Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  “Everett Nash.”

  Lowe pursed his lips, thinking. “No, can’t say that rings a bell. You know, despite our best efforts to prevent it, people sometimes change their names. It is wartime, after all. When we do our walkabout, you should keep an eye out for the man you know as Mr. Nash.”

  “Thank you, we’ll be sure to do that,” said Moore, glancing at his watch. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Dr. Lowe, let’s finish up with the patient areas, so you can get back to your excellent work—and we can write up our report to London about the obvious need for more resources here.”

  Could this be going any better? Lowe asked himself as the two men brushed by him.

  —

  It took Emma several minutes, but she managed to get Nash sitting upright in a wooden wheelchair, his right leg supported by a small extension she’d added to the footrest.

  Emma wanted to give Nash a short rolling tour of the first floor of the Gloriette—the name of the building they were in and the smaller of Leeds Castle’s two main structures. As she pushed the wheelchair the length of the banquet hall, Nash was able to appreciate fully his historic surroundings: the ornate sixteenth-century French fireplace; the portraits of lonely-looking kings and queens who once celebrated new alliances in this very room over magnificent feasts; and the tapestries with idyllic images from around the globe.

  As Nash rolled by the modern additions to the room—twenty-four metal-framed beds—he counted himself lucky. Most of the other patients lay flat on their backs, eyes shut, some moaning constantly. Many looked much worse than he did, whether they were burned or missing limbs. A couple of younger men sitting up in their beds said hello, though they seemed more interested in their shapely blond nurse than in Nash. Several others simply nodded as he and Emma passed.

  She guided Nash out of the hall and into the adjoining flagstone corridor, the air shifting from the pungent smell of ammonia to a musty scent that reminded him of his parents’ log cabin in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, where he’d cocooned himself while completing his Titanic thesis.

  “Your choices are going to be limited,” Emma said. “And that’s assuming I can get my superior, Nurse Fraser, to agree to your changing rooms. None of our patients, regardless of rank or importance, have ever had a private room. And Nurse Fraser doesn’t like to make exceptions.”

  She explained to Nash that the Gloriette had just two levels, the second having been built in the early 1500s to accommodate the legendary King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon when they stopped here on their way across the Channel to meet the French king. “They had five thousand staff traveling with them, so it’s no wonder they needed the extra space!” Emma said. “Lady Olive Baillie, the castle’s owner now, lives on the second level with her family.”

  An Anglo-American heiress who revered British history, Lady Baillie had volunteered to have part of her beautifully refurbished home serve as a wartime hospital, much to the delight of Churchill’s government.

  To enable this transformation, Emma told Nash, Lady Baillie had moved her family out of the castle’s huge Tudor building to the south, and across the narrow covered passageway that attached the main island to the smaller castle island occupied fully by the Gloriette. The vacated structure would only serve patients, while her family lived on their own nearby. This worked well until the war showed no sign of ending, and a mounting influx of patients forced a further retreat for the Baillie clan, this time to the Gloriette’s upper floor.

  “As charming as you may be,” Emma said, leaning over Nash’s shoulder, “I doubt that Lady Baillie wants you living with her and her two grown daughters, so I think we can rule out the upstairs.” She looked farther down the corridor, where the ghosts of knights and kings and queens were known to roam after nightfall. “If you want me to look after you, you’ll have to stay on this floor, and that leaves the chapel room, the queen’s large bedroom, or what’s known as the queen’s gallery—this big, open room you’re looking at. We’re at the back of the Gloriette here, so it’s remote and quiet.”

  Nash signaled that he wanted to keep moving. Next, they ducked into the queen’s bedroom, scanning its parquet floors, elaborate bedspread, and the green damask wall hangings covered with hundreds of tiny gold monogrammed “HC”s—a tribute to Henry V and his French wife, Catherine. “She was widowed at twenty-one,” Emma said, “but their baby would live on and become grandfather to Henry VIII.” Nash closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to appreciate the centuries of momentous happenings that had taken place within the castle’s walls, while at the same time feeling the pressure to stop a German madman from destroying this historical masterpiece and thousands of others.

  “Let’s keep looking,” he urged.

  After Emma showed him the simple chapel room by the entranceway, near the Gloriette’s winding staircase and central courtyard, the nurse and her patient stopped, both silent. Emma thought they’d struck out when Nash suddenly asked, “Where does that closed door between the queen’s gallery and the queen’s bedroom lead?”

  “That’s the queen’s bathroom.”

  “Who uses it?”

  “Oh, it’s far enough away from the patients that no one really uses it anymore, though I have to admit I sneak in occasionally. Mostly, we use the loo right at the end of the banquet hall.”

  “Can I have a look?”

  “Certainly, we can have a peek,” she said, shrugging and pushing him on.

  As soon as they opened the door to the bathroom, Nash knew that he’d found his home for the next four weeks. It was isolated, near the back of the Gloriette, small enough not to attract attention, large enough to fit a bed, and it included a modern toilet and a striking canopied bathtub. The queens of this castle must have spent a lot of time hidden away here, he thought, likely being pampered in front of its small fireplace as they gazed out through the ornate Gothic window, taking in the moat and the acres beyond.

