by Daniel Wyatt
Congress roared its approval with a standing ovation. President Roosevelt sat down. He could picture the future in a panoramic view, American factories pushing out shells, tanks, fighters, bombers, transports, aircraft carriers, and destroyers. Then an invasion of Japan. Roosevelt brought to mind the words of a great American, John Paul Jones. “I have not yet begun to fight.” How quickly opinion had changed. Once the war had begun in 1939, the isolationists and the Communist supporters had detested Roosevelt’s pro-British policies and his Lend-Lease shipments to the island. They had staged speeches, protests, and marches. Until Russia had been attacked in June. Then — like magic — Communist supporters were all in favour of Lend-Lease, especially, of course, to the Soviet Union, America’s overnight ally in the fight against Hitler. The last group, the isolationists, had now fallen with the news of Pearl Harbor.
Throughout the morning, Roosevelt had been receiving phone calls and telegrams of support, many from the same isolationists who had been campaigning for America First the days, weeks, and months before. This was an infuriated America. This was a country on a war footing. The war wasn’t thousands of miles away any longer. It was right here, staring them all in the face. And the future was in the hands of Congress to decide.
The President looked up to the balcony. His eyes fell once more onto the grim faces of the two COI men.
They saw the presidential stare.
Hollinger stirred in his seat, thinking. The cry of Thank God for Hitler would be only a memory. Soon, it would be Remember Pearl Harbor.
The applause died down. Donovan used the opportunity to turn to Hollinger and say, “There was one thing I failed to mention yesterday.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“If we go to war with Germany, the Wall Street banks win no matter what. They can’t lose. And I’ll tell you why. You’ve heard of the Federal Reserve?”
“Yes. Sort of. The government money supply.”
Donovan shook his head. “Wrong, my boy. Try private money supply. Let me give you a little history lesson here.” Donovan looked around, and continued. “In 1911, seven influential financial men met secretly to concoct a plan to control the American money supply. They made a proposal to Washington and Washington fell into step. Since 1913 with the passing of the Federal Reserve Act, the United States treasury has been in private hands, disguised as a government agency. The banks mentioned in your Falcon File all had people at that meeting. What I’m trying to say is that Wall Street controls Washington’s cash. They control the President. They put him in power. They financed him. They financed Hitler. They wanted this war. And they’ve made deals with the Nazis this year. And I know one other thing, too. A couple of those firms, one of them a Rockefeller bank, put Lenin in power during the October Revolution in 1917.”
“Our own bankers?”
“It’s business, Wesley. Big business. Whenever somebody around the world wants money, they go to Wall Street.”
Hollinger was crushed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“What can you say?”
“You know, at least Roosevelt’s off the hook,” Hollinger said. “Congress can’t impeach him now.”
“Right. Let’s go,” Donovan said, checking his wristwatch. He had arranged a Clipper flight for Hollinger later that afternoon, a New York-to-Lisbon-to-London, under high priority. “Don’t want to miss your plane.”
Hollinger turned and knocked into a woman. “Sorry, ma’am. Well, if it isn’t Miss Harris.”
Lydia Harris smiled, fighting to find her voice. “Mr. Hollinger. I never expected to see you again.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“The New York Times sent me to Washington to cover the event.”
“Came for the fireworks, did you?”
“Yeah. You were right. We got into it.”
Hollinger grinned. “Lucky guess. And you didn’t think we’d ever see each other again, did you?”
Donovan tugged at Hollinger’s sleeve. “Time’s a wasting. Excuse us, Miss.”
In the hall, Donovan asked, “She’s the one you’ve been telling me about, eh?”
“Yes, sir. The MI-6 courier.”
“Nice-looking. Sharp dresser. Seems intelligent enough. After what she’s been through, the COI might be able to use her. I’ll keep her in mind.”
