The Wilson Deception (4 page)

“I heard you guys. Back in Spartanburg.”

“Spartanburg.” Carr shook his head. “I guess those people back there weren't
all
bad.”

“Yes, they were.”

Carr burst out laughing, the kind of snuffling, eyes-crinkled-up laugh it was hard not to join. He smiled at the tent roof after taking a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah, they were.”

“Playing in the band. That's good duty.”

“Damn right it is.” They smoked for a minute, then Carr put his cigarette out on his boot sole. “So, Colonel Hayward sent me here with your medal. D'you hear about the medals?”

“Come on. I'm a deserter.”

“That's bushwa. Everyone says so. I'm not talking about any American medals. These are from the Frenchies. The Croix de Guerre!” He savored the French words, gargling the
r
's. He grinned again. He reached into his pocket. “They passed them out to the whole damned division, the entire Ninety-third! Nothing the US Army could do but grumble in its beer.”

Joshua took the medal, still in a box, lying on a black felt bed. It was a bronze Maltese cross intersected by two swords, suspended from a green ribbon with vertical red stripes. The dates 1914 and 1918 had been inscribed at the center. He stared at it in his hand. It looked small. Suddenly he couldn't speak. He wasn't ready for the emotions. Finally he said, “Thanks.”

“Thank Colonel Hayward. You know, he's all right.” Carr began to stand up. “Hey, I'll tell you a rich one. They just started training us for combat. Sent us to the front last spring without even target practice. Now the war's over, so they decide it's a good time to train us. Rich, ain't it?” He pulled his cap on. “Also, to make up for the medals, they cancelled our holiday rations. Just the Negro troops. Merry damned Christmas.”

Joshua tore his eyes from the medal and looked up at Carr. “I won't say I wasn't tempted that day.” He shook his head. “I won't say I wasn't tempted once I got dry socks and ate some warm food, let someone else die instead of me. But we weren't running. We knew the boys were thirsty, near crazy with hunger. We got the food and water. It was for them. I didn't linger. I didn't.”

“'Course you didn't. You got the medal that says so.”

 

T
he difference was the tapestries on the walls. To Dulles' eye, the tapestries, their colors still vibrant after centuries on display, gave the Quai d'Orsay its distinction. Europe had plenty of barny old palaces stuffed with friezes, ceiling frescoes, and echoing marble corridors. Most of those drafty warehouses of history and pride bristled with lush scarlet curtains and chandeliers that blazed against the darkness. Interchangeable, really.

But the home of the French Foreign Ministry, overlooking the stately River Seine, had the tapestries, old and priceless, proudly blazoning France's ancient wealth and greatness. Far more important, their playful scenes conveyed a rollicking sense that life was to be enjoyed. What's the point of being king, they whispered to Dulles, if you don't have some fun in the evenings? Henry IV, from the look of the tapestries, lived that way three hundred years before.

Dulles loitered near the guttering tea-urn, waiting for President Wilson to arrive. He and the old boy were getting along better than he had expected, certainly better than Uncle Bert predicted. Dulles found the president mostly levelheaded, which wasn't easy when a man was drenched with adoration in France, then in Italy, then in England. Wilson could be a bit vain and peevish, but no more than any other Savior of Mankind. Probably less.

“Eight-to-five we don't do any actual work today, either.” The benign face of Mark Sykes was before him, his bushy mustache hovering over a cup of tea nearly white with milk.

Dulles gave a theatrical sigh for the Englishman. “The president's only been here a month, you know. These things take time.”

“Yes, well, we don't have all that much bloody time. We hang about here, having neither war nor peace, not knowing whether to send the troops home or not, not even quite convinced we really won the war. The world is bloody falling apart while we listen politely to tales of woe from every slapped-up tribe of unhappy people in the known world.”

“Speaking of tales of woe, Mark, I still would like to have a word on Mesopotamia.”

“Ah, yes, oil. Eh?”

“America cares a great deal about the self-determination of peoples, and the peoples in that region are as entitled to self-determination as everyone else.”

“Yes, quite. Also, we all think there's a honking great pile of oil there.”

“As it happens.”

Sykes finished his cup of tea and set it down on a side table. “Allen, dear chap, I fear my masters find it awkward to imagine discussing Mesopotamia with America, which didn't even trouble itself to declare war against the Turk. How could you expect to be part of the self-determination of the peoples of the Turkish Empire?”

Dulles was ready. “Having also won its own independence from a particularly violent and repressive monarchy, America deeply shares the experiences of those oppressed peoples. Indeed, our history gives us a special responsibility to assist all oppressed peoples in achieving self-determination.”

