‘Quite all right, Governor.’
‘I only wish it were, House.’
The president took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a long moment, sighed, and then replaced them.
‘I think the newspapers have been quite supportive of your breaking off of diplomatic relations with Germany,’ House said.
They continued standing for a moment, Wilson now looking between the red brocade drapes out the window to the snow falling steadily and silently. He leaned back against the billiard table.
‘Yes, they would be. They will also be clambering for war soon, House. But they will not have it, not if I can help it.’
They were silent for a time again, both contemplating now the lovely white world outside. House let the silence continue without interruption. It was a fashion of thinking Wilson had; he was neither looking for support nor criticism.
Wilson finally spoke again: ‘I absolutely refuse to have America dragged into the morass of war. There will be no victors in this sorry mess, I assure you. Only losers. Every reform we have won since 1912 will be lost if we go to war. None of what we have done in the way of anti-trust legislation, currency, or tax reform has had time to set as national policy yet. We go to war now and all those reforms will be distorted by the special interests. In time of war, we will be dependent on steel, oil, ships, and war materials. And they are controlled by big business.’
Wilson let out a long sigh and continued, ‘Big business will be in the saddle. More than that – free speech and other rights will be endangered. War is autocratic.’
House listened to the words, ignoring their content. They had been over this ground so often before that it seemed a litany to him. The absolute evil of war; the necessity to keep the US neutral at all costs so as to form a core of a new world order after the European cataclysm had spent itself.
House was waiting for the end of the lecture before he could broach the subject of a meeting with Sir Adrian Appleby. From what Senator Lodge and Edward Fitzgerald had said, such a meeting seemed terribly urgent. Yet Colonel House knew Wilson wanted to avoid such a meeting, at least for the next few days.
It’s almost as if he fears that the information Appleby is bringing might tip the scales toward war. Anything could at this time, House knew.
‘It’s a tightrope we’re walking, House,’ President Wilson said suddenly, breaking the long silence.
Colonel House was a realist: however much he might believe in the cause of the Allies, his first loyalty was to the president, and it was as if Wilson were pleading with him at this very moment not to confront him with any more bad news vis-à-vis Germany.
House looked from the window to the president. Wilson was staring intently at him, his eyes moistening in back of his glasses.
‘All those dead young men. What a waste. What a terrible waste. All the pro-war fellows need is one more German blunder, House. One more provocation, and we will have the war party, Congress and Roosevelt’s supporters at our throats to do battle with the Hun. Let’s pray there are no more German provocations soon, no more sinkings of unarmed passenger vessels; that they for once act with tact and restraint.’
‘Yes, Governor,’ Colonel House said.
And then President Wilson said a curious thing, which House was later to record in the diary he so faithfully kept.
‘I could do with a bit of sun, House. Warmth. Get the body out on the links for a few days. Get my mind off all this gloom and doom. It may be high time for a bit of vacation.’
‘What do you mean he can’t see us until Wednesday!’ Appleby’s face was turning beet red with anger; white flecks of spittle lodged in the corners of his mouth. ‘The fellow’s insane. This is a matter of life and death.’
Fitzgerald crossed to the fireplace, passing a finger over the foliage carved in relief on the mantle. ‘Perhaps that’s why he’s putting us off. He simply doesn’t want to hear any more bad news for a time. Lodge said the president won’t be budged, and Wilson is definitely not one to be cajoled or bullied.’
‘But this is impossible! Is there no way to get to the man?’
‘We’re working at it, Adrian. Cabot Lodge and I are not exactly accustomed to being on the same side of the aisle on issues, and he’s still shadow boxing with me. He doesn’t see the urgency. Neither should I, I must admit, if I hadn’t been let in on the secret. Maybe we should tell Lodge or House the contents of the telegram? They’re both pro-war men. Perhaps even Roosevelt?’
Appleby flung himself into one of the armchairs by the fire, making its springs groan loudly. ‘No.’ He said it with an adamancy that would not be refuted. ‘No one must be told before Wilson. Most especially not that egregious fool Roosevelt. He has no sense of timing at all, and I do not want the power, the absolute shock value of Zimmermann’s treachery to be the least diminished by rumor.’
