Jack 1939 (9 page)

FIFTEEN.
DRESSING FOR AMERICA

“JACK!”
His father looked up irritably from his desk. “That’s a helluva shiner. And you haven’t even been in London twenty-four hours, for chrissake.”

It was the first time Jack had seen his dad since landing in Southampton. They’d both returned to Prince’s Gate so late last night they’d missed each other at breakfast. But Joe Kennedy made no move to greet him. No bear hug or handshake from the Bronxville Shark. “The papers say you threw a punch at some poor bastard in the 400. What the hell were you thinking?”

“He . . . insulted Kick.”

“Kick can take care of herself. Whereas
you
just embarrassed the whole family. A public brawl? From the American ambassador’s son? You know what kind of damage that does to my reputation, Jack? They’ll say it’s because you’re an Irish lout. No couth. No background. Most Brits are just
looking
for a reason to write us all off. And on your first night back in London, you gave them one.” Joe whipped his wire-rimmed spectacles from his face and tossed them petulantly on his desk. “Your brother would never throw a punch in public, I can tell you that. He knows what he owes the Kennedy name.”

A wave of heat rose in Jack’s face, along with a memory—sharp as though etched in glass—of Joe systematically pummeling the face of Ritchie Sanborn in the dirt of the Dexter School playground while he took bets from the crowd of watching boys. Joe beat up somebody nearly every day and Jack made a fortune in marbles, the betting currency of nine-year-olds. Brawling was what the WASP kids expected from Joe, who was perpetually as tough and hearty as Jack was pale and ill. The other boys taunted and ridiculed the Irish Catholic Kennedys daily until the fighting began. Then they lined up to watch.

“I’m sorry if I let you down,” he said.

“It’s time to
grow up
, Jack.” Joe shuffled some papers, refusing to meet his eyes. “We’re all tired of your screwups. Joe’s risking his life in Spain, you know—and doing
good work
. I read his reports to the folks at Nancy Astor’s last weekend, and the Cliveden Set was mighty impressed, I can tell you. When Joe says this Franco’s the only hope for pushing the Communist thugs out of town, high-level Brits sit up and take notice. And by high level, I mean Chamberlain’s
cabinet
.”

“You read Joe’s letters to Chamberlain’s cabinet?”

“Nancy thinks I should get them published,” Joe retorted. “I’m working on Henry Luce over at
Time
right now. But as for you, son—straighten up and fly right. You can’t be an embarrassment forever. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jack said.

Joe nodded brusquely and reached for a file. Son dismissed. Jack stood there, awkward as only his father could make him.

“It’s swell to be back. Not much has changed—except your walls, of course.”

His father had inherited a large office on the American embassy’s second floor, swathed in pale blue silk. He’d replaced what he contemptuously called “the fairy look” with oak paneling. The room overlooked Grosvenor Square, where already the gardens were being sacrificed to a British trench crew. There were trenches in Hyde Park, too, and the streetlamps were being painted black. London feared attack from the air, delivered without warning or a declaration of war.

His father glanced at him; something in his face softened. “Need a beefsteak for that eye?”

Jack’s left socket was swollen, the skin every kind of color.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I hope the other guy looks worse.”

Jack smiled faintly. There was no way on earth he could begin to explain the White Spider to Joe Kennedy.

“How was your crossing?”

“Lousy. I spent most of it in bed.”

“—And slept in everything you own.” His father scanned him briefly. “Those clothes are a mess. Get down to Poole’s right away and order some things that fit. You’ll need lounge suits, morning dress, white tie and tails. And a pair of silk knee breeches.”

“A pair of
what
?” Jack demanded, revolted.

His father’s mouth twisted. “It’s queer as hell, I know. But that’s England all over. Tell Poole’s you need everything by middle of next week—we’re flying to Paris.”

Paris.
Jack’s pulse quickened.
Diana.

