The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Fraser nodded.

  Cook, who had learned a few knots during his seaman days, tied the rope around a sturdy-looking ventilation pipe that rose from the roof. He wrapped the other end around his waist and cinched it, but not with a knot. He wanted to descend gradually. He pulled on his gloves and tossed another pair to Fraser, who dropped one. Cook draped the strap of Violet’s camera over his neck and one arm.

  Fraser put on the gloves. He picked up the slack of the rope and looped it once around his waist.

  “No more looking down,” Cook said. “Just hang on. It’s not that far to the balcony. Maybe twenty feet. You got the pipe there backing you up. Don’t be afraid to rely on it.”

  Fraser nodded and gripped the rope, testing the best angles for his hands. He looked up. “Let’s make this the last time for this kind of stuff, okay?”

  “As long as I find that connection with the Germans that Lawrence was talking about.” Cook didn’t speak his greater fear: that finding a connection between Dulles and the Germans would prove useless because it was thoroughly authorized by the president. Or that Foster Dulles wouldn’t mind having those connections disclosed. Cook clenched his jaw. “If I had a better idea, that’s what we’d be doing right now.”

  He pulled the rope tight while Fraser braced himself, leaning back against a rooftop shed, then dropped the end of the rope to Foster Dulles’ balcony. It reached. Good start. Cook put one foot up on the stone barrier at the edge of the roof. He looked back and nodded, then swung up, pivoted, and stepped off.

  Even braced, Fraser wasn’t ready for Cook’s weight. Fraser’s boots slipped on the roof’s pebbly surface. He staggered forward a jerky step, then another, but steadied himself. He leaned back and looked out at the rooftops of Paris, heart racing.

  Cook had intended to let himself down hand over hand, but the lurch of the rope startled him. His grip slid. The gloves didn’t hold. He jabbed his foot against the wall to slow himself. After another few feet, his toe caught in a space between stones. His hands kept sliding, forcing his upper body away from the wall. Realizing he could flip upside down, he pushed his foot off from the wall and slid the rest of the way down. He landed hard, his feet on a planter. The impact crushed whatever had been growing there. He stood for a moment, gathering his breath and his balance. And feeling lucky.

  His palms throbbed from the friction. His shoulders ached. His hip felt like it had been yanked from its socket. Not any worse, he told himself, than catching a Saturday doubleheader.

  The French window leading into Foster’s room wasn’t latched. He was on a winning streak. He yanked three times on the rope.

  Fraser hauled it back up to the roof.

  It was after midnight when Eliza and Violet entered their suite, having consented to a post-opera drink with the brothers Dulles. Fraser was in an armchair, in his own clothes. The marital reunion had progressed to the point where he had his own key to the suite.

  “Did anyone get arrested this time?” Eliza demanded.

  “Nope,” Fraser said. “A few bumps and bruises, but your favorite second-story men have cheated French justice one more time. How was the show?”

  She walked over and kissed him on the forehead. He reached up and guided her face down for a real kiss.

  She straightened up and began to remove her gloves. “I declare, Violet,” she said over her shoulder, “have you ever seen your father as happy as when he’s rushing around Paris doing disreputable things with that mangy, broken-down ex-ballplayer.”

  “Mother, he’s not at all mangy,” Violet protested.

  “And if you saw him shimmy down the side of the Hotel de Crillon this evening, you wouldn’t call him broken down,” Fraser said. “By the way, I thought you preferred me disreputable.”

  Eliza stepped to the mirror to remove her hat. “So, did you ne’er-do-wells get what you were looking for?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  Eliza turned around with the hat in her hands. “Do you mean it was for nothing that I sat through that long evening with the Messrs. Dulles? As aptly named a pair as I have met.”

  “I think Allen is rather nice,” Violet objected, dropping into a chair facing her father.

  “Well,” her mother answered, “I had the duller Dulles.”

  “He may be the duller one,” Fraser said, “but he’s intelligent enough not to leave sensitive papers in his hotel room.”

  Eliza said to Violet, “You get ready for bed now.”

  “I’m not a child, Mother. I think I played my part tonight rather well.”