  Nash looked up at Emma. “It’s perfect.”

  “I didn’t think about this room, because, well, it’s a bathroom.” She looked around. “But you’re right, Mr. Nash, this isn’t just any bathroom. It’s a royal bathroom.”

  “And there will be my throne,” he said, pointing to the corner. “A porcelain one, but a throne nonetheless.” Emma almost choked on her sudden laugh. They gave the room one last look and moved back into the hallway, closing the door behind them. Nash was ready to return to his cigarettes.

  —

  By 4:00 p.m., Fred Suggs and his employer, Carl Moore, had methodically moved through all of the decrepit hospital’s overflowing patient areas.

  No sign of Everett Nash, a man neither of them had ever seen in person but whose photo each had memorized. They had checked with the nursing staff, and no one matching Nash’s description had been through the facility in recent memory. The two men spoke together in hushed tones, wrote meaningless notes on their clipboards, and strode over to Dr. Lowe.

  “Well, Doctor, clearly you and your team here at Maidstone Hospital need help, and we’ll make our recommendations accordingly,” said Moore.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” He beamed. “Did you happen to find your friend?”

  “No such luck,” said Moore, running his long fingers through his sandy hair.

  “You might want to try Leeds Castle,” Lowe suggested. “It’s nearby, so he might have gone there instead.”

  “Leeds Castle has a hospital?”

  “Best-kept secret, though, honestly, I thought most insiders like yourselves would have known that,” said Lowe.

  “Well, now that you mention it, of course I knew that Leeds Castle has a hospital,” Moore said quickly. “In fact, it’s on our inspection list for next week. Might you sneak us in tonight to see if our friend is there?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Moore. Because Leeds is privately owned and it’s Friday, as of a few minutes ago the gatehous
e was closed to all visitors until Monday morning. New patients are only accepted over the weekend in dire circumstances. I myself have trouble getting onto the grounds if I’m not scheduled to work there,” Lowe said. “Lady Baillie has insisted that her family and their patients require quiet for two days each week. Understandable, I’d say.”

  “Understandable, but disappointing,” Moore said.

  “But you’ll be welcome anytime next week,” Lowe added. “And do let me know if I can be helpful with introductions. Dr. Stephen Meyers oversees the hospital there, but his second-in-command, Nurse Mary Fraser, runs the facility.”

  “Thank you. That’s useful information,” Moore said.

  “You’re welcome. And thank you for sending those recommendations to London,” Lowe said with an eager smile.

  Moore and Suggs plastered smiles on their faces, amazed at how gullible and transparent a well-educated medical man could be when desperate for funds.

  Leeds Castle was a welcome late addition to their dwindling list of a dozen hospitals to visit—one Moore looked forward to exploring. He loved history and its architecture.

  Maybe on Monday morning he and Suggs would finally cross paths with the American target who had eluded them to this point. If by chance Everett Nash had survived and was recuperating at Leeds Castle, the assassin couldn’t think of a more glorious setting for the illustrious negotiator’s final bow.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday, September 2, 1944

  3:30 p.m.

  The carefully planned maze of meticulously groomed hedges sat in the middle of the main grounds, roughly halfway between the gatehouse and the “new castle”—the primary hospital and the biggest structure on either island.

  “It took me more than an hour to figure out that beast of a maze when I was first placed in it years ago,” Emma said to Nash. “Now I know it like the back of my hand. I’m told Lady Baillie wanted it here because she loves puzzles—like I do—and enjoys losing herself in these hedges and their tranquility, especially when the castle grounds are bustling with activity.”

  “Okay, put your hand out, palm up, pointing toward me,” Nash said suddenly.

  “Pardon me?” Emma responded, her teacup arrested in midair.

  “You heard me correctly.” She slowly put down the cup, turned to him, and did as requested, extending her right palm.

  “Good,” he said. “Now stretch your fingers out so your palm is completely flat. That’s it.” She found his hand softer than she’d expected for a man his age.

  They sat facing each other, Nash in his white bathrobe, confined in his wheelchair, Emma in her nurse’s uniform, balanced on a wooden garden chair, a small table to their side. They’d found an isolated spot on the lawn on the far west side of the castle near the moat, the sweet smell of late-blooming flowers wafting over the water, encouraged by gentle gusts of wind. Directly across from them, behind the maze, stood the old stone Maiden Tower, where Emma and other staff slept at night.

  It was a warm and sunny Saturday, and Emma had proposed this outdoor meeting over her midafternoon break to get away from the constant needs of her patients at the Gloriette. If she could secure a private room for Nash, she wouldn’t have to worry about finding a discreet place to meet.

  In the meantime, she couldn’t wait to get started with her training, so she felt a twinge of disappointment as she watched her teacher apparently preparing to deliver her fortune rather than a lesson.

  “What’s that?” she asked, her mouth falling open.

