Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  Carver said anxiously: "We can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "The Germans would know we're reading their traffic."

  Fitz saw that he was right. It was the perennial problem of secret intelligence: how to use it without compromising the source. He said: "But this is so important we might want to take the risk."

  "I doubt it. This department has provided too much reliable information. They won't put that in jeopardy."

  "Damn! Surely we can't come across something like this and then be powerless to use it?"

  Carver shrugged. "It happens in this line of work."

  Fitz was not prepared to accept that. The entry of America could win the war. That was surely worth any sacrifice. But he knew enough about the army to realize that some men would show more courage and resourcefulness defending a department than a redoubt. Carver's objection had to be taken seriously. "We need a cover story," he said.

  "Let's say the Americans intercepted the cable," Carver said.

  Fitz nodded. "It is to be forwarded from Washington to Mexico, so we could say the U.S. government got it from Western Union."

  "Western Union may not like it . . . "

  "To hell with them. Now: how, exactly, do we use this information to the maximum effect? Does our government make the announcement? Do we give it to the Americans? Do we get some third party to challenge the Germans?"

  Carver put up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm out of my depth."

  "I'm not," said Fitz, suddenly inspired. "And I know just the person to help."

  { III }

  Fitz met Gus Dewar at a south London pub called the Ring.

  To Fitz's surprise, Dewar was a lover of boxing. As a teenager he had attended a waterfront arena in Buffalo, and in his travels across Europe, back in 1914, he had watched prizefights in every capital city. He kept his enthusiasm quiet, Fitz thought wryly: boxing was not a popular topic of conversation at teatime in Mayfair.

  However, all classes were represented at the Ring. Gentlemen in evening dress mingled with dockers in torn coats. Illegal bookmakers took bets in every corner while waiters brought loaded trays of beer in pint glasses. The air was thick with the smoke of cigars, pipes, and cigarettes. There were no seats and no women.

  Fitz found Gus deep in conversation with a broken-nosed Londoner, arguing about the American fighter Jack Johnson, the first black world heavyweight champion, whose marriage to a white woman had caused Christian ministers to call for him to be lynched. The Londoner had riled Gus by agreeing with the clergymen.

  Fitz nourished a secret hope that Gus might fall for Maud. It would be a good match. They were both intellectuals, both liberals, both frightfully serious about everything, always reading books. The Dewars came from what Americans called Old Money, the nearest thing they had to an aristocracy.

  In addition, both Gus and Maud were in favor of peace. Maud had always been strangely passionate about ending the war; Fitz had no idea why. And Gus revered his boss, Woodrow Wilson, who had made a speech a month ago calling for "peace without victory," a phrase that had infuriated Fitz and most of the British and French leadership.

  But the compatibility Fitz had seen between Gus and Maud had not led anywhere. Fitz loved his sister, but he wondered what was wrong with her. Did she want to be an old maid?

  When Fitz had detached Gus from the man with the broken nose, he raised the subject of Mexico.

  "It's a mess," Gus said. "Wilson has withdrawn General Pershing and his troops, in an attempt to please President Carranza, but it hasn't worked--Carranza won't even discuss policing the border. Why do you ask?"

  "I'll tell you later," Fitz said. "The next bout is starting."

  As they watched a fighter called Benny the Yid pounding the brains out of Bald Albert Collins, Fitz resolved to avoid the topic of the German peace offer. He knew that Gus was heartbroken at the failure of Wilson's initiative. Gus asked himself constantly whether he could have handled matters better, or done something further to support the president's plan. Fitz thought the plan had been doomed from the start because neither side really wanted peace.

  In the third round Bald Albert went down and stayed down.

  "You caught me just in time," Gus said. "I'm about to head for home."

  "Looking forward to it?"

  "If I get there. I might be sunk by a U-boat on the way."