“I want to chat up Bill Bullitt on this Munich business—get the French view.” Bullitt was Roosevelt’s ambassador to France. “Then we’re heading to Rome for the Pope.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“And his successor’s about to be crowned,” Joe said patiently. “Roosevelt’s asked me to attend. I’m the most prominent Catholic in the diplomatic corps.”

“Swell.” A papal mass. At the Vatican.
That
would last the better part of an entire day. Standing and kneeling, standing and kneeling, while the incense settled in his hair.

“Your brothers and sisters are coming later, by train. Mother’s flying in from Egypt.”

“When’s the . . . coronation?”

“Next Sunday. March twelfth.”

“How long will we have in Paris?”

“A few days.”

“And when will the rest of the family get there?”

His father shrugged. “Next Friday?” He leaned toward him conspiratorially. “How’s about you and I paint Paris red? Folies Bergère? Or there’s Josephine Baker. I hear she’s something
else
.”

“We ought to take Kick with us,” Jack said suddenly. “On the plane. Instead of sending her with the kids.”

Joe Kennedy frowned. “Put kind of a damper on the Folies Bergère, don’t you think?”

“Well, maybe, but—”

How to say
I don’t want to leave her alone
? He’d watched his little sister like a hawk last night, urging her whole glittering group of friends to abandon the 400 Club for the Café de Paris, glancing back through the black cab’s rear window to make sure no blond-headed thug was following. He was terrified Kick would wander off, with only Billy between herself and a knife.

“She’d like a few days in Paris,” he said lamely. “Shopping.”

“Judging by the bills I’ve paid, she gets over there often enough.” His father clapped him on the shoulder again. “This is a
stag
trip, Jack. Now get outta here and order your clothes. I don’t want to see you again until you’re presentable. You’re dressing for
America
, remember?”

Jack went. Poole’s was not all that far from the German embassy. He could look up Willi Dobler on his way.

* * *

A KID WITH A BLEMISHED FACE
and a
feldgrau
Nazi uniform told him in heavily accented English that he was in the wrong building. This was the
embassy
, Number 9 Carlton Terrace. Herr Dobler worked in number 8.

Jack didn’t ask what they called number 8. He thought he had a pretty good idea.

He gave his card to a bland individual in an impeccable suit, who eyed his wrinkled jacket dubiously. “May I ask why you wish to see Herr Dobler?”

The accent, this time, was Oxbridge; and the boredom in the drawl was familiar from a hundred London parties.

“We met on the
Queen Mary
. He suggested I stop by.”

“Ah. You’re one of
those
.” The cool eyes surveyed him again; the lips quirked with amusement. “Aren’t you Ambassador Kennedy’s son?”

“He has a few.” What did the guy mean,
you’re one of those
? “Could you tell Herr Dobler I’m here?”

Jack waited while the man’s shoes clicked down a marble hallway and disappeared through a door; number 8’s business was conducted at the rear of the building. And probably, Jack thought, through antennae on the roof.

He shifted from one foot to another, his right thigh throbbing. The small pocket he’d carved in the muscle for his DOCA tablets was red now and sensitive to the touch; probably an infection. He’d have to abandon it and cut a new flap of skin elsewhere. In the meantime it was growing uncomfortable to stand. There were no chairs arranged before the reception desk; building number 8 discouraged visitors. But an Ionic column thoughtfully supported a corner of the foyer; Jack retreated and leaned against it. He glanced at his watch. How much time would his father mentally accord him for ordering clothes?

The door at the far end of the hall opened quietly. Willi Dobler strode toward him, neat and elegant; before he’d even reached the desk, his hand was extended.

“Jack! What an unexpected pleasure! Have you had luncheon yet?”

The languid Oxbridge man followed behind; the scent of his cigarette wafted across the foyer. Jack was conscious of him watching Dobler. Watching them both.

“I’ve barely had breakfast. I was out late last night—at the 400 Club. But you know that, don’t you? Your friend the Spider probably reported already. He’s stalking my sister.”

