Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  “And who always speaks of himself in the third person, or so I am told. Giraud thinks this, and Giraud requires that!”

  “The strangest thing—these two Frenchmen hate each other so bitterly, and yet they are so much alike!”

  “I don’t think I would say that, Governor. Giraud is dull, and De Gaulle is smart. When Giraud found that his orders were not obeyed, he asked us to replace him. But De Gaulle will never do that!”

  “Charlie lost a war,” said F.D.R., “and now he won’t let us win it for him. His terms are fixed and final: We must oust every former Vichyite from the government, and we must rescind all the Vichy decrees on the instant. When we point out that there just wouldn’t be any government left if we started such a purge, and that all the energies of everybody would go into the question of who was to be purged and who not, there is no answer except: ‘That is my will.’ And meantime the Germans are pouring troops into Tunisia and getting ready for a long campaign!”

  “Does De Gaulle want control for himself, Governor?”

  “I asked him if he was prepared to take control, and he admitted that he couldn’t; the officers would not support him. I told him that our estimate of his strength here is fifteen per cent of the population, and his answer was that he has had no opportunity to conduct a plebiscite, so he cannot discuss the question. But he demands that Giraud shall co-operate on De Gaulle’s terms, and Giraud answers that he is nearly twice De Gaulle’s age and several grades higher in rank. He offers De Gaulle joint command, but De Gaulle will not accept that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep on arguing, I suppose. I’ve watched roosters in the barnyard and it’s exactly like that. Both of this pair are extremely tall, and they look at each other from under their ornate military caps exactly as if they were going to peck. But the funniest thing was when we persuaded them to have their pictures taken with us, sitting outdoors, among the flowerbeds: Churchill and myself, and me between Giraud and De Gaulle for safety! When that was taken, we sprang it on them to be taken shaking hands, for the sake of the morale effect upon the French all over the world. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to say no in the presence of the photographers, so they held each other’s hands—very gingerly, and I’m afraid the public will observe the fact that there is not much love between them.”

  Lanny joined in the smile; then he got up suddenly. “Governor,” he said, “you ought to be asleep. I know that Churchill keeps you awake half the night, and you don’t like it. I don’t want to be in the same box.”

  “When this war is over,” the other said, grinning, “I’ll take you on as my caretaker and nurse!”

  VII

  Lanny conceived a great respect for the efficiency of the Army. The information from Major Dowie was in his hands at lunchtime the next day, and he at once phoned to the retired Sudeten industrialist, inviting him to dinner at the Transatlantique. The old gentleman replied that it would be much more convenient if M. Budd would come to dinner at his villa; so Lanny took a long walk in a showy Moroccan sunset, learning his jet-propulsion lesson on the way. He was treated to some good black-market food, and afterward sat before a log fire, chatting in German with a large and florid “merchant of death” who had known Zaharoff and Hugo Stinnes in the old days, and had managed to take care of himself through all the kaleidoscopic changes of Europe during the past half century. Before the talk was over Lanny decided that he was no spy or German agent, just an old man who didn’t know what to do with himself in Casablanca, and enjoyed exchanging reminiscences with a younger man who had been all over Europe and knew the right people.

  Lanny’s role was that of the art expert who hated war and refused to take part in this one; whose only concern was to see it ended without turning Europe over to the Reds. His position as the son of Budd-Erling made him a social equal, entitled to share confidences. They discussed the war, and the various ways it might come to a halt. Herr Salzgutter admitted that things looked bad for the Germans now, but he remarked that they were developing new weapons which might be the means of turning the tide. Lanny said yes, but would these weapons be ready in time, and might it not be that the Allies were ahead in that race? “If what you have in mind is jet propulsion,” he added, “I happen to know that both Britain and America are working at it, and making great progress.”

  “That is what. I had in mind,” responded Herr Salzgutter; “rockets and rocket bombs.”

