Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  Robbie had telegraphed the fat General, and soon after their arrival came Hauptmann Furtwaengler of his staff to invite them to lunch at the Air Ministry. It was an enormous granite building, the ugliest in the city, which was saying a lot; the newspapers said it had three thousand rooms, but you could never count entirely upon Nazi newspapers. Der dicke Hermann had a palatial suite here, and welcomed them in a military costume of cream and gold suggestive either of interior decoration or a musical comedy chorus. He made himself such agreeable company that Lanny, who liked nearly everybody, had to keep saying to himself: “This is the man who burned the Reichstag; who ordered the blood purge in Berlin; who is going to turn Europe into a slaughter pit.” Hitler, of course, was the driving will, the prime mover, but his function was mostly making speeches and devising slogans, while this great lump of lard was the executive and the preparer of all future executions.

  Lanny had been raised in the midst of killing instruments and his privileged life had been based upon their sale at a profit; but he personally had never killed anybody, and it had always required a psychological effort for him to understand a killer, to imagine what must be going on in his mind. This fat Hermann had been trained for killing since early youth, and probably through his childhood had been taught worship of the old German heroes who had made killing their sole business on earth and had then been carried off to Valhalla to have their reward in the form of unlimited barrels of beer and barrel-shaped maidens. He had been a brave and skillful killer in the great war, but had been licked at it. Now he was going to have another chance, and this time he was going to win. That coming revenge was the sauce that flavored all the food he ate and the beer he drank; the expectation of it was the motive of all the prodigious labors he performed.

  One other impulse drove him—personal vanity. He was the master executive, the great one to whom the others came for orders. All Germany knew this, and the rest of the world, both friends and enemies, would acknowledge it in the future. In this vanity lay the root of the great man’s hospitality; he had to have people to admire him, to serve as mirrors in which he might contemplate himself. He personally designed and ordered his bright-colored uniforms, literally scores of them; they externalized his glory, and first he surveyed himself, so as to see what his visitors would be seeing, and when they saw it he read the admiration in their eyes.

  Secretly, of course, they might be amused, but that did not trouble Der Dicke too much. After all, it was a game they were all playing, and it was the mob they had to fool and impress: the great German masses which lined the sidewalks twenty deep when their old-style robber baron drove by in his huge six-wheeled automobile, baby-blue in color. These masses went into the factories and toiled twelve hours a day to make the equipment for the coming war; they gave their sons to be drilled and got ready to spread the fame of the fat General, soon to be Marshal, all over Europe; to enable him to ride in triumph into one capital after another in the baby-blue limousine—equipped, of course, with bullet-proof glass.

  II

  That was what these Budds meant to Hermann the Great. They came overseas to him—not he to them. The father knew a lot about planes, and had given some first-rate ideas, in exchange for second-rate ideas and enough cash to keep him going. The son went about in drawing-rooms of the enemy, and from his chatter much useful information could be gleaned. Both of them admired Hermann, gazed with open-eyed wonder at his marvelous works, and bowed before the future which he was preparing.

  Did they really mean all the admiration and friendship they expressed? Probably not; for most men are motivated by greed and fear, so Hermann believed, and he took them as they were; at present he fed their greed, and in due course would teach them fear. Meantime, they were good actors, and we all enjoy attending a show now and then; so, press the button, and lackeys will come, wheeling tables loaded with broiled venison, also Rebhuhn, with asparagus grown under glass, peaches frozen in California, and other delicacies from those seven seas which Der Dicke intends to master with his new air force. While planning and arranging these matters he does himself well, telling his exploits past and future and laughing uproariously, boasting to Robbie of the wonders his scientists have invented, making jokes with Lanny which cause that ivory-tower dweller to blush slightly, accustomed as he has been to the sophistications of the old world and the crudeness of the new.

  This old-style German robber baron is devoted to his Führer. He recognizes that it is Adolf Hitler who has shaped the Nazi doctrines and built the Nazi Party; who has bewitched and captivated the German peasants and middle classes, something which Hermann could never have done. Hermann began as a humble Leutnant in the trenches, and has risen to be General and is promised a marshalship, the highest of all military ranks. That is enough; Hermann will build the Wehrmacht, and especially the Air Force which is designed to be its crown and apex, the breaker of stalemates, the crusher of Maginot Lines and whatever else the foe may have.

  Incidentally, it means that the marshal-to-be will make himself the richest man in the world; he has set up the Hermann Göring Steelworks, the biggest of all time, and will add to them everything his army may take. Privately owned, of course, with no nonsense about nationalization—for has not the Führer said that Bolshevism is the Public Enemy Number One? Isn’t it fear of Bolshevism that is enabling Germany to undermine and destroy the governments of every country in Europe? So, why shouldn’t Hermann get rich—and boast of his riches to poor Americans, who make thousands of dollars while he is making millions of marks?

