by Ken Follett
Groves said: "I can't report to a committee of nine, Mr. Secretary. I'll never get 'em off my back."
Stimson grinned. He was too old a hand to get offended by this kind of talk, it seemed. He said mildly: "What number would you suggest, General?"
Greg could see that Groves wanted to say None, but what came out was: "Three would be perfect."
"All right," said the secretary of war, to Greg's amazement. "Anything else?"
"We're going to need a large site, something like sixty thousand acres, for a uranium enrichment plant and associated facilities. There's a suitable area in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It's a ridge valley, so that if there should be an accident the explosion will be contained."
"An accident?" said the admiral. "Is that likely?"
Groves did not hide his feeling that this was a dumb question. "We're making an experimental bomb, for Christ's sake," he said. "A bomb so powerful that it promises to flatten a medium-size city with one detonation. We'd be pretty goddamn dumb if we ignored the possibility of accidents."
The admiral looked as if he wanted to protest, but Stimson intervened, saying: "Carry on, General."
"Land is cheap in Tennessee," Groves said. "So is electricity--and our plant will use huge quantities of power."
"So you're proposing to buy this land."
"I'm proposing to view it today." Groves looked at his watch. "In fact I need to leave now to catch my train to Knoxville." He stood up. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I don't want to lose any time."
The other men in the room were flabbergasted. Even Stimson looked startled. No one in Washington dreamed of leaving a secretary's office before he indicated he was through. It was a major breach of etiquette. But Groves seemed not to care.
And he got away with it. "Very well," said Stimson. "Don't let us hold you up."
"Thank you, sir," said Groves, and he left the room.
Greg hurried out after him.
ii
The most attractive civilian secretary in the New War Office Building was Margaret Cowdry. She had big dark eyes and a wide, sensual mouth. When you saw her sitting behind her typewriter, and she glanced up at you and smiled, you felt as if you were already making love to her.
Her father had turned baking into a mass-production industry: "Cowdry's Cookies crumble just like Ma's!" She had no need to work, but she was doing her bit for the war effort. Before inviting her to lunch Greg made sure she knew that he, too, was the child of a millionaire. An heiress usually preferred to date a rich boy: she could feel confident he was not after her money.
It was October and cold. Margaret wore a stylish navy blue coat with padded shoulders and a nipped-in waist. Her matching beret had a military look.
They went to the Ritz-Carlton, but when they got to the dining room Greg saw his father having lunch with Gladys Angelus. He did not want to make it a foursome. When he explained this to Margaret, she said: "No problem. We'll have lunch at the University Women's Club around the corner. I'm a member there."
Greg had never been there, but he had a feeling he knew something about it. For a moment he chased the thought around his memory, but it eluded him, so he put it out of his mind.
At the club Margaret removed her coat to reveal a royal blue cashmere dress that clung to her alluringly. She kept on her hat and gloves, as all respectable women did when eating out.
As always, Greg loved the sensation of walking into a place with a beautiful woman on his arm. In the dining room of the University Women's Club there were only a handful of men, but they all envied him. Although he might not admit it to anyone else, he enjoyed this as much as sleeping with women.
He ordered a bottle of wine. Margaret mixed hers with mineral water, French style, saying: "I don't want to spend the afternoon correcting my typing mistakes."
He told her about General Groves. "He's a real go-getter. In some ways he's a badly dressed version of my father."
"Everyone hates him," Margaret said.
Greg nodded. "He rubs people the wrong way."
"Is your father like that?"
"Sometimes, but mostly he uses charm."
"Mine's the same! Maybe all successful men are that way."
The meal went quickly. Service in Washington restaurants had speeded up. The nation was at war and men had urgent work to do.
A waitress brought them the dessert menu. Greg glanced at her and was startled to recognize Jacky Jakes. "Hello, Jacky!" he said.
"Hi, Greg," she replied, familiarity overlaying nervousness. "How have you been?"