  The Germans had resumed unrestricted submarine warfare on February 1, exactly as foretold in the Zimmermann intercept. This had angered the Americans, but not as much as Fitz had hoped. "President Wilson's reaction to the submarine announcement was surprisingly mild," he said.

  "He broke off diplomatic relations with Germany. That's not mild."

  "But he did not declare war." Fitz had been devastated by this. He had fought hard against peace talks, but Maud and Ethel and their pacifist friends were right to say there was no hope of victory in the foreseeable future--without extra help from somewhere. Fitz had felt sure that unrestricted submarine warfare would bring the Americans in. So far it had not.

  Gus said: "Frankly, I think President Wilson was infuriated by the submarine decision, and is now ready to declare war. He's tried everything else, for goodness' sake. But he won reelection as the man who kept us out. The only way he can switch is if he is swept into war on a tide of public enthusiasm."

  "In that case," said Fitz, "I believe I have something that might help him."

  Gus raised an eyebrow.

  "Since I was wounded, I've been working in a unit that decodes intercepted German wireless messages." Fitz took from his pocket a sheet of paper covered with his own handwriting. "Your government will be given this officially in the next few days. I'm showing it to you now because we need advice on how to handle it." He gave it to Gus.

  The British spy in Mexico City had got hold of the relayed message in the old code, and the paper Fitz handed to Gus was a complete decrypt of the Zimmermann intercept. In full, it read:

  Washington to Mexico, 19 January 1917

  We intend to begin on 1 February unrestricted submarine warfare. We shall endeavour in spite of this to keep the USA neutral. In the event of this not succeeding we make Mexico a proposal of alliance on the following terms:

  Make war together.

  Make peace together.

  Generous financial support and an undertaking on our part that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The settlement in detail is left to you.

  You will inform the president of the above most secretly as soon as the outbreak of war with the USA is certain, and add the suggestion that he should on his own initiative invite Japan to immediate adherence and at the same time mediate between Japan and ourselves.

  Please call the president's attention to the fact that the ruthless employment of our submarines now offers the prospect of compelling England in a few months to make peace.

  Gus read a few lines, holding the sheet close to his eyes in the low light of the boxing arena, and said: "Alliance? My God!"

  Fitz glanced around. A new bout had begun, and the noise of the crowd was too loud for people nearby to overhear Gus.

  Gus read on. "Reconquer Texas?" he said with incredulity. And then, angrily: "Invite Japan?" He looked up from the paper. "This is outrageous!"

  This was the reaction Fitz had been hoping for, and he had to quell his elation. "Outrageous is the word," he said with forced solemnity.

  "The Germans are offering to pay Mexico to invade the United States!"

  "Yes."

  "And they're asking Mexico to try to get Japan to join in!"

  "Yes."

  "Wait till this gets out!"

  "That's what I want to talk to you about. We want to make sure it's publicized in a manner favorable to your president."

  "Why doesn't the British government simply reveal it to the world?"

  Gus was not thinking this through. "Two reasons," Fitz said. "One, we don't want the Germans to know we're read
ing their cables. Two, we may be accused of forging this intercept."

  Gus nodded. "Pardon me. I was too angry to think. Let's look at this coolly."

  "If possible, we would like you to say that the United States government obtained a copy of the cable from Western Union."

  "Wilson won't tell a lie."

  "Then get a copy from Western Union, and it won't be a lie."

  Gus nodded. "That should be possible. As for the second problem, who could release the telegram without being suspected of forgery?"

  "The president himself, I presume."

  "That's one possibility."

  "But you have a better idea?"

  "Yes," Gus said thoughtfully. "I believe I do."

  { IV }

  Ethel and Bernie got married in the Calvary Gospel Hall. Neither of them had strong views about religion, and they both liked the pastor.

  Ethel had not communicated with Fitz since the day of Lloyd George's speech. Fitz's public opposition to peace had reminded her harshly of his true nature. He stood for everything she hated: tradition, conservatism, exploitation of the working class, unearned wealth. She could not be the lover of such a man, and she felt ashamed of herself for even being tempted by the house in Chelsea. Her true soul mate was Bernie.

