Morning shoppers shouted encouragement to the combatants. A bunch of asparagus landed in Cook’s face, stalks first—he had been pushed over onto his side by the soldiers below him—but he didn’t know if the vegetables had been aimed at him. Within the battle, grunts and gasps competed with curses in two languages. Fraser lost his focus after a rifle butt collided violently with his skull.
The return of the two gendarmes ended the fracas. With numbers sharply against them, Fraser and Cook soon were face down on the cold cement floor, handcuffed and breathing hard.
A bruised eye already getting puffy, Cook turned to Fraser. “Joshua?”
Fraser’s shoulder throbbed where he fell on it. Blood trickled down his forehead. His mind was still far from crisp. “Long gone,” he managed.
Lawrence wasn’t anywhere, either.
Monday evening, May 19, 1919
Colonel Siegel had little experience retrieving staff doctors from police stations. After Eliza Fraser called him about Jamie’s arrest, Siegel had spent hours telephoning American and French officials to plead for Fraser’s freedom. The arrest, he insisted, was a misunderstanding. In any event, the American army desperately needed Major Fraser’s services. The effort taxed Siegel’s patience and his French, but he thought he was at the end of it when he picked up Mrs. Fraser and her daughter for the journey to the police station. He had received assurances that Fraser would be released and would face no charges.
The police building was stout and built of large stones. Its interior was suitably gloomy. The three men on duty affected the bored aspect of police officers everywhere, passing the time in the mechanical stroking of lush mustaches. Siegel’s uniform faded before the brilliant silver buttons that festooned the gendarmes’ jackets, but he still commanded the attention of one officer who wearily heard him out, then withdrew to the rear of the building. To Siegel’s pleasure, he returned with the dangerous American desperado, Major James Fraser.
A knot near the top of Fraser’s forehead glowed yellow and purple, but a happy smile creased his face. He waved to his team of saviors, turned to the gendarme escorting him, and promptly refused to accept his freedom unless another man named Cook also was released.
When Colonel Siegel understood what Fraser was doing, he called over in alarm, “What are you thinking? Getting you out was difficult enough.”
Fraser shook his head. “I can’t leave without Cook.”
With an imploring look, Siegel won the senior policeman’s permission to speak with Fraser privately. The gendarme left the handcuffs on the prisoner.
“Have you lost your mind?” Siegel demanded. “They’re not going to let that man out. It’s his son they were after in the first place, and he’s apparently some sort of deserter. This fellow has no visa, no entry papers of any sort, so he’s here illegally. For all I know, they’re planning to send both of them to Devil’s Island. I can’t have anything to do with getting this Cook released. He has nothing to do with the army.”
Fraser gave a small grin. “Colonel, take a look at these cops.” He stepped aside to allow a full viewing. “They don’t care about Cook. We’re a nuisance between them and their evening meal.”
“Somebody cares a good deal. Someone who sent them after this man’s son.”
“Believe me. We can make this whole thing blow over. There are people close to the president who will make that happen. But I need to be sure that Cook gets released. It’s vital. I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Colonel, but we just need to do a little more.”
Siegel could not hold his tongue. “Fraser, you’re a damned fool. I need you at the hospital. We’ve received orders to prepare to advance into Germany, of all the stupid things.” He turned in exasperation to Mrs. Fraser and her daughter, who had floated over to listen to the exchange. In the car, they had seemed reasonable women. Then again, until today he would have described Fraser as reasonable. “Can’t you reason with this madman?” he asked Mrs. Fraser. “What he asks is quite impossible.”
Eliza shook her head with apparent regret. “Reason is a poor tool with him. I’m afraid he’s loyal to a fault.” She directed her next comment to Fraser, asking, “Dear, if you’re staying, shall I send Violet for fresh clothes?”
“No need,” he answered. “I might as well smell as bad as Cook does.”
“Fraser,” Siegel said, “I’ve half a mind to leave you here to rot.”
“If you kick up a fuss for Cook, I’m sure they’ll let him go. Less work for them, quicker to the evening jug. They’ll be glad of it. They just have to put up a bit of a show. You’ll see. Give it a try.”
