Jack 1939 (16 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT.
GÖRING’S BANKER

THE MAN HAD LAID HIS HOMBURG
and briefcase, his furled umbrella and decent coat on the seat beside him, so that nobody would sit down. It was his favorite corner of the Hotel Crillon lobby in Paris; he’d erected a copy of
Le Monde
like a shield in front of him. The newspaper was blessedly free of the disaster that blared from every radio—its presses had stopped before Hitler’s tanks rolled into Prague that morning. March 15, 1939. As he sat in the comfortable chair, scanning the racing columns and considering his dinner, he knew that people were dying all over Europe in senseless and hideous ways. He adjusted a cushion against the small of his back.

He could detect a change in the attitude of some of the Crillon staff: they no longer made eye contact. They pocketed his tips with distaste. It didn’t matter that his business was finance, the complicated relationships of debt and interest, gold reserves and loans, or that he had been educated in the United States and was an internationalist at heart. Helmuth Wohlthat was German—and therefore someone to despise. As of today, someone to fear.

A strange hand grasped his briefcase; his hat and coat were tossed carelessly onto an adjacent chair. Wohlthat crumpled his newspaper irritably and stared at the fellow who’d presumed to move his things.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites?”
he demanded.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”

The man answered in German. “I want to talk to you.” He sank down next to him. “Herr Wohlthat.”

“How do you know my name?”

The man smiled. It did nothing to warm his eyes, which were the color of the North Sea in winter; but it sharpened the inch-long scar that bisected his lip. Early thirties, Wohlthat decided; ex-military or possibly plainclothes security man. He was sitting far too close; a threatening move. Wohlthat tried to put some distance between them.

“I serve Reinhard Heydrich. He knows everyone’s name.”

Wohlthat’s throat constricted. “What does General Heydrich want with me?”

“You set up a certain network for your friend Göring, using your contacts in Europe and the United States. That network has been thoroughly and hopelessly penetrated. It is in the process of being liquidated, as I’m sure you know.”

Wohlthat’s mouth fell open. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips.

Heydrich’s thug put his hand on Wohlthat’s knee and squeezed. “You must see that as the architect of the network, you inevitably fall under suspicion.”

“Of what?” Wohlthat whispered.

“Betraying it, of course.”

The pressure of those blunt fingers increased. Wohlthat twitched irritably but the hand remained fastened around his knee. “Why should I betray my own network?”

“Why, indeed?” The thug’s smile widened. “We considered recalling you to Berlin to answer that question. Although it’s possible you would never arrive. The world is such a dangerous place—so many people die for stupid reasons.”

“Are you
threatening
me?” Wohlthat tried to stand. But those hard fingers pinned him to his seat. And suddenly he saw—with utter disbelief—that Heydrich’s thug held a knife in his other hand, as thoughtlessly as if it were a child’s toy.

Wohlthat drew a panicked breath. “I don’t understand.”

“There was a nun in Rome. She was supposed to meet you.”

“Sister Mary Joseph.
Yes
. I’ve been here three days and she hasn’t shown up.”

“You can stop waiting. She cut herself.”

He fingered the knife casually, and in that second, Wohlthat understood. He stared at the bland face before him, the blunt fingers rolling the deadly toy.

“Happily for you, the account book is safe.”

Safe.

Every detail of Göring’s network.
In this man’s
hands.

Which meant they would soon be in Heydrich’s.

Wohlthat’s mind darted hopelessly, a bird battering against a windowpane. All those names. . . . Donors, lists of funds, the people who’d trusted him on two continents. Vulnerable, now, to the deadliest man in the Gestapo.

“You understand that this is extremely serious,” the creature was saying. “Your
entire network
, penetrated by the American security forces—exposed and humiliated—liquidated one by one. Failure, Wohlthat.
Failure.
Someone must be blamed.”

The words were uttered so softly that they seemed like a vicious lullaby. Wohlthat was no fool. He remembered the Night of the Long Knives, when Heydrich had seized power for himself and taken the Gestapo—Göring’s vicious creation—under his sole control. The two men hated each other. Given half a chance, Heydrich would see Göring killed, and pop champagne as he died. Wohlthat knew he was being set up to betray Göring; but it didn’t matter. There was little to choose between the man and Heydrich. And he was alone with a killer who held a knife.

He swallowed convulsively. “So I’ll shoulder the blame. Return to Berlin immediately. I don’t tolerate failure either, Herr . . .”