Sykes laughed delightedly. “Oh, you are the most dangerous tribe of all. All that greed wrapped up in virtue. It's really a lethal combination.”

The buzz at the doorway alerted them that the Big Four—Wilson, Clemenceau, Lloyd George of Britain, and Orlando of Italy—were arriving, their entrances carefully timed so none would have to wait for any of the others. With mutual nods, Sykes and Dulles separated to serve their respective masters.

A senior British delegate handed his top hat to an aide. “Such a fuss, these top hats,” he said to Premier Clemenceau of France standing next to him, “but I was told I had to wear it today.”

“Yes,” Clemenceau replied with no evident expression. “That's what they told me, too.” With a flourish, the Frenchman removed his bowler hat. As the two men moved toward the presiding table at the end of the room, Clemenceau asked, “What of the Czech prime minister? Will he live?”

The Englishman smiled. “Most extraordinary. The bullet hit his wallet in his jacket pocket, so his injury was really quite slight.”

“Ach, lucky for him, bad for me. My wallet is always empty.”

“Honesty is its own punishment.”

Dulles watched President Wilson intercept Clemenceau, then glided over to join them, standing at a respectful distance—close enough to hear, but not to intrude. The clean-shaven Wilson was taller, Clemenceau broader with a white walrus mustache and the soft gray gloves he always wore, indoors and out. Dulles knew he was standing at the fulcrum of the peace conference. Wilson and his idealism were the irresistible force of the new twentieth century. Clemenceau's old-style diplomacy, based on balance-of-power calculations among Great Powers, was the immovable object. Clemenceau's excellent English, acquired during four years in America and many more married to a New England woman, gave him a key advantage in the negotiations. So far, the immovable object looked entirely immovable.

When the leaders separated, Dulles retired to his seat behind the president and Uncle Bert. Lansing leaned back and asked in a whisper, “What were they discussing?”

“Who will preside in the chair. The president had already decided to concede it to Clemenceau as host.”

“Ever gracious, aren't we?” Lansing allowed a trace of annoyance to pass over his face, then mastered it. “Look around this room, Allen. Then tell me what's missing?”

Dulles scanned the room quickly. The Big Four were all there. So were their various aides and retainers, not to mention the day's schedule of petitioners from small countries and from places that yearned to become small countries. He wasn't sure what his uncle meant and said so.

“The Germans, Allen. The Germans. All we have here are the winners and their friends, grunting and squealing like pigs at a trough. I've negotiated treaties in my time, but never without talking to the other side.”

 

 

 

“Where the devil is he?” Lansing was tetchy after a full day of hearings followed by several hours of meetings with American staff members. Gallivanting with his two nephews through the Hotel Majestic, headquarters for the British delegation, was not high on his list of preferred evening activities. He didn't care for the Negro jazz that welled every few moments from a floor below as though a door were opening and closing. That music made him nervous. He was the Secretary of State, for heaven's sake, and didn't appreciate being kept waiting by anyone, much less a presumptuous English army officer below the rank of general. “You said he'd be easy to pick out.”

“Now, Uncle Bert,” said Foster Dulles, “give it a minute. Colonel Lawrence is short, you know.” Slightly taller than his younger brother, Allen, Foster combined the same lean frame with the permanent expression of a man whose shoes pinched. “They say he's utterly without polish. Simply says what he thinks.”

“There he is,” Allen cried out, leading them through the lobby. A small, pale man in British khaki stood at the crest of a half flight of stairs, his Arab headdress setting him apart. It was green silk with tassels of deep red. He bowed to the Americans as they approached and indicated a seating arrangement in a quiet nook. There were no handshakes.

“Colonel Lawrence,” Lansing began when they were seated, then was interrupted by a waiter.

The Americans ordered coffee. Lawrence wanted nothing.

Lansing started again. “What can we do for you, Colonel?”

“You know of my involvement with the Arab cause, Mr. Secretary?”

Lansing nodded in assent.

“I wanted to speak with you about how essential it is to recognize the legitimate claims of the Arab people. They fought the Turks for their independence, and they must have it. Prince Feisal, who led them, is the only true and legitimate leader in the region. He's reached an agreement with Weizmann and the Zionists to provide an area for Jews to settle in Palestine. President Wilson, in view of his support for self-determination of all peoples, can play a major role in fulfilling this destiny.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Foster broke in. “Do you speak for the British government in this matter? I have reviewed the Sykes-Picot treaty between your government and the French in 1916, and it divides that region between those two nations. It says nothing about an independent Arab state, nor of Jews in Palestine.”

