Dragonfire

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Dragonfire Page 6

by Ted Bell


  * * *

  —

  Looking up, he saw that the names of the thirty-six reunited states appeared in the frieze above the columns. A testament to Honest Abe’s steadfast hand on the tiller in the fight to save the Union. He began climbing the steps, hastening his pace, as he wanted to have as much time alone with the great man as he could. He found a marble bench and sat down, staring up at the power of that heroic head as clearly held in his mind now as those of his own country’s heroes.

  He sat there for nearly half an hour, quiet, centering himself, imagining his first glimpse of the Oval Office and the imposing American president, considering and discarding multiple greetings before he settled on one imperfect one that might have to do. And then, rising, he quickly looked into the two chambers flanking the great man himself. For this is where his words were to be found. . . .

  In the first of the two, he paused and read this, quietly whispering the words aloud as he read . . .

  With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

  And in the quiet sanctity of the second chamber . . .

  The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

  Tiger rose, hot tears stinging his eyes at the roiling emotions Lincoln’s words had stirred within him, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth, and he gazed up one final time at the profile frozen in stone looming above. As always, he’d been humbled by the great man’s words, even more powerful carved in stone than printed on paper. He felt a twinge of guilt as he tried as ever to reconcile his love and admiration for some of America’s heroes . . . and his erstwhile dedication to his father, his family, to Chiang Kai-shek and his country. He was, after all, sailing under a false flag. He had two masters now.

  And he would do well to remember that.

  He would do all within his power to help Roosevelt and the Americans crush the evil Japanese, those murderous bastards behind the horrific Rape of Nanking, China, beneath their boots. But his true mission, the real reason he’d been chosen by Kai-shek, was to funnel top secret information from within the seats of power of the American government. He was to be both ally and spy to the Americans.

  For better or for worse, he was now, and always would be, the Divided Spy.

  CHAPTER 8

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  December 1941

  Rain rattled against the windows of the snug little study with its damp wood fire releasing bluish flames that lapped lambently at the wrought iron grate. “Come here, Fala, good dog! Come, Fala!” the president said, motioning for his beloved Scottie to spring up into his waiting arms. In a single bound, Fala landed on the president’s lap.

  “Ah,” FDR said, “my good soldier, home from the front, battered and bowed, but unbroken. . . .” He stroked Fala’s long black ears as was his habit. Had Fala been a cat, he would have surely purred like a feline demon.

  The president had gotten the black-and-white Scottie last year. An early Christmas 1940 gift from his first cousin and closest companion, Margaret “Daisy” Suckley. The president, instantly smitten with the dog, had immediately named the little fellow “Murray the Outlaw of Falahill” after his famous Scottish ancestor. And Fala it was, evermore.

  “Harry, listen up,” the president said to his friend, closest confidant, and lone companion in his private office, upstairs at the White House residence.

  For some reason or other, the old gent was bent forward with his head down, shaking his shaggy locks in front of the heat radiator. Fala had leapt to the carpet and was now at his feet. “Yes?” Harry murmured, still shaking.

  FDR said, “I want you to make me a promise. If anything should happen to me, if I somehow don’t have the physical and mental wherewithal to survive the monolithic challenge I now find myself confronted with—no, no, hear me out. I want you personally to take Fala by train down to Georgia, to the Little White House at Warm Springs. Privately and discreetly, of course. No publicity, no press corps. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, of course,” Harry Hopkins replied. “Just give a me a moment here,” he said, shivering and pulling his old grey woolen sweater over his head.

  The rainwater had finally stopped dripping from Hopkins’s silver hair down his collar. He’d returned just moments ago to the president’s study. As was his custom, rain or shine, he’d been taking Fala for a lovely morning walk in the rain across the North Lawn. Both of them soaked to the skin by the watery adventure. The room was becoming close and steamy with the drying of his hair, clothes, and Fala’s luxuriant coat.

  After Harry’s cancer ordeal, the president chided him about catching a chill during his rainy walkabouts, but he would not be dissuaded. Cold rain on his cheeks was about the only thing that made him feel alive anymore.

  Over the years the two men had formed a near invincible bond. Hopkins understood his boss’s moods. He knew the appropriate moment to talk business and when the president needed to relax. If Roosevelt was the “thinker,” Hopkins was the “doer.” His real talent was turning FDR’s sometimes inchoate ideas into concrete programs that would serve the country well. He’d made it his job—his religion, really—to elicit just what it was that Roosevelt really wanted and then see to it that neither hell nor high water, not even possible vacillations by the man himself, blocked its achievement.

  Roosevelt, staring into the flickering firelight, cleared his throat and said, “My butler, Horace Spain, as you well know, is already aware of this plan. He will be expecting you and Fala to arrive by train at Warm Springs shortly after all the funeral hoopla up at Hyde Park has been concluded. Horace is a lifelong bachelor, never married, no children. The great love of his life is Fala. In my will, I’m bequeathing the gardener’s cottage to Horace for the duration of his life. It is my fervent hope that he and his boon companion, Fala, will live out their years happily ever after there, long after I’m gone. All right, Harry, we’re clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. Well. Who’s up at bat next, then?”

