Piers let the cold water smash at him. He wasn’t so sleepy when he came out but his head was still light.
Watkins asked, “Better?”
“Yes, thanks. I need food.”
“It’s coming. What were you saying about Gordon—Secretary Gordon?”
Piers put on the dirty suit again. No wonder the glances of the men on the street had been strange. The substantial Watkins upholding a man in a grimy gray suit.
“Yes.”
“Anstruther isn’t coming back?”
“Did I say that?” His eyes focused hard now. “It must be between us, Bertie. I can trust you as before?”
“Yes.” Watkins’ mouth was tight. “God help us, yes.”
“How much do you know?”
“Anstruther’s missing. That’s no secret. Evanhurst is keeping me holed here just to listen in, to get word to him fast. Any crumb.”
“I’ve given you a loaf.”
“Don’t worry. Tell me what’s happened.”
He couldn’t tell Watkins all despite his trust. “No one knows. He hasn’t been heard from. Since he left Alex.”
“And you saw him off.”
“You know that.” He spoke wearily. “Everyone knows that. It ends right there.”
“And Gordon?”
“He’s Secretary. This afternoon. By official decree. It won’t be announced until the Conclave opens.”
Watkins repeated his prayer. “God help us.”
“You know Gordon?”
“He’s Evanhurst’s delight. An example to us duds.” He broke off. “There’s food.”
The waiter wheeled in the table. The scent of the meat made Piers’ head turn faster.
“Don’t get up,” Watkins said. “We’ll put it there.”
The waiter fixed the table in front of Piers, uncovered dishes.
Watkins said, “We’ll manage the rest.” He shut the man from the room, pulled up a chair and seated himself across. “Eat now. Don’t talk until you’ve eaten.”
Piers wolfed at the food. He felt better at once. If Gordon had tried to put him out, the dinner was counteracting the drug.
“How did it happen to be Gordon?”
“Who else? The President didn’t know me; he doesn’t know I’d have been Anstruther’s choice. Gordon got there first. Not that it would have made any difference.”
“You know where Gordon stands?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no doubt?”
“None at all.” He thought of Morgen’s flesh. “None at all.”
Watkins lifted his coffee cup.
“I’m not beaten yet,” Piers said. “I’m whipped but I’m not beaten. I won’t be.”
“You can’t be. There’s so few of us to stand for peace.”
Piers hesitated. “You’d be named if anything happened to Evanhurst?”
Watkins was motionless. “Yes.”
“He’s an old man. Something could happen.”
“These opportune events do not often occur.” Watkins scooped a spoon of ice cream.
“Something could happen to him,” Piers repeated stubbornly.
For a moment nothing changed, then the man’s face turned dusty. The spoon clanged to the table. He shook a fierce head. “No. No. Nothing like that.”
“I’m not suggesting death, Bert,” Piers told him quickly. “But if he could be prevented from attending the Conclave—”
“You’re drunk,” Watkins said.
“Not now. A recall to London. A mission to India.”
“He checks too carefully.”
“A slight sickness,” Piers persisted. “A stomach attack. A cold—”
There was no expression on Watkins’ face while he thought about it. He made decision. “No. I couldn’t be a party to it, Piers. I’ve worked my way up to the place I hold in International Peace. I’ve worked against plenty of odds—with him at the top, there’s always plenty. But I’ve kept the peace. Some day I’ll have his place and be able to carry on as I want. Until then I’ll keep plodding. I’m a man of peace. I can’t deny peace.”
Piers accepted the finality but he accused, “You won’t deny peace but you’ll let the Germans take it away from you.”
“I don’t believe they can.”
“You don’t? With Evanhurst and Gordon as lead sheep? Who do you think can stop the withdrawal? Poor old Mancianargo? Dessaye? The Asiatics have their own problems, all they’ll do is cast a courtesy vote with Britain and America. Even Fabian’s on their side. Who is going to speak for peace?”
“The people.”