Greg recalled the detective telling him that she worked at the University Women's Club. That was the memory that had eluded him before. "I'm just fine," he said. "How about you?"
"Real good."
"Everything going on just the same?" He was wondering if his father was still paying her an allowance.
"Pretty much."
Greg guessed that some lawyer was paying out the money and Lev had forgotten all about it. "That's good," he said.
Jacky remembered her job. "Can I offer you some dessert today?"
"Yes, thank you."
Margaret asked for fruit salad and Greg had ice cream.
When Jacky had gone, Margaret said: "She's very pretty," then looked expectant.
"I guess," he said.
"No wedding ring."
Greg sighed. Women were so perceptive. "You're wondering how come I'm friendly with a pretty black waitress who isn't married," he said. "I might as well tell you the truth. I had an affair with her when I was fifteen. I hope you're not shocked."
"Of course I am," she said. "I'm morally outraged." She was neither serious nor joking, but something in between. She was not really scandalized, he felt sure, but perhaps she did not want to give him the impression that she was easygoing about sex--not on their first lunch date, anyway.
Jacky brought the desserts and asked if they wanted coffee. They did not have time--the army did not believe in long lunch hours--and Margaret asked for the check. "Guests aren't allowed to pay here," she explained.
When Jacky had gone, Margaret said: "What's nice is that you're so fond of her."
"Am I?" Greg was surprised. "I have fond memories, I guess. I wouldn't mind being fifteen again."
"And yet she's scared of you."
"She is not!"
"Terrified."
"I don't think so."
"Take my word. Men are blind, but a woman sees these things."
Greg looked hard at Jacky when she brought the bill, and he realized that Margaret was right. Jacky was still scared. Every time she saw Greg she was reminded of Joe Brekhunov and his straight razor.
It made Greg angry. The girl had a right to live in peace.
He was going to have to do something about this.
Margaret, who was as sharp as a tack, said: "I think you know why she's scared."
"My father frightened her off. He was worried I might marry her."
"Is your father scary?"
"He does like to get his own way."
"My father's the same," she said. "Sweet as cherry pie, until you cross him. Then he turns mean."
"I'm so glad you understand."
They returned to work. Greg felt angry all afternoon. Somehow his father's curse still lay like a blight over Jacky's life. But what could he do?
What would his father do? That was a good way to look at it. Lev would be completely single-minded about getting his way, and would not care who he hurt in the process. General Groves would be similar. I can be like that, Greg thought; I'm my father's son.
The beginning of a plan began to form in his mind.
He spent the afternoon reading and summarizing an interim report from the University of Chicago Metallurgical Laboratory. The scientists there included Leo Szilard, the man who first conceived of the nuclear chain reaction. Szilard was a Hungarian Jew who had studied at the University of Berlin--until the fatal year of 1933. The research team in Chicago was led by Enrico Fermi, the Ital
ian physicist. Fermi, whose wife was Jewish, had left Italy when Mussolini published his Manifesto of Race.
Greg wondered whether the Fascists realized that their racism had brought such a windfall of brilliant scientists to their enemies.
He understood the physics perfectly well. The theory of Fermi and Szilard was that when a neutron struck a uranium atom, the collision could produce two neutrons. Those two neutrons could then collide with further uranium atoms to make four, then eight, and so on. Szilard had called this a chain reaction--a brilliant insight.
That way, a ton of uranium could produce as much energy as three million tons of coal--in theory.
In practise, it had never been done.
Fermi and his team were building a pile of uranium at Stagg Field, a disused football stadium belonging to the University of Chicago. To prevent the stuff exploding spontaneously, they buried the uranium in graphite, which absorbed the neutrons and killed the chain reaction. Their aim was to bring the radioactivity up, very gradually, to the level at which more was being created than absorbed--which would prove that a chain reaction was a reality--then close it down, fast, before it blew up the pile, the stadium, the campus of the university, and quite possibly the city of Chicago.
