Jack 1939 (6 page)

EIGHT.
TRAVELING TOURIST

THE CROSSING,
as Robbie predicted, was filthy.

That first night out of New York the wind began to rise, and Jack, who’d had too much coffee and cigarette smoke and dark, wine-scented medallions of veal for his body to handle, curled in agony in his stateroom as the great ship heaved upward, a Coney Island ascent, then plunged ecstatically into the screaming trough of the next wave. He was a blue-water sailor by training and passion, but the
Queen Mary
was no trim little Wianno bucking whitecaps off the Cape; she was eighty thousand tons of heaving torture. Jack heaved with her. The groans of the riveted hull and the scream of the gale enfolded him in an iron fist. He tried once to stand, and cartwheeled in vertigo. At intervals, the steward Robbie’s face loomed over his, a spoon of hot bouillon in a wavering hand.

Jack had never crossed the Atlantic in winter before.

Seventy-five hours after he left New York, he opened his eyes, saw that his cabin had stopped reeling, and said,
“Fuck.”

“Yes, Mr. Jack,” Robbie replied from the service doorway, “it’s no wonder the Good Lord preferred to
walk
on water. Would you be wanting that deck chair, and a cup of tea?”

* * *

HE LAY UNDER HEAVY BLANKETS,
feet propped on cushions, while the tea cooled beside him. The neighboring chair cooled, too, without the benefit of Diana Playfair.

It was early morning, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, with a weak ball of sun still low on the horizon. Jack’s breath blew in a crystalline cloud; he kept his arms under cover and stared at the sea. Presently he would drink the tea and ask for some toast with it, which might give him energy enough to work his pocket knife into the flesh of his leg; he hadn’t had a dose of DOCA in three days, and that was too long. But for now, the smell of salt and ice on the clean air was enough. Periodically a man or a woman he did not know would stroll past him on the First Class Promenade Deck, walking a terrier or pushing a child on a trike. They all looked cheerful and well-fed, as though the three-day gale had focused its rage on Jack’s cabin and skipped the rest of the ship.

“Hey, sailor,” said a languid voice off his starboard side. “Care to give a girl a light?”

He turned his head and met the green glare of June Minart’s eyes. She was tricked out, head to toe, in fox furs and suede boots; a Cossack hat with a tassel perched rakishly over one eye.

“Miss Minart,” he said. “Are you a sight for sore eyes! I heard a rumor you were on this tub.”

“You’ve been hiding in that nasty old stateroom.” She pretended to pout, and glided genteelly toward him. He saw, then, that part of her fur sleeve was in fact a tiny dog huddled close to her breast, ratlike and shivering. A pink bow was tied to its head. Jack was allergic to dogs.

June sank down on the deck chair beside him, a cigarette poised in her gloved hand. He fumbled beneath the blankets and managed to locate his lighter. Another time, he’d have loomed over June, captivated her with a wisecrack and his famous smile, left her with quivering knees and a desperation to see him again—but today he felt too weak to bother. She was good at flirting—she was an artiste of the calculated come-on; and she thrust her round, ripe mouth right into Jack’s face. She clearly expected a kiss.

He lit her cigarette.

“Why’d you leave Radcliffe in the middle of term?” he asked.

“Mother thought I needed to get away. Before the Germans make it impossible to meet
anybody
in England anymore. She’s hoping your parents will introduce us to the right people in London. That’s why she’s been chasing you so hard.”

“Ah.” Jack was amused by June’s frankness; he’d come to expect social climbing from the women he met. “I’ll make sure Dad invites you to some parties.”

“There’s one tonight,” June said brightly as she exhaled, “in the Tourist lounge. A girl I know’s traveling cheap down there. You can pay a steward to let us through.”

The Minarts specialized in paying stewards. Jack resigned himself to escorting June; if he refused, her mother would go back to New York and tear the Kennedys to shreds. It was a hobby in certain circles, only surpassed by trashing Roosevelt.

“Cocktails, or later?”

