The Wilson Deception (7 page)

Lansing tapped a finger on the side of his glass. “Allie.” Lansing leaned forward slightly. “I must know what is going on with Wilson. I must have additional sources of information. Day to day, I'm completely in the dark. I had no idea about this trip back home. Even Colonel House doesn't know what's going on over at that palatial residence Mrs. Wilson flutters about in.”

“Uncle Bert, are you suggesting that we should spy on our own president?”

“That's a crude phrase, Allen. Gratuitously so. We should think of it more as an effort to enhance consultation at the highest levels of government.”

“How exactly do you propose to enhance consultation?”

“That's the sort of thing you're so good at, Allen, you and your clever brother. I'll leave it to you.”

 

“M
ajor?”

Fraser looked up wearily at the speaker.

“There's a patient you should see in the gas ward.” It was the dark-haired nurse with the overbite.

There must have been a time when he could remember their names, but he couldn't even remember when that was. She wouldn't come for him now, at the end of the day, unless it was important. Still, he didn't stand.

She interpreted his lack of response as disbelief. “We agreed that you should see him.”

Ah, it had been a corporate decision of the nursing staff. No medical director could afford to ignore that.

In the gas ward, the nurses had placed screens around the patient's bed. Infectious. Fraser instantly hoped it was pneumonia, not influenza. There were reports of new flu cases in the city. In the autumn, the epidemic started with the soldiers and spread to civilians. He didn't want it back.

The patient was Gunnarson, a pale boy from the Midwest who was missing one leg below the thigh. His lungs were already compromised.

“He complained of a headache,” the nurse said. “The fever came on this afternoon.”

Fraser went through the steps. He listened to the boy's heart and lungs. He looked down his throat and inside his nose. The examination told him nothing he didn't already know. After the first five hundred cases of influenza, he could diagnose it from across a crowded room. There was a miserable look, a flush combined with a gray cast of the eyes.

“Private Gunnarson?”

The boy looked at him dully.

“You're coming down with a fever. We're going to put you in a ward for special care. I hope you'll respond well there.”

The boy nodded.

“Nurse Callahan.” The name just came to him. The key was not thinking about it. She was from Philadelphia. Or something like that. He kept his voice low. “Take him to the green ward. Keep him comfortable. And please put masks on, for everyone.”

“The masks scare the patients, Doctor.”

“Better scared than sick. I'm not going to lose any more nurses . . . or doctors, either. Also, shift the beds so the patients are head-to-heel, like we did last fall.”

“In all the wards?”

Fraser sighed. “Yes, I guess so.” Moving the beds was hard work. There weren't enough orderlies so the nurses had to pitch in. And then it would be inconvenient for getting to the patients. He ordered it because it might help suppress the spread of the disease. So little did.

On his way back to his office, he stuck his head in the doctors' coffee room. “A definite case of flu in the gas ward.”

“Jesus, not again.” O'Connor, the only one in the room, stood at the window. He looked unhappy, offended.

Fraser liked that about him.

“You're sure?”

“Yup.”

“How bad?”

Fraser shook his head. “I'm going to call the colonel. Spread the word, okay?”

“Shit. Is it the same stuff?”

“Hard to say. I've only seen the one case, but it looks the same. It's not been that long, so it probably never went away.”

“Maybe it won't be so bad this time.”

 

An hour later, after Fraser described the new case to the appropriate officials of the Army Medical Corps, a knock sounded on his office door. It was after six, long since dark in early February. He called for the person to enter, then looked up at Lawrence in a heavy overcoat and military cap. Without his Arab headdress, his hair showed as a sandy color. Though somewhat dazzled by his famous visitor, Fraser chose not to rise. It was late. He was tired. It was his office.

“Major Fraser?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Colonel T.E. Lawrence—”

“Yes, I know. We met.”

“Did we?”

“At the American Embassy. The party to welcome the president.”

Lawrence gave no sign of remembering. “I'm terribly sorry to impose on you, but I've come about a friend, Mark Sykes, who seems to have come down with the influenza. He's at the Hotel Majestic—”

“What the devil is he doing at a hotel? That's a splendid way to spread the disease.”

Lawrence looked uncertain for a moment. “He's just fallen ill, grievously ill, and it's moved very fast. We didn't think to move him right now.”