“Too late.” The fingers gave his knee a painful squeeze.

“Then what . . . ?”

He would not put the thought into words. He would not betray his fear of death and particularly of the knife.

“Heydrich has a suggestion—if you want to make amends.” The blond head bent close. “You know Kennedy.”

Whatever he had expected, it was hardly this. “Of course. I—”

“Heydrich wants you to cultivate him. Tell him how badly the German economy is suffering. As only you, a banker connected to the Reichsbank, could know.”

“But the economy is
not
suffering—”

“You’ll tell Kennedy, when you see him, that Hitler’s mad rearmament plans are crippling us. That financial disaster looms. That we can’t go on much longer.”

“But—”

Wohlthat reared back. The knife point was thrust against his abdomen; his abdomen tensed, recoiling from pain.

“Are you incredibly stupid, Herr Wohlthat?”

Wohlthat said nothing, his teeth clenched, fighting for control.

Heydrich’s man rose to his feet, the sinister blade disappearing into his sleeve like a conjurer’s trick.

Wohlthat touched his fingers to his starched white shirt. A drop of blood blossomed on the fabric. He looked up, aghast. He never felt the knife’s blade.

“Go on about your life,” the man said benignly. “I’ll find you when I need you. And try, Herr Wohlthat, to be a
little
smarter. The knife can always go deeper.”

TWENTY-NINE.
THE EXPRESS

“BY ROLLING INTO PRAGUE,
Hitler’s broken at least seven promises he gave Chamberlain at Munich,” Joe Kennedy said, “and you know what that means.”

“Yeah. Chamberlain’s an idiot.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jack. You just mouth these . . . warmongering platitudes . . . you’ve picked up at Harvard.”

“You can’t negotiate peace, Dad, with a guy who wants to make war.” Jack threw a wrinkled tie into his suitcase.

“I’ve got to get back to London immediately,” Joe persisted, “and I’ve hired a plane. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m going to Paris.”

“You should be home.”

“London isn’t home. You just want to think I’m safe. But nobody’s
safe
anymore, Dad. You just refuse to admit it.”

His father spun him around by the shoulder. “I’ve pledged nine hostages to fortune, Jack—bringing you kids to Europe when it’s about to commit suicide. Just because Roosevelt conferred his
goddamn honor
on me and your mother decided it was the bees’ knees to swan around London. If I had a particle of sense I’d pack you all off to New York on the next ship that sails.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. There was active fear in his father’s voice he couldn’t understand. They were such different people—Joe was terrified of death, whereas Jack had always taken it for granted. The only question was how and when it happened.

“I’m going to Paris.” He snapped the brass clips on his suitcase. “I’ve got a thesis to research and write.”

“It’s not gonna happen, son,” Joe said roughly. “You’re too damn sick. Even your mother can see that, and she never sees anything. You’re yellow with jaundice and you’re clammy with sweat. I heard you retching last night.”

“Something in the Roman water doesn’t agree with me.”

“Something in the
world
doesn’t agree with you, Jack. You look like walking death.”

They confronted his reflection together in the hotel mirror. There was, Jack had to admit, a faintly yellow tinge to his skin. Nothing a little sun wouldn’t take care of. His eyes were sunken. His cheekbones were as prominent as a skull’s and his forehead looked a bit moist. “I just need some sleep. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends this week.”

“You can sleep in London.”

He grasped his suitcase. “I’ll wire when I get to Paris.”

“I’m not funding this fool’s errand,” Joe said querulously, suddenly aware that his grown son wasn’t obeying him. “You won’t get a dime from me.”

His last trick: playing the poverty card.

“That’s okay, Dad.” Jack fleetingly calculated his loose change and few bills. “I’ll manage.”
Without
you.

Ten minutes later, as his taxi pulled away from the curb, his father ran after it, swearing a blue streak—with a wad of cash in his outstretched hand.

* * *

THE ROME EXPRESS
was a sumptuous Wagon-Lit train that would get him to Paris midmorning. Jack had a luxury sleeper to himself and the rest of
Melbourne
to finish; but he was lonelier tonight than he could remember being. He ached for Diana. She’d checked out of the Hassler Monday while Teddy took First Communion from the Pope. She’d left no forwarding address.