Fraser began to plead with the gendarmes. The senior Frenchman answered vigorously, gesturing to different parts of his body, pointing out injuries inflicted on his brother gendarmes during the ruckus at Les Halles. Fraser responded with a good-humored enactment of his own bruises and injuries.
Eliza dug a 500-franc note out of her purse and pressed it into Violet’s hand. “There’s a wine shop next door,” she said quietly. “Buy the finest cognac you can find. Spend it all.”
The other gendarmes joined the argument with Fraser. Siegel, very near to sputtering, roused himself, advising the policemen of a possible advance of Allied troops into Germany. Major Fraser, he insisted, was essential to the invasion. The gendarmes brightened at the suggestion of new fighting with Germany but saw no reason why that would require the release of Cook. They would do their bit for the invasion by releasing Fraser.
Violet returned clutching two bottles of Courvoisier, which she handed to her mother. “These cost four hundred francs!” she whispered.
With a wide smile, Eliza approached the men, holding up one of the bottles. Did they have glasses, she asked.
Two of the gendarmes looked at the third, who shrugged. Mismatched glasses appeared on a desk.
Eliza poured the liquor and tried not to take any for herself. The gendarmes insisted, though, as did Fraser.
“You clever girl,” he said softly. “I’ll buy you a case. You can bathe in it.” He offered a toast to Lafayette, to Marshal Foch the commanding general, and to the great Clemenceau. The glasses were soon empty. Each gendarme ran his tongue around his lips, savoring the rich drink. The senior man offered to pour another round, but the Americans declined.
Fraser pointed to the back of the station house and raised his eyebrows. He said only, “S’il vous plâit.”
The man reflected for a moment, then adopted an attitude of cosmic indifference. He called Siegel to one side while dispatching a colleague to fetch the remaining prisoner. Cook arrived with his head held high, his mouth resolutely shut. The Americans left. The cognac stayed.
Out on the sidewalk, Siegel handed Cook a paper the gendarme had given him. “This says you must leave the country within five days. After that, you’re subject to arrest and imprisonment.” He directed his attention to Fraser. “And you, Major Fraser, can hardly afford to be brawling in the public markets of Paris like some hick private on his first leave. I can’t believe you and I are engaged in this nonsense at such a critical time.”
“What’s this about invading Germany?” Fraser asked. “When did this come up?”
“It’s not certain, of course, but the order came through this afternoon. We’re to be ready if the Germans don’t sign the treaty. Apparently the idea is that we’ll all just roll off to war, lickety-split.”
“Colonel, you know that can’t happen. It’s been seven months. The Germans have to sign. They don’t even have a functioning government, and we’re not exactly battle-ready.”
“Based on the orders issued to me, General Pershing doesn’t share your strategic analysis. I expect you to be at the hospital in an hour, ready to plan our advance into the Rhineland in support of the army.” Siegel made a point of shaking hands with Mrs. Fraser and her daughter as he departed. He simply nodded at the men.
“Well,” Eliza said to the newly freed, “aren’t you boys a little old for this sort of thing?” Cook and Fraser dutifully
moaned their agreement, but she didn’t fall for it. “You seem remarkably chipper for two—what’s the best way to say it?—two men of distinguished years, who have been jailed after a street fight.”
“May I say, light of my life,” Fraser said, “that you should’ve seen the other guys?” With a chuckle under his breath, Fraser ventured off the curb in search of a taxi.
Cook, remaining with the women, shifted his feet. “Well, Mrs. Fraser,” he said, “I thank you for springing me.” He held his hand out. “It’s nice to see you again after all these years.”
Eliza took the hand coolly. “Mr. Cook,”she nodded to Violet, “this is our daughter, Violet.”
Violet shook his hand more readily. “Mr. Cook, how is your eye?” Violet said. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No thank you, miss. I received medical care from my fellow prisoner.” He smiled. “You never know who you’ll meet in jail.”
“I suppose not,” Eliza said.