  “Yes, dear, you did. But sometimes old married people need to speak to each other.” Following Violet’s self-consciously dignified departure, Eliza asked, “So what do we do now?”

  “I had no idea you two would make such bully conspirators.”

  Eliza sat on the couch and reached for Fraser’s hand. “There’s a good deal to be said for being in these things together, however odd it may be.” She squeezed his hand. “Jamie, I’m afraid I can’t bring myself to like your Mr. Cook very much, but if Violet were in trouble, I hope I’d break as many laws to protect her as he’s willing to break for his son.”

  “What a splendid sentiment. Because we have further need of you and your charming daughter.”

  Eliza smiled and sat back. “Women of intrigue, at your service.”

  “Without a document connecting Foster Dulles to the Germans, we’re going to have to keep him under some sort of watch and hope to track him to an actual meeting with them. There’s only a week until the deadline to sign the treaty.”

  “He wouldn’t meet them at the Crillon, would he?”

  “I thought we agreed that he’s dull, not stupid. So we have to keep an eye on him, which is a bit tricky. Speed’s hotel job puts him in a good place to do that while he’s working, but when he’s off shift, we’ll have to share watching the hotel. Take turns.”

  Eliza grimaced. “That deadline for the treaty could be delayed again, couldn’t it? It seems they’ve been making this peace for years.”

  “We might have to keep up our vigil for as long as a couple of weeks.”

  Eliza’s face filled with dismay. “This suite could get a bit pricey.”

  “How long were you planning to stay?”

  “Of course, I didn’t know. We’ll just find someplace less posh.”

  “I didn’t say it was a good plan.”

  “Tell me, Daddy,” Violet said as she entered the room in her bathrobe, brushing her hair. “Will I have to spend more time with Allen Dulles?” She struck a theatrical pose, the back of one wrist pressed to her forehead. “Yet another sacrifice by the fair maiden!”

  Chapter 29

  Friday morning, June 6, 1919

  The train from Paris to Frankfurt covered only 350 miles, but it carried Allen Dulles through several different civilizations. It sped from the glitter of revived Paris through patches of clover and wide fields of yellow blooms. It ground to a crawl through the brutalized landscape of the late war. Soldiers in khaki, in olive, and in blue trudged on roads that passed blasted trees and orphaned chimneys charred by fire. Dulles’ train was shunted onto side tracks while troop trains hauled men and munitions east toward Germany. Empty trains passed the other way.

  On the far side of what had been the front, Dulles and his fellow passengers switched trains. Gaining speed, they pounded through Luxemburg, then the Rhineland, which bore some traces of the Allied occupation. Narrow country lanes housed neat stockpiles of German arms, organized either by the departed troops of the Kaiser or the arriving Allied soldiers. The German countryside, untouched by the war, looked orderly, trim, admirable. Dulles thought he could be crossing farmlands of central New Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania.

  Frankfurt dashed any illusion of German prosperity or at least of German comfort. When the train slowed on the outskirts of town, he watched hunched figures scouring trash heaps. They looked gray and pinched, their clothes worn. Though
it was early June, men wore short-brimmed caps and women covered their heads with bonnets and scarves.

  On the short walk from Frankfurt’s train station, Dulles felt conspicuous in his freshly pressed suit. The people on the street took no notice of him. Gaunt faces always seem sad, he thought. He searched the eyes of those he passed, hunting for a spark, a fire. Most seemed involved in some internal conversation, devoting little attention to the world around them. He stepped around a man in an army uniform who sat on the walk, leaning back against a building, an Iron Cross at his throat. A crutch lay next to the empty trouser leg. His military cap was upside down to receive coins. Dulles couldn’t imagine such ghostly figures resuming the war against the Allies.

  The meeting place, Schlueter’s Beer Garden, was a mile from the station, wedged into a narrow lot. It held a dozen steel tables sunk into gravel, each surrounded by rickety wooden chairs. Small firs reached hopefully for sunlight between two buildings. Patrons wore coats and jackets. Some rubbed their hands together for warmth. In the back rank of tables, an American army officer sat alone, his cap on the table next to a large ceramic stein. He was blond, with ruddy cheeks and a mustache so pale as to be an illusion. They nodded to each other as Dulles approached.