He too had once had eternal faith in the people. But that was when the people had had a leader, when Anstruther had given them voice. “The people,” Piers shook his head. “Give them bright pretty peace and they’ll take peace. Give them war all dressed up in shiny slogans and they’ll take war. You can’t count on the people.”
“The people didn’t want the Last War, Piers. There was never any spirit for it, not even in its necessity. Not in any country. You can’t give the people another war. They are through with war.”
“God knows I hope you’re right,” Piers said without hope. “But they haven’t a voice.”
“They will be heard.” Watkins passed his cigarettes. “What’s this about Fabian going over?”
“I don’t know. He sent a man to talk with me at gunpoint the other night. Schern’s men are after me too, and there’s New York detectives.”
Watkins frowned.
“They’re all after Anstruther’s papers. I’m supposed to have them.”
Watkins caught at a hope. “You do?”
“I don’t.”
“But, Piers—”
Let suspicion tweak Watkins’ eyebrows. He was too tired to care. “If I could speak to Fabian, then I’d believe we could beat the Germans.”
“You could try. He knows Anstruther gave you his trust.”
“I’ve been refused.” He put his hand to his head. “I haven’t been accused of murder yet. It will come.”
“Anstruther is dead,” Watkins said somberly.
“No one knows.” He spoke out of passion. “Only two things have counted with me in twelve years, Bert. Anstruther and peace. I won’t watch peace go too.” He said, “Will you ride with me to the airport? I’m afraid to be alone tonight.”
“Stay over with me.”
He shook his head. “I must go back.” David might come tonight. “Fabian’s there. I keep hoping. Maybe he’ll realize I can help him. And the Germans. Maybe I can beat them yet. Alone.”
Watkins’ face was sad. “I can’t go along with you on violent means. I can’t betray peace.”
“I understand. Only I know better. We’ll have to fight for peace this time. The apes are getting strong again.” He put his hand in Watkins’. “Whatever you may hear of me between now and the Conclave, withhold judgment. I don’t know how I’ll have to play it from here on out. Just believe that whatever I do or say will be for one thing—peace in the world.”
Watkins’ clasp was strong. Stronger than his own.
VI
IT WASN’T MIDNIGHT WHEN he entered the Astor Bar. They were there waiting for him. He hadn’t expected them to be here tonight; they should be celebrating their victory in a more fitting way than a casual drink. But they couldn’t celebrate properly without the skull of their enemy for a cup. The witchery of Morgen’s face, the curve of her arm beckoned him. He wanted to turn on his heel but he dare not. He couldn’t admit to them his defeat without admitting to himself his despair. He pushed himself to the table and stood above them.
Hugo rose insolently, Brecklein with fat reluctance. Bianca’s cold young face was watching something far away. Piers’ eyes traveled over Morgen, her throat, the rose-red stuff folded over her shoulders and breast. He said, “You’ve been on my mind all evening, Frau General Schern.”
“Brecklein,” Hugo’s voice was flat.
“My mistake.” He sat down in Brecklein’
s chair and he laid his hand on Morgen’s arm.
She said, “Did Gordon return with you?”
They knew as he had known that they knew. They knew where he had been this day. They knew what the outcome must have been. He said, “No. He had business that held him. Excellent brandy, Gordon has.” His lips twisted. “Drinking brandy with Gordon, I thought of you.”
Brecklein asked dubiously, “Gordon remained in Washington?”
“Yes.” He craned up, scowling. “Get a chair. I can’t talk to you up there.” He moved his finger over Morgen’s flesh. “You’re warm,” he said.
Brecklein managed a chair. “Gordon did not say how long he would remain in Washington?”
Gordon hadn’t communicated with them as yet. They didn’t know the deal had been consummated. They wouldn’t know from him. He said, “Gordon sent no messages, Herr Brecklein.” He hated the touch of her. She burned like acid into the bones of his fingers. “I’ll have a brandy. A pity there is no Napoleon.”
Morgen said, “Witt asked us to meet him here.”
“Important business.” He shut out the others. “Do you remember, Morgen,—the snow and the shell of the Adlon? We found champagne, iced by winter. Do you remember that night, Liebchen?”
