by Ken Follett
"Clearly the army wants you in Germany," said Otto. "You are valued as an intelligence analyst."
"Germany is full of older men who could do the job at least as well as I. Have you pulled strings?"
Otto shrugged. "I think if you were to marry and have a son, you could then be transferred anywhere you like."
Walter said incredulously: "You're keeping me in Berlin to make me marry Monika von der Helbard?"
"I don't have the power to do that. But it may be that there are men in the high command who understand the need to maintain noble bloodlines."
That was disingenuous, and a protest came to Walter's lips, but then the car turned off the road, passed through an ornamental gateway, and started up a long drive flanked by leafless trees and snow-covered lawn. At the end of the drive was a huge house, the largest Walter had ever seen in Germany. "Castle Pless?" he said.
"Correct."
"It's vast."
"Three hundred rooms."
They got out of the car and entered a hall like a railway station. The walls were decorated with boars' heads framed with red silk, and a massive marble staircase led up to the state rooms on the first floor. Walter had spent half his life in splendid buildings, but this was exceptional.
A general approached them, and Walter recognized von Henscher, a crony of his father's. "You've got time to wash and brush up, if you're quick," he said with amiable urgency. "You're expected in the state dining room in forty minutes." He looked at Walter. "This must be your son."
Otto said: "He's in the intelligence department."
Walter gave a brisk salute.
"I know. I put his name on the list." The general addressed Walter. "I believe you know America."
"I spent three years in our embassy in Washington, sir."
"Good. I have never been to the United States. Nor has your father. Nor, indeed, have most of the men here--with the notable exception of our new foreign minister."
Twenty years ago, Arthur Zimmermann had returned to Germany from China via the States, crossing from San Francisco to New York by train, and on the basis of this experience was considered an expert on America. Walter said nothing.
Von Henscher said: "Herr Zimmermann has asked me to consult you both on something." Walter was flattered but puzzled. Why would the new foreign minister want his opinion? "But we will have more time for that later." Von Henscher beckoned to a footman in old-fashioned livery, who showed them to a bedroom.
Half an hour later they were in the dining room, now converted to a conference room. Looking around, Walter was awestruck to see that just about every man who counted for anything in Germany was present, including the chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, his close-cropped hair now almost white at age sixty.
Most of Germany's senior military commanders were sitting around a long table. For lesser men, including Walter, there were rows of hard chairs against the wall. An aide passed around a few copies of a two-hundred-page memorandum. Walter looked over his father's shoulder at the file. He saw charts of tonnage moving in and out of British ports, tables of freight rates and cargo space, the calorific value of British meals, even a calculation of how much wool there was in a lady's skirt.
They waited two hours, then Kaiser Wilhelm came in, wearing a general's uniform. Everyone sprang to their feet. His Majesty looked pale and ill-tempered. He was a few days from his fifty-eighth birthday. As ever, he held his withered left arm motionless at his side, attempting to make it inconspicuous. Walter found it difficult to summon up that emotion of joyous loyalty that had come so easily to him as a boy. He could no longer pretend the kaiser was the wise father of his people. Wilhelm II was too obviously an unexceptional man completely overwhelmed by events. Incompetent, bewildered, and miserably unhappy, he was a standing argument against hereditary monarchy.
The kaiser looked around, nodding to one or two special favorites, including Otto; then he sat down and made a gesture at Henning von Holtzendorff, white-bearded chief of the admiralty staff.
The admiral began to speak, quoting from his memorandum: the number of submarines the navy could maintain at sea at any one time, the tonnage of shipping required to keep the Allies alive, and the speed at which they could replace sunk vessels. "I calculate we can sink six hundred thousand tons of shipping per month," he said. It was an impressive performance, every statement backed up by a number. Walter was skeptical only because the admiral was too precise, too certain: surely war was never that predictable?
Von Holtzendorff pointed to a ribbon-tied document on the table, presumably the imperial order to begin unrestricted submarine warfare. "If Your Majesty approves my plan today, I guarantee the Allies will capitulate in precisely five months." He sat down.
The kaiser looked at the chancellor. Now, Walter thought, we will hear a more realistic assessment. Bethmann had been chancellor for seven years, and unlike the monarch he had a sense of the complexity of international relations.
Bethmann spoke gloomily of American entry into the war and the USA's uncounted resources of manpower, supplies, and money. In his support he quoted the opinions of every senior German who was familiar with the United States. But to Walter's disappointment he looked like a man going through the motions. He must believe the kaiser had already made up his mind. Was this meeting merely to ratify a decision already taken? Was Germany doomed?
The kaiser had a short attention span for people who disagreed with him, and while his chancellor was speaking he fidgeted, grunting impatiently and making disapproving faces. Bethmann began to dither. "If the military authorities consider the U-boat war essential, I am not in a position to contradict them. On the other hand--"
He never got to say what was on the other hand. Von Holtzendorff jumped to his feet and interrupted. "I guarantee on my word as a naval officer that no American will set foot upon the Continent!" he said.