  Lanny stated that his father had built a laboratory in the Far West for experiments in that field. The subject was extremely technical, and Lanny, a mere esthete, wasn’t sure that he understood any of it, and was afraid that perhaps it would bore Herr Salzgutter. But the other said: “Not at all, not at all,” and Lanny proceeded to reel off the stuff he had learned by heart that afternoon.

  The old gentleman seemed greatly impressed and said it was a branch of research with enormous possibilities; we might some day be flying to the moon, or to some of the other planets, as H. G. Wells had imagined. He said he was especially interested in the subject because he had a nephew who had been playing with it for years and urging him to go in for it as a business venture. Herr Salzgutter did Lanny the honor to say that he must have the right sort of mind for the subject, for what he had said was very much to the point.

  VIII

  The Sudeten capitalist wandered on, and Lanny sat, shivering inwardly, having a hard time to keep his tension from showing. He knew that he was at the very door of the treasure chamber, he almost had the key in his hand. It was like the old story of “Open sesame”; he wanted one word, just one German word! He would, quite literally, have been willing to give his life for that word; indeed, he had for months been planning to risk his life by going into Germany in an effort to get it. Lanny was certain that this old man knew that word; and could he be lured, or trapped, or bribed, or otherwise caused to speak it?

  He rambled on and on, playing all around the subject, and Lanny thought that these were the most tantalizing minutes of his life. Herr Salzgutter said that German physical research at the present time was the world’s miracle of efficiency. You might say what you pleased against the idea of state supremacy, but it certainly was the instrument for getting practical things done. A definite goal was set, and every resource of the nation was concentrated upon it. Money was no consideration, the scientists in charge had only to say what they wanted, and presto, it was at hand!

  Lanny said: “Yes, but it isn’t necessary to have a dictatorship for that. My father has everything that he requests for his project. There is a staff of Army officers observing the work, and anything that he needs has number one priority. Money is no object there, either.”

  “It is the pressure of war, of course,” said the garrulous old man. “It is too bad that the same efficiency cannot be obtained for the needs of peace.”

  “Indeed yes,” replied Lanny. “But we have to take this world as we find it. Some day, I hope, the walls between the nations will be broken down again, and scientists will be free to share their secrets. It might be that at this very moment, if the Americans and the British and the Germans were to pool what they know, all the problems would be solved and we could fly to the moon before the end of this year.”

  This sparring went on for what must have been an hour; the perspiration would come out on Lanny’s forehead, and then be dried by the heat of a log fire! He couldn’t be sure that it was sparring on the old man’s part; he might just be chatting, and without the idea of getting or giving any secrets. Perhaps he didn’t notice that this genial and well-mannered American was making one leading remark after another; he had no idea that Lanny’s mind was working with the speed of a dynamo, inventing new remarks, new schemes, new questions. Or could it be that this elderly man of great affairs was short of funds, and was waiting for a chance to come out frankly and say: “What are you prepared to pay me for the secret I possess?” Lanny would reply: “Would twenty-five thousand dollars be enough?” And then: “Fifty
thousand?” And then: “A hundred thousand?”

  But no, it wasn’t that way. Quite casually, and as if he had been commenting on the weather, the old gentleman remarked: “My nephew had to sign an agreement to stay on this research job until the war is over. Even his letters are not mailed from Peenemünde, but are taken to Berlin, and of course strictly censored.”

  There it was, and to Lanny it was like a flash of lightning in his brain. Peenemünde! Peenemünde! He had never heard the name before, but it was etched on his memory by that lightning stroke. Peenemünde! Like the well-trained man of the world that he was, the son of Budd-Erling remarked: “Yes, it is the same with the work at my father’s place. He tells me a little about it, but never where the place is, not even the name of the state.”

  IX

  The Sudeten industrialist-gentleman had his guest driven back to town in a renovated old buggy—even the very rich were reduced to such means. Lanny looked up Baker, and was taken into the villa and to the President at once. The light had just been switched off in the room, and the Negro, Prettyman, was coming out and closing the door. There was a soldier with a tommy gun on guard, but he had been told that what Baker did was O.K.