Jack shivered. Chills ran the length of his body and he was sweating again. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief, tossed his suit jacket on the rack with his luggage, and pulled a blanket from his berth.

His leg throbbed and his entrails no longer behaved. He’d lied when he’d told Dad he was okay; he was a rambling wreck again, but nothing would force him to admit it.
He would not let Roosevelt down.
Even though he’d been too sick to transmit this morning, and had nothing new to report. Maybe he should use the DOCA once a day. But his supply of pellets was dwindling and he would not experiment on his body while traveling alone.

As night fell, he stared out at the Italian countryside. Lombardy poplars, hills the color of wheat, the odd punctuation of ocher roofs. He could not decide where Diana’s loyalties lay. She’d ridiculed his father and called Chamberlain a fool; did that mean she
wasn’t
a Fascist? Cover, Dobler had called it. But cover could mean many things. Her story about Daisy Corcoran, for instance. How much could he believe? What if she’d gone to Paris last week to warn Wohlthat that Jack was nosing around Göring’s network?

And had gotten Daisy killed?

He didn’t know how to read Diana. She’d called him a teenager and a little brother Sunday night, then shuddered in his arms. Jack knew he was charming—charm was the most reliable weapon in his arsenal—but Diana had the pick of male Europe at her feet. Swooning over a college kid didn’t make sense.

Leaving without a word the next morning did.

It was painful to remember the way he’d felt on the Spanish Steps, touching Diana’s body—like he was drowning in it. Painful to recall the smell and feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. For a few seconds he’d felt like he owned her, body and soul—that she was his for the asking—but she’d fooled him again and skipped town without a word. He suspected both Diana and her friend Willi Dobler had been playing him for weeks. They’d set him up from the moment he’d boarded the
Queen Mary
: offering a drink when he’d been sucker-punched; offering information when they knew—as Willi clearly did—that he’d been sent out by his president in search of it. Play Jack, they must have figured, and they’d play Roosevelt, too.

And yet—and yet . . . Dobler had told him about the Little Sisters of Clemency.

And Diana had lost her balance completely on the Spanish Steps.

His lip curled bitterly. He had as much of a problem with trust as she did.

What if they’re both legit?
his mind protested.
What if Willi and Diana are on my
side?

As the swaying train climbed steadily north, Jack closed his eyes.

Not even a college kid could be that gullible.

THIRTY.
NOTHING LIKE JOE

JACK WAS SICKER THAN A DOG
by the time he reached Paris.

Alerted by a cable from J. P. Kennedy, Carmel Offie met the Rome train that morning. The vice-consul took one look at Jack’s face and threw his arm over his shoulder. Together, they staggered off the platform. Offie was short and Jack was tall and they made an odd couple, but Jack was too weak to protest. He’d spent most of the night vomiting.

“Tummy troubles?” Offie inquired sympathetically. “That
wretched
Roman water.”

Offie was what Joe Kennedy called
queer
; but Jack liked the little man, who’d grown up poor in an industrial town in western Pennsylvania, and had worked his way up to the highest levels of diplomatic service. He let Offie grasp his waist and pour him into the back of Bill Bullitt’s official car and speed through the streets to the ambassador’s residence on the Right Bank.

“I need to send a telegram,” he said hoarsely as Offie helped him into the foyer. “To my doctor. George Taylor.”

He was prostrate for the better part of a week in the Beaux Arts monstrosity Bullitt called home. It was lined with marble and echoed with emptiness. Bullitt lived there with two dozen servants; but in the summer months he moved to the Château de St. Firmin, a lovely mansion in the park surrounding the Château de Chantilly. Bullitt was a natural aristocrat, the master of the grand gesture; he pursued dangerous women, entertained lavishly, never considered cost, and drank as determinedly as Winston Churchill. With the nightingales singing in the woods, his string of horses stabled nearby, and the gurgle of water from a torrent behind St. Firmin, the peace of Chantilly was overwhelming.

He took Jack to convalesce there. Jack implored Bullitt to say nothing to his father, and the ambassador—who had mixed feelings about Joe Kennedy—did as he asked. In return for silence, Bullitt demanded Jack see his doctor, but the man was bewildered by Jack’s symptoms and could prescribe only
tisanes
and red wine. Jack puked up both. It was a telegram from Taylor, offering the name of a specialist, that saved him.

Dr. LaSalle was a researcher in endocrinology at the Sorbonne. An embassy car whisked him to Chantilly, where he examined Jack and injected him with a needleful of DOCA.