  “Colonel Conger?” Dulles asked.

  “Excellent guess. Was it the uniform?”

  “I’m Dulles.”

  The officer’s face betrayed no emotion. “Surely they meant to send your father.”

  Dulles sat, then looked for a waiter. His wave seemed to snag a short, dark-haired man with an apron doubled over his middle.

  “The beer is rat piss,” Conger said, “thereby eliminating the one remaining reason to visit this bedraggled place.”

  Dulles ordered beer anyway.

  Conger raised an eyebrow. “You speak Swiss German. And not too shabby Swiss German.”

  “I was posted in Bern. During the war.”

  “That wasn’t your father in Bern?”

  Dulles smiled. “Colonel, perhaps we should get to business. I have only two hours here.”

  “Yes, business.” Conger cleared his throat and sat straighter. He nodded to a table on their right. “The man in the unfortunate plaid suit.”

  Dulles was surprised. “That’s the first well-fed German I’ve seen. So many look like a puff of wind would sweep them away.”

  Conger allowed himself a small smile. “Ah, you see before you the benefits of public service. The people who were running things had to look after themselves. And don’t be fooled by the hungry people. The Germans starved the home folks to feed the troops. That’s why it’s a mistake to think we’ll just brush the German army aside if the treaty isn’t signed. These people, they’re lousy at giving up.”

  “That man isn’t your contact in the government?”

  “No,” Conger drank some beer and grimaced. “My contact is just that, my contact. I don’t want you or anyone else fucking that up.”

  “So, this man is?”

  “He’s the cutout. Highly trusted and all that. The name’s Heinzelmann.”

  The waiter brought Dulles’ beer. He saluted his companion with it and took a swallow. “Wow.”

  Conger grinned nastily. “You won’t get used to it. But at least the Germans aren’t making it illegal to have a beer, even a bad beer. I’ll give them that.” With a determined expression, Conger drank again.

  “Yes, Prohibition takes effect in January.”

  “It’s enough to make a man wonder what he was fighting for. The Europeans may slaughter each other, but at least they’ll let you take a drink.”

  “How do we proceed?”

  “Patience, Mr. Dulles. Herr Heinzelmann will join us when he feels like it.”

  Feeling no inclination to flog the conversation with the loutish Colonel Conger, Dulles sat back. A light breeze brought a chill as the sun slipped behind slate-colored buildings. The beer garden’s clientele was young. They were neat and clean. They didn’t have the near-ghostly detachment Dulles saw on the street. These people talked quietly. Some smiled. A few laughed. Maybe Germans were always detached on the street. Spirits here, to be sure, were not hilarious. No one was singing any of the jolly or sentimental drinking songs that he had heard in Switzerland. It was still afternoon.

  “Do you have a light?”

  Heinzelmann approached their table with a cigarette poised between two fingers.

  While Dulles fumbled for his matches, Conger tossed a box of them on the table. Heinzelmann took a seat with a grunt and set to work lighting his Lucky Strike, cupping his hands around the flame. Upon closer inspection, the green plaid of his suit was even more appalling. Spectacles made his round face seem perfectly circular. A bushy mustache tilted up at either end.

  Dulles hadn’t seen waxed mustache tips since he left Bern.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” the German said.

  “My pleasure.” Conger cocked his head at Dulles. “He’s the money man.” After a brief pause, the American officer continued. “I, too, wish he were older, but we must use those tools that come to hand.”

  With a smile, Heinzelmann nodded at Dulles. “I have grown used to the colonel’s bad manners, Herr Dulles. Imagine what he would be like if America had lost the war.”

  Dulles grinned. “A terrifying prospect.”

  Heinzelmann spoke to Dulles. “We must make our arrangements.”

  “Yes. I understand we’re talking about a million marks.”

  Heinzelmann chuckled softly. “That should satisfy you, Colonel,” he said to Conger. “Herr Dulles may be young, but he is a Yankee trader like all Americans.”