Appleby’s tone sounded false, but Fitzgerald said nothing.
‘Wednesday,’ Appleby suddenly said. ‘We’ve got to convince him to see us earlier than that. We must.’
Again Fitzgerald said nothing; he would let Adrian fume. The man had not spent forty years in diplomacy without learning the simple secrets of the trade, such as that someone who is forced to negotiate before he is ready – as with Wilson – is a man whose ears are not open.
‘We’ll continue putting pressure on Colonel House for an earlier meeting,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘But if that fails, then we must accept the fact that a couple of days one way or the other will not affect the outcome of the war, Adrian. We could try the vice president, or Lansing at State. He’s pro-war.’
‘No one before Wilson.’ Appleby looked like an enraged bulldog as he said this.
‘Then we’ve got no choice,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘You might as well relax.’
Appleby slumped in his chair, a most uncharacteristic posture for him, Fitzgerald knew. A defeated man.
‘Very well, Edward.’
Appleby soon left to prepare some notes for his speech at Catherine’s benefit the following evening, and Fitzgerald sat at the refectory table in the music room. He normally loved this room with its wainscoting, leaded windows, Bechstein grand, cheery fireplace and general clubby atmosphere, but today even this space seemed oppressive to him.
He was trying to finish his article for March’s Atlantic Monthly detailing England’s losses at sea for the past six months. Hundreds of thousands of tons of food, machinery and war materiel had been sunk by German U-boats.
Words, words. Fitzgerald was sick and tired of them. Tired of writing; tired of playing politics from the sidelines. He wondered if he were too old to get a commission in the army. He was not going to play the hypocrite, propagandizing for war and then sending other men’s sons off to die in France.
But even as he thought this, he knew it was a dream.
I’m too old for anything but these damned words. Too old for my wife, even.
He knew these were three a.m. doubts brought on by Appleby’s telegram and his own evil premonitions about not only its provenance, but also where it would lead America.
Forget your doubts, man, he told himself. You’ve got your casus belli.
He focused his mind on Catherine at work in her dark room: wondering what prints she was developing today and whether she ever missed him as he did her. Just thinking of his wife made him begin to smile.
I love her in ways and with a depth that I can never show her, but I feel more like a father to her than a husband sometimes: the patient loving father who must give the willful child as much rein as possible. Freedom is the one great legacy we bequeath our children, he instinctively knew. It was what his own father had done for him. A shipbuilder from Massachusetts, he had never really approved of politics, but nevertheless stood behind his son one hundred percent when Edward decided that was what he wanted to do with his life. And upon the old man’s death, Edward, an only child, had been left a healthy enough inheritance, unencumbered, to keep his political dreams alive.
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In some ways he wanted to do that for Catherine, too.
But she is not your daughter, man, he told himself. Can’t you get that into your head? Despite the difference in your ages, she is your wife; your lover. Hold her to you tightly. She is no doll. She won’t break.
Yet he was still awed by her, still amazed by her beauty and wit.
It had been that way since first meeting her fifteen years ago. He could remember that first meeting clearly. It was the fall season of 1902 and Edward Fitzgerald had been a freshman senator. His outspoken opposition to US imperialism in the Philippines and elsewhere abroad, coupled with his raw good looks had made him something of a scandalous sensation in Washington. With the uncommon logic of the upper classes, such notoriety made him for a season or two a distinguished and eccentric guest to have at soirées and fashionable dinner parties. His wealth did no damage in this regard, either.
Fitzgerald was never comfortable at such affairs, but took them as an extension of his elected responsibilities. He was a representative of the people of his state; perhaps their welfare could be served by his attendance at such affairs. So he attended them with a certain cold professional distance, as a painter might view the Mona Lisa for its mastery of technique rather than for its passion.
He’d had no great expectations for Mrs Bradley Wells’s dinner party at Newport. He was not unfamiliar with the antics of the New York-Newport set, still he was completely surprised, shocked even, at the extravagance which awaited him upon arrival.
