The British Lion (21 page)

“Frank?”

“Yes.”

“I told her nothing, Frank.” Eric’s voice barely carried the few inches between them.

“Her?”

“The woman, I told her nothing.” Eric paused. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

“Eric?” King leaned forward slightly.

“I’m so glad you came for me.”

King looked down at Eric and stroked his hair, and Eric died.

The blood around him had painted the snow, framing him with butterfly wings that sparkled with broken glass.

King gently touched Eric’s cheek.

He’d gotten a dumb kid killed.

Shit.

He breathed, he looked at Eric, and then in the distance he heard a policeman’s whistle.

He took another look at Eric and then the house.

The whistle sounded again, ghostly, seeming to come from the gray cloud above.

King wanted to go into the house to make them pay.

He gritted his teeth and let out a low moan.

The whistle sounded again, and then he heard another from the other direction, coming to assist.

He had to go.

He started to jog away, looking once over his shoulder at Eric, and then running faster.

MA PRICE AND
the Prof crouched behind the front door. She held a Browning Hi Power pistol as she pressed the wound on the Prof’s shoulder, trying to slow the bleeding.

“I think it went through Kenny and hit me.” The Prof’s voice was high. Shock was setting in.

Ma Price listened to the police whistles. They sounded close.

“I feel faint . . .” The Prof shivered.

“I’m going to go check to see if he’s gone,” Price whispered, and the Prof nodded.

He choked back another shiver, slid down the door, and lay with his head resting on the back of his hand.

Ma Price made her way as quickly as she could up the stairs and into the front bedroom. She hung back as far as she could from the window, standing on tiptoes to look out into the street, the Browning pointing up at the ceiling, next to her ear.

By the time she could see out of the broken window, she was certain whoever had been shooting at them was long gone.

The whistles again, closer. Time was ticking. Below, down in the snow, lay three men, surrounded by blood that looked like ink dropped into water.

She saw Mustache kick a leg, trying to push himself up and failing, no doubt aware of the approaching whistles and trying to get away.

The shooter was nowhere to be seen. Curious neighbors were coming out of their houses now. Ma Price cursed and quickly headed downstairs. She ran as fast as her chunky legs could carry her into the back room of the house, grabbed her coat and bag, and then went back to the hallway.

The Prof looked terrible.

He was shaking as he held his hand against the hole in his shoulder. He held the bony, bloody hand up and gestured that she should help him up from behind the door. Ma Price obliged. Taking a grip with two hands she dragged him clear, then helped him sit at the foot of the stairs.

The Prof coughed, his head drooped forward, and some blood spattered his grimy white shirt.

“Give me a minute.”

“We ain’t got a minute.”

“I just need to catch my breath.”

“You need to get up; I can’t leave you here for the police to find.”

“Give me a minute.”

Another whistle, so close that they both looked at the door, as if it was about to crash open.

The Prof looked at Price and raised his blood-soaked hand to her. “Help me up.” He wafted with his hand again, less than convincingly.

Price sadly shook her head and shot him dead before he could realize what was happening.

“I’m sorry, Prof,” she said as he slid off the step onto the floor.

Ma Price tugged at the door handle to free it of the jamb and stepped out into the street, slipping her pistol into her coat. The bystanders had scattered slightly at the sound of the final shot. Ma Price ignored them and took in the scene in the street. Nobody was moving now. She stared at Mustache, trying to see if he was dead. Ma Price didn’t like loose ends.

She looked at the few onlookers still floating around but keeping their distance and avoiding eye contact. She held her ground, letting them know she wasn’t scared, that she knew who they were, where they lived; letting them know she could snuff them out now or later.

It was up to them.

Another whistle.

Ma Price walked away.

Not too fast, always in control.

CHAPTER 27

S
OMEONE, A LONG
time ago in a country even farther away, had once told Allen Dulles that no matter where you were in the world, the air you breathed in an American embassy tasted of freedom.

That person had wafted his cigar and leaned forward in his seat; spilling some whiskey on his leg, he had looked deep into Dulles’s eyes and pushed home the point.

“We are the future, we are the hope for the world, and we’ll make it a better place so that one day everyone will know the taste of good old American free air.”

Dulles had watched the cigar jabbing the American air and nodded.

He’d nodded because back then, he had believed it to be true.

Right now?

Right now, he wasn’t so sure.

He drew on his own cigar, looked at his own glass of whiskey, and shook his head.

Dulles got out of the chair and walked to the window of his Mayfair apartment. Somewhere out there was King, somewhere out there was Dulles’s future, and somewhere out there was America’s future.

He sighed again, turned away from the window, then stopped, paused, and then turned back, looking down into the street below.

Two long, fat, beetle-black American cars were double-parked outside the apartment block. Dulles had guessed they’d be coming, but he hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

He opened the front door of the apartment and waited, listening to the echoing steps of the men trotting up the stairs. He recognized Captain Bryan from the embassy security team leading the way, all square jawed and certain. Dulles had known Bryan’s father back in New York; he was an asshole as well.

At the back of the group came Kennedy, taking his time, methodically working his way up till he got to the top.

Kennedy all over.

“Allen.”

“Joe.”