  Ethel wore the pink silk dress and flowered hat that Walter von Ulrich had bought her for Maud Fitzherbert's wedding. There were no bridesmaids, but Mildred and Maud served as matrons of honor. Ethel's parents came up from Aberowen on the train. Sadly, Billy was in France and could not get leave. Little Lloyd wore a pageboy outfit specially made for him by Mildred, sky blue with brass buttons and a cap.

  Bernie surprised Ethel by producing a family no one knew about. His elderly mother spoke nothing but Yiddish and muttered under her breath all through the service. She lived with Bernie's prosperous older brother, Theo, who--Mildred discovered, flirting with him--owned a bicycle factory in Birmingham.

  Afterward tea and cake were served in the hall. There were no alcoholic drinks, which suited Da and Mam, and smokers had to go outside. Mam kissed Ethel and said: "I'm glad to see you settled at last, anyway." That word anyway carried a lot of baggage, Ethel thought. It meant: "Congratulations, even though you're a fallen woman, and you've got an illegitimate child whose father no one knows, and you're marrying a Jew, and living in London, which is the same as Sodom and Gomorrah." But Ethel accepted Mam's qualified blessing and vowed never to say such things to her own child.

  Mam and Da had bought cheap day-return tickets, and they left to catch their train. When the majority of guests had gone, the remainder went to the Dog and Duck for a few drinks.

  Ethel and Bernie went home when it was Lloyd's bedtime. That morning, Bernie had put his few clothes and many books into a handcart and wheeled it from his rented lodgings to Ethel's house.

  To give themselves one night alone, they put Lloyd to bed upstairs with Mildred's children, which Lloyd regarded as a special treat. Then Ethel and Bernie had cocoa in the kitchen and went to bed.

  Ethel had a new nightdress. Bernie put on clean pajamas. When he got into bed beside her, he broke into a nervous sweat. Ethel stroked his cheek. "Although I'm a scarlet woman, I haven't got much experience," she said. "Just my first husband, and that was only for a few weeks before he went away." She had not told Bernie about Fitz and never would. Only Billy and the lawyer Albert Solman knew the truth.

  "You're better off than me," Bernie said, but already she could feel him beginning to relax. "Just a few fumbles."

  "What were their names?"

  "Oh, you don't want to know."

  She grinned. "Yes, I do. How many women? Six? Ten? Twenty?"

  "Good God, no. Three. The first was Rachel Wright, in school. Afterward she said we would have to get married, and I believed her. I was so worried."

  Ethel giggled. "What happened?"

  "The next week she did it with Micky Armstrong, and I was off the hook."

  "Was it nice with her?"

  "I suppose it was. I was only sixteen. Mainly I just wanted to be able to say I had done it."

  She kissed him gently, then said: "Who was next?"

  "Carol McAllister. She was a neighbor. I paid her a shilling. It was a bit brief--I think she knew what to do and say to get it over quickly. The part she liked was taking the money."

  Ethel frowned disapprovingly, then recalled the house in Chelsea, and realized she had contemplated doing the same as Carol McAllister. Feeling uncomfortable, she said: "Who was the other one?"

  "An older woman. She was my landlady. She came to my bed at night when her husband was away."

  "Was it nice with her?"

  "Lovely. It was a happy time for me."

  "What went wrong?"

  "Her husband got suspicious and I had to leave."

  "And then?"

  "Then I met you, and I lost all interest in other women."

  They began to kiss. Soon he pushed up the skirt of her nightdress and got on top of her. He was gentle, worried about hurting her, but he entered her easily. She felt a surge of affection for him, for his kindness and intelligence and devotion to her and her child. She put her arms around him and hugged his body to hers. Quite soon, his climax came. Then they both lay back, content, and went to sleep.