“Oh, they drink most of the day—but Mother’s all over me like a wet slip until dinner.”

A wet slip.
Really.
“Shall we say nine, then?”

“That’d be swell, Jack.” She ground the cigarette under her heel. “Only don’t call for me at my cabin—or Mother will never let us go. She’ll do something silly, like offer you sherry. Mother’s always silly where men are concerned.”

“Let’s meet at the head of the Tourist gangway at nine, Miss Minart.”

“Oh, call me June, won’t you? It’s so much
friendlier
.” She leaned toward him, her rat of a dog spilling onto the blankets. Jack sneezed.

* * *

TOURIST WAS A NICER NAME
for what used to be called Third Class. Third Class, on the other hand, was what used to be called Steerage—a word so bitterly associated with impoverished immigration that no shipping line used it anymore.

The Tourist lounge was dense with smoke. Faces loomed through it like ghastly clowns in a funhouse. Jack was leading June through the murk. She teetered on high heels and he dodged a few bodies as they swayed to a Tommy Dorsey tune. He could feel sweat start up under his dinner jacket, and queasiness from the motion of the ship, more noticeable below the waterline. What had he eaten today? Jack tried not to think of it—or of the swaying bodies and the smell of June’s perfume, which was heavy with jasmine. He hated jasmine. It smelled like death. One of the poker players at the end of the lounge had a cigar. The fumes of tobacco and cheap whiskey mingled with the smell of death. His stomach turned over.

“Hey, kid,” he muttered, coming to a halt in the middle of the lounge. “D’ya see your friend? ’Cause if not, I’d like to get some air.”

“Lorna! Lorna
Doone
!” June squealed, and dropped his hand.

She rushed in her full flounced skirt toward a girl Jack could barely make out, and there was a lot of hugging and more squealing. The ship rolled and he was thrust suddenly against a stranger—a guy slightly shorter than himself, but ten times more solid, with a chest like a brick wall. He met the man’s cold blue eyes, registered blond hair, a scar bisecting the upper lip—and felt a hand close like a vise on his right arm. And then suddenly he was slugged, an iron hammer in the gut.

He doubled over, arms clutching his stomach. The vise loosened and he fell to his knees.

“Jack.”

He could not stand up. The ship rolled and heaved. He was going to vomit. Right there in the middle of Tourist Class.

“Jack.”

He opened his eyes. He was staring at a pair of knife-edged trousers. And he knew that voice.

“Dobler,” he croaked. “How’s tricks?”

The diplomat was lifting Jack now and urging him to move. “
Please.
Call me Willi. You are unwell?”

“I could use some air.”

A dense crowd of churning bodies, the heat, the promiscuous smells. He managed to let go of his gut, shuffling in a half crouch toward the cooler air of the passage, breathing heavily. Pain shafted through his abdomen to his lungs. He was propelled up the gangway to the Second Class Promenade Deck and hung on the rail. He hated his bitch of a body.

He was desperately and wrenchingly sick over the side of the ship.

Bitter cold, sharp as glass. The brine wash of the salt sea, far below the canyon wall of the
Queen Mary
. His entire digestive tract felt like it was being tossed over the side and he was probably puking blood. He should have gotten the DOCA into his leg sooner. Damn the Atlantic in February—

“How old are you, then?” she asked. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”

He pulled his head up from the rail.

Not Dobler, but Diana Playfair, standing tall as a French tulip in a sheer silk gown the color and texture of champagne. There were black velvet bows looped in the champagne and the black jet of her hair fell like a curtain on her porcelain brow. Her arms were bare and the skin was shuddering with cold. He ought to do something about that. It wasn’t right that she was freezing because somebody’d slugged him in the gut.

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

“Willi’s gone for a glass of water. I said I’d stay.”

“Willi got the better of that deal.”

“He usually does.” She was hugging herself now, her beautiful shoulders hunched in the frigid air. “He said you’re one of Ambassador Kennedy’s boys. What do they call you?”