Fraser gritted his teeth and shook his head slowly.

“See here,” Lawrence picked up, “you've been pointed out as the man who knows the influenza best, and I've come in the hope you might see Mr. Sykes. There's a car waiting for us at the door.”

Fraser tried to dismiss the subject with a backhand wave. “There are plenty of doctors in Paris who know this flu. It's one of the advantages of an epidemic. Everyone treats it.”

“Doctor, I could try to impress you by explaining that Mr. Sykes was critical to resolving the future of Arabia, which he is. But that matters not a fig to me, nor should I expect it to matter to you. I say only that he's my friend. I would count it a great kindness if you would see my friend. Perhaps I should have gone to another doctor, but here I am and I'm afraid for him.”

Unhappy about it, Fraser followed Lawrence out the door.

During the silent drive to the hotel, Fraser wondered how conscious Lawrence's effort had been. Had he instinctively phrased his appeal in a way that would actually move Fraser? Or had he calculated it out beforehand? Or had he just assumed that the glow of his celebrity would carry Fraser along no matter what Lawrence said?

When the door to Sykes' room was wrenched open, Fraser was shocked to find a solemn-faced Allen Dulles on the other side.

“Major Fraser,” he said. “I hoped you would come, old boy. Sykes declines by the minute.” Dulles stepped aside, revealing a classic sickbed tableau. A person leaned over Sykes, probably the hotel doctor or someone from the British medical service. Two others sat on the far side of the bed.

The light was muted, but the first look sank Fraser's spirits, then left him cold inside. The purpling of cyanosis was setting in. Sykes bled from his nose, fought for breath. Fraser had never seen a patient return from that stage. He wheeled on Lawrence, not bothering to conceal his anger. “You should have told me your friend was like this. I can't help him.”

“Doctor, after coming all this way, which I appreciate so terribly much, won't you just take a look?”

“I can't work the miracle you want. The war has taught me not to waste time on those I can't help. You must know that, too.”

“What am I to do?”

“Let your friend know he's not alone. You can do that. I can't. I can't sit at his bedside through the final minutes. It's a duty that would never end.”

Lawrence looked crumpled.

In a gentler tone, Fraser added, “It shouldn't be long. For your friend's sake, I hope not. He may have some moments at the end. He'll be glad to see a friend.”

 

Emerging from the birdcage elevator at the lobby level, Fraser paused to wrap his muffler around his neck and rebutton his coat. He had never taken it off.

“Jamie?”

The voice, tentative but familiar, came from beside him.

He turned. The face had aged. He hadn't seen it for close to twenty years. The remaining hair—not a whole lot of it—was gray. The waistline was thicker. But there was no mistaking him.

“Speed,” he cried out. “This is unbelievable.”

Cook held out his hand and Fraser grabbed it. Grinning, each used his free hand to grip the other's elbow.

“Unbelievable.”

“Hold on, there.” Speed nodded at Fraser's military cap. “Maybe I should be saluting?”

Fraser smiled. “That sort of thing was never your strong suit.”

They each took a half step back.

“You look good, Speed. Real good.”

“Fat and old, but still causing trouble.”

“And your family?”

Cook's smile vanished. “Jamie. You got a minute? Maybe a few minutes. We could go in the bar?”

 

A
t a corner table in the hotel bar, they took a moment to regard each other.

“So,” Cook said, “have you been back to Cadiz or to Harrison County, Ohio?”

“Not once.”

“Me neither.”

“What's it been . . . eighteen years?”

“At least.” Cook waved down a waiter.

Back home, Fraser thought, Cook might set off a stir by sitting in the bar of the Waldorf Astoria and summoning the staff. Yet his old friend didn't seem out of place with the cosmopolitan clientele of the Majestic. Maybe things had changed back home since Fraser left.

When they ordered beer, the waiter offered a trace of a sneer but left without comment. Cook smiled. “Tell me about Miss Eliza and your daughter.”

Fraser kept it vanilla, positive, talking mostly about their home in New York, how the big city had made him into a real doctor, or closer to one. He mentioned doing research at Rockefeller Institute. He had never stopped being proud of that. He passed off joining the army as part of his work on infectious diseases.