So far they had not succeeded.
Greg wrote a favorable precis of the report, asked Margaret Cowdry to type it right away, then took it in to Groves.
The general read the first paragraph and said: "Will it work?"
"Well, sir--"
"You're the goddamn scientist. Will it work?"
"Yes, sir, it will work," Greg said.
"Good," said Groves, and threw the summary in his wastepaper bin.
Greg returned to his desk and sat for a while, staring at the representation of the Periodic Table of the Elements on the wall opposite his desk. He was pretty sure the nuclear pile would work. He was more worried about how to force his father to withdraw the threat to Jacky.
Earlier, he had thought about handling the problem as Lev would have done. Now he began to think about practical details. He needed to take a dramatic stand.
His plan began to take shape.
But did he have the guts to confront his father?
At five he left for the day.
On the way home he stopped at a barbershop and bought a straight razor, the folding kind where the blade slid into the handle. The barber said: "You'll find it better than a safety razor, with your beard."
Greg was not going to shave with it.
His home was his father's permanent suite at the Ritz-Carlton. When Greg arrived, Lev and Gladys were having cocktails.
He remembered meeting Gladys for the first time in this room seven years ago, sitting on the same yellow silk couch. She was an even bigger star now. Lev had put her in a series of shamelessly gung-ho war movies in which she defied sneering Nazis, outwitted sadistic Japanese, and nursed square-jawed American pilots back to health. She was not quite as beautiful as she had been at twenty, Greg observed. The skin of her face did not have the same perfect smoothness; her hair did not seem so luxuriant; and she was wearing a brassiere, which she would undoubtedly have scorned before. But she still had dark blue eyes that seemed to issue an irresistible invitation.
Greg accepted a martini and sat down. Was he really going to defy his father? He had not done it in the seven years since he had first shaken Gladys's hand. Perhaps it was time.
I'll do it just the way he would, Greg thought.
He sipped his drink and set it down on a side table with spidery legs. Speaking conversationally, he said to Gladys: "When I was fifteen, my father introduced me to an actress called Jacky Jakes."
Lev's eyes widened.
"I don't think I know her," said Gladys.
Greg took the razor from his pocket, but did not open it. He held it in his hand as if feeling its weight. "I fell in love with her."
Lev said: "Why are you dragging this ancient history up now?"
Gladys sensed the tension and looked anxious.
Greg went on: "Father was afraid I might want to marry her."
Lev laughed mockingly. "That cheap tart?"
"Was she a cheap tart?" Greg said. "I thought she was an actress." He looked at Gladys.
Gladys flushed at the implied insult.
Greg said: "Father paid her a visit, and took with him a colleague, Joe Brekhunov. Have you met him, Gladys?"
"I don't believe so."
"Lucky you. Joe has a razor like this." Greg snapped the razor open, showing the gleaming sharp blade.
Gladys gasped.
Lev said: "I don't know what game you think you're playing--"
"Just a minute," Greg said. "Gladys wants to hear the rest of the story." He smiled at her. She looked terrified. He said: "My father told Jacky that if she ever saw me again, Joe would cut her face with his razor."
He jerked the knife, just a little, and Gladys gave a small scream.
"The hell with this," Lev said, and took a step toward Greg. Greg raised the hand holding the razor. Lev stopped.
Greg did not know whether he would be able to cut his father. But Lev did not know either.
"Jacky lives right here in Washington," Greg said.
His father said crudely: "Are you fucking her again?"
"No. I'm not fucking anyone, though I have plans for Margaret Cowdry."
"The cookie heiress?"
"Why, do you want Joe to threaten her too?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Jacky is a waitress now--she never got the movie part she was hoping for. I run into her on the street sometimes. Today she served me in a restaurant. Every time she sees my face, she thinks Joe is going to come after her."
"She's out of her mind," Lev said. "I'd forgotten all about her until five minutes ago."
"Can I tell her that?" Greg said. "I think by now she's entitled to her peace of mind."
