The pub, nestled across from the Houses of Parliament and just a hundred yards from the prime minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street, had long been a favored watering hole for Britain’s politicians after work, or much later, as it was now, when there were fewer ears around to pick up on whispered state secrets.
As the minister responsible for security matters inside his country’s borders, Morrison had worked particularly hard in recent years, and this long, unsettling day had been no exception. He looked forward to a stiff drink.
Morrison removed his soaking trilby and pulled a handkerchief from his gray flannels to dry his spectacles, quickly returning them to their distinguished perch. With a clear view, he scanned the faces of the dozen or so souls who’d gained sanctuary amid the pub’s wood-paneled walls, framed photos of politicians, stained-glass windows, and beer-scented carpets. None of the faces concerned him.
Coat and hat in hand, he trudged past the long bar, saying a familiar hello to the bartender, who, in turn, nodded toward the private booths at the back. When Morrison reached the last booth, he turned in, sat, and looked across at the seventy-year-old man he’d asked to meet him here.
“Good evening, Prime Minister.”
“A fine evening it is, though I’d prefer it a bit wetter, wouldn’t you?” Churchill said with a wry smile, lifting a tumbler of scotch to his lips.
Morrison chuckled. “Quite right,” he said. “And thank you for agreeing to see me at such a late hour.”
“Not to worry, Herbert. In times of war, every hour on the clock is the same for me. I understand from your message that this is a matter of significant concern.”
“Yes, sir. I wanted to brief you, alone, about what happened in the West End this evening.”
“I heard on the radio that a gas line blew in the Chiswick area,” Churchill said into his scotch. “A three-year-old girl is among the dead. Rosemary . . . Rosemary . . . oh, hell, what was her last name?”
“Clarke, sir, her name was Rosemary Clarke.”
“Tragic. My grandson Winston is her age,” Churchill said sourly. “Am I to assume this wasn’t an accident and that the Nazis are responsible for blowing up the pipeline?”
As Morrison leaned over the table to respond, the bartender arrived, reaching in front of the prime minister to deliver his gin-and-tonic before disappearing and retreating to his post. The home secretary kept his voice low.
“Nothing to do with a gas pipe, Prime Minister. That was misinformation I initiated to avoid panic.” The lines on Winston Churchill’s face drew taut. Morrison kept talking. “This is about a weapon we’ve never seen before, sir, a rocket of some sort.”
“A rocket?” Churchill said incredulously. “From where?”
“I know this will sound preposterous. But, based on eyewitness accounts, we believe it came from outside our atmosphere, sixty miles up, or more.”
“From space?” Churchill clarified, clutching his drink.
“Yes, Prime Minister, from space.”
Chapter 10
Tuesday, September 12, 1944
2:00 p.m.
“I’ve taken care of everything, my dear,” Lady Baillie said, tossing her head back with an air of accomplishment, her long, slender neck exposed.
“Thank you!” Emma said. A second ingredient of her plan was now in place.
The pair sat in the bright living room where they’d first met to discuss Nash two weeks earlier. Since then, the negotiator and the aristocrat had spent considerable time together, realizing that they shared friends and interests, as well as a zealous desire to influence the war’s outcome.
“It’s all about relationships, and using them to advantage,” Lady Baillie added. “I don’t know what Mr. Nash would say about this, but I do know what produces my best results.”
She went on to explain how her great-uncle Oliver Hazard Payne had helped found the American Tobacco Company, accounting for much of the wealth she’d inherited from her mother. Though she no longer had a connection to the cigarette-maker, her family’s name was still well known at its headquarters in Durham, North Carolina. One phone call was all it took.
“Because of the poor quality of ‘baccy’ grown here in Britain, I always order my cigarettes directly from Durham and pay for them,” Lady Baillie said. “But, after a lovely chat with one of the company’s vice presidents, we agreed this time that the cigarettes would be given as a gift to the castle and to our patients. I’m happy to report that a hundred cartons of Lucky Strike will be arriving in two days. They’ll be delivered from London, where there’s excess inventory from a recent stock-up requested by our government as a treat for the troops’ care packages.”
