by Ted Bell
All that was required of him, all the way to the bottom, was a little judicious braking every now and then. The bright white eye of the moon was hanging high in the sky and gave a lustrous feel to the whole valley. The experience of gliding silently down through the trees, over the many small bridges, and past waterfalls silvered by moonlight was exquisitely pleasant. He found his mood much improved by the time he pulled up in front of the stationmaster’s door and hopped out to help his father with his luggage.
“This is quite a car you’ve got yourself, son,” the old bald-headed gentleman with the gold-rimmed glasses said as soon as he was comfortably seated with a woolen lap robe for warmth. “A Rolls-Royce, is it not?”
“It is, Pop! I get lots of compliments on it. She’s a mint-condition Rolls-Royce Phantom Three.”
His father favored him with narrowed eyes that expressed his holier-than-thou disapproval. His father said, “Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed that he is grown so great?”
Tiger’s eyes shone with righteous indignation at this Sheakespearean insult.
“This is the United States, old man. We prefer to eat a roast joint of lamb, or filet mignon, or roast prime rib of beef. We also enjoy Beluga caviar with a nice glass of Pol Roger.”
He waited for a reply but got none, nor an expression of his approval. Typical.
He couldn’t help himself. He looked over at the old man and said, “All this leather around you? It is not English, Pop. I assure you. It’s rich Cordoban leather, from the the Andalusia region of Spain.”
He waited once more in vain.
“Say something, for Crissakes!”
No reply.
“Sorry you had to come all the way to town in this weather, Tiger. I meant to take a taxi up to the house and surprise you.”
“Dad, it’s nothing. I’m so glad to see you. You look well. What brings you to Washington?”
“If you mean by that, did I come all this way just to see you? Certainly not. The generalissimo has entrusted me with a very private message he wishes delivered in person to Roosevelt.”
“Exciting. I’ve grown rather close to the president over the last month. Spend weekends out at his country place on the Hudson River. That sort of thing. He’s invited me to go on a fishing trip off the coast of New England aboard the presidential yacht. Potomac, by name.”
“Has he, now?” The words dripped with acid as if Tiger’s deepening relationship with Roosevelt was beneath the patriarch’s comment.
Tiger bit his tongue and tried to remain above the fray. He said, “Oh, never mind. You don’t give a damn, I know. How long are you planning to stay, anyway? An hour? Two?”
“Oh, I’m not staying the night. I’m just having dinner and catching a late train back to Union Station. If that’s all right with you, of course.”
“Of course,” Tiger muttered. Much more than all right.
They rode in silence the rest of the way up the mountain, each man alone with his thoughts.
Tiger, his anger simmering on a low boil, felt like stopping the car and shoving the old man out into the bloody snow. Let him freeze to death. No one would miss him. In America, he was a nobody. He was just another petitioner diplomat, looking for a handout from Roosevelt.
Tiger vowed not to say one more word to him unless he was asked a question. The old bastard could hitchhike back to the station if he wanted to leave, by God.
Tiger was finally done with this conceited, obnoxious, trumped-up old fool. There was no more room for him in Tiger’s life, not from this day forward. Never had been really.
He was just so much dust in the wind.
Always had been.
Had he had his Nambo handy, he might as well have shot the son of a bitch on the spot!
CHAPTER 32
Sevenoaks Plantation, Virginia
January 1942
The long yellow Rolls-Royce glided up under the snow-covered porte cochere. The white stuff was still coming down, snowing harder than ever if that were possible. Hamish was standing at the ready, practically at attention. He came down the steps, pulled open the passenger door, and helped Tiger’s aging father climb out of the car. Hamish, ever the consummate professional, said: “Mind these steps, sir. They are glazed with thick black ice.”
Hamish took the old fellow’s elbow and guided him safely to the top without saying a word. At the door he took Tiger’s father’s overcoat, offering a comment to the gent regarding the quality of the navy cashmere.
Tiger then drove down the hill to the garages, a huge sense of relief from just getting some room between the two of them for a few moments. Climbing on foot back up the snowy hill, he took his time. He was in no rush to be honored by his father’s presence any further than the minimum. He’d get through the dinner somehow, with a little help from a couple of whiskies and a very nice 1933 vintage Château Margaux.
“Lovely chap, your father,” Hamish said, smiling when he saw the master of the house coming up the snowy walkway.
“You’re kidding, right, Hamish? I mean, really.”
“Tough old bird, I meant to say, sir. Wouldn’t want to rattle his cage if I were you, sir.”
“Better. He flits from one encounter to another, collecting poison the way bees collect honey. Tell Cook to speed this dinner along, will you? I want my father fed and out the door as soon as humanly possible. Oh, and would you be so kind as to run him back down to the station after supper? I’ve a bit of a headache and may wish to retire early.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“That’s good. And a good bit of good riddance to him.”
When Tiger entered the large candlelit dining room, his father was already in his seat at the far end of the long mahogany table, barely within shouting distance, halfway through a fresh shrimp cocktail. Manners dictate that the guests are never seated until the host or hostess. But not for Papa, not for him the polished manners of refined people everywhere, oh, no. A man unto himself and might he ever remain one.