  Conger smiled but said nothing.

  Heinzelmann sat back. “The price, my young sir, is three million marks. Compared to the cost of a renewed war, it is a trifle.”

  Dulles put a concerned look on his face. “That can’t be right. That’s not the figure mentioned in my briefing. And, as you say, we Yanks’re pretty careful about numbers.”

  “The quality of your briefing is not my affair,” Heinzelmann said, waving his cigarette, “nor is your attempt to win some praise for reducing the price. The price is three million marks. Our marks, you see, they shift in value every day, never to the good. So there must be many.”

  “So it will take three million marks,” Dulles said, “to persuade the German government that it must perform the most basic duty it owes to its citizens, to end the war it has long since lost.”

  “Ah,” Heinzelmann sat forward, “you are young. You wish to talk philosophy, but that would be a mistake, Herr Dulles. We Germans may lose a war, but never a philosophical discussion.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. It blew back onto his sleeve. “The marks you provide will not teach my colleagues anything. They know full well how the war ended. The money will give them courage to sign the treaty. They need courage. Signing the treaty, it will not be a popular thing.”

  “Courage to do what they know they must do anyway,” Dulles said.

  Heinzelmann shrugged. “It is one of the puzzles of life—it so often feels foolish to do something merely because it’s right.” He held up a finger. “But, Herr Dulles, if there is also profit in it, if there is advantage to one’s family, then a thing becomes so much more attractive. It becomes even the honorable thing to do.” He took a drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Three million marks.”

  Dulles looked away while the German used Conger’s matches to light another cigarette. He wondered how much of the money would go straight into Heinzelmann’s pocket, never getting anywhere near the senior politicians who were the target of the operation. It didn’t much matter. Avoiding a resumption of war was worth ten times three million marks, but he knew he had to haggle over the price. It was manly.

  They swiftly settled on a price of two million marks.

  “We must,” Dulles said, “have a protocol for contacting each other.”

  Conger roused himself. “No official channels,” he said. “
As far as the U.S. State Department is concerned, this isn’t happening.”

  “But Herr Dulles is part of the American government,” Heinzelmann said agreeably.

  Conger snorted. Dulles said nothing.

  Heinzelmann turned suddenly cold eyes on Dulles. “There is not much time,” he said, puffing on his cigarette. “You must get the money to Weimar soon.”

  “It’s not so simple. The arrangements must be made carefully. The deadline for signing the treaty is bound to be delayed, anyway. We will deliver the money in Paris, not Weimar.”

  Heinzelmann shifted his gaze between Dulles and Conger. Then he shrugged. “All right, Paris. But in ten days. After that, it may be too late.”

  “We’ll try,” Dulles said. He leaned forward. “If you provide me with a means to contact you. . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” He handed Dulles a small piece of paper that included two names, each with a Berlin address and telephone number. “Look at it carefully. Then hand it back to me.”

  Dulles did as told.

  Heinzelmann stood and walked away. His stocky form and short-legged walk called to Dulles’ mind a penguin, one with a bad tailor.

  “There,” Conger intoned, “waddles Europe’s last, best hope for peace.” He waved to the waiter for the check without smiling. “I’ll maintain contact with the cabinet minister.”

  “Do let me know of any developments.”

  “You and your fancy-ass friends need to know only one thing. You can’t afford to fuck this up.”

  Chapter 30

  Sunday morning, June 15, 1919

  General Tasker Bliss, facing the Secretary of State in his office overlooking the Place de la Concorde, arched his eyebrows. The gesture drew attention to the general’s poorly focused eyes. Bliss once again had forsaken the spectacles he so plainly needed.

  That act of vanity baffled Lansing. Perhaps Bliss thought that if he pretended his vision was acute, others would think his mind was.

  No one above the age of six, however, could make that mistake. Indeed, Bliss’ hesitancy without his spectacles reinforced the impression that most aspects of the peace conference were well beyond his depth. Bliss’ pliability, of course, was the quality that earned him the job of Pershing’s chief of staff, and then commended him to the president as a peace conference delegate.