A silence; Dobler’s smile faded slightly; his eyes slid over Jack’s bruises, slid away. Jack read something like nervousness in his face.

“I want his name,” he said.

“Whose name, my dear fellow?”

“The Spider’s. Because if I see him near my sister again—or anyone else in my family—I’m calling the police. I’ll have him arrested for harassment.
Questioned
by people who count in the British government. Got it?”

His voice was rising and it echoed around the marble walls of Number 8 Carleton Terrace; Dobler glanced over his shoulder. The Oxbridge man eased around him and confronted Jack.

“Perhaps you should go, Mr. Kennedy. We wouldn’t want another unpleasant . . . incident. On your first day in your father’s service. You’ve done enough damage already.”

They read the papers. They knew about the fight, of course. They’d like him to think they knew everything.

“Give me his name, goddamn you.”

“Jack.”
Dobler slipped an arm casually around his shoulders, turned him toward the door. “You’re under some sort of misapprehension, I’m afraid. Too much champagne at the club last night, yes? I’m sorry to hear your sister was . . . bothered, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, and I think my colleague is right. It’s best that you leave. Sleep it off, hmm? Clear your head?”

“If I see him again,” Jack muttered for Dobler’s ears alone, “I go to the police. If he
touches
her, I’ll kill him myself. Understand?”

“But of course!” Dobler cried. “I’ll look forward to it, with pleasure!” He was smiling as he reached for the door, but Jack saw the strain in his eyes. Maybe he’d called the German’s bluff. Maybe the Spider would disappear.

It was only when he reached Henry Poole & Company, in Savile Row, that he found the folded paper Willi had slipped into his pocket.

Rules,
it said.
Seven o’clock.

SIXTEEN.
STRATEGIES AND REINFORCEMENTS

“HOOVER’S PUT A NAME
to that corpse,” Sam Schwartz said to the President. “He sent this over.” He handed Roosevelt a manila envelope with
Urgent
stamped on it.

Roosevelt raised an eyebrow. “Is Ed avoiding me, Sam? Did my little barb about
friends
shoot home?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“But you can think.” His spatulate fingers fumbled with the red string sealing the buff-colored flap.

“Mr. Hoover may be devoting his time to legitimate business, sir. Now that Mr. Kennedy’s back in London.”

Roosevelt peered into the envelope and withdrew a sheaf of paper. “Good Lord. Ed has typed up everything there is to know about this poor man. Did you find any of his bugs, by the way?”

Schwartz’s brown eyes shifted to his. His expression was carefully wooden. “Only one, sir. A wiretap on a telephone.”

“Clever Edgar! In this office, I suppose?”

“No, sir. Next to Miss LeHand’s bed.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Roosevelt’s fingers tightened on the arms of his wheelchair. Schwartz knew just how often he was with Missy. Neither of them had to discuss it. The damn phone probably had some kind of device that recorded pillow talk as well as Missy’s calls. All of it set down in one of Hoover’s secret files. The man wanted an iron grip on Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s neck.

“How offensive,” he said at last. “And how consummately stupid.”

“You could have him arrested. Section 605 of the 1934 Federal Communications Act explicitly states that
no person not being authorized by the sender shall intercept any communication and divulge or publish the existence, contents, substance, purpose, effect, or meaning of such intercepted communications—
”

“—to any person,” Roosevelt finished. “Particularly Nazi agents.”

What Schwartz did not know, the President reflected, was that he had played both sides of Section 605 himself, with Hoover as willing accomplice. Nearly three years ago he’d summoned the FBI director to the White House for a private chat about the investigation of “subversives,” particularly Fascists and Communists. Ever since the American Liberty League had reared its ugly head, he’d wanted somebody monitoring political threats. He’d never have learned about Göring’s cash network otherwise. He’d chosen not to ask how Hoover got his information.