Her eyes were wary, perhaps her mouth curved remembrance but he couldn’t know. He put his elbows on the table and he leaned himself to the frozen young girl across from him. “You don’t remember the war, Bianca, do you? You were too young to know it.” He forced her hostile face to notice. “And the bombs didn’t drop over here, tearing to pieces children and women and the old men. Like mad dogs, chewing up human flesh and spewing it out on rotten earth. War is only a word to you, an outmoded word like feudalism and plague and slavery. You don’t believe in it any more than you believe in those forgotten evils.”
Morgen warned, “The war has been over for many years.”
“I keep forgetting.” He came back to the table, turned his head slowly to see her. “You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever known, Morgen.” He touched the gossamer of her shoulders. “You wore an old shawl, do you remember? We met during that raid. You were wandering, lost, and so was I. Two lost babes in the broken Adlon.”
“It has been rebuilt,” Brecklein inserted with ponderous pride. His red face glistened from recall of the past, he wiped excrescence with the finest linen from Belgium. “Most modern. The rehabilitation of Berlin has been astounding to all who have seen.”
“Piers has seen,” Morgen said impatiently. “He’s been in Berlin since the war.”
They knew that. Not from a casual remark from someone he’d bumped into there. It wouldn’t be from that.
“You know?” Brecklein said. “Astounding, is it not?”
“Astounding indeed,” Piers bowed. “Germany is a remarkable country.”
Morgen watched, uneasy, because he had forgotten stability and might forget again. Hugo watched, uneasy, because he didn’t want Bianca to be disenchanted, or even Brecklein to know too much.
Piers lifted his glass. “I should toast Germany, that remarkable nation.” The liquid spilled as he set it down untasted. And he saw by the door the familiar watching face of Cassidy. He called out, “There’s Cassidy.” His hand signaled. “Hugo, you must invite Cassidy over for a drink.” If Cassidy came, saw their faces, the detective would know. And the chill that covered Piers here at this table would be thawed, he would be warm again. He called out, “Cassidy, there! The old elephant in the doorway, Hugo. He’s my private bodyguard, you know.” He shouted, “Cassidy!”
The detective had to come, to quiet him. He lumbered over but he wasn’t pleased. “So you’re back?”
“Safe and sound, if not tidy. Did you miss me? Or were you with me? To the very door of the White House. You will join my friends for a drink? Allow me to present Frau General Brecklein. Her husband, Herr General Brecklein. And her beloved brother, Hugo General von Eynar.” Their hostility closed round him. But he wasn’t afraid with Cassidy planted there. “All of Germany’s Peace Commission. You didn’t know Germany too had a Peace Commission? And this young lady is Miss Bianca Anstruther. You remember Secretary Anstruther?”
Cassidy mumbled, and added ill-at-ease, “No drink for me. I’m on duty.” He lumbered away.
“He doesn’t like the company I choose.” Piers spoke lightly and the bitterness in Bianca’s face was only a shadow of the bitterness enveloping him. “None the less I choose my own company. Morgen, the maid of Adlon; Morgen, the fay; Morgen, the—”
Bianca spoke sharply. “Hugo, take me home.” Disgust blanched her face.
“You mustn’t mind me,” Piers said gently. He drained his glass watching Bianca and Hugo confer in undertone. He said, “No. I’m leaving. I might say too much if I remained here.” He spoke softly: “There is now no man alive to whom I dare speak my heart. I know, in truth, that it is a noble thing for man to fetter his feelings, to guard his tongue, whatever he may think.”
Morgen’s hair was against his cheek. His words were for her ear alone. “Tomorrow noon, the Plaza. Alone. Important.”
She shook her head.
“There are some things you’d like to know—” He looked into her eyes, her candid, sea-blue eyes.
She gave unwilling assent, fearing the trap. She herself had set too many.
“Good night.” He lounged to the door, catching a glimpse of their huddle as he left the room. Swine and one small misguided pearl. He marched blindly to the news counter and stepped on a pair of tired black shoes.