Tiger had poured himself a healthy splash of Scotch, and he brought the drink to the table. He’d arranged it so that the two of them would be sitting at opposite ends of the rectangular table he’d had shipped over from Mallett’s in London.
It would not be too much of a stretch to say that dinner that evening was a strained affair. Cook had outdone himself. There was a rack of lamb, perfectly pink, with freshly made mint sauce, which was a specialty of the house. As well as gaufrette potatoes, a New Orleans delicacy, and creamed spinach such as Tiger had never tasted before. A dish to make the angels cry with pleasure.
His father ate with gusto. Tiger could see how much he was enjoying the food. But were any compliments to the chef forthcoming? Not on your life, brother. Compliments were not something in the old buzzard’s repertoire. Cruel criticism was his stock-in-trade.
One year, Tiger had sent him a needlepoint pillow he’d picked up while Christmas shopping in Portobello Road. Green velvet with “If you can’t say something nice about anyone, please come sit by me” embroidered on one side.
Tiger could not recall receiving a thank-you note that Christmas.
Tiger managed to get through the meal without the outbreak of a food fight but the long silences were unbearable. All he could hear from his father’s end of the table was the sound of him masticating loudly, eating, as was his habit, with his mouth wide open. Unspeakable. Unbearable.
When Tiger couldn’t take it a second longer, he said, “What news of Beijing, Pop? Rather an exciting place to be now that there’s a war on, I’d imagine. Any sensational rumors floating around town? Any forbidden activities in the Forbidden City?”
“One that my friend Chiang has got terminal cancer. He doesn’t. Another that your father is going to be feted at a magnificent state dinner at the Summer Palace, hosted by the generalissimo himself. . . .”
“Wow, Pop. Is that one true?”
“Of course it’s true. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my second one, actually. There was one back in thirty-nine, now that you mention it. It was quite a splendid affair. The great man had me seated next to . . .” Blah-blah-blah.
God save me.
Tiger said nothing, just tucked into the delicious lamb, pink and smelling of rosemary, just the way he liked it. The Margaux made for good company with the rest of the meal. For the most part, they ate in solitary silence, which was fine with him. And just when he’d given up all hope on any conversation at all, his father spoke up.
“You asked me something about rumors floating around Beijing.”
“Did I, really? I don’t recall that.”
“Well, you certainly did. At any rate, there was one some weeks back surrounding one of your childhood friends. You remember Tony Chow, of course?”
An alarm bell sounded at the name Chow somewhere deep within Ambassador Tang’s cerebellum. But he collected himself enough to say with some nonchalance: “I do. The one you always claimed murdered Jackie.”
“That’s him.”
“Well, what about him?”
“There was a rumor floating around town in Beijing that he’d gone missing.”
“Missing?” Tiger said, the alarm bells sounding inside his brain, and put his wineglass down on the white linen. “Really, now? How extraordinary. Anyone have any idea what happened to him?”
“Police have no idea. FBI is looking into it, apparently. J. Edgar Hoover has decided to investigate the case himself. Kidnapping, possibly. But there’s never been any ransom note. . . . I hear the case is still open.”
“Hmm,” Tiger said, wheels within wheels spinning furiously inside his mind.
His father looked at him with a strangely malevolent cast to his eyes, like a cat toying with a frightened mouse or small bird. He finally said, “It is a bit odd, though. Someone who worked with Tony at the Chinese Trade Bureau told a colleague of mine in Beijing that on the Friday before he disappeared, Tony Chow was making plans to spend the weekend with you here in the country.”
“What? Absurd on the face of it. I’d sooner have a nest of poisonous vipers in this house than that fat thug.”
“You never heard from him?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I heard from him. He called me one day. Wanted to tell me what a big shot he was in Washington. Wanted to introduce me round to all his friends at the club. I said there was a war on and that I was terribly busy at the White House and would have to pass on the invitation. That was the end of it. I have to say that, wherever the hell he’s got himself to, I hope to God he’s sleeping undergound these days. Or”—and here he allowed himself a sly smile—“with the fishes.”
“I’d no idea you disliked him so intensely. And then—”
“He murdered my fucking brother, for God’s sake, Dad.”
“I can’t say I’m sad Tony’s gone. But . . . you and your brother would never have been suited to each other. He was very much the outdoor type. A true sportsman. Cricket, shooting, skiing, deep-sea fishing. Falconry, even. As compared to you, always a rather pale child, hidden as you were behind your fortress towers of books.”
“All right, that’s just fucking enough!” Tiger half shouted, half coming out of his chair with his fists clenched. At that moment, he knew he was capable of anything. Including killing his own father.
His father threw down his linen napkin and rose, red-faced, to his feet. “Well, it’s the damn truth, isn’t it, boy? You were never half the man your brother was!”
With that, Tiger got to his feet, rang the dinner bell, and summoned Hamish to have the table cleared.
“Dinner is officially over,” Tiger said, moving toward the door.
His father leaned back in his chair and smiled, very serpentine, and hissed, “Really? No dessert?”