That was absurd, Walter thought. What did his word as a naval officer have to do with anything? But it went down better than all his statistics. The kaiser brightened, and several other men nodded approval.
Bethmann seemed to give up. His body slumped in the chair, the tension went out of his face, and he spoke in a defeated voice. "If success beckons, we must follow," he said.
The kaiser made a gesture, and von Holtzendorff pushed the beribboned document across the table.
No, Walter thought, we can't possibly make this fateful decision on such inadequate grounds!
The kaiser picked up a pen and signed: "Wilhelm I.R."
He put down the pen and stood up.
Everyone in the room jumped to their feet.
This can't be the end, Walter thought.
The kaiser left the room. The tension was broken, and a buzz of talk broke out. Bethmann remained in his seat, staring down at the table. He looked like a man who has met his doom. He was muttering something, and Walter stepped closer to hear. It was a Latin phrase: Finis Germaniae--the end of the Germans.
General von Henscher appeared and said to Otto: "If you would care to come with me, we will have lunch privately. You, too, young man." He led them into a side room where a cold buffet was laid out.
Castle Pless served as a residence for the kaiser, so the food was good. Walter was angry and depressed, but like everyone else in Germany he was hungry, and he piled his plate high with cold chicken, potato salad, and white bread.
"Today's decision was anticipated by Foreign Minister Zimmermann," said von Henscher. "He wants to know what we can do to discourage the Americans."
Small chance of that, Walter thought. If we sink American ships and drown American citizens there's not much we can do to soften the blow.
The general went on: "Can we, for example, foment a protest movement among the one point three million Americans who were born here in Germany?"
Walter groaned inwardly. "Absolutely not," he said. "It's a stupid fairy tale."
His father snapped: "Careful how you speak to your superiors."
Von Hens
cher made a calming gesture. "Let the boy speak his mind, Otto. I might as well have his frank opinion. Why do you say that, Major?"
Walter said: "They don't love the fatherland. Why do you think they left? They may eat wurst and drink beer, but they're Americans and they'll fight for America."
"What about the Irish-born?"
"Same thing. They hate the British, of course, but when our submarines kill Americans they'll hate us more."
Otto said irritably: "How can President Wilson declare war on us? He has just won reelection as the man who kept America out of war!"
Walter shrugged. "In some ways that makes it easier. People will believe he had no option."
Von Henscher said: "What might hold him back?"
"Protection for ships of neutral countries--"
"Out of the question," his father interrupted. "Unrestricted means unrestricted. That's what the navy wanted, and that's what His Majesty has given them."
Von Henscher said: "If domestic issues aren't likely to trouble Wilson, is there any chance he may be distracted by foreign affairs in his own hemisphere?" He turned to Otto. "Mexico, for example?"
Otto smiled, looking pleased. "You're remembering the Ypiranga. I must admit, that was a small triumph of aggressive diplomacy."
Walter had never shared his father's glee over the incident of the shipload of arms sent by Germany to Mexico. Otto and his cronies had made President Wilson look foolish, and they could yet come to regret it.
"And now?" said von Henscher.
"Most of the U.S. Army is either in Mexico or stationed on the border," said Walter. "Ostensibly they're chasing a bandit called Pancho Villa, who raids across the border. President Carranza is bursting with indignation at the violation of his sovereign territory, but there isn't much he can do."
"If he had help from us, would that change anything?"
Walter considered. This kind of diplomatic mischief-making struck him as risky, but it was his duty to answer the questions as accurately as he could. "The Mexicans feel they were robbed of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. They have a dream of winning those territories back, much like the French pipe dream of winning back Alsace and Lorraine. President Carranza may be stupid enough to believe it could be done."
Otto said eagerly: "In any event, the attempt would certainly take American attention away from Europe!"
"For a while," Walter agreed reluctantly. "In the long-term our interference might strengthen those Americans who would like to join in the war on the Allied side."
"The short term is what interests us. You heard von Holtzendorff--our submarines are going to bring the Allies to their knees in five months. All we want is to keep the Americans busy that long."
Von Henscher said: "What about Japan? Is there any chance the Japs might be persuaded to attack the Panama Canal, or even California?"
"Realistically, no," Walter said firmly. The discussion was venturing farther into the land of fantasy.
But von Henscher persisted. "Nevertheless, the mere threat might tie up more American troops on the West Coast."
"I suppose it could, yes."
Otto patted his lips with his napkin. "This is all most interesting, but I must see whether His Majesty needs me."
They all stood up. Walter said: "If I may say so, General . . . "
His father sighed, but von Henscher said: "Please."
"I believe all this is very dangerous, sir. If word got out that German leaders were even talking about fomenting strife in Mexico, and encouraging Japanese aggression in California, American public opinion would be so outraged that the declaration of war could come much sooner, if not immediately. Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, but this conversation should remain highly secret."
"Quite all right," said von Henscher. He smiled at Otto. "Your father and I are the older generation, of course, but we still know a thing or two. You may rely on our discretion."
{ II }
Fitz was pleased that the German peace proposal had been spurned, and proud of his part in the process, but when it was over he had doubts.