Upon reaching the estate in Newport, his carriage passed under a high, specially built arch: ‘Welcome to Showtime’ three-foot high white lettering proclaimed on it. Mrs Wells was, he only then remembered, recently enamored of Broadway. The main drive to her mansion had been transformed into a brilliantly lit midway with shooting galleries, Negro dancers, singing groups, fire-eaters, all the accoutrements of a carnival, and he gaped out his carriage window, amazed, at all this extravagance laid on just for a dinner party.
He had not seen anything yet.
Reaching the main house he saw that a special amphitheater had been constructed onto the front of the rambling old façade. Descending his carriage, he began milling about in the crowds of other finely dressed guests: men in white tie and tails, women glittering with diamond tiaras and necklaces, wearing elegant brocade evening gowns with their hair piled fashionably on top of their heads.
‘Five days they say it took them,’ one dapper little man holding a glass of champagne was saying. ‘A crew of fifty carpenters at it day and night. Our Maggie has outdone herself tonight.’
Maggie was Mrs Bradley Wells, Fitzgerald remembered, née Margaret Bateman of the Cincinnati Batemans.
Liveried servants carried hors d’oeuvres and champagne on silver trays through the crowd until the theater opened. The guests were then entertained by the entire company of Dream Song, the current musical rage on Broadway. Mrs Bradley Wells had bought the entire house out in New York and shipped the show down to Rhode Island for the night, cast, set and orchestra, to present the first act.
Properly entertained before dinner, Fitzgerald along with the other two hundred plus guests were then ushered into Mrs Bradley Wells’s Gobelin draped dining hall, seated at an oak table one hundred feet long fitted out with golden plates, and served what seemed to Fitzgerald an agonizing dinner of ten courses, beginning with oysters, soup, hors d’oeuvres, soft clams, and progressing to saddle and rack of lamb, terrapin, and duck, to be topped off with cake, cheese and grapes. All of this was washed down with successive showers of Rhine wine, Château Lafite ’78, champagne and cognac.
The only saving grace to the entire ridiculously extravagant evening, was the young black-haired beauty seated to Fitzgerald’s right, who seemed to be the loneliest and saddest young woman he had ever seen. Never a shy man around women, Fitzgerald was nonetheless made near speechless by this one. In between the terrapin and duck, the only thing Fitzgerald could find to say, while his wine glass was being filled for the fourth time by a white-gloved servant, was the truth. He blustered out exactly how he felt to this lovely young woman and felt miserable for doing so immediately afterward.
‘Don’t you find all this just a bit much?’ he said as she sat in front of another unfinished course. ‘Ten courses served on gold plate while much of America and the world struggle to make a living wage. It’s gauche. Damned gauche.’
She reddened at this comment and he apologized for his forwardness and set to work on the duck, trying to avoid eye contact with her for the rest of the evening. But somehow he felt she agreed. As they rose to leave the table, their eyes met, and he thought he detected a kindred soul.
Still he felt like a bull in the china closet for being so forthright with her. Before departing that night, he learned from another of the guests the name of the lovely young lady: Catherine Devereaux.
Fitzgerald spent two sleepless nights thinking of the woman. He had never even given this much consideration to a vote in the Senate. He tried to put Catherine Devereaux out of his mind. She is just another pretty little rich girl without a thought in her head, he told himself.
The second day he was summoned to the White House by Roosevelt. There was an open ambassadorship in London. Perhaps he would like to be considered for the position?
Fitzgerald only later put more Machiavellian interpretations to this offer: Roosevelt’s desire to remove voices critical to his international policies from Washington. But at that initial meeting, seated in the elegant Blue Room across from the grinning Rough Rider, all Fitzgerald could say was: ‘Yes. Most definitely, Mr President.’
‘Fine. That’s arranged then. By the way, Fitzgerald,’ Roosevelt added, ‘you’re not married, are you? Doesn’t do for an ambassador to be without a wife. Single, you’ll be spending most of your time in London fending off the advances of long-toothed dowagers with chinless but eligible daughters. Why don’t you see what you can do about that before leaving for the new posting this summer?’