“How in the world did you get them to donate all the cartons I needed?”
“American Tobacco likes donating their cigarettes to U.S. troops and other Allies. Makes the company look patriotic. Good marketing, but I suspect it’s also about getting millions of soldiers hooked on nicotine so they’ll keep smoking long after the war. As for donating to Leeds Castle, that’s a different story. Let’s just say that I told them about you and why you’re after these cigarettes. Well, they think you’re positively heroic. By the way, they also think you’re gorgeous.”
“Why would they ever think that?” Emma said, dumbfounded.
“Because that’s what I told them, Emma! And it’s true! I said I thought you’d make a perfect model for one of their magazine adverts. You, wearing your nursing outfit, smoking their cigarette. Can you envision the caption? ‘Smoking Hot! British Nurse Emma Doyle promises to make you better—but only if you smoke Lucky Strike.’ ”
“Lady Baillie!” Emma gasped. “You did not!”
“I most certainly did. In fact, when they deliver the cigarettes they’ll be sending a photographer along. If they like your shots, they may use one in an upcoming campaign. Do you realize what an honor that would be? My good friend Douglas Fairbanks, Sr., promoted Lucky Strike until the day he died. So did Amelia Earhart. Apparently, she wouldn’t have made it over the Atlantic without her Lucky Strikes.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe she made it over the Pacific,” Emma pointed out.
“True enough,” Lady Baillie said with a wave of her hand. “Maybe she’d stopped smoking Lucky Strikes by then.”
“But I really don’t like smoking,” Emma protested. She immediately regretted her tone.
“Well, I do smoke, and, believe me, you’d be healthier and happier if you started today,” Lady Baillie countered, her thin lips pursed.
The last thing Emma wanted was to offend the castle’s owner, who’d been so supportive. Lady Baillie had even agreed to let Emma use the phone in her second-floor library for the rest of the day to try and track down more penicillin. “I’m truly sorry,” Emma said. “I appreciate all your help. I just don’t know if I’m comfortable with this. It’s so sudden. I can’t imagine—”
“If that’s the case, not to worry,” Lady Baillie said with feigned indifference, her tone suddenly lighter. “I’ll tell my friends at American Tobacco, and hopefully they’ll still decide to help us in some small way. Even if they were to send us a couple of cartons, that would support your efforts, wouldn’t it?”
That wouldn’t be enough—and Lady Baillie knew it. Emma felt her options narrowing. Doing a photo shoot for cigarettes, a product she barely tolerated, would be painful, even unethical, but it was the best way to get what she wanted. Besides, she was pretty sure that, once the officials at American Tobacco saw her sourpuss face, they’d burn her photo with the closest match.
“You’re right,” Emma said with a deep breath. “Of course, I’ll do the photo shoot. For a hundred cartons, that’s a small price to pay.”
“Exactly, my dear,” Lady Baillie said, smiling. “That’s why I agreed to the arrangement. And when those beautiful cigarettes arrive I’ll be sure to come and
inspect them, maybe even try a few, you know, to make sure they’re of the highest quality.”
The two women laughed.
—
The switch flipped upward at the Washington, D.C., office of Dr. Louis Sampson, flooding the reception area’s stark-white walls and ceiling with light.
“As I mentioned on the phone,” Sampson began, “the only reason I’m able to do this is your connection to the British government and my concern for Mr. Nash’s welfare. Otherwise, my patient records are confidential and not for anyone’s eyes but theirs—especially after hours,” he added. The two well-dressed visitors again thanked the balding dentist for agreeing to meet them on such short notice.
Moore was still surprised that they’d been able to track Sampson down. It had taken just eight phone calls from their hotel room that afternoon before he and Suggs were able to confirm the identity of Nash’s dentist. Their authoritative British accents and veiled references to working with Prime Minister Churchill had certainly helped.