“May we come in?”

“Please.” Dulles stepped back and let the five of them into the small hallway.

Before Dulles closed the door he looked down the stairs, feeling a strange loneliness that he wasn’t expecting. The click of the latch sounded louder than he remembered it ever sounding before.

The air tasted the same, though.

Cigars and whiskey, the smell of freedom.

Only Kennedy and Dulles entered the sitting room; the rest of the men took up station in the kitchen with instructions to help themselves to whatever they wanted.

Kennedy took the offered Scotch from Dulles, then sat at one end of the floral and gilt settee nearest the window. Dulles placed his cigar in an ashtray and took his seat on the armchair in the center of the room, directly opposite Kennedy.

“You were expecting us, Allen?”

“I saw your cars out the window.”

“So you weren’t expecting us?”

Dulles smiled. “You’re sharp, Joe.”

Kennedy smiled back.

Dulles swirled his Scotch, listening to the ice rattle in the glass. The two men sat quietly for a minute, listening to the clock on the mantelpiece.

Finally Kennedy broke the silence.

“You’ve been a good advisor to me, Allen. I’ve enjoyed your counsel. We’ve worked well together.”

“You haven’t listened to me, though.”

“Oh, no, I’ve listened, Allen. I really have. You’re a smart man, and I’d be a fool not to.”

“But?”

“You can be smart and still be wrong.” Kennedy sipped his whiskey.

“So can you, Joe.”

Kennedy chuckled. “I’m not smart, Allen, not like you. I see things simply. I play the game in front of me. I don’t try to change the rules as I go along.”

“It isn’t a game, Joe.”

“See? That’s where you are wrong again.” Kennedy chuckled and shook his head. “It is a game, that’s exactly what it is.”

“People are dying.”

Kennedy raised a hand and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. Although people have always died, people always will, it’s what they do.”

“People are being crushed.”

“They always have been. It’s up to them to do something about it if they don’t like it.”

“It isn’t a game for them.”

“Chess wouldn’t work without pawns.”

“Jesus, Joe.”

Kennedy put his glass on the arm of the settee, then shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his jacket from under him.

“Why did you get into politics, Allen?”

“I’m a diplomat.”

“Ah, don’t give me that shit; seriously, I don’t want to hear it. There is no such thing as a diplomat. A diplomat is just a politician who is scared to voice his own opinion.”

“Speak for yourself, Joe.”

Kennedy shook his head and looked back out the window. The light from the window bounced off his glasses, making his eyes hard to see.

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture, Allen, which is the sad thing for me; you’re just not getting it.”

“Getting it?”

“The world is changing. Politics, diplomacy, people, all of it, the whole thing is changing.”

“I see that, Joe.”

“No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. President Lindbergh? He gets it, I get it, Washington gets it, and the American people get it, but you don’t. You and the people behind you, you just don’t get it. The fascists have won, and they did us a favor on the way to victory, when they saw off Stalin with his communists and his Jews. Okay, we’ve got Hitler to deal with now, and I’ll grant you he is a . . . a curious man, but he wants to be our friend. He needs America. We’re brothers. And this is the thing I want you to remember, the thing you don’t understand: we need him.”

“America needs Hitler?”

“You’re damn right we do.” Kennedy leaned forward and lifted a finger toward Dulles. “He’s showing us how to get things done. He’s showing us how to deal with those who don’t work for what is best for the country.”

“Like who?”

“The communists, the colored, and the kikes. The bastards working behind the scenes, those who want to undo what has taken us generations to get right. He’s shown us how to deal with them.”

“By locking them up and throwing away the key? By killing them?”

“Yes!” Kennedy held out the palms of his hands, and for a moment Dulles thought he was going to knock the Scotch onto the floor. “It’s for the good of the country, for the good of the people. Hitler and Lindbergh know what is for the best.”

“Taking away freedom?”

“Oh, come on, Allen.” Kennedy sat back again, picking up his drink. “Freedom? What is it, really? You think those Brits out there feel any worse off under Mosley than they did under Chamberlain?” Kennedy was pointing with the Scotch toward the window, and Dulles looked out, even though he knew what was there.

“The rich are still rich and the poor are still poor. Only difference is there is nobody trying to spoil that balance.”

“They were free under Chamberlain.”

“You sure about that?”

“They could vote him out if they didn’t like him.”

“And vote another one in to take his place. You’ve seen them. They’re all the same. How many of those guys swept the streets before they got elected?”

Dulles didn’t reply.

“Yeah . . . that many. At least with Hitler and Mosley at the helm they know where they stand.”

“What about us then, Joe? Would you have the same for America? President for Life Lindbergh?”

“I can think of worst things. America would be working, people would have their place, they’d have their lives, and their future would be secure. The country would be secure, run by people who knew what they were doing.”

Dulles shook his head as Kennedy continued, lowering his voice slightly. “You’ve been to Germany; you’ve seen how it is there. The new Berlin is taking shape. People are happy, now that things are settling down.”

“You really believe that, Joe?”

“I’ve seen it!”

“What about the rest of Europe and Africa? Does that look happy to you?”