The massive gold clock on the marble mantle – a gift of Napoleon I to Lafayette, as Roosevelt never tired of telling guests – ticked loudly in the ensuing silence. Fitzgerald gazed around the elliptically shaped apartment with its heavy corded blue silk covering the walls. They sat opposite each other in white and gold chairs upholstered in blue and gold, and suddenly Fitzgerald knew for the first time the awe of power.
Yet Roosevelt would continue speaking of marriage and of choosing an eligible partner as if it were a horse auction, Fitzgerald thought.
‘I’ll give it some thought, Mr President,’ he said, rising as Roosevelt did, signaling the end of the interview.
‘Do that, Fitzgerald. A little domestic regularity does a man good, if you take my meaning.’
A wink from the pug-faced man let Fitzgerald know what sort of regularity he was alluding to. Fitzgerald was happy for that last remark; it completely dissolved any awe he had begun to experience of the man.
It’s absurd, he thought as he left the White House grounds, the elms and beeches in full greenery now. I’m not the marrying kind. Not just yet, at any rate.
After another sleepless night, however, he looked up the Devereaux address in Who’s Who, sent a telegram begging an interview of Mr Charles Devereaux, and not waiting for a reply, set off that very morning for Rhode Island.
The interview with the father took a quarter of an hour, just long enough for the elder Devereaux to ascertain Fitzgerald’s financial status, and then young Catherine was called down to be introduced to her suitor.
God! What a beginning, Fitzgerald now thought, sitting in front of the unfinished article.
A recipe for disaster straight out of the Middle Ages, yet their marriage had seemed to work. In many ways Fitzgerald felt he did not know his wife at all, especially in the bedroom. He was fearful of showing his full passion for her; she seemed not very demonstrative in that respect, either.
He now heard her footsteps in the hall, and his heart soared, but
he returned his attention to the article: it wouldn’t do to show her how much I love her, he thought.
The first ingredient for the bomb was relatively easy to come by. Once downtown again, Max stopped in a Liggett’s Drugstore on F Street and asked the clerk for a packet of potassium chlorate.
The man smiled knowledgeably at him, an owl-eyed fellow in a white coat. Max had practiced the speech over and over until he hoped he had lost any trace of accent.
But still there was the solicitous smile as the druggist went in back and weighed out a measure of the whitish powder. Bringing it back to the counter and setting it in front of Max he said, ‘I bet I know what you’re up to.’
Max tensed. ‘How much, please?’ he said trying to control himself.
‘Fifty cents,’ the man said still smiling infuriatingly at Max.
Max dug out a palm full of change from his right front pocket and placed two quarters on the counter.
‘Yes,’ the clerk said, picking up the change. ‘I know about these things.’
At this point Max most definitely wanted to run, but instead forced himself to return a wan smile at the clerk. ‘What am I up to?’ he said.
‘Photography, of course. You’re doing your own developing. There’s been a run on this stuff in the last few years. Am I right?’
Max beamed, his body relaxing. ‘Absolutely.’ He wanted suddenly to hug the silly clerk, but instead put the packet of potassium chloride in his vest pocket and turned to leave.
‘And remember,’ the druggist called after him, his owl eyes gleaming with superior knowledge. ‘You want only the slightest pinch of the potassium chloride in the bleach bath. Too much and you’ll ruin the prints.’
Max nodded and left.
The next and final ingredient was the hard part. No drugstore this time. At four o’clock, just as his guidebook advised him to do, he lined up for a tour of the laboratory building of the Medical Department of Georgetown University on the south side of H Street. He was alone on the tour which a long-limbed intern from the south of the country conducted. Max loved the sing-song of the youth’s accent, but could not place it exactly. Nor did he want to: he was otherwise busy, recording entrances, exits, windows, fire escapes, locking procedures. His particular interest was roused at a door marked ‘No Admittance’ on the third floor, the far west corridor.
The German Agent Page 4