The car radio was all war. On the way to the airport, Donovan and Hollinger listened to early reports from the Russian Front. General Zhukov’s fresh troops had turned back the Germans at the gates of Moscow. The Germans were in retreat. Then came the news of the vote. It took Congress thirty-three minutes to pass an overwhelming resolution declaring war on Japan.
* * * *
London — December 11
Three days later, they were standing in the Big Guy’s Hole in the Ground below Whitehall, listening to Hitler’s speech to the German people over the clear shortwave signal. Hollinger interpreted the Fuehrer’s speech as best he could for Churchill, Lampert, and Langford. They were waiting patiently for the final phrase that they knew was sure to come.
“Although Germany for her part, as always, strictly observed the rules of international law in her dealings with the United States throughout the present war, the Government of the United States has finally proceeded to overt acts of war against Germany. It has, therefore, virtually created a state of war. The Reich Government therefore breaks off all diplomatic relations with the United States and declares that under these circumstances brought about by President Roosevelt, Germany too considers herself to be at war with the United States, as from today.”
Churchill leaned on his cane and shut the short wave off. He was all smiles. And why not? The Americans and British were in the global war, together. Allies. What he had always wanted.
“Sit down, everybody,” Churchill ordered. He faced Lampert, and poked him in the stomach. “The young lady is cleared is she?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Lampert settled into an armchair. He glanced over at Langford. “I trust her implicitly.”
Langford smiled her thanks at Lampert.
A male servant brought in a polished aluminium tray with four crystal glasses and set them down on a corner table, next to a large bottle of champagne. Wesley Hollinger had done as promised. He had gotten Roberta Langford a visit to the Prime Minister’s residence and the underground part of it. She was overwhelmed. For Hollinger, it was the first time here since the day after Germany’s attack on Russia in June.
“Well?” the American whispered out of the side of his mouth, as he and Langford took to the same couch together.
She smiled, her voice low. “You said you would get me to meet him, and you did.”
“I never break a promise.”
“Really? Let me think about that one for a spell.”
“Don’t you dare kick your shoes off in here.”
She glared at him. “Or chew gum.”
“No problem. I swallowed it on the way in.”
Churchill cleared his throat. “Young Wesley?”
Hollinger stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of Hitler now?”
“He really is crazy, I have to admit.”
“That’s the spirit. I’m glad that’s settled. We’re going to win this war. And whip this Master Race idea out of the Germans.”
“Hitler had no reason to declare war on us,” Hollinger spoke up, “other than wanting to beat Roosevelt to it, I guess. He said it himself. He would always deal out the first blow. The big goof. Sounds like he did everyone a favour. Imagine, saying that Roosevelt provoked Germany to war to cover up our New Deal failures. Hitler will get a taste of how weak and built-on-the-dollar we are.”
“Does that mean I’m not the son-of-a-bitch some people think I am?” Churchill walked to the end of the room, then turned.
“No, sir,” Hollinger blushed. He realized that Churchill’s methods were justified by good intentions. The more against Hitler, the better.
“S
ee. I told you not to call him that name,” Langford whispered. “He found out.”
“Quiet!”
“By the way, Wesley, I read Mein Kampf too,” Churchill continued. “We’re in an honoured club. There’s very few of us in the Free World who’ve had that glimpse of the thug in high office. And never mind those five countries he promised as concessions. He’s a filthy liar. By the time this war is over the whole world will see what kind of man this Hitler monster is.”
“I’m sure they will, sir.”
“Another thing. That Lisbon flight — 725. Awful! But we’re saving Enigma for when it will be put to the best of use. Invasion time. Maybe invasions are out of the question now. But they’re coming. Combined British and American efforts. Then we will read and act upon the German signals. We’ll send Hitler back to hell. Your President and I will turn Great Britain into a giant supply base, a launch sight, and a fortress. Then I won’t have to play God with my people anymore. I don’t like playing God. We will drag the Hun’s bloody nose into the ground and trample it. Unconditional surrender. After it’s over, we will stage trials for the lot of those Nazi gutter rats for the world to view.”