“Not tonight, Josephine. And just so you know, I usually take coffee in the library after dinner. I’m going there now. Join me if you like. Or not. You know your way out. Hamish will show you the door.”
CHAPTER 33
Sevenoaks Plantation, Virginia
January 1942
Tiger escaped down the hall to the library, his favorite room. There, he poured a fresh Scotch and lit a lovely Romeo y Julieta Cuban cigar. He was seated calmly by the crackling fire when the old monster slithered in with all the reptilian charm of an anaconda. There had always been this horrid aspect to the man. If ever there was a human being you could visualize shedding his skin before wriggling back under the bushes, it would have been his father.
The old boy had a rather large box in his hands; it was wrapped up in silver foil paper and red satin ribbons like some kind of a Christmas present. Now what?
“I wanted to give you this before I left. It’s a gift from Beijing. In honor of your high-and-mighty status these days.”
“Thanks, Pop. Put it on the sideboard. I’ll open it later.”
“I’d prefer you open it now. I have my reasons.”
“Oh, Christ, fine. I’ll open the damn thing. Just so you know, Hamish has brought my car around to the front entrance with the engine running, keeping the interior warm. To take you to the station. He’s ready to go whenever you feel like leaving.”
Without looking at the gift giver, he strode over to the sideboard and picked up the silver box. It was surprisingly heavy. He tore the paper off, rather furiously because he was very, very angry now. His evening had been ruined by the one person in his family who, for all of his life, had managed to ruin everything.
There was a heavy crystal chandelier full of burning tapers hanging above. And in the flicker of soft light was revealed an exquisite black lacquered box, inlaid with swirls of magnificent ivory. Tiger had to admit it was beautiful. What was the old boy up to now?
“Open it,” his father said. “The present is what’s inside the box, not the box.”
Tiger lifted the lid.
It was a gun.
His heart lifted. He’d always loved guns, especially beautiful ones, which this one certainly was. He lifted it out and examined it in the light. Stunningly beautiful, this one. It was a short-barreled Colt .45, a gun of the Old West, but this one had ivory handles and incredibly intricate inlay work. How his father had picked this one, he’d never know, but, still he was now holding this work of art in his right hand, and it felt as if it belonged there.
“It’s beautiful, Pop, truly beautiful.”
“I hoped you’d like it. I know how fond you are of all things American.”
“Yes, I am. I’m out of the spy trade, Dad, now that I’m an ambassador. Don’t really have much use for guns to be honest. But I’ll treasure this one.”
“Since you’re up, do you mind going over and pulling those doors closed?”
“Not at all,” he said. “What’s up, Pop?”
Something was definitely up; that was for damn sure.
“Come back and sit next to me. We’re going to have a very important and very confidential conversation.”
Starting to feel a bit uneasy, Tiger sat in the chair opposite his father and put his new treasure on the side table, where he could study it.
“Chiang Kai-shek is the one who picked that gun for you, not me. I’ve no love of guns, as you know. But he does, and he assured me that from all he’d heard about you, you would treasure this one and put it to good use.”
“Ambassadors don’t really carry guns, Pop. Or even use them very much. We have bodyguards.”
“I’m sure you do. However, you remember I told you the reason for my visit to Washington? That Chiang wanted me to deliver a highly personal message to President Roosevelt?”
“I do. You’re going to the White House tomorrow, I’d guess.”
“No, I’m not. The one who’s going to deliver the generalissimo
’s message to Roosevelt . . . is you, Tiger. You yourself.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“There’s a letter inside the box for you. Handwritten by our great leader at the Gate of Divine Might, the northern gate of the Forbidden City. Read the letter at your leisure, but read it you must.”
“Slow down. What’s going on here? I’m starting not to enjoy this conversation. . . .”
“The generalissimo has anointed you to carry out a divine mission. You should be honored beyond comprehension. And may I say, for the first time, I can honestly say that I am prepared to be proud of you, Tiger. If you somehow manage to grow some backbone even at this late stage.”
“Yeah, right, fine, sure you are. Tell me about this divine mission of mine.”
“Very straightforward. You have been ordered to carry out the will of Chiang and all of his people. . . .”
“And how do I do that again?”
“Simple enough. You put a bullet in President Roosevelt’s head.”
Tiger let that remark register while taking a large gulp of the Cutty Sark. He stared at his father, thinking about how the old man was dealing with turning eighty. Not well, was the answer.
“What? Say that again. . . .”
“Hear me now, and remember my words: You are going to use that gun to assassinate the president of the United States.”
“Are you insane? What? Kill FDR? Lunacy! He’s our great ally. Doesn’t Chiang know that?”
“Be quiet and listen for a change. The leader is of the strong opinion that Roosevelt has betrayed him. Betrayed our beloved fatherland. That his focus and all of his singular energy and resources are going to Churchill and England. Because of the so-called ‘special relationship.’ We in Beijing do not relish the idea of playing second fiddle to anyone. And yet every time we make a request for critical aid, it winds up in Britain’s coffers. We want a true partner in the White House. And that will never be Roosevelt. . . .”