“You have to give things time. People will find a level as they adjust.” Kennedy waved his hand toward the window. “Once they know their place, they’ll settle into it.”

“You’re wrong, Joe. People will never settle into it.”

“They will, they already are. Oh, sure, you’re going to have your troublemakers, I understand that, but if enough people get the message . . .” Kennedy removed his glasses and gestured at Dulles with them. “If we can show them what we want, push it till they see the truth, till they understand that we know best . . . they’ll do what they have to and thank us for our work. We just need everyone at the top to be on board. Which, I’m afraid, brings me to you.”

Kennedy polished his glasses with his tie and then put them back on. He picked up his Scotch, sipped it, and carefully placed it back on the arm of the couch.

“I’ve spoken to Washington. As you can imagine, they are very unhappy; they want you home on the next flight. You’ve opened a can of worms over here, made it very difficult for us, so I need you to tell me what the situation is, so I can try to close this down and patch things up.”

Dulles looked at the carpet and gave a slight shake of his head; he chewed his bottom lip and then turned back to Kennedy.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“The operation is dead in the water, Allen.”

“America needs that scientist.”

“But not the trouble she will cause.”

“We can’t fall behind.”

“We aren’t under threat.” Kennedy raised his voice for the first time. “Don’t you see that? Germany is our friend; you’re making them our enemy. You are the enemy, you and the people behind you. Lindbergh wants the Germans, needs the Germans as an ally, and allies don’t steal secrets from each other.”

“I’m sorry, Joe, I truly am, but I’m not telling you anything.”

“You’re going to leave Frank King spinning in the wind?”

“Frank’s a good man. He’ll find a way.”

“A way to what? He can’t go home; he can’t come back into the embassy. What is he going to do with this scientist, build a goddamned bomb in a hotel room and threaten Hitler with it?”

“He can go to Canada,” Dulles said quietly.

Kennedy chuckled. “You think the government in exile will help him? The British resistance blew you out of the water; it was them who told me what was going on.”

“Canada will see her importance.”

“You’re a fool, Allen.”

“I believe in democracy, Joe. I believe in the Constitution.”

“Like I said . . . you’re a fool.”

“WHO IS SPEAKING,
please?”

“Just connect me to Allen Dulles.”

“May I ask what the call is in connection with, and who is speaking?”

King looked out the window of the call box, and then back at pile of damp phone books on the shelf in front of him.

He’d been calling Dulles’s private numbers for over a year, and not once had someone ever asked him what the call was in connection with. King either spoke directly to Dulles or was put through to his private flat if he wasn’t in his office.

Something was wrong.

“Who is this?” King asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Finch, embassy security. Who am I speaking to, and what is your call in connection with?”

Frank King slammed the phone receiver down, then picked it up and then slammed it down again. He rested his forehead in his hands and then drew them slowly down his face as if scraping thick paint from his skin.

Embassy security asking questions at Allen Dulles’s apartment meant Allen Dulles was answering questions somewhere else.

Frank King was alone.

He turned ninety degrees and rested his back against the windows of the phone box, his hands now hanging by their fingertips from his jaw as the cold glass pressed against the crown of his head.

He was finished.

He sighed, dropped his hands, and shook his head.

No.

He was never finished.

He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, held it, then took some more change for the phone out of his pocket.

He listened for the tone and then dialed the guard room number at the embassy. It rang once. He breathed out, steadied himself, breathed in, and smiled.

“Guard room.”

King recognized the voice as belonging to an old salt of a marine sergeant named Bob Fisher.

“Fisher? It’s Frank King, I’m trying to get hold of Allen Dulles but I can’t get an answer on his line. Do you know where he is?” King kept on smiling, letting his expression lighten his voice.

There was a pause.

“People are looking for you, sir.”

“Yeah . . . I know that, I need to speak to Dulles to sort things out.”

“Umm, I haven’t seen or heard of him today, sir.”

“You don’t sound too certain there, Bob.”

“People have left messages for you, sir. Pretty urgent messages.”

The smile slipped a little on King’s face. “What people?”

“Umm, pretty much everyone, sir, from the ambassador’s office down.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was told to let you know about the messages and that’s all.”

“Hey, come on, Bob. Nothing happens in that place without you knowing what’s going on.” King had made a career on developing relationships, all the way down and all the way up the chain of command. He was everyone’s pal, everyone’s buddy in the bar, and he hoped all those drinks he’d bought would start paying off.

They did.

Fisher lowered his voice. “It’s a rumor sir, just a rumor, but I heard Mr. Dulles is under house arrest.”

“What?” The smile was now most definitely gone.

“It’s just what I heard; they took a squad over there an hour ago.”

“They?”

“The ambassador, Captain Bryan, and some men, they all went over to his apartment.”

“Why?”

“I’ve no idea, sir, and you never heard that from me, okay?”

“They want to speak to me?”

“Bryan telephoned down here himself, sir, said if you were to call, we were to tell you to come in right away.” Fisher was whispering now.

King turned his head an inch and looked out the window of the call box at the people passing by.

“Dulles is at his apartment?”

“You never heard this from me, sir.”

“Is Dulles at his apartment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With the ambassador?”

“I think so.”

“Who is in his office?”