“While you remain in France, I will visit you every few days for these injections,
hein
?” he said.

“What’s wrong with my pellets?” Jack asked warily.

“You used them too infrequently,
mon ami
, and now you are very ill. When you are better, we shall see if the pellets may be resumed,” LaSalle said serenely.

“Why do I need the stuff so much?”

The Frenchman’s brows lifted in faint surprise. “Monsieur le Docteur Taylor did not explain?”

“Not really.”

“DOCA is an adrenal hormone, monsieur. In normal cases, such things are secreted by the adrenal glands, you comprehend. But in your case . . .”

“My adrenal glands don’t work?”

The doctor shrugged. “I cannot possibly say, monsieur. I am merely doing as I am instructed by Monsieur le Docteur Taylor. As to the reasons for his treatment, I can give you no
véritable
information. I assumed the matter was understood.”

“What do adrenal hormones do?”

LaSalle compressed his lips. “How to say in English? They conduct the salts in your blood.”

“Salt?” Jack forced himself upright in bed, his head swimming. “That’s it? I just need to eat more
salt
?”

The doctor shook his head. “I regret, no. Hardly so simple. You must discuss with Monsieur le Docteur, yes?”

* * *

JACK IMPROVED. HIS HIVES ABATED,
his sweating diminished, and after LaSalle’s third injection he could approach a dinner table without bolting for the bathroom. But he’d lost precious time; it was the end of March before he walked into the embassy.

He toured the beautiful old building on the Place de la Concorde, shook hands with Robert Murphy, Bullitt’s chargé d’affaires, and allowed La Belle Offlet, as he privately called Carmel Offie, to find him an unused desk. While the vice-consul fussed over the correct chair for a man of Jack’s height, Jack wandered through the embassy’s Cultural section.

“Helmuth Wohlthat? He’s that German economist who runs a charity organization, right?” Nancy Morgan was a French major two years out of Bryn Mawr who’d jilted her Yale man for a wilder life in Paris. She took dictation and organized Bullitt’s lavish parties and she had superb legs, Jack noticed. She was perched on her desktop with her ankles crossed, an hourglass figure in cashmere.

“You’ve met him?”

“Sure. We get people asking about him all the time—American Catholics coming through town. His nuns get a lot of money from the States.”

“So you know where he lives?”

“Berlin, I think. But when he’s in Paris, he stays at the Crillon. It’s just across the Rue Boissy d’Anglas from us.”

“I know.”

She gave him a smile that entirely reached her brown eyes.

“Your brother was here a few months ago. He took me to Le Mirabeau for dinner. That’s in the Sixteenth.
Very
top drawer.”

“Impressive. He usually prefers the bottom bunk. I’ll give him your regards the next time I see him.”

Nancy grinned to show she could take an off-color joke. “Beats me what a girl sees in a convent. I’d go stark raving mad without a man in my life.”

“Got one?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“Not at the moment. Charlie was shipped off to Moscow two months ago.”

“Communist?”

“First Political Officer.”

“Either way, he’s happy. Is Wohlthat in town?”

She draped a hand on her hip. “What’s it worth to you?”

Christ,
he thought. He was beginning to feel tired. It was his first day out of a sickbed. “A drink at the Crillon. I’m headed over there now.”

Her smile faded. “I can order one of those any day.”

“Then I won’t waste your time.”

“Wohlthat’s not at the Crillon,” Nancy said coyly, as he turned toward the door. “It’s nearly Easter. He always spends the holiday skiing—at Val d’Isère.”

“Thanks,” he said.
Val d’Isère.
He’d have to figure out where that was. Offie would know.

“Boy, were the guys in the Political Section ever
wrong
,” she called petulantly after him. “They said you were a dead ringer for your brother. But you’re nothing like Joe at all.”

He was smiling faintly as he left. It was good to know
some
girls could tell the difference between them.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST,
Jack found his way to Bullitt’s mansard roof. An arc of pale blue sky canopied Chantilly as he tapped out his cipher message to Roosevelt; the world in spring had never looked so beautiful.

Suggest you find all available information on Wohlthat Helmuth German banker STOP Göring associate STOP Believed funneling money through Little Sisters charity network STOP am tracking now STOP CRIMSON

He liked the codename he’d chosen. CRIMSON. It made him feel like an honest-to-God spy.