“Jack.”

“I’m Diana Playfair.”

“I know.” He shrugged out of his dinner jacket and draped it carefully over her shoulders. “I made a point of learning your name after I lit your cigarette.”

“What cigarette?” Her fingers lifted his lapel, her shoulders relaxing a trifle in the jacket’s warmth.

“The one you smoked as we pulled out of New York. In a pencil skirt and a swan of a hat.”

“Ah. The Promenade Deck.” The memory pleased her. Probably because she’d walked away from him so coolly.

“I had to know the name of something that beautiful. Before it vanished forever.”

Arrested, she ran her eyes over his thin frame, the stark white of his dress shirt against the blackened sea. “Exactly how old are you, Jack Kennedy?”

He smiled crookedly. “Older than I look.”

NINE.
THE WARNING

THEY CARRIED HIM OFF
to Diana’s stateroom and watched while he swallowed a couple of aspirins with a snifter of brandy.

“You were
punched?
” Diana repeated. “By a complete stranger? The man must have been drunk.”

She sank into a chair and crossed her legs. The champagne gown was slit to the thigh. Her pumps were black velvet. In between was a sleek expanse of skin.

“Don’t ask.” He dragged his eyes from Diana and set his brandy glass carefully on a table. The stateroom was far more feminine than his—a dressing gown was spread across the turned-down berth, a pair of gilt slippers perched beneath it. An elusive scent teased the air; the scent of Diana’s skin, as he remembered her standing in darkness.

“What were you two doing down in Tourist anyway?”

She shrugged. “Looking for a bit of fun.”

“And found me.” His mouth twisted. “I’m grateful to you both. You turned up right before that joker decided to finish the job. I don’t suppose you got a look at his face?”

Diana’s gaze drifted from Jack to Dobler, who was leaning against the cabin door smoking pensively. The German sighed and slid into the remaining armchair. Jack waited while he arranged himself, his cigarette, the crease in his trousers. Then Dobler said, “I may have. Describe him, if you please.”

Jack closed his eyes. The brandy was settling badly in his stomach. “He was shorter than I am, but about twice my weight. Not,” he admitted, “that that’s difficult. Chest like steel, a fist like a pile driver.”

“Coloring? Features? . . . Nationality?”

Jack’s eyes flickered open. Dobler’s arm was bent upward at the elbow, the smoke from his Dunhill masking his face.

“You sound like a cop, Willi. Next you’ll be asking for my driver’s license.”

“Was he blond? Brown-eyed? An Italian tough?”

“—Blue,” Jack said sharply. “His eyes were blue and cold as ice. And yes, he was blond. Very . . .
Aryan
.”

“Aryan,” Dobler repeated evenly.

“You know the type.”

“I do,” the German agreed. “But are you suggesting he was German?”

“No idea. He didn’t speak.”

“Old? Young?”

“Late twenties, early thirties, I’d say. And he had an inch-long scar through his upper lip, like he’d been in a nasty knife fight once.”

Dobler went very still, his eyes fixed on Jack as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. Then he leaned forward and discarded his ash. There was a silence that was not entirely comfortable.

“Look—he probably
was
drunk,” Jack said harshly. “Or he’s just a thug who gets his kicks beating up complete strangers. It’s not that uncommon. In Tourist Class.”

Dobler glanced at Diana. “Have
you
run into his kind before, my dear?—In Tourist Class?”

She gazed at him blandly. “Give me a cigarette, Willi.”

He tossed her a gold case and looked back at Jack. “You should be in bed. I’ll walk with you.”

“I can manage, thanks.” Jack forced himself to his feet, pain creasing his abdomen.

“Still—I’ll walk with you.” Dobler bowed to Diana and kissed her hand. “Good night,
charmante
.”

Jack simply stood, aware of a slight, singing tension in the air because she breathed it. She returned his dinner jacket, neatly folded. Her dark eyes met his, and a line of fire moved from his gut to his throat. It was impossible to speak; and he was never at a loss for words.