The dentist removed his overcoat and led them to his treatment area, disappearing to retrieve Nash’s file from a room at the back of the building. As they waited, Moore couldn’t stop himself from thinking how much he hated being away from his wife and son, even for a week, especially since it was already obvious that Nash was dead.
His boss in London had insisted that he and Suggs travel with haste and discretion to America on a government ship he’d arranged for them, to confirm the negotiator’s death. They were to ensure that the teeth from the grave matched Nash’s records. If they weren’t his, which meant he was likely still alive, no one was to know. Either way, they were to return immediately to London and report to him. Moore couldn’t fathom why Nash’s death was so important to the Allies, but it didn’t matter to him. What did matter is that the boss was paying him twice his standard fee to travel here and was putting him and Suggs up at the Willard—a historic hotel designed by the architect Hardenbergh, whom Moore had studied in some detail.
A high-pitched whirring sound interrupted his thoughts, vibrating down his spine.
“Suggs! Leave that drill alone!” Moore hissed. “The doctor will be back any second.”
Suggs shrugged, putting the drill down just as Sampson returned with a file in his hand. He signaled for them to be seated at his table.
“Gentlemen, I pray to God we don’t have a match between the X-rays in this file and what you’ve brought me from across the Atlantic.”
—
“Mind if I come in, sir?” the nurse requested, sticking her graying head through the partially closed door.
“Enter,” her much younger superior at Gillingham’s Hospital instructed her from behind a large oak desk in the far corner. He rubbed his eyes but never shifted his focus away from the numbers he was studying. The nurse moved forward gingerly, walking around a pile of boxed medical supplies and blankets lying in the middle of the large but cluttered room.
“I just ’ad quite an extraordinary call from a girl at Leeds Castle, where they ’ave a ’ospital unit. A Nurse Doyle was on the line. Says she can solve our problem.”
The lab-coated doctor looked up for the first time. He removed his reading glasses, holding them in one hand. “I find that hard to believe, Nurse Hascal.”
“First she asks what I’d think if she could get us twenty new injection needles. I told ’er that’s ’elpful but nowhere close to what we need. She goes quiet on the phone, then asks what if she could get us two hundred new needles, would that solve our problem?”
“It certainly would,” the doctor replied. “But, unfortunately, I doubt that a young nurse—from a hospital I didn’t know existed—can get us the needles I’ve been seeking from London for more than a month now.”
—
Moore opened his briefcase, pulling out the metallic box. He lifted the cover without looking and pushed the worn box across the table, wincing at the sharp smell.
The dentist gazed at the heavily stained yellow teeth, taking them into his hand, examining the upper and lower rows while counting the fillings. Suggs and Moore glanced at each other, impatient to get their confirmation and go home.
Sampson laughed suddenly.
“What’s so funny?” Moore asked, annoyed.
“These aren’t Everett’s teeth,” Sampson said, his face lighting up and a wide smile revealing his own pristine teeth.
Moore looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. Suggs stared icily. Moore spoke, trying to calm himself, knowing that a big payday was at risk if the outcome of this visit didn’t fall in their favor. “Surely you must be mistaken, Dr. Sampson. We are virtually positive these belong to Nash. You haven’t even compared them to your X-rays.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve been seeing Mr. Nash for two decades now, and he was here less than a year ago. The man smokes a fair amount, which causes some staining, but he brushes three times a day, almost obsessively, so while his teeth aren’t perfect, they are much whiter than these. I joke with him about how he must fall asleep with a toothbrush in his mouth.”
“Surely Nash could have changed his hygiene habits,” Moore growled.
Sampson reached into Nash’s file, rose, and clamped the X-rays onto a glass surface on the wall.