  Baker tapped on the door, and the light was turned on again, and he went in and reported that Mr. Budd had something of special importance. When Lanny and F.D.R. were alone, Lanny said in a low voice: “I got the secret out of the old Czech. The place where the Germans are carrying on their rocket research is called Peenemünde.”

  “Well, I’ll be switched!” said the President. “It’s the old saying, it never rains but it pours. Not two hours ago I got that word in a code message from the O.S.S. in Washington.”

  “I’m sorry to have come in second, Governor—”

  “Don’t worry!” broke in the other. “Your report is confirmation, and that is hardly less important. I turned the first report over to Tedder, and I’ll tell him in the morning that it has been confirmed.”

  Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur William Tedder was the air commander under Eisenhower, and Lanny knew what that meant. “I think I heard the name right,” he said, “but I can’t recall that I ever heard of the place before.”

  “It’s a small island near the west end of the Baltic. We’re probably getting photos of it tonight.”

  “Photos at night?” echoed Lanny involuntarily.

  The other grinned. “Infra-red rays. Keep them under your hat, too!”

  This man of great kindness knew that his secret agent had worked faithfully at a difficult assignment, and might be feeling chagrin through having “come in second.” It was with special cordiality that he said: “I’m telling you another secret, Lanny. We’re breaking up this Conference in a day or two, and Winston and I are going to Marrakech to have a look at it. I believe you said your mother was there.”

  “My mother and stepfather.”

  “We are to be put up at the Villa La Saadia. Probably you know it.”

  “I was a guest there recently. A wonderful place.”

  “I understand there’s a wall around it.”

  “A high pink wall, and you’ll be well hidden.”

  “I wonder if you couldn’t be smuggled in there without attracting too much attention? I want to have a real talk with you before I leave. I have a major project to suggest.”

  “I should think it could be managed, Governor. Is Kenneth Pendar there?”

  “Yes, he will act as our host.”

  “All right, then, I’ll go at once and fix it up. Good night, Governor, and good hunting to Marshal Tedder!”

  X

  Lanny went to Marrakech again, and found the villa in a state of excitement, getting ready to be put on the map of the world. For the past two or three weeks the White House and Secret Service people had been going over the place with a fine-tooth comb, investigating the origin and habits of every one of the numerous servants, looking for secret chambers and dictaphones and bombs, installing ramps for the President’s wheel chair and railings so that he could walk. It had just been decided that the entire staff of servants must leave the estate, and now squads of G.I.’s were being taught how to wait table in proper state, how to make beds for high dignitaries, and so on through a long list. The young Army officer in charge of these preparations was on the verge of nervous breakdown and was shut up in his room with a bottle of whisky.

  Lanny told Pendar the instructions he had received; he had a visiting card reading: “Admit L.B. to La Saadia. F.D.R.” It was agreed that he was to come back on Sunday morning, before the visitors arrived, and to stay in his room and read until the President sent for him, or decided whom he was to meet. Lanny went off to the Hotel Mamounia and saw his family. The great hotel was packed and he had to sleep on a cot in his stepfather’s room. He had to answer a string of his mother’s questions about Little Lanny—what a very nice name! she said. He had to tell all about Robbie and Esther, and who had been at the Christmas party, and even what the presents had been.

  Also, he had to undergo questioning about the business of the visiting potentates. Operation Torch had been nothing to this—it was an Operation Thermite that had set the whole community aflame! The Provençal maid who was Marcel’s nurse of course had met the other servants, and they had all the rulers of the world at Casablanca, and most of them coming to La Saadia. It was known all over town that the villa’s staff had been ordered out; and what could that mean? The King of England and the King of Egypt, Marshal Pétain and Marshal Stalin, Mahatma Gandhi and Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek—everybody except Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco! There were people who swore that passengers arriving at the new Casablanca airport were carried to Anfa in limousines of which the windows had been carefully spattered with mud; you might see American soldiers engaged in making mud like school kids, or like the drillers of oil wells! There were people who declared that President Roosevelt had driven in an open car to Rabat, where he had reviewed the American troops, all other persons being excluded from the encampment grounds. And the provoking Lanny wouldn’t say a word!