  { V }

  Women's skirts had changed, Gus Dewar realized. They now showed the ankles. Ten years ago, a glimpse of ankle had been arousing; now it was mundane. Perhaps women covered their nakedness to make themselves more alluring, not less.

  Rosa Hellman was wearing a dark-red coat that fell in pleats from the yoke at the back, rather fashionable. It was trimmed with black fur, which he guessed was welcome in Washington in February. Her gray hat was small and round with a red hatband and a feather, not very practical, but when was the last time American women's hats had been designed for practical purposes? "I'm honored by this invitation," she said. He could not be sure whether she was mocking him. "You're only just back from Europe, aren't you?"

  They were having lunch in the dining room of the Willard Hotel, two blocks east of the White House. Gus had invited her for a specific purpose. "I've got a story for you," he said as soon as they had ordered.

  "Oh, good! Let me guess. The president is going to divorce Edith and marry Mary Peck?"

  Gus frowned. Wilson had had a dalliance with Mary Peck while he was married to his first wife. Gus doubted whether they had actually committed adultery, but Wilson had been foolish enough to write letters that showed more affection than was seemly. Washington gossips knew all about it, but nothing had been printed. "I'm talking about something serious," Gus said sternly.

  "Oh, sorry," said Rosa. She composed her face in a solemn expression that made Gus want to laugh.

  "The only condition is going to be that you can't say you got the information from the White House."

  "Agreed."

  "I'm going to show you a telegram from the German foreign minister, Arthur Zimmermann, to the German ambassador in Mexico."

  She looked astonished. "Where did you get that?"

  "From Western Union," he lied.

  "Isn't it in code?"

  "Codes can be broken." He handed her a typewritten copy of the full English translation.

  "Is this off the record?" she said.

  "No. The only thing I want you to keep to yourself is where you got it."

  "Okay." She began to read. After a moment, her mouth dropped open. She looked up. "Gus," she said. "Is this real?"

  "When did you know me to play a practical joke?"

  "The last time was never." She read on. "The Germans are going to pay Mexico to invade Texas?"

  "That's what Herr Zimmermann says."

  "This isn't a story, Gus--this is the scoop of the century!"

  He allowed himself a small smile, trying not to appear as triumphant as he felt. "That's what I thought you'd say."

  "Are you acting independently, or on behalf of the president?"

  "Rosa, do you imagine
I would do a thing like this without approval from the very top?"

  "I guess not. Wow. So this comes to me from President Wilson."

  "Not officially."

  "But how do I know it's true? I don't think I can write the story based only on a scrap of paper and your word."

  Gus had anticipated this snag. "Secretary of State Lansing will personally confirm the authenticity of the telegram to your boss, provided the conversation is confidential."

  "Good enough." She looked down at the sheet of paper again. "This changes everything. Can you imagine what the American people will say when they read it?"

  "I think it will make them more inclined to join in the war and fight against Germany."

  "Inclined?" she said. "They're going to be foaming at the mouth! Wilson will have to declare war."

  Gus said nothing.

  After a moment, Rosa interpreted his silence. "Oh, I see. That's why you're releasing the telegram. The president wants to declare war."

  She was dead right. He smiled, enjoying this dance of wits with a bright woman. "I'm not saying that."

  "But this telegram will anger the American people so much that they will demand war. And Wilson will be able to say he did not renege on his election promises--he was forced by public opinion to change his policy."

  She was in fact a bit too bright for his purposes. He said anxiously: "That's not the story you'll write, is it?"

  She smiled. "Oh, no. That's just me refusing to take anything at face value. I was an anarchist once, you know."

  "And now?"

  "Now I'm a reporter. And there's only one way to write this story."

  He felt relieved.

  The waiter brought their food: poached salmon for her, steak and mashed potatoes for him. Rosa stood up. "I have to get back to the office."

  Gus was startled. "What about your lunch?"