“These are Nash’s teeth from his last visit.” Sampson showed them how Nash’s central and lateral incisors—the teeth right at the front of the mouth—were straight, top and bottom. He then motioned toward the teeth on the table, noting how crooked the top incisors were, as were many of the molars. “If you count Mr. Nash’s fillings—these solid white markings right here—he has just three, each repaired with mercury-silver amalgam, not gold. I don’t use gold. By contrast, the teeth you brought me are deeply discolored, with a total of twelve cavities, each repaired with gold, which is functional but not attractive. Do you see that? This person wasn’t concerned about the appearance of his teeth. I assure you that Mr. Nash was. Or is.”
“But isn’t it possible,” Moore argued, “that with Nash’s recent time away—”
“Gentlemen, teeth aren’t negotiable,” Sampson interrupted. “I can tell you with one hundred percent confidence that these do not belong to Mr. Nash.” His eyes shifted between the two silent men, who were obviously not happy with this news.
Moore and Suggs looked at each other, their drawn faces betraying similar thoughts. If this dentist was right and the teeth didn’t belong to Nash, whom did they belong to? And where the hell was Nash’s body—or, worse, Nash himself?
As reality sank in, Moore began to fear the repercussions in London. Maybe he’d just send Suggs to incur the wrath of his boss rather than go himself. On the other hand, he was due money and needed to see his client in person to collect it. Bloody hell! I should have asked for everything up front, because now I may never get paid for this job—or for our travel expenses.
Moore felt like throwing up. Suggs’s voice brought him back to the bright room.
“Mr. Moore,” Suggs said, speaking for the first time, “do you happen to remember what we were told to do if these proved not to be Nash’s teeth?”
“Well, gentlemen, if you don’t mind,” Sampson said, “I’ll leave you to discuss your next steps outside my offices. I must get back to my wife. She’ll be wondering where I am.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
After receiving a nod from Moore, Suggs grabbed the dentist, pushing him across the room and into the leather chair usually reserved for his patients. In fewer than thirty seconds, the stocky assailant had overwhelmed the man twice his size, strapping Sampson’s long hands and legs to the chair.
“I am going to report you both to the British Embassy!” Sampson cried out, with the same desperation Moore had felt moments before. “What do you want from me? Just tell me, I’ll give you anything you want!”
“Unfortunately, you’ve missed your chance to do that,�
�� Moore said, fading toward the door to escape. While he didn’t necessarily want an innocent dentist to suffer an excruciating death, he had his orders from London that Sampson had to be kept quiet—giving Suggs an opportunity to release some of his childhood angst.
“You know, my father was a dentist,” Suggs explained to Sampson as he fondled the electric drill he’d been playing with earlier.
“Excellent,” Sampson said, limbs shaking, sweat pouring down his face. “I’m glad to hear I have something in common with your dad.”
“My father was a sadist,” Suggs said. “He once thought I’d spoken too much at dinner, so he locked my mouth open with clamps. As I begged for forgiveness, he burrowed into my nerve. Another time, I ate chocolate he’d wanted. He ripped out my top middle tooth, promising to never fill my cavities again, because now I had terrible teeth. Ever since then, I’ve hated people with good teeth like yours, and pulled my hair out at night—some kind of compulsion the doctors can’t explain. Maybe you can?” The dentist began to weep. “No need to be nervous, Dr. Sampson. This won’t hurt a bit. At least, that’s what my father used to say.”
Suggs started up the drill.
Chapter 11
Thursday, September 14, 1944
9:00 a.m.
Everett Nash opened his eyes, his head aching from the red wine he’d consumed on his own the night before.
The smell of sweet, toasted tobacco filled the air above his bed. As he looked around the queen’s bathroom, he squinted at the light streaming through the window. That’s when he saw them: the cigarettes on the floor. He smiled at them. The crafty white sticks had formed themselves into an arrow that pointed toward the door.
He slowly rose out of bed, taking a few moments to find his balance and then his bathrobe, before following the cigarettes. He leaned down and touched one of the sticks to confirm that it was really there and that this wasn’t just a dream. It felt like a real cigarette, and as he angled his head back, it also felt as if a real hangover was pounding away at his brain.
Weapons of Peace Page 10