  Nash had pulled a gold coin from the pocket of his bathrobe. He placed it in her outstretched hand. The coin shimmered in the sun, making its odd yet finely engraved markings difficult to read.

  “It’s my good-luck charm,” Nash said. “I assumed you wanted this meeting to be our first class. But, before we dig in, I thought it might be fun to play a game.”

  “I like games,” Emma said, lifting her chin. She’d been tired just moments before from waking so early, but the sight of such a magnificent trinket perked her right up.

  Nash nodded, then placed his hand, also palm up and running in the opposite direction to hers, directly underneath her hand with only an inch separating them.

  “The rules of this game are straightforward, Nurse Doyle. I will try to snatch the coin. You can protect the coin by closing your hand over it. If you succeed, you win the coin. If I succeed, I keep the coin.”

  Emma couldn’t take her eyes off the stunning coin, which she hadn’t seen among his meager possessions. “Was this coin hidden in your leather jacket? Is this why you kept asking for your jacket when you first arrived?” It didn’t look like any formal currency she’d ever handled, and the domed building she could see on one side wasn’t at all familiar. The strange disk looked to be solid gold, worth hundreds of pounds if not thousands, she assumed, more than she’d ever earned. This game suddenly seemed promising.

  He looked at her and smiled. “Do you understand the rules?”

  “Of course. If I protect the coin, the treasure is mine and I get to retire, for this year at least. You’re sure you want to risk it?”

  “Absolutely. You can think of this opportunity as payback for all your help.”

  “All right, in that case let the game begin, Mr. Nash,” she said, adjusting her bottom on the hard chair to ensure that she was comfortable.

  “Before we start, Nurse Doyle, I have one question for you. Who do you think holds the power in this game?”

  She laughed. “Well, you have to bring your hand all the way up and over mine before even trying to get your fingers cleanly on the coin, at the same time as I’m moving to protect it. So I hold the power, which is why I’m concerned about you risking so much for this little game.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

  They stared at each other for more than a minute, each set of eyes surveying the eyes and hand of the other.

  Emma told herself that she knew how to win this. At the slightest hint of movement, she planned to close her hand, even if his hand wasn’t coming up.

  Another minute passed. She sensed a move coming, but waited. Finally, she slammed her fist shut.

  Nothing.

  He hadn’t moved. Thirty seconds more. She snapped her hand shut again. Nothing. She reopened her hand, exposing the coin. Fifteen seconds passed.

  And that’s when it happened: the coin disappeared from her hand.

  “Bloody hell,” she cried out, and immediately apologized for her language.

  He slowly opened his palm, revealing the coin. She stared at it. She couldn’t be sure, but she might have felt the air from his moving hand brush by her, then the slightest touch, though she couldn’t believe that was enough for her to lose a small fortune.

  “Let me play a second time,” she pleaded.

  “Of course.”

  In less than a minute, the coin disappeared from her hand again.

  They played a dozen times. Emma never came close to winning, despite a range of tactics. Her more desperate efforts included sticking her tongue out at Nash to distract him and, on the last go, subtly reaching around her patient to remove the brake that held his wheelchair in place.

  “Right, then, Mr. Nash. Now that I’ve been made to look the fool with your game, perhaps we can commence with the lesson?” Her cheeks were flushed, and she busied herself by running her hands over her lap, but she was smiling brightly.

  “Nurse Doyle, I thought you wanted to get something back that had been taken from you.”

  “That’s right,” she said slowly, looking away for a second, dropping her shoulders, her smile weakening—all of which he took in.

  “Didn’t I just take from you something of significant value that you tried hard to protect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know the secret of
getting it back?”

  How had she missed that connection? “I guess that makes me twice the fool I thought I was,” Emma said, her gaze shifting down to the lawn.

  “Not at all, Nurse Doyle,” he said, picking up his teacup. “People play this game all the time without grasping its underlying lessons about negotiation.”

  She squinted in thought. “If this game holds the secrets to negotiation, I don’t think I understand what it means to negotiate.”

  “Anytime you’re trying to influence someone to do something, you’re negotiating. The average person might not think they do much negotiating—believing negotiation is what businessmen, politicians, and lawyers do—but they do it every day. In fact, most agreements happen outside offices and are never written down,” he said, “like the one we reached yesterday.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “It should be helpful to you,” he added, brushing a fly from the scar on his face, “because if you’re aware of just how often you’re negotiating, you’re more likely to see all the opportunities for applying the laws of influence that I’m going to share with you. This coin game lays the foundation for all these laws. You’ll only need a few more short lessons after this one.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Given the schedule we’re up against, yes, that’s all. I’d say four lessons in total. There will be a final exam to review what you know.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Are you?” She nodded vigorously. “Then so am I. But whether you’ll be able to negotiate effectively after your oral exam is another matter and will depend on how well you listen, learn, and practice along the way.”

  “Okay, Mr. Nash, I’m ready to learn. Now, how in King George’s name were you able to steal that gorgeous coin from me?”