"Tell her whatever the hell you like. For me she doesn't exist."
"That's great," said Greg. "She'll be pleased to hear it."
"Now put that damn blade away."
"One more thing. A warning."
Lev looked angry. "You're warning me?"
"If anything bad happens to Jacky--anything at all . . ." Greg moved the razor side to side, just a little.
Lev said scornfully: "Don't tell me you're going to cut Joe Brekhunov."
"No."
Lev showed a hint of fear. "You'd cut me?"
Greg shook his head.
Angrily, Lev said: "What, then, for Christ's sake?"
Greg looked at Gladys.
She took a second to catch his drift. Then she jerked back in her silk-upholstered chair, put both hands on her cheeks as if to protect them, and gave another little scream, louder this time.
Lev said to Greg: "You little asshole."
Greg folded the razor and stood up. "It's how you would have handled it, Father," he said.
Then he went out.
He slammed the door and leaned against the wall, breathing as hard as if he had been running. He had never felt so scared in his life. Yet he also felt triumphant. He had stood up to the old man, used his own tactics back on him, even scared him a little.
He walked to the elevator, pocketing the razor. His breathing eased. He looked back along the hotel corridor, half-expecting his father to come running after him. But the door of the suite remained closed, and Greg boarded the elevator and went down to the lobby.
He entered the hotel bar and ordered a dry martini.
iii
On Sunday Greg decided to visit Jacky.
He wanted to tell her the good news. He remembered the address--the only piece of information he had ever paid a private detective for. Unless she had moved, she lived just the other side of Union Station. He had promised her he would not go there, but now he could explain to her that such caution was no longer necessary.
He went by cab. Crossing town, he told himself he would be glad to draw a line at last under his affair w
ith Jacky. He had a soft spot for his first lover, but he did not want to be involved in her life in any way. It would be a relief to get her off his conscience. Then, next time he ran into her, she would not look scared to death. They could say hello, chat for a while, and walk on.
The cab took him to a poor neighborhood of one-story homes with low chain-link fences around small yards. He wondered how Jacky lived these days. What did she do during those evenings she was so keen to have to herself? No doubt she saw movies with her girlfriends. Did she go to Washington Redskins football games, or follow the Nats baseball team? When he had asked her about boyfriends, she had been enigmatic. Perhaps she was married and could not afford a ring. By his calculation she was twenty-four. If she was looking for Mr. Right she should have found him by now. But she had never mentioned a husband, nor had the detective.
He paid off the taxi outside a small, neat house with flower pots in a concrete front yard--more domesticated than he had expected. As soon as he opened the gate he heard a dog bark. That made sense: a woman living alone might feel safer with a dog. He stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell. The barking got louder. It sounded like a big dog, but that could be deceptive, Greg knew.
No one came to the door.
When the dog paused for breath, Greg heard the distinctive silence of an empty house.
There was a wooden bench on the stoop. He sat and waited a few minutes. No one came, and no helpful neighbor appeared to tell him whether Jacky was away for a few minutes, all day, or two weeks.
He walked a few blocks, bought the Sunday edition of The Washington Post, and returned to the bench to read it. The dog continued to bark intermittently, knowing he was still there. It was the first of November, and he was glad he had worn his olive green uniform greatcoat and cap: the weather was wintry. Midterm elections would be held on Tuesday, and the Post was predicting that the Democrats would take a beating because of Pearl Harbor. That incident had transformed America, and it came as a surprise to Greg to realize that it had happened less than a year ago. Now American men of his own age were dying on an island no one had ever heard of called Guadalcanal.
He heard the gate click, and looked up.
At first Jacky did not notice him, and he had a moment to study her. She looked dowdily respectable in a dark coat and a plain felt hat, and she carried a book with a black cover. If he had not known her better, Greg would have thought she was coming home from church.
With her was a little boy. He wore a tweed coat and a cap, and he was holding her hand.