Lawrence showed no expression. “Sykes-Picot is rubbish. A stupid scrap of paper scribbled out to hurry the end of the war. Even Sykes thinks his own treaty must yield to the commitments that His Majesty's government made to the Arabs.” His eyes were a disconcerting blue, a rich cobalt, yet he never looked directly at the Americans. His voice was both low and filled with power.

“Awkward, isn't it?” Lansing said, “that His Majesty promised the same lands to two different parties?”

“Scraps of paper cannot withstand history. The French have no legitimate claim to this land, which is truly the land of the Arabs and the Jews. The Arab people fought for their independence, and it would be an historical wrong to deny it to them.”

“I'm sure the president will study this situation most carefully,” Lansing said, pausing while the waiter delivered three cups of coffee to a low table before him. “If I might offer a bit of advice, Colonel. Your advocacy might better be directed to your own government, as Mr. Wilson will be particularly interested in how our ally, Great Britain, interprets its various—some might say inconsistent—commitments in that region.”

Lawrence was quiet for a moment. “Prince Feisal will arrive shortly to explain his rights and those of his people, and I hope you will take the opportunity to consider them.” He stood abruptly and bowed slightly from the waist. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

Lansing picked up his coffee and sat back. “What a remarkable person,” he said, nodding to Allen, “just as you suggested.”

Foster picked up another cup. “He does make an impression.”

“Yes, but not a good one. What can he be thinking? There's a great deal of petroleum under all that sand, petroleum that's needed to fuel the world's navies. The Arabs and their camels are hardly fit stewards for that kind of wealth.”

“I can't see why the British wouldn't abide by Sykes-Picot,” Allen said. “It's quite straightforward. The French get their bit—though Lawrence is certainly right that they have no decent claim to it—and the British get the oil in Mesopotamia.”

“Ah,” Foster said, “it needs to be a bit more complicated than that. The United States must have a share in this business or else why did we send our troops across the ocean?” His usual sour expression deepened into a scowl. “There's no reason we can't find some opportunity here. Mr. Cromwell agrees we should be able to retrieve something from the frightful hash the British have made. Uncle, how do you think Mr. Lloyd George will dance through this minefield of his own creation?”

“You know what a slippery number he is. He'll say anything to anyone. Actually, he and Clemenceau have already been at each other's throats over this business. The French are having a spell of seller's remorse over Sykes-Picot. They fear being left out of a great petroleum bonanza. The great danger is that Lloyd George starts listening to that blue-eyed Bedouin.” Lansing nodded to the chair where Lawrence had sat. “Lawrence has become quite the hero in Britain.”

“Indeed,” Foster agreed, “the prospect is more dangerous when you add in our high-minded president, who despises anything that smacks of actual American self-interest, and who will have his Hebrew friends pouring Zionist propaganda into his ear. There's no way to know how it will all end up.” He looked across to Allen. “You'll have to keep a special eye on the Middle East. Mr. Cromwell can brief you. I'm afraid I'm going to be fully engaged with the reparations and financial settlement with Germany.”

“How does that go?” Allen asked.

“It's a full-time job keeping up with this Maynard Keynes fellow on the British side. He's two or three times smarter than everyone else, but distinctly bolshie. Not sound at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, he actually agrees with Mr. Wilson that the victorious allies should be charitable toward Germany in order to establish the League of Nations.”

Lansing snorted his dismay.

“Now, the League is fine as eyewash for the public, but it's not really a serious proposal, and the serious men here know it. Certainly Clemenceau doesn't take it seriously. I fear that our overwrought theologian in the White House will sacrifice America's future on the altar of his pipe dream. You can't play by rules of your own choosing while everyone else follows the old rules.”

“Foster.” Lansing put down his cup. The coffee was tepid. It would probably keep him up, anyway. “What conversations are going on between your group and the Germans?”

“None that I know of. It's a bit tricky, as you know, figuring out
which
Germans to speak with. They've thrown all their energy into crises and street riots—socialists one day, Spartacists and anarchists another, out-of-work soldiers the next. Nothing but strikes, rebellions, murders. I imagine most Germans are missing the Kaiser.”

“In any country,” Lansing said, “the banks and the businesses don't change. German banks have always been run by sound men. We must find someone sensible to speak with in Germany.”

“Perhaps Mr. Cromwell can help. The law firm did have a number of German clients before the war.”

“You must tread carefully, Foster. Until very recently, these people were killing Americans in large numbers. It wouldn't do for word to get out that we were having back-channel chats with Germans.”