  “You must come and see my new airports,” says the world’s future owner; and then: “You must come to Karinhall. Emmy said not to fail to bring you.” Emmy Sonnemann, former stage queen, has settled down and got started on the way to presenting her husband with an heir. Her picture is in the illustrated papers almost every week; an example for every German woman below the age of forty-five; what they are all urged and even commanded to do. Block-wardens in all the humble districts go the rounds inquiring of the women whether they are pregnant, and if not why not, and they had better produce good reasons or the government will take action in the matter. Birth control advocates are shut up in concentration camps and abortionists are executed without ceremony, for the Führer must have soldiers for his future task of ruling the world. Hermann adores Emmy, and as a reward for setting a proper example to the German Volk she can have anything in the world she asks for; she is the first lady of the Fatherland—the Führer being a bachelor, and, in the eyes of the German Volk, a saint.

  III

  They had a very good time at the luncheon, and it was prolonged while they sipped Rheinwein and Hermann and Robbie smoked long black cigars and talked about their business affairs. When they were through with the preliminary stages, they discussed the state of Europe, and when they came to France with its tricky and futile politicians, Lanny told a story which Der Dicke pronounced kolossal.

  As Lanny told it, his old friends the de Bruynes had got themselves head over heels into the Cagoulard conspiracy, and at the moment when Denis fils had been arrested and the father was fearing arrest, he had entrusted certain especially compromising papers to Lanny’s keeping, thinking they would surely be safe in the hands of an American. But Lanny had been tipped off that the French police were watching him, and he had tried in a great hurry to think of some place where he could hide and be safe. It happened that a few days previously he had met Graf Herzenberg at the home of Lili Moldau, the actress, and he had the impulse, perhaps foolish, to seek shelter at the Château de Belcour. Lanny repeated the long argument which had taken place between himself and Seine Hochgeboren; really amusing, for of course the Graf had been badly scared at the idea of the French police finding Cagoulard documents in his home. Lanny told how he had sought to assure the Graf that he was a friend of Hermann’s, and the Graf had refused to believe him, and how alarmed he had been by Lanny’s proposal to telephone to Hermann from the château.

  Lanny narrated all this in a way
to bring out its humorous aspects. He didn’t know, but thought it a safe guess that Hermann didn’t like Seine Hochgeboren, and wouldn’t mind his having been embarrassed in this sort of opera-bouffe adventure. Lanny said he realized that he hadn’t been able to do very much to help Hermann in his work, but he had done his best, and had certainly done a great deal to help Kurt Meissner in meeting the right people in Paris. Der Dicke was gracious enough to say that Lanny had helped him considerably and certainly had the right to be protected in Paris. That was good to hear, for Herzenberg would be bound to meet the General sooner or later and to ask about Lanny; indeed he might already have asked—which was Lanny’s reason for telling the story. Hermann wanted to know what had become of those papers, and doubtless would have been willing to pay a fancy price for them; Lanny answered casually that he had turned them over to a trusted friend of the de Bruynes, and was glad indeed to have got himself clear of the mess.

  He talked freely about the Frenchmen who were most active in the plot, and Hermann asked if Lanny would object to his making notes of the names. Lanny said: “Certainly not; but I believe they are all well known to your agents in Paris.” To this the fat General replied: “That may be, but I like to know things myself, and have a check on my agents.” He had until recently been head of the Gestapo, but a former schoolteacher named Himmler had taken over these all-important functions.

  Somewhat to Lanny’s surprise, Robbie referred to Baron Schneider as one of the backers of the Cagoule; that was a weighty secret, and one which the Baron would hardly have wanted revealed at present. But Robbie had come here hoping to place a good cash order with Hermann, and he knew that the way to make sure of it was to let it be known that he had already placed a good cash order with Eugène; no confidences counted for anything in comparison with that, and so the name of the Baron went down on the list, along with those of Michelin the tire man and Deloncle and General Duseigneur and Comte Hubert Pastré and the rest; not forgetting Pétain, marshal of the army, and Darlan, admiral of the navy.

  Lanny could see the Reichswehr marching into Paris as a result of those pencil marks which the Kommandant of the German Air Force was scribbling on a pad of paper. Robbie could see it, too, though probably not so clearly. He had made up his mind that he didn’t care, provided he could keep America out of it, and have Budd-Erling put to work on a big scale for America’s protection. That was Robbie’s philosophy in a nutshell; take care of your own house, and to hell with Europe!

  IV

  Hitherto when Lanny had come to Berlin with his father he had had affairs of his own; but now he seemed to have nothing to do but accompany Robbie everywhere, listen to Robbie’s conversation, and ask questions about what he saw. This was a most gratifying development to the father, and brought back to life a dream which had died long ago—that his first-born might decide to follow in his footsteps and take over part of his burdens. Robbie’s two sons by Esther were active in the plant, and he had no fault to find with them, but they didn’t have Lanny’s imagination or his knowledge of world affairs. Robbie had to be careful not to show these feelings at home, but Lanny knew what was in his heart, and was touched by the older man’s willingness to explain everything, his pleasure in his eldest son’s company and in the fact that the dangerous Pink tinge seemed to have faded out of the son’s mind.