Dobler smiled faintly and steered him like a fractious child through the stateroom door.

* * *

“HOW DO YOU KNOW
the Old Man?” Jack demanded abruptly as they made their way around the First Class deck toward his cabin. His was on the port side, Diana’s was starboard. He’d made a point of memorizing her cabin number.

“Your father? I told you. I’m at the embassy.”

“Not Dad. FDR.”

There was a pause. “I do not think we should discuss such things out here in the open.”

Jack laughed, then winced with pain. “It’s the middle of the goddamn night, Willi. You think anybody’s listening? Your Aryan friend with the ugly scar?”

Dobler’s grip on his arm tightened. “If you hope to serve your president, Jack, learn when to shut your mouth.”

“What do you know about my president?”

The German halted in front of Jack’s cabin and waited while he searched for his key. When he’d found it, Dobler’s hand grasped the knob. “Allow me.”

The German’s other hand was in his pocket, and with a sudden sense of unreality Jack knew he held a pistol. In sheer disbelief he stepped back as Dobler eased through the door.

“Christ,” Jack muttered. “Who the hell
do
you work for?”

“It’s all right,” Dobler said. “There’s no one here.”

“I asked you a question.”

The German smiled his thin smile. “I’ve already answered it.
I’m with the German embassy.
Come inside, Jack.”

He obeyed. Dobler shut the stateroom door behind him.

“Today is the first of March,” he said. “You know that we’re scheduled to make Cherbourg and Southampton tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I strongly suggest that you remain in your cabin until we do. Is someone meeting you at the dock?”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe Dad’ll send a car. If not, I’ll catch the London train. I’m a big boy, Willi.”

“The White Spider is bigger.”

“The
what
?”

“The man who punched you tonight. From your description, I think that’s who it is. Although there’s no one by his true name on the passenger list. I made sure of that before we sailed. Which means he’s traveling on a false passport.”

“He’s a crook?”

“No, no. He’s a killer.” Dobler’s gaze skimmed Jack’s face, and then he chose his words carefully. “You are fortunate it was a fist he jammed into your stomach this evening. Usually it’s a knife. I have seen a few of the bodies. He likes to cut his mark into his victim’s chest—a crouching spider.”

Jack said nothing for an instant, taking it in. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“Absolutely.
Yes.
You should be afraid of no one so much as this man.”

“Then lock him up,” Jack said brusquely.

“The White Spider has extremely influential friends. I could not touch him. I would die an unpleasant death if I tried.”

Jack stared at Dobler, convinced he had stumbled into a movie. Something with Peter Lorre.

“I’m not lying to you,” Dobler said gently.

“Why’s he called the White Spider?”

Dobler was examining the stateroom’s portholes, testing their bolts. He moved on to the door. “Because he survived it. It’s an ice field high on the North Face of the Eiger. Hitler is determined that an Aryan youth must be the first to conquer the Eiger’s North Face. It has never been done. He’s thrown any number of boys to their deaths because of it.”

“I remember now,” Jack said. He slumped onto the end of his bed and unknotted his tie. “A whole bunch of Germans died on that mountain a few years back—in ’36, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. This man claims to have been with them, and to have reached the top. But as no one else lived to authenticate the climb. . . . Good night, Jack. Lock your door behind me. And do not open it until your steward comes in the morning.”

“Where are you going?”

He sounded young and belligerent, even in his own ears.

“To find out why the Spider is on this ship. I thought he was in Poland.”

* * *

IF YOU HOPE TO SERVE
your president, Jack, learn when to shut your
mouth.

So Willi knew Roosevelt had recruited him to spy. And when Jack pressed him about
how
he knew, he’d successfully changed the subject: telling bedtime stories about bogeymen in the mountains, who hid long knives up their sleeves.

He was very good, Willi; he’d obviously been at this game a long time.

Jack gave him ten minutes. Then he slipped through his cabin’s service door and moved noiselessly down the passage.