftly pushed east, meeting relatively light opposition, until they reached the city of Stalingrad, formerly called Tsaritsyn, where they were halted by fierce Russian resistance. Now they were stalled, with overstretched supply lines, and it was looking more and more as if the Red Army had drawn them into a trap.
Greg had not long been in basic training when he was summoned to the colonel’s office. ‘The Army Corps of Engineers needs a bright young officer in Washington,’ the colonel said. ‘You’ve interned in Washington, but all the same you wouldn’t have been my first choice – you can’t even keep your goddamn uniform clean, look at you – but the job requires a knowledge of physics, and the field is kind of limited.’
Greg said: ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Try that kind of sarcasm on your new boss and you’ll regret it. You’re going to be an assistant to a Colonel Groves. I was at West Point with him. He’s the biggest son of a bitch I ever met, in the army or out. Good luck.’
Greg called Mike Penfold in the State Department press office and found out that until recently Leslie Groves had been chief of construction for the entire US Army, and had been responsible for the military’s new Washington headquarters, the vast five-sided building they were beginning to call the Pentagon. But he had been moved to a new project that no one knew much about. Some said he had offended his superiors so often that he had been effectively demoted; others that his new role was even more important but top secret. They all agreed he was egotistical, arrogant and ruthless.
‘Does everybody hate him?’ Greg asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Mike said. ‘Only those who have met him.’
Lieutenant Greg Peshkov was full of trepidation when he arrived at Groves’s office in the striking New War Department Building, a pale-tan art deco palace on 21st Street and Virginia Avenue. Right away he learned that he was part of a group called the Manhattan Engineer District. This deliberately uninformative name camouflaged a team who were trying to invent a new kind of bomb using uranium as an explosive.
Greg was intrigued. He knew there was incalculable energy locked up in uranium’s lighter isotope, U-235, and he had read several papers on the subject in scientific journals. But news of the research had dried up a couple of years ago, and now Greg knew why.
He learned that President Roosevelt felt the project was moving too slowly, and Groves had been appointed to crack the whip.
Greg arrived six days after Groves had been reassigned. His first task for Groves was to help him pin stars to the collar of his khaki shirt: he had just been promoted to brigadier-general. ‘It’s mainly to impress all these civilian scientists we have to work with,’ Groves growled. ‘I have a meeting in the Secretary of War’s office in ten minutes. You’d better come with me, it’ll serve you for a briefing.’
Groves was heavy. An inch under six feet tall, he had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe three hundred. He wore his uniform pants high, and his belly bulged under his webbing belt. He had chestnut-coloured hair that might have curled if it had been grown long enough. He had a narrow forehead, fat cheeks, and a jowly chin. His small moustache was all but invisible. He was an unattractive man in every way, and Greg was not looking forward to working for him.
Groves and his entourage, including Greg, left the building and walked down Virginia Avenue to the National Mall. On the way, Groves said to Greg: ‘When they gave me this job, they told me it could win the war. I don’t know if that’s true, but my plan is to act as if it is. You’d better do the same.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Greg.
The Secretary of War had not yet moved into the unfinished Pentagon, and War Department headquarters were still in the old Munitions Building, a long, low, out-of-date ‘temporary’ structure on Constitution Avenue.
Secretary of War Henry Stimson was a Republican, brought in by the President to keep that party from undermining the war effort by making trouble in Congress. At seventy-five, Stimson was an elder statesman, a dapper old man with a white moustache, but the light of intelligence still gleamed in his grey eyes.
The meeting was a full-dress performance, and the room was full of bigwigs including Army Chief of Staff George Marshall. Greg felt nervous, and he thought admiringly that Groves was remarkably calm for someone who had been a mere colonel yesterday.
Groves began by outlining how he intended to impose order on the hundreds of civilian scientists and dozens of physics laboratories involved in the Manhattan project. He made no attempt to defer to the high-ranking men who might well have thought they were in charge. He outlined his plans without troubling to use such mollifying phrases as ‘with your permission’ and ‘if you agree’. Greg wondered whether the man was trying to get himself fired.
Greg learned so much new information that he wanted to take notes, but no one else did, and he guessed it would not look right.
When Groves had done, one of the group said: ‘I believe supplies of uranium are crucial to the project. Do we have enough?’
Groves answered: ‘There are 1,250 tons of pitchblende – that’s the ore that contains uranium oxide – in a yard on Staten Island.’
‘Then we’d better acquire some of that,’ said the questioner.
‘I bought it all on Friday, sir.’
‘Friday? The day after you were appointed?’
‘Correct.’
The Secretary of War smothered a smile. Greg’s surprise at Groves’s arrogance began to turn to admiration of his nerve.
A man in admiral’s uniform said: ‘What about the priority rating of this project? You need to clear the decks with the War Production Board.’