“What about Schubert? What will happen to him?” Hollinger asked.
“Leave that to us,” Churchill answered. “How’s Wild Bill taking this new war footing for the Americans?” Churchill asked.
Hollinger looked up. “Ready to roll. He sends you his best, sir.”
“And the President?”
“The same. He’s looking forward to your next meeting.” Is he ever, thought Hollinger.
The Prime Minister pulled a piece of paper from his suit jacket, and slipped on his pair of half-moon reading glasses. “Quite the report from Donovan. The Hawaiian Islands are under martial law. The writ of habeas corpus is suspended. The Japanese consulate was seized. A roundup of Japanese aliens, all ordered to register. Your forces had eighteen ships seriously damaged or sunk, 174 aircraft destroyed, and over 3,000 casualties. Twenty-four hundred dead. Half of those aboard the battleship Arizona. Damn awful shame. But the Japs didn’t get the carriers.”
“Thank God for that,” Hollinger piped up. “And, lucky for us, they missed the dry docks, the oil tanks, and the salvage equipment just across the Harbor.”
“Donovan also tells me that you’re to help organize a department branch at the new COI London office.”
“That’s right, sir. The SI. Secret Intelligence.”
“Very good. This calls for a toast. To the new alliance. No disrespect to your losses.”
Hollinger nodded. “No disrespect taken, sir.”
Churchill turned to the table. “Would you mind pouring, colonel?”
Lampert came to his feet, slowly. “My pleasure, sir.”
All four stood, drinks in their hands, smiles on their faces.
“A toast,” Churchill said, “to our new alliance. Britain and America.”
“To Britain and America,” the other three replied as one and drank.
“A second toast.” Churchill’s face saddened. “My mother would approve, God rest her soul. To the Americans who gave their lives. Dreadful. I feel the pain as a half-American. Remember Pearl Harbor.”
“Hear, hear,” said Lampert.
“Remember Pearl Harbor,” they uttered.
They drank again.
Lampert cleared his throat. “I would like to make a third toast.”
“What’s that, colonel,” Churchill asked, licking his lips.
“To Wesley and Miss Langford. Their engagement.”
“I didn’t know. Wedding Bells in the near future for you two?” Churchill asked.
“The summer, sir,” Langford answered her Prime Minister, while she admired her engagement ring. For her, it would mean a wartime wedding. A sprinkle of confetti. Just Married sign on the MG. Quick honeymoon. Good sex. Back to work.
“Congratulations.”
Lampert and Churchill held their glasses up.
“To Miss Langford and Wesley,” the Prime Minister said. “The other British-American alliance.” He walked to a side cabinet and dug out two cigars. “Join me, Colonel.”
“I certainly will, sir.”
Hollinger grinned. “What about me?”
Lampert and Churchill stared at each other and burst into laughter.
Langford shook her head, smirking. “The Tyrant of Hut Nine is going to smoke a cigar?”
Hollinger chuckled. “For the sake of international harmony.” He thought of the old Wild West. “Kind of like ... you know, Chief Sitting Bull ... a peace pipe.”
* * * *
Long Island, New York — December 12
Wolfgang Schroeder was the North American representative for I.S Filberg, working out of the German Embassy in Washington. He was distinctly German, blonde, rigid, perfect manners, black double-breasted suit, starched white shirt, red tie. His colours today reminded Vincent Chapman of the Nazi flag.
Following a light two-minute discussion, Schroeder drank down the rest of his French wine in Chapman’s panelled study. The German was in a hurry to leave the country under a diplomatic truce, a passenger boat waiting for him. “All we want is your assurance — on behalf of your partners — that we will still be dealing in the midst of war.”
Chapman smiled, and folded his hands over his expensive suit. “You have our word. We will never allow a war to get in the way of profit. For both of us. You also have our word that none of your factories will be bombed, not with an American board of directors at the helm. Furthermore, German assets in this country will be protected.”