“Mrs. Fraser, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me, what with this arrest and being ordered out of the country and all.”
“I’m not sure it’s a wrong impression.”
“Mother!” Violet scolded.
Cook shrugged. “I prefer it when people speak their mind. But this is all about my boy, my son Joshua.”
“Jamie has told me the story.” Eliza’s tone was warmer. “I’m sorry for your trouble. For his trouble.”
“What story?” Violet said.
“Later, dear.”
“When it comes to Joshua,” Cook said, “there’s nothing I won’t do. Nothing. And if your husband’s willing to help us, and he has been, then I’m just grateful.” He looked down. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
Fraser had snared a cab, which was idling at the curb. “So, you’ll stay at the same hotel?” he said to Cook.
“I hate to, but it’s the only place Joshua knows to find me.”
“He knows how to find me, right at the hospital.”
“I’ll risk another night at the hotel.”
“So,” Eliza said, “I assume you boys have hatched a plan?”
Fraser smiled back. “Haven’t we, though. There’s even parts for you ladies, if you’re game.”
Chapter 28
Saturday evening, May 31, 1919
“Oh, Allen,” Violet gushed, “don’t you love the whole idea of the Paris ballet?” The lobby of the Palais Garnier shimmered with light from chandeliers that dangled forty feet above them, a Damoclean nightmare for any anxious soul inclined to imagine disaster. The Dulles brothers, with Violet and her mother, stood with the shiny crowd. The vast lobby swallowed conversation in a din that rose like a cloud to the distant ceiling. Ordinarily discreet people had to shout to be heard.
“The concierge at our hotel says they’ve been performing for two hundred and fifty years,” Violet continued, turning toward Foster, who was immaculate in evening clothes. “Why, it’s older than our entire country!” Her high spirits brought only a chilly smile from the elder Dulles.
“My dear Violet,” Allen said, leaning over to be heard, “you must recall that Foster’s idea of fun is curling up with a debenture agreement that includes an especially ingenious reordering of priorities in bankruptcy.”
“Really, now,” Eliza took Foster’s arm and drew him toward the stairs to the performance hall. “We’re fortunate to have such dashing escorts when Violet’s father couldn’t be spared from the hospital.” She rolled her eyes and gave a small smile. “He said something about invading Germany.”
The younger Dulles extended his arm to Violet. “The good fortune is all ours.”
Eliza didn’t care much for his grin, which seemed distinctly wolfish. Still, the younger brother seemed more of a person than the one she was walking with. At least the younger one could counterfeit being a person. According to Jamie, Allen had agreed to induce the French authorities to abandon any efforts to arrest Joshua Cook. Allen claimed it must have been a misunderstanding.
Jamie wasn’t so sure. He insisted that he didn’t trust Allen Dulles. Eliza thought that she might.
Opening the door to the service entrance of the Crillon, Fraser shifted his hips in a vain attempt to reorient a trouser seam that was binding a sensitive part of his anatomy. He wanted to reach down and shift the hotel worker’s uniform that Cook had pilfered for him, but such a rude gesture would draw attention from the actual hotel workers who lounged at the entrance. Cook had stolen the uniform for Lawrence to use, so it was far too small for Fraser. When the Englishman landed in an Italian hospital following an airplane crash in Rome, he became unavailable for this particular gambit. Fraser agreed to be the last-minute substitute. Despite the sharp discomfort of the garment, he strode firmly through the hotel’s back corridors. He needed to reach his destination quickly.
He lifted a wrench from an open toolbox at the side of the corridor. Even in ill-fitting pants, a man with a wrench fades into the woodwork.
Through a chain of reasoning that was not entirely airtight, Speed, Fraser, and Lawrence had decided that Foster Dulles was the American official most likely to be in contact with the Germans. He seemed the one most engaged with German issues at the conference. His law firm—the Cromwell law firm—had extensive dealings with Germany before the war and shrewd Mr. Cromwell would not miss the opportunity to rekindle those. Dulles’ uncle was the Secretary of State and his brother was a spy with a finger in every pie in Paris. So Foster Dulles’ room was the evening’s target.