‘I saw Donald Nelson on Saturday, sir,’ said Groves. Nelson was the civilian head of the board. ‘I asked him to raise our rating.’
‘What did he say?
‘He said no.’
‘That’s a problem.’
‘Not any longer. I told him I would have to recommend to the President that the Manhattan project be abandoned because the War Production Board was unwilling to co-operate. Then he gave us a triple-A.’
‘Good,’ said the Secretary of War.
Greg was impressed again. Groves was a real pistol.
Stimson said: ‘Now, you’ll be supervised by a committee that will report to me. Nine members have been suggested—’
‘Hell, no,’ said Groves.
The Secretary of War said: ‘What did you say?’
Surely, Greg thought, Groves has gone too far this time.
Groves said: ‘I can’t report to a committee of nine, Mr Secretary. I’ll never get ’em off my back.’
Stimson grinned. He was too old a hand to get offended by this kind of talk, it seemed. He said mildly: ‘What number would you suggest, General?’
Greg could see that Groves wanted to say ‘None,’ but what came out was: ‘Three would be perfect.’
‘All right,’ said the Secretary of War, to Greg’s amaze
ment. ‘Anything else?’
‘We’re going to need a large site, something like sixty thousand acres, for a uranium enrichment plant and associated facilities. There’s a suitable area in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It’s a ridge valley, so that if there should be an accident the explosion will be contained.’
‘An accident?’ said the admiral. ‘Is that likely?’
Groves did not hide his feeling that this was a dumb question. ‘We’re making an experimental bomb, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘A bomb so powerful that it promises to flatten a medium-size city with one detonation. We’d be pretty goddamn dumb if we ignored the possibility of accidents.’
The admiral looked as if he wanted to protest, but Stimson intervened, saying: ‘Carry on, General.’
‘Land is cheap in Tennessee,’ Groves said. ‘So is electricity – and our plant will use huge quantities of power.’
‘So you’re proposing to buy this land.’
‘I’m proposing to view it today.’ Groves looked at his watch. ‘In fact, I need to leave now to catch my train to Knoxville.’ He stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I don’t want to lose any time.’
The other men in the room were flabbergasted. Even Stimson looked startled. No one in Washington dreamed of leaving a Secretary’s office before he indicated he was through. It was a major breach of etiquette. But Groves seemed not to care.
And he got away with it. ‘Very well,’ said Stimson. ‘Don’t let us hold you up.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Groves, and he left the room.
Greg hurried out after him.
(ii)
The most attractive civilian secretary in the New War Office Building was Margaret Cowdry. She had big dark eyes and a wide, sensual mouth. When you saw her sitting behind her typewriter, and she glanced up at you and smiled, you felt as if you were already making love to her.
Her father had turned baking into a mass-production industry: ‘Cowdry’s Cookies crumble just like Ma’s!’ She had no need to work, but she was doing her bit for the war effort. Before inviting her to lunch, Greg made sure she knew that he, too, was the child of a millionaire. An heiress usually preferred to date a rich boy: she could feel confident he was not after her money.
It was October and cold. Margaret wore a stylish navy-blue coat with padded shoulders and a nipped-in waist. Her matching beret had a military look.
They went to the Ritz-Carlton, but when they got to the dining room Greg saw his father having lunch with Gladys Angelus. He did not want to make it a foursome. When he explained this to Margaret, she said: ‘No problem. We’ll have lunch at the University Women’s Club around the corner. I’m a member there.’
Greg had never been there, but he had a feeling he knew something about it. For a moment he chased the thought around his memory, but it eluded him, so he put it out of his mind.
At the club Margaret removed her coat to reveal a royal-blue cashmere dress that clung to her alluringly. She kept on her hat and gloves, as all respectable women did when eating out.
As always, Greg loved the sensation of walking into a place with a beautiful woman on his arm. In the dining room of the University Women’s Club there were only a handful of men, but they all envied him. Although he might not admit it to anyone else, he enjoyed this as much as sleeping with women.
He ordered a bottle of wine. Margaret mixed hers with mineral water, French style, saying: ‘I don’t want to spend the afternoon correcting my typing mistakes.’
He told her about General Groves. ‘He’s a real go-getter. In some ways he’s a badly dressed version of my father.’
‘Everyone hates him,’ Margaret said.
Greg nodded. ‘He rubs people up the wrong way.’
‘Is your father like that?’
‘Sometimes, but mostly he uses charm.’
‘Mine’s the same! Maybe all successful men are that way.’
The meal went quickly. Service in Washington restaurants had speeded up. The nation was at war and men had urgent work to do.
A waitress brought them the dessert menu. Greg glanced at her and was startled to recognize Jacky Jakes. ‘Hello, Jacky!’ he said.
‘Hi, Greg,’ she replied, familiarity overlaying nervousness. ‘How have you been?’