  “That would be the brand-new ambassador from China, sir. I’ve scheduled the meeting to take place upstairs here in your study. More private. Shall I remain? I’ve got plenty on my plate today, Lord knows. . . .”

  “Please stick around for this, Harry. I want your take on this young fellow. I hear marvelous things about him from his predecessor. Almost too good to be true, to be quite honest. Anyway, there’s nothing for it. Other than my admirals and generals across the river at the Pentagon, this one man will be absolutely vital to our cause in Asia for the foreseeable future. I daresay, we simply cannot defeat the Japanese Imperial Army without him.”

  “Yes, quite right,” Hopkins said, obviously ruminating on the president’s remarks. “I agree. Like many Americans, I cling to a romantic image of the Chinese. An image reinforced by my ancestors’ ties to the China trade, I suppose.”

  “I, too, have always had the deepest sympathy for the Chinese,” the president sighed. “How could I not embrace them now, when we are united by a m
utual adversary?”

  * * *

  —

  At the very last moment, FDR changed his mind about the venue for meeting with the new Chinese ambassador. The study was overly warm, damp, and close.

  “It stinks in here, Harry,” the president said, raising his prominent Roman nose into the air. “It’s that ancient tweed jacket of yours, old sport. Starts to smell like hell when you wear it in the rain.”

  “Hardly the jacket. I do believe it’s Fala, sir.”

  “Fala? Don’t be absurd. Fala doesn’t stink! Do you, Fala? Of course not.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. President, it is a bit ripe in here. I’ll grant you that. I’ll move us down to the Oval, sir.”

  “Good, good. Ambassador Tang is presenting his credentials to the vice president and the secretary of state in the East Room right now. Should be finishing up in a few minutes. Let’s shove off, shall we?”

  Fifteen minutes later, the president’s pretty secretary, Marguerite “Missy” LeHand, peeked inside and announced that Ambassador Tang had arrived.

  “Thank you, Missy. Please show him in,” the president said.

  Roosevelt liked the cut of the ambassador’s jib from the very second he laid eyes on the young man who walked through his door.

  Tang strode into the Oval Office like a movie star onto a set. Tall, handsome, brimming with confidence, good health, a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and a toothy white smile. He approached the Resolute Desk and offered the president his outstretched hand. Roosevelt shook it first, then Hopkins, who stood by his side.

  “A very great honor, Mr. President,” Tang said. “You have both figured very prominently in my thoughts these last days. I extend my deepest sympathies for the losses America has suffered, both in human terms and the Pacific Fleet itself.”

  Roosevelt smiled wanly. “Please take a seat, Mr. Ambassador. Over there by the fire. Secretary Hopkins has agreed to join us. He is my confidant, my closest friend, and my good right hand. You will quickly come to know that Harry deserves your confidence every bit as much as he does my own. Thank God they appear to have overlooked all the oil tank storage.”

  “I’ve not the shadow of a doubt, sir,” Tang said.

  Hopkins showed Tang to the nearest green leather armchair and took the one opposite him. As always in the Oval, Roosevelt remained ensconced in the wheelchair hidden behind his desk. Hopkins smiled at the young man and said, “You see, he considers us as one, Mr. Ambassador. But I, for one, know that he has no equal.”

  “Well said, sir!” Tang beamed. “We will win this war, Mr. President, Mr. Hopkins. We will rout those bloody Jap bastards, and we shall never look back!”

  Inside, the ambassador felt the stirring of things beginning to loosen up a bit. Tang had intuited almost instantly that he was going to get on with these two men. They already shared a good deal in common, beyond just brains and political acuity, most notably, a common enemy. Japan would loom large for their foreseeable future, to be sure. But he, Tang, would endeavor to build many bridges among the trio. And many walls around them. Most important, he would win their confidence as well as their friendship, a wartime triad of cavaliers bound by cause and embowered in bonhomie.

  That was his plan, at any rate, Tang thought, as he bid the president farewell.

  * * *

  —

  Everyone knew full well, of course, what could happen to the most carefully laid plans, exorbitant dreams, and stealthy schemes. And at that precise moment, another one of the president’s many political schemes popped into his brain, fully baked and ready to be served up.

  Churchill was about to drive him up the walls.

  Constantly calling, asking to be reassured of the American president’s affection and sense of duty regarding the plight of Britain, now taking a horrific thrashing by the Nazis.

  “Harry, I’ve a thought. I would very much like for you to move up your scheduled travel to Britain in order to parley with Winston Churchill. As I’ve already made clear, he is desperate for ever-increasing amounts of aid, both in cash and war matériel. I’d like for you to spend a goodly amount of time with him. Listening to him, observing him, his habits good and bad, his strengths, and, of course, his weaknesses. A fondness for female companionship, alcohol, gambling on the ponies, whatever you find. Your primary mission? Listen. And learn.

  “When you return home from Jolly Old England, I would like to meet with you and hear how you think I should deal with him, because, sooner rather than later, I’ll be doing just that.”