He thought it over, walking--or, rather, limping--along Piccadilly on the morning of Wednesday, January 17, on his way to his office in the Admiralty. Peace talks would have been a sneaky way for the Germans to consolidate their gains, legitimizing their hold over Belgium, northeastern France, and parts of Russia. For Britain to take part in such talks would have amounted to an admission of defeat. But Britain still had not won.
Lloyd George's talk of a knockout went down well in the newspapers, but all sensible people knew it was a daydream. The war would go on, perhaps for a year, perhaps longer. And, if the Americans continued to remain neutral, it might end in peace talks after all. What if no one could win this war? Another million men would be killed for no purpose. The thought that haunted Fitz was that Ethel might have been right after all.
And what if Britain lost? There would be a financial crisis, unemployment, and destitution. Working-class men would take up Ethel's father's cry and say that they had never been allowed to vote for the war. The people's rage against their rulers would be boundless. Protests and marches would turn into riots. It was only a little over a century ago that Parisians had executed their king and much of the nobility. Would Londoners do the same? Fitz imagined himself, bound hand and foot, carried on a cart to the place of execution, spat upon and jeered at by the crowd. Worse, he saw the same happening to Maud, and Aunt Herm, and Bea, and Boy. He pushed the nightmare out of his mind.
What a little spitfire Ethel was, he thought with mingled admiration and regret. He had been mortified with embarrassment when his guest was ejected from the gallery during Lloyd George's speech, but at the same time he found himself even more attracted to her.
Unfortunately, she had turned against him. He had followed her out and caught up with her in the Central Lobby, and she had berated him, blaming him and his kind for prolonging the war. From the way she talked you would think every soldier who died in France had been killed by Fitz personally.
That was the end of his Chelsea scheme. He had sent her a couple of notes but she had not replied. The disappointment hit him hard. When he thought of the delightful afternoons they might have spent in that love nest he felt the loss like an ache in his chest.
However, he had some consolation. Bea had taken his reprimand to heart. She now welcomed him to her bedroom, dressed in pretty nightwear, offering him her scented body as she had when they were first married. In the end she was a well-brought-up aristocratic woman and she knew what a wife was for.
Musing on the compliant princess and the irresistible activist, he entered the Old Admiralty Building to find a partly decoded German telegram on his desk.
It was headed:
Berlin zu Washingon. W.158. 16 January 1917.
Fitz looked automatically at the foot of the decrypt to see who it was from. The name at the end was:
Zimmermann.
His interest was piqued. This was a message from the German foreign minister to his ambassador in the United States. With a pencil Fitz wrote a translation, putting squiggles and question marks where code groups had not been decrypted.
Most secret for Your Excellency's personal information and to be handed on to the imperial minister in (?Mexico?) with xxxx by a safe route.
The question marks indicated a code group whose meaning was not certain. The decoders were guessing. If they were right, this message was for the German ambassador in Mexico. It was simply being sent via the Washington embassy.
Mexico, Fitz thought. How odd.
The next sentence was completely decoded.
We propose to begin on 1 February unrestricted submarine warfare.
"My God!" Fitz said aloud. It was fearfully expected, but this was firm confirmation--and with a date! The news would be a coup for Room 40.
In doing so however we shall endeavor to keep America neutral xxxx. If we should not we propose to (?Mexico?) an alliance upon the following basis: con
duct of war, conclusion of peace.
"An alliance with Mexico?" Fitz said to himself. "This is strong stuff. The Americans are going to be hopping mad!"
Your Excellency should for the present inform the president secretly war with the USA xxxx and at the same time to negotiate between us and Japan xxxx our submarines will compel England to peace within a few months. Acknowledge receipt.
Fit looked up and caught the eye of young Carver, who--he now saw--was bursting with excitement. "You must be reading the Zimmermann intercept," the sublieutenant said.
"Such as it is," Fitz said calmly. He was just as euphoric as Carver, but better at concealing it. "Why is the decrypt so scrappy?"
"It's in a new code that we haven't completely cracked. All the same, the message is hot stuff, isn't it?"
Fitz looked again at his translation. Carver was not exaggerating. This appeared very much like an attempt to get Mexico to ally with Germany against the United States. It was sensational.
It might even make the American president angry enough to declare war on Germany.
Fitz's pulse quickened. "I agree," he said. "And I'm going to take this straight to Blinker Hall." Captain William Reginald Hall, the director of naval intelligence, had a chronic facial tic, hence the nickname; but there was nothing wrong with his brain. "He will ask questions, and I need to have some answers ready. What are the prospects for getting a complete decrypt?"
"It's going to take us several weeks to master the new code."
Fitz gave a grunt of exasperation. The reconstruction of new codes from first principles was a painstaking business that could not be hurried.
Carver went on: "But I notice that the message is to be forwarded from Washington to Mexico. On that route, they're still using an old diplomatic code we broke more than a year ago. Perhaps we could get a copy of the forwarded cable?"
"Perhaps we could!" Fitz said eagerly. "We have an agent in the telegraph office in Mexico City." He thought ahead. "When we reveal this to the world . . . "