Of course, if their chain of inferences was wrong, they were taking a lot of chances for nothing. They took some solace, though, from Lawrence’s endorsement of their reasoning in typically Delphic terms. That had been enough to persuade Fraser to agree to the plan, but not enough to feel confident in it. They were deep into a double and triple game, working Allen Dulles for favors while burglarizing his brother’s hotel room. It was better when Fraser didn’t chew over just how many things could go wrong.
When he reached the stairwell, Fraser seized the moment of privacy to adjust his wardrobe. It didn’t really help, particularly when he started to climb the five flights to the roof. Each step wrought new damage. After only a flight, he heard someone enter the stairwell above him and begin to descend. Should he duck into the regular corridor? Or simply carry on, relying on his uniform and wrench as insignia of his insignificance?
He decided that French workmen would never take the stairs in an elevator building, so he stepped out onto the second floor. Two Americans—their nationality obvious from ruddy complexions and brisk steps—passed him without a moment’s pause. God bless that wrench. He stepped resolutely in the other direction, ignoring the pain. Reaching the end of the corridor, he pantomimed a man who had forgotten something, acting the part for himself if for no one else. Back to the stairwell, where he could hear the footsteps now below him. He resumed his ascent, pausing at the top to catch his breath. No reason to give Cook an opening to remark on his sorry physical condition.
When Fraser opened the door to the roof, Cook stood ten feet away, a rope coiled at his feet. The glow of Paris outlined his figure. The night air felt fresh and warm. A nearby ventilation outlet released a soapy wetness from the laundry; another produced a yeasty kitchen scent with the tang of crusted animal fat.
Fraser moved awkwardly to ease the pressure of the trouser seam. “These pants are agony.”
“Take’em off,” Cook said. “No one here to see you.”
After looking around, Fraser agreed. The relief was exquisite. Not wearing pants would be easier to explain than what they were doing on the roof in the first place.
“I sure preferred letting myself into the hotel room with the key,” Fraser said.
“Amen.” Cook had tried to lift a key to Foster Dulles’ room, but the hotel had increased its security measures in response to the threat, however remote, that the Germans wouldn’t sign the treaty and war would resume. “They think some nuts might target t
he people in the hotel.” He shrugged. “Nuts like us.”
“Seriously, though, who would want to block peace? And why would anything done at the Crillon have that effect?”
“Damned if I know. Bolsheviks, Germans, Italians, take your pick.” Cook was laying the rope between a thick ventilation pipe and the rear of the hotel. “Lots of crazy people out there who’d love to throw a spanner into the works, whether it made any difference or not.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“You know,” Cook suddenly sounded short. “I wouldn’t have believed it after all these years, but you still do it.”
“Do what?”
He stopped his task and looked at Fraser. “That white man thing. You figure nothing bad’s gonna happen, because nothing bad’s ever happened to you.”
“Get off it.” Anger flashed through Fraser, his hands clenched. “You’re not the only person on earth who’s had troubles, who’s felt pain. How many wives have you buried? How many of your babies? Come to think of it, how many white men have you taken this kind of risk for, the way I am for you and Joshua?”
“On that last question, one.” Cook pointed a finger at Fraser. “Exactly one.” Their glares were reciprocal. After a moment, Cook dropped his arm, then his head. “It’s nerves, Jamie. Pregame nerves. Both of us.” He returned his attention to the rope. “Come on. We’re up here. You’re looking fashionable. Might as well do this thing.”
Fraser, still simmering, gave him an appraising look. “What’re you up to now, 240? 250? I liked this idea a lot better when it was Lawrence going over the side.”
“Hey, I’ll be glad to hold the end of the rope if you want to go down there.”
Fraser, his blood still warm, stalked to the stone barrier at the building’s edge. He looked down. His head swam and his vision clouded.
Cook grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back. “Whoa, Nellie,” Cook said. “The plan says we keep you up here, right? Let’s stick to the plan.”
The Wilson Deception Page 19