Schroeder smiled. “What if my country should lose, Herr Chapman, which I fear?”
“Then we will simply help you in your recovery.”
“I see. But will your government go along with all this?”
Chapman scratched his chin. “Don’t you worry about our government. Someone has Roosevelt and the Treasury in our hip pocket.”
* * * *
Washington — December 13
In the Oval Office, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt reread the one-page Executive Order 8389 in his hands.
CHAPTER X — GENERAL LICENSES
GENERAL LICENSE UNDER SECTION 3 (a) OF THE TRADING WITH THE ENEMY ACT
By virtue of and pursuant to the authority vested in me by sections 3 and 5 of the Trading with the Enemy Act, as amended, and by virtue of all other authority vested in me, I, FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT, PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, do prescribe the following:
A general license is hereby granted licensing any transaction or act prohibited by section 3 (a) of the Trading with the Enemy Act, as amended, provided, however, that such transaction or act is authorized by the Secretary of the Treasury by means of regulations, rulings, instructions, licenses or otherwise, pursuant to Executive Order No. 8389, as amended.
FRANKLIN D ROOSEVELT
THE WHITE HOUSE
December 13, 1941
H. MORGENTHAU, JR
Secretary of the Treasury
FRANCIS BIDDLE
Attorney General of the United States
TWENTY-SEVEN
Near Torquay, England — July 1942
It had been warm the entire day, no clouds, bright blue sky. The Channel stretched out before them. They strolled along the secluded beach, huddled arm in arm, two lovers, married less than twenty-four hours before. They felt as if they were the last two people alive.
Wesley and Robbie were now Mr. and Mrs. Hollinger. They made their way to the blanket on the rise over the water, their bare feet making deep prints in the wet sand. The tide was coming in. They looked upon the long line of palm trees that skimmed the barbwire coast as far as they could. They hugged on the blanket, their bodies astride each other. He poured the wine for her, then filled his own crystal glass. The air began to cool. She threw on his shirt over her swimsuit. They squinted into the setting sun on the western horizon.
“Palm trees in Britain. Amazing,” Hollinger said.
“Nice touch.”
“Wesley?”
“Yes, my sweet.”
“We’re going to win this, aren’t we?”
They had tried to forget about the war for at least today. Early game of competitive tennis. Breakfast on the hotel terrace. A drive along the shore. Sightseeing. Late dinner. Then to the beach. But the anti-invasion barbwire had brought them back to reality.
“We’re off to a good start, this year,” he said. “We sunk four Jap carriers off Midway. This fellow Eisenhower is our new European Commander. He’s pretty tough, I hear. Ike, they call him. Montgomery has the Hun on the run in the desert. Our bombers made their first daylight strike on Occupied Europe. Yeah, all in all, we’re getting there with this new joint venture. But, it will be a long haul yet. A few more years.”
They didn’t speak for nearly a minute. The sun was dipping below the horizon.
“I love you,” she said sincerely, lying on her back, her eyes never leaving him.
“I love you too, Roberta Langford-Hollinger. More than you’ll ever realize.”
“You know what?” she said.
“What?”
“You’re getting some grey hairs.”
“Where?”
“Above your ears.”
Moving over her, he kissed her softly on the lips. “How’s that for an old guy?”
“Careful, boy. Not here,” she said, not too convincingly. “I’m not your old flame. What’s her name? Annie Fannie?”
“Annie! Why did you have to bring her up? I haven’t seen her in, oh, at least six months.”
“Of course not. I had the colonel transfer her out.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“I always wondered what happened to her. Got rid of the competition, did you?”
“You bet. Tell me, does she really have a Union Jack tattoo on her bottom.”
“That’s sensitive information.”
“You’re not kidding. Well, does she or doesn’t she?”
“I’ll never tell. It’s ... classified.” He held her closer.