“If I know Edgar,” he said, “there will be no way in hell to link that wiretap to his shop. We’ll never prove it in court. Gist the goddamn report he sent over, Sam.”

Schwartz took the sheaf of paper. Roosevelt was aware of the keenness of his bodyguard’s mind, the acuity of his focus. No hint of embarrassment about the distressing news he’d just conveyed. Schwartz was a professional, and his detachment was reassuring.

“Charles Atwater,” he recited. “Manhattan attorney with a wife and two kids in Pelham. Thirty-four years old. Yale graduate. Reported missing by a business associate in London when he failed to arrive there March second. Embarked as a passenger on the
Queen Mary—
the February twenty-fourth sailing—and his Tourist Class ticket was stamped that day in New York. Bureau thinks he was knifed and thrown off the ship before it passed Ellis Island.”

“Does the fellow have ties to Nazi Germany?”

Schwartz thumbed through the sheaf of paper. “Hoover’s boys can’t find any. None to Göring’s cash network, either.”

“In short, the man was killed for no reason.”

“Everybody’s killed for
something
.” Schwartz glanced up. “This is odd, sir. A Charles Atwater also
dis
embarked at Southampton.”

“Did he, indeed?”

“But the wife in Pelham has positively identified the corpse as her husband.”

“How tragic for her,” Roosevelt murmured. “This Spider fellow is very clever, Sam. Killed his man, tossed him overboard, and proceeded to travel to London in style as Atwater himself. He must look rather like the dead man—or close enough to survive passport inspection.”

“Hoover’s asked Scotland Yard to keep an eye out for Atwater’s papers.”

“Which our man will have tossed by now, of course. Someone else will have to die, if the White Spider needs to leave England.” He met Sam’s watchful eyes. “Let’s hope it’s not young Jack.”

“He wouldn’t kill the ambassador’s son for his passport.”

“He might do it for attention. Remember the mark cut into his victims’ flesh. The signature. He likes attention.” Roosevelt was silent an instant, thinking. “It’s no coincidence this killer embarked on the
Queen Mary
. Hoover says he thinks the Nazis know the Bureau is on to their network—which is his way of telling me there’s a Bureau leak, somewhere. And I’m beginning to think the leak extends to my office. The Spider knows I’ve recruited Jack. He intended to make contact with him on that ship.”

“It’s possible, sir.”

“Then I’ve put the boy in considerably more danger than I meant to.” His mouth set in a hard line. “Get me Wild Bill, Sam. We need to powwow. We need strategies and reinforcements.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wild Bill was General William J. Donovan, a retired war hero and Wall Street financier. He and Roosevelt were at opposite ends of the social and political spectrum—Donovan was Irish Catholic like J. P. Kennedy, a Republican who’d campaigned against FDR—but Wild Bill’s friends were varied and useful. He knew people in British Intelligence. And the President was willing to use them.

“Tell me, Sam,” Roosevelt was saying. “If nobody but Missy and my Secret Service detail knew about that meeting with Jack Kennedy beneath the Waldorf, how did the Nazis find out? We can’t blame the State department this time.”

Schwartz frowned. “Mr. President—I can vouch for myself and my men. None of us have been talking to German agents.”

“But one of you might have talked to Ed Hoover, perhaps?”

“Not even Hoover’s dough can buy him love, sir. The guy wants our jobs,” Schwartz retorted contemptuously. “And Miss LeHand—”

“—Was tucked up in bed with Dashiell Hammett. Just out of curiosity, Sam, how much dough
has
Edgar offered you boys?”

“Never enough.”

“Then he’s getting his news the old-fashioned way.”

“Eavesdropping? On the President of the United States?” Schwartz reddened. “That’s
treason
.”

“He’ll make us prove it.” Roosevelt flashed his shark’s grin. “Let me think about Edgar, Sam. And in the meantime—check the Pullman for a wiretap. Perhaps we can use it to hang him.”