“Back in Cadiz,” Cook said, “folks always thought you were a real doctor.”

“Lucky thing, too. But I've learned so much since then. We're learning so much in medicine now.”

Cook shrugged. “I'm not sure I've ever become a
real
anything. Just kept bouncing around, since I buried the newspaper, anyway. I came here for this Pan-African Congress that's starting soon over at the Grand Hotel.”

“That sounds like a big deal. What's it about?”

The waiter arrived with their beers.

Fraser lifted his. “To old times.” After they drank, he understood the waiter's expression when they placed their orders. The beer was a mistake.

Cook leaned forward. “Listen, Jamie. I can't really chitchat now. Don't have the heart for it or the time.” He drank some more beer, evidently indifferent to the taste. “I know we didn't end on such great terms.”

“Not that bad.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I didn't end on such great terms with you.”

Fraser stared at the table, remembering how angry Cook had been. He looked up and said, “Okay.”

“I knew I was right and I haven't changed my mind.” Speed shrugged. “I know why you did what you did. For love.”

Fraser said in a low voice, “Yes, for love. But I stood by that newspaper of yours for three years.”

“You did. And I lost your money. Every dime. I know that.”

Fraser gave a small smile. “It's only money.”

“Look.” Cook looked straight into Fraser's blue-gray eyes. “I'm hoping you can put that aside. Maybe you can help me. I didn't come here looking for you. I had no idea you were in France. But then I saw you get off that elevator, and you being an officer, I've got to ask.”

“Please. Ask.”

The words poured out as Cook launched into the tale of Joshua's nightmare. The decorated hero was facing a twenty-year sentence for desertion. No appeals left. Every American officer who had commanded him, every soldier who'd served with him was dead or on a ship back to the States. Joshua would follow them soon, in chains. Cook kneaded his knobby old catcher's hands so hard that Fraser almost flinched at the sight. Cook had a half-dozen statements plus transcripts from two trials, but the army paid no attention to any of it. He'd gone up the chain of command like you're supposed to, almost to General Pershing himself. He tried civilians, too, even ambushed Colonel House in the lobby of his hotel. No one cared. He got Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois himself to send a letter to Pershing. No luck.

Cook had a new angle, one Du Bois thought up. He was trying to get the French to help. Du Bois thought they liked to embarrass America about race. After French officials refused to authorize the Pan-African Congress to be held in Paris, Clemenceau personally approved it. Du Bois figured the French wanted to have colored people there to make the Americans uncomfortable. And that all fit together pretty well, because Joshua served under French command for several months, won a medal from the French. Maybe they'd be willing to do something for him, another way to embarrass the United States.

After finishing in a rush, Cook added, “I'll do anything to get him loose. Someone's got to care about this.”

Fraser took a minute before speaking. “That day, back in Cadiz, that Fourth of July. We were down by the stream after the picnic. Was Joshua the little boy you were playing with?”

Cook nodded.

Fraser chewed his lower lip for a moment, then sat forward. “Speed, the only Frenchmen I know are doctors. Not the sort of pooh-bahs you need to get to. I don't see how I can get you to those types.”

“Once they get him in some military prison back home,” Speed shook his head, “I don't know what hope there'll be.”

They were sitting in silence when the waiter came by. They ordered another round but stayed mute. The situation sounded dire, but Fraser had no way to address it. And who were they to each other, after all these years? A movement at the bar caught Fraser's eye. It was Dulles, looking somber.

“There's a funny thing,” Fraser said, nodding at the bar. “That fellow there, the young guy with the prissy mustache.”

Cook looked over his shoulder.

“His uncle's the Secretary of State.”

Cook turned back to Fraser with an eyebrow raised. “Sounds like a place to start.”

“He's a surprising young man. Has a knack for turning up next to just about everyone in Paris. You can wait a few minutes?”

“Take all the time you need.”

When Fraser approached Dulles, the younger man spoke first. “He was gone in minutes.” He took a sizable swallow from a martini. “You were right.”

Fraser leaned back on his elbows against the bar, listening.

“I'm not used to this sort of thing. What a business. Sykes was only forty years old. He had six kids and actually claimed to like his wife.” Dulles took another swallow. “What a business.”