Cassidy said, “I didn’t think you’d be drinking with Heinies.” His face sweated disgust.
Piers just looked at him. “We’re all one big happy family. Haven’t you heard of peace?”
“That’s not what you were saying this morning.”
He took the papers. “Skip it. I’m not the spokesman for peace any more.” He went up wearily to his room. David wasn’t there. The neon lights blinked patches on the floor. He took off the dirty suit, kicked it in a heap on the rug. He didn’t want to see it again. He probably wouldn’t, not for a long time. He doubted if he’d be here much longer. As soon as Gordon could unwind some red tape.
He wondered if Gordon had cabled Nickerson. There wasn’t anything worth sending for; Piers didn’t keep important notes in the office. He showered, shaved, laid out his things for morning. His room had been searched again. It didn’t matter. He’d have to be at the Plaza before noon. He didn’t know what would come next; he only knew it wouldn’t be good. The main thing was to remain out of custody. The main thing was to keep alive. They wouldn’t kill him—yet.
He read the papers for an hour or more before turning to sleep. It was as he knew it would be when the light was out and Broadway flickered now dark, now bright against his eyes. The old sickness again, the linger of her arm against his forefinger, the odor of her yellow hair, the promise of her voice. He had to play it this way. It was his only hope of breaking Gordon.
2.
He left the hotel before eleven, followed by Cassidy and a moon-faced man who read license plates. And doubtless somewhere beyond them by a dark man of the bush. He lost the first two in Times Square, the old last-man-on-the-subway trick. It took time but it was worth it. He didn’t know if he’d lost the bush tracker. He rode as far as 72nd for safety, took a downtown train to Columbus Circle and walked across town to the Plaza. He wouldn’t go up to his room; he must not be closeted with her. That agony could be avoided. He went to the desk, asked that he be paged on a call. When he turned she was just entering the lobby. She was in navy with ruff of white, and when she saw him her face lighted as if some flame leaped within her. He set his guts against her. He wouldn’t be the victim this time.
He said, “I’m a little surprised that you came.”
“You asked me to come.” Her eyes were dark as sapphire.
He put his hand under her arm. “We won’t lunch here. I’ve just avoided my bulldog and the mongrel at his heels. I don’t want
them around us.” He steered her out of the hotel and into a cab. She sat there quiet, waiting. He said, “You are the loveliest thing I ever saw.”
“That isn’t why you asked me to come.”
He leaned to the driver. “When there’s no cab following get us to Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam. But be certain.”
The cabbie saw a horned husband. He winked in his mirror.
“There’s an old hotel, an aunt of mine once lived there. It’ll be quiet at this hour.”
She said nothing.
The cab ran a couple of red lights on Columbus. After that it cruised to the directed corner. “You’re safe, Mister.”
Piers matched the face and identification. Another Pole, Willie something. Could be Nick Pulaski’s brother-in-law. He added an extra bill to the charge. “If you’re around here in a couple of hours, we don’t want to walk downtown.”
“Keep your eyes open.” The cabbie winked again.
Piers opened the street door into the cool, fumed oak tap-room, unchanged in the years upon years. There were two aging women in one booth with a coal-colored French poodle. The poodle had his own plate. A casual was at the bar. Piers sat across from Morgen in a sheltered corner, suggested from the menu, gave the orders. They sat in silence, measuring each other until the food was placed.
She spoke slowly, “What was the meaning of your act last night?”
He said, “It wasn’t an act.”
Her eyes would haunt him always. She’d learned to put sadness into them. “It wasn’t real. The other night, your hatred, that was real.”
He had to play it carefully. She was wise, as wise as she was beautiful, as beautiful as bad. “Yes, that was real,” he admitted. “I hate your guts.” He watched her flinch and he savored it. “But there’s the reverse side of it. You know that one too, don’t you? I thought I was finished with you twelve years ago. I’ve spent twelve years making certain I was through. And then you came. A man can hate—and want.”
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