  Robbie had been told, or had read somewhere, that this was something entirely normal. The young had their fine enthusiasms, and then in course of the years they learned what was possible and what wasn’t. With Lanny this process had taken so long that Robbie had come to despair about it, but now it seemed to have come about all at once, a quite magical transformation. Lanny no longer met any Reds or Pinks and no longer had their papers on his table; more important yet, he no longer made the “smart cracks,” the cynical remarks by which you could recognize the type. The father had been deeply hurt because his favorite son had repudiated all his ideas; and now to have him reverse his attitude was heartwarming indeed.

  So Robbie had talked freely about Big Steel and Little Steel, about Alcoa, the great aluminum trust, and the various power combines allied with it; about Standard Oil of New Jersey and its arrangements with Germany concerning patents on the making of artificial rubber; about the du Ponts and their sale to Germany of the discoveries of their vast research laboratories. All these matters concerned Robbie, because they had to do with airplanes in one way or another. Planes had to fly faster and higher, they had to be stronger and at the same time lighter—the safety of the country, the mastery of the world, might depend upon ten-miles-an-hour difference in speed, or a .50-instead of a .30-caliber machine gun.

  At the moment the Germans had the fastest fighter, but Robbie had a new one in the “mock-up” stage that was going to knock them all cold. Robbie’s only problem was to get the money to complete this new model, without having to run into debt and risk losing his company to some Wall Street syndicate, as had happened in the sad case of Budd Gunmakers. A distressing thing to come here to Germany and see the research men with all the resources of a great government behind them, and to know that at home people were asleep, and leaving the burden to be carried by a few farsighted individuals, nearly all of them “little fellows” like Robbie Budd!

  V

  The General sent Furtwaengler to escort his guests and show them the wonders of the newly completed D.V.L., the institute for aeronautical research. To Robbie it was one of the great experiences of his life; he got from it thrills such as Lanny would have got if in the National Bibliothek he had stumbled upon the hitherto unknown manuscript of a tenth symphony by Beethoven. Great Jehoshaphat, these people had built a wind-tunnel in which they could test their models for speeds up to four hundred miles an hour. (Three hundred and twenty was the best that Robbie’s new model was expected to produce.) They were training their men in air-reduction chambers, accustoming them to electrically heated suits and oxygen pumped into their lungs, so that fighter planes could get on top of bombing planes, even those equipped with sealed cabins and superchargers. Air war was going to take to the stratosphere, and the nations that didn’t get there first would never get there; they would be licked in the first day, or night, of combat.

  Most of these improvements were foreseen, but they were supposed to belong to the future; the Germans, however, were going to turn the future into the present. They could do it because their men at the top had the vision; because Göring had been a flyer, and had gathered his old buddies about him and put them in charge. These men knew what air war was, and what it might be; they had been licked once, and knew why, and how to get ready for the next time. All German science, all German discipline, all German wealth, were being directed to this end, so that when Der Tag came along, the German army should have an air cover to protect it, first to drive its enemy out of the skies and then to crush his defenses and enable the Wehrmacht to march where it would.

  Meantime, in the other countries, what? Robbie Budd didn’t wring his hands, for he wasn’t of that type, but verbally he did just that. Muddle, muddle, muddle! The Royal Air Force was good, what there was of it, but its control was in the hands of men who still thought in terms of the last war; men who had never flown, and who looked upon airplanes as a convenient but uncertain device to enable army commanders to find out what the enemy ground forces were doing. Brass hats on the land, and on the sea admirals loaded with gold lace, pacing the bridges of great battlewagons with magnificent dignity and resenting airplanes as lawless, impertinent, and bad form.

  In France it was even worse; their air force was a pitiful farce, and their program of nationalization in the face of the German threat was lunacy. As for America, that was a story which Robbie had told his son a hundred times. We had an air force of the right size for a Central American republic, and after a manufacturer had met a hundred different kinds of tests, most of them three times over, and had filled out forty-seven blanks in quintuplicate, and had been insulted half a dozen times by men who knew one-tenth a
s much about planes as he did—then he might get an order for ten units and the promise that Congress would be asked to budget twenty more, but a subcommittee would cut it out.

  VI

  Aviation was something new in the world, and at every stage of its development it had broken the rules and defied authority. When Lanny had been a tiny toddler on the beach at Juan, two bicycle manufacturers in Ohio had built themselves a frail contraption out of spruce-wood and canvas, and on the sand dunes of the North Carolina coast had learned to keep it in the air for several minutes. Nobody had paid any attention to them, because everybody knew that it couldn’t be done. Even when they went back to their home town and in its suburbs were flying circles around a field, the newspapers refused to pay attention to the doings, because they had been hoaxed so often and the public was tired of “flying-machine men.”

  Such was the attitude manifested at every stage of air development. A decade or so ago the army had court-martialed and discharged its most capable flying general, because he not merely told what bombing planes could do to battleships, but proved it. The men who conducted those proceedings were in command of the army today, so declared Robbie Budd, and they would have court-martialed him if they had had any way to get hold of him.