  “I’ll go all right. But as I said before, I won’t put up with any high-hatting behavior. The Brits and their oh-so-obvious condescending behavior toward Americans get under my skin, as you well know. I’m damn serious, Mr. President. I mean, just who the hell do these people think they are? Rule Britannia, my ass! Go have another look at the battlefield at Yorktown. Their fancy-pants General Cornwallis didn’t even have the stones to come out of his tent and concede defeat once Washington’s Continental Army had whipped the living daylights out of those redcoats!”

  “Well, then, Harry, might I suggest you hold your nose in his company. All the while considering the inescapable fact that it is only the fate of Western civilization that hangs in the balance.”

  Hopkins smiled at the not-too-subtle dig. “Well played, Mr. President. Right up to snuff lately, I must admit.”

  Well, that’s it, then, Hopkins thought to himself, he’s thrown me to the lions this time!

  CHAPTER 9

  Bermuda

  Present Day

  Dr. Nathaniel Wetherell, chief of surgery at Edward VII Hospital, was quietly reading in his office that morning when the telephone on his desk jangled.

  “Dr. Wetherell?”

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  “Your patient in three fifteen, sir,” the head nurse said. “He seems to be coming out of the vegetative state and—”

  “Alex Hawke?”

  “Yes, sir. Lord Hawke.”

  “Good Lord! Has he entered MCS?” Wetherell said, referring to the most welcome next phase of a coma, the minimally conscious state.

  “I’ve been with him for half an hour. Appears to be drifting in and out, breathing, sleeping, and waking regularly.”

  “I’ll be right there. Stay where you are. Keep talking to him. Patients in a coma can hear you, you know. Hearing is always the last of the senses to go.”

  “Yes, Doctor, of course. Oh, one other thing you should know— He, uh, well . . . I don’t know how to say it other than to tell you that Lord Hawke has been mumbling in word perfect Chinese. Mandarin, I think. My mother spoke Mandarin.”

  “Bilingual aphasia! Good Lord, I’m on my way!”

  Wetherell bolted from his office, ran down two flights of stairs, and rushed down the hall to Hawke’s room. At the bedside, the chief of surgery took Hawke’s hand and massaged it vigorously, saying, “Alex! Alex, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  But then—a slight tightening of the patient’s fist around his own. Weak at first, but gathering strength. Wetherell emitted a huge sigh of relief. When the patient had arrived at hospital that night, he was as near to death’s door as one could get without stepping through. No one had had believed that he would survive the night. Nor did anyone on duty that night think that the other, much older, victim of the killer’s heinous knife attack stood the ghost of a chance.

  “He’s on his way up,” Dr. Wetherell said, gazing up at Nurse Vicky with a broad smile. “On his way up, indeed!”

  “Thank God,” she said. “We’ve all been praying for him, you know. His lordship is very popular with our Women’s League ladies at the annual benefit picnic. . . .” She trailed off, looking dreamily down at the sleeping patient she’d been caring for lo these many long weeks of healing and resting.

  “So, when he first spoke
, it was Chinese?” Wetherell said.

  “Yes, sir. At first I thought it was just gobbeldygook, but then it was definitely Chinese. Never seen this before, Doctor. How does it manifest?”

  “Very rare. But bilingual aphasia manifests when an area of the brain that learns a language is damaged while another remains untouched. Apparently, at some point in his life, he learned Mandarin . . . as did I, myself, whilst working for Her Majesty’s government in Shanghai. . . .”

  “I think I should remain here with him, Doctor. And keep you informed of all significant progress.”

  “Just about to suggest that, Nurse. And don’t stop praying, dear. He’s not out of the woods yet. His abdominal wounds were the worst I’ve seen in thirty years of practice.”

  “Where is Pelham?” were the first three words in English issuing from the mouth of Alex Hawke. The old gent, Pelham Grenville, whom Hawke sometimes referred to as “My Octogenarian,” was truly a “gentle” man, a white-haired wraith of a chap from Cornwall who never “entered” a room, but rather one who shimmered in. Nor did the fellow, Hawke said, ever simply appear.

  No, no, not him. Pelham materialized.

  Along with Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard, Pelham had helped the young Hawke’s grandfather raise the boy up from boyhood. Hawke’s early days were spent at the home of his grandfather on Greybeard Island. It was an ancestral home—more of a castle really—perched on the small island near France in the Channel Islands, and how he’d adored scampering about its walled gardens and beaches with his beloved dog, Jip.

  His grampy, a Royal Navy man, taught the boy all he could impart: celestial navigation, how to overcome fear, how to treat the fairer sex with respect, how to sharpen a knife and swing an axe or a golf club, how to hold a fork, the art of fair play, and how to clean a shotgun, how to reef, bend, and steer a sailing boat, how to train a field dog, how to comport oneself as a gentleman, what to look for in a woman, how to repair the triple downdraft SU carburetors on a Triumph TR3 roadster. And how to respect the flag, history, and traditions of one’s country.

 

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