Greg recalled the detective telling him that she worked at the University Women’s Club. That was the memory that had eluded him before. ‘I’m just fine,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘Real good.’
‘Everything going on just the same?’ He was wondering if his father was still paying her an allowance.
‘Pretty much.’
Greg guessed that some lawyer was paying out the money and Lev had forgotten all about it. ‘That’s good,’ he said.
Jacky remembered her job. ‘Can I offer you some dessert today?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Margaret asked for fruit salad and Greg had ice cream.
When Jacky had gone, Margaret said: ‘She’s very pretty,’ then looked expectant.
‘I guess,’ he said.
‘No wedding ring.’
Greg sighed. Women were so perceptive. ‘You’re wondering how come I’m friendly with a pretty black waitress who isn’t married,’ he said. ‘I might as well tell you the truth. I had an affair with her when I was fifteen. I hope you’re not shocked.’
‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘I’m morally outraged.’ She was neither serious nor joking, but something in between. She was not really scandalized, he felt sure, but perhaps she did not want to give him the impression that she was easygoing about sex – not on their first lunch date, anyway.
Jacky brought the desserts and asked if they wanted coffee. They did not have time – the army did not believe in long lunch breaks – and Margaret asked for the bill. ‘Guests aren’t allowed to pay here,’ she explained.
When Jacky had gone, Margaret said: ‘What’s nice is that you’re so fond of her.’
‘Am I?’ Greg was surprised. ‘I have fond memories, I guess. I wouldn’t mind being fifteen again.’
‘And yet she’s scared of you.’
‘She is not!’
‘Terrified.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Take my word. Men are blind, but a woman sees these things.’
Greg looked hard at Jacky when she brought the bill, and he realized that Margaret was right. Jacky was still scared. Every time she saw Greg she was reminded of Joe Brekhunov and his straight razor.
It made Greg angry. The girl had a right to live in peace.
He was going to have to do something about this.
Margaret, who was as sharp as a tack, said: ‘I think you know why she’s scared.’
‘My father frightened her off. He was worried I might marry her.’
‘Is your father scary?’
‘He does like to get his own way.’
‘My father’s the same,’ she said. ‘Sweet as cherry pie, until you cross him. Then he turns mean.’
‘I’m so glad you understand.’
They returned to work. Greg felt angry all afternoon. Somehow his father’s curse still lay like a blight over Jacky’s life. But what could he do?
What would his father do? That was a good way to look at it. Lev would be completely single-minded about getting his way, and would not care who he hurt in the process. General Groves would be similar. I can be like that, Greg thought; I’m my father’s son.
The beginning of a plan began to form in his mind.
He spent the afternoon reading and summarizing an interim report from the University of Chicago Metallurgical Laboratory. The scientists there included Leo Szilard, the man who first conceived of the nuclear chain reaction. Szilard was a Hungarian Jew who had studied at the University of Berlin – until the fatal year of 1933. The research team in Chicago was led by Enrico Fermi, the Italian physicist. Fermi, whose wife was Jewish, had left Italy when Mussolini published his Manifesto of Race.
Greg
wondered whether the Fascists realized that their racism had brought such a windfall of brilliant scientists to their enemies.
He understood the physics perfectly well. The theory of Fermi and Szilard was that when a neutron struck a uranium atom, the collision could produce two neutrons. Those two neutrons could then collide with further uranium atoms to make four, then eight, and so on. Szilard had called this a chain reaction – a brilliant insight.
That way, a ton of uranium could produce as much energy as three million tons of coal – in theory.
In practice, it had never been done.
Fermi and his team were building a pile of uranium at Stagg Field, a disused football stadium belonging to the University of Chicago. To prevent the stuff exploding spontaneously, they buried the uranium in graphite, which absorbed the neutrons and killed the chain reaction. Their aim was to bring the radioactivity up, very gradually, to the level at which more was being created than absorbed – which would prove that a chain reaction was a reality – then close it down, fast, before it blew up the pile, the stadium, the campus of the university, and quite possibly the city of Chicago.
So far they had not succeeded.
Greg wrote a favourable précis of the report, asked Margaret Cowdry to type it right away, then took it in to Groves.
The general read the first paragraph and said: ‘Will it work?’
‘Well, sir—’
‘You’re the goddamn scientist. Will it work?’
‘Yes, sir, it will work,’ Greg said.
‘Good,’ said Groves, and threw the summary in his waste-paper bin.
Greg returned to his desk and sat for a while, staring at the representation of the Periodic Table of the Elements on the wall opposite his desk. He was pretty sure the nuclear pile would work. He was more worried about how to force his father to withdraw the threat to Jacky.
Earlier, he had thought about handling the problem as Lev would have done. Now he began to think about practical details. He needed to take a dramatic stand.
His plan began to take shape.
But did he have the guts to confront his father?