  When he told his mother that he was going to spend the next night elsewhere, she looked worried. They had always dealt on a basis of frankness, and she said: “What is this, Lanny, another affaire?” He told her: “Don’t be silly, old goose. I adore my wife, and there will be nothing of that sort ever. This is business. By-and-by, when you find out about it, you may talk about it like everybody else—but don’t mention my name.”

  XI

  Lanny was ensconced in one of the numerous servants’ rooms of the villa—there being only six master bedrooms. It was a plain room, but clean, and he could get along without ornate carvings and sunken marble bathtubs. He was absorbed in a volume of Taine’s English Literature from the villa’s library; and meantime the Roosevelt and Churchill party were traveling in a large Daimler limousine, painted olive-drab like all the Army vehicles. The hundred-mile road was guarded all the way by the Army, and the party stopped off on the way for a picnic lunch. A beautiful drive, the latter half with the Atlas Mountains for a background, snow-white almost to their bases.

  The first thing on his arrival, Winston Churchill wanted to climb to the top of the tower; and when he saw the magnificent view, he wanted Roosevelt carried up to observe the sunset. The stairs were not wide enough for a chair, but two husky Secret Service men made what children call a chair by putting their hands and wrists together. The President sat on this and put his arms about the men’s shoulders—he was no small load. They carried him up sixty steps without a stop, he joking with them all the way. The pudgy Prime Minister toiled behind, out of breath but panting the song: “Oh, there ain’t no war, there ain’t no war!”

  The mountains are more than two miles high, and the sun, going down behind an oasis of palm trees, turned their whiteness first to pink and then to purple. At the moment of sunset it was the solemn duty of every devout Moslem to take off his shoes, kneel, facing toward the Holy City of Mecca, and murmur his prayers. Of old the mue
zzins had summoned them to this duty, but in these modern days there was an electric light on top of the tower in every mosque, and these lights all flashed on at the same instant. The camel trains stopped and the bells fell silent and even the infidels felt like prayer. The mosques and most of the other buildings of Marrakech were a deep rose, and in the sunset their colors gleamed and then slowly died.

  Lanny had his dinner brought to his room by Prettyman, who knew him well by sight but had never heard his name. A wonderful experience for an American Negro servant, to be flown overseas and find himself in a land of dark-skinned men who dressed like the Ku Klux and didn’t understand a word he spoke! Prettyman was agrin with pleasure, and said: “Yes, sir, the President is comfortable, and his room is fancy.” The Negro knew that Lanny hadn’t been sent off to his room because he had been a bad boy, but because he was “a very confidential gentleman.” Said he: “The Secret Service gentlemen don’t quite know what to make of it, and I don’t think they likes it, sir.” Lanny replied: “I won’t do any harm.”

  After dinner Harry Hopkins came to Lanny’s room for a while; he looked more gaunt than ever. He wanted to chat about Lanny’s interview with Stalin; that had taken place some ten months ago, but apparently he didn’t consider it out of date. Harry revealed that he and Averell Harriman were there to assist in drafting a summary of the results of the Conference, also letters of transmission to Stalin and Chiang Kai-shek. There were no work tables in Villa La Saadia, and Harry the Hop smiled as he expressed a doubt that anybody had ever worked in this place since it was built. He added that Stalin had refused to come to Casablanca, or to any other place outside of Russia, and he was believed to be “sore” because the Allies wanted him to accept the invasion of North Africa as a substitute for the “second front” for which he was clamoring. Would Lanny care to read the various drafts of the letter? Lanny replied that nothing would give him more pleasure. Harry remarked: “Put your mind on Uncle Joe and try to think up something that will salve his wounds.”