Fraser began to offer his sympathy, but Dulles shrugged. “I'm not sure why it has me so down. I truly didn't know him from Adam. It was Lawrence who was cut up about him. He looked like he was ready to slit his wrists in some excruciating Mohammedan ritual. It's just that Sykes was right in the middle of this situation over the Near East. He was someone who might have mattered.”

“It's never easy watching someone die,” Fraser said.

Dulles finished his drink. “Join me?”

Fraser agreed, happy to switch from bad beer, then added, “You know I've been sitting with a most interesting fellow over there.” He pointed to Cook. “He played professional baseball with Cap Anson. Actually, he was the last Negro player in the pro leagues. Speed Cook.”

Dulles perked up. “Major Fraser, you are far more interesting than I gave you credit for. That might be just the thing to chase away low feelings.” After taking a second look at Cook, Dulles added, “It does appear the man's speedy days are behind him, but I'd love to have a chin with him. Lead on.”

Dragging a chair over for himself, Dulles shook hands with Cook and demanded, “I understand you played pro ball.”

“Nine years.” Cook straightened in his chair.

“Well, I must hear your most scandalous stories, especially about John McGraw and Cy Young.”

“They were after my time, young man. But I can tell you about Old Hoss Radbourn, won sixty games for Providence in 'eighty-four. Or Cap Anson out in Chicago, maybe the meanest man I ever met. And I met a whole lot of mean ones.”

Dulles laughed happily and raised his glass. “I wish to hear America sing of the baseball gods of yore.”

Cook complied. He offered tales of base runners sharpening the metal cleats on their shoes until they became slashing weapons. He told about gamblers who provided any sort of pleasure a ballplayer could want in return for a strikeout or an error at the key moment in a game. He talked about the ways pitchers doctored the ball to make it jump unpredictably. Catchers like Cook did it, too. And the ways he had for tricking umpires and opposing players.

Dulles ate it all up, but was especially gripped by stories of the brawls on the field that sometimes brought the fans out of the stands to join in.

After two more rounds of drinks, Dulles asked what brought Cook to France. At the mention of the Pan-African Congress, Dulles waved a dismissive hand. “Just a bunch of over-educated Bolsheviks,” he said, “jerking off in their sherry glasses.” He wagged a finger at Cook, then at Fraser, then back at Cook. “Now, real Bolsheviks, you know, the Jewish kind, they're a real danger. Here and in America.” He enunciated his words with care to give them greater emphasis.

“Is that,” Cook asked, “what the United States government thinks?”

“That's what President Wilson thinks. The world is on fire. We're in a race with Bolshevism.” Dulles wagged his finger again, a habit Cook already disliked. “Negroes need to be careful about getting too close to the Reds. That won't turn out well.”

“Do tell.” Cook looked at Fraser, who was glassy-eyed, in no condition to plead Joshua's case. “My family's been in America a long time, maybe longer than most, even if they didn't come voluntarily. My boy, he's been here in France, a sergeant in the army. Won a medal for his service.”

Dulles smiled. “Why, you must be very proud.”

Cook breathed deeply, then plunged into Joshua's story for the second time that night, maybe the fortieth time that week.

Dulles listened, sipping his drink, making sympathetic sounds. When Cook got to the end, the part about approaching the French government, Dulles traced a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “You want to appeal to the French government,” he said slowly, drawing out the moment. “Well, would Premier Clemenceau be high enough for you?”

Cook was instantly sober. “You can get to Clemenceau?”

“One can never be sure about these things, of course. But maybe. I'd say a definite maybe.”

“You'll try?”

“I wouldn't mention it if I wasn't willing to try.”

“Well, I'll definitely owe you for that.”

“Yes. Yes, you will.” Dulles smiled. “You never know when there might be a time when you could help me out.”

Cook couldn't imagine how that might happen, but he assured Dulles that he would be at the younger man's service.

Dulles stood and swayed slightly. “I'll get word to you by tomorrow evening, through Major Fraser here.” He smiled down at Fraser, who wore a pleasant expression but seemed to be listening to some internal conversation, not to them. “You'd better look after him.”

Dulles picked up the check, which was fortunate. Cook couldn't have covered it and Fraser was in no condition to manage the arithmetic.