The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  Kennedy polished his glasses with his tie and then put them back on. He picked up his Scotch, sipped it, and carefully placed it back on the arm of the couch.

  “I’ve spoken to Washington. As you can imagine, they are very unhappy; they want you home on the next flight. You’ve opened a can of worms over here, made it very difficult for us, so I need you to tell me what the situation is, so I can try to close this down and patch things up.”

  Dulles looked at the carpet and gave a slight shake of his head; he chewed his bottom lip and then turned back to Kennedy.

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “The operation is dead in the water, Allen.”

  “America needs that scientist.”

  “But not the trouble she will cause.”

  “We can’t fall behind.”

  “We aren’t under threat.” Kennedy raised his voice for the first time. “Don’t you see that? Germany is our friend; you’re making them our enemy. You are the enemy, you and the ­people behind you. Lindbergh wants the Germans, needs the Germans as an ally, and allies don’t steal secrets from each other.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe, I truly am, but I’m not telling you anything.”

  “You’re going to leave Frank King spinning in the wind?”

  “Frank’s a good man. He’ll find a way.”

  “A way to what? He can’t go home; he can’t come back into the embassy. What is he going to do with this scientist, build a goddamned bomb in a hotel room and threaten Hitler with it?”

  “He can go to Canada,” Dulles said quietly.

  Kennedy chuckled. “You think the government in exile will help him? The British resistance blew you out of the water; it was them who told me what was going on.”

  “Canada will see her importance.”

  “You’re a fool, Allen.”

  “I believe in democracy, Joe. I believe in the Constitution.”

  “Like I said . . . you’re a fool.”

  “WHO IS SPEAKING, please?”

  “Just connect me to Allen Dulles.”

  “May I ask what the call is in connection with, and who is speaking?”

  King looked out the window of the call box, and then back at pile of damp phone books on the shelf in front of him.

  He’d been calling Dulles’s private numbers for over a year, and not once had someone ever asked him what the call was in connection with. King either spoke directly to Dulles or was put through to his private flat if he wasn’t in his office.

  Something was wrong.

  “Who is this?” King asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Finch, embassy security. Who am I speaking to, and what is your call in connection with?”

  Frank King slammed the phone receiver down, then picked it up and then slammed it down again. He rested his forehead in his hands and then drew them slowly down his face as if scraping thick paint from his skin.

  Embassy security asking questions at Allen Dulles’s apartment meant Allen Dulles was answering questions somewhere else.

  Frank King was alone.

  He turned ninety degrees and rested his back against the windows of the phone box, his hands now hanging by their fingertips from his jaw as the cold glass pressed against the crown of his head.

  He was finished.

  He sighed, dropped his hands, and shook his head.

  No.

  He was never finished.

  He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, held it, then took some more change for the phone out of his pocket.

  He listened for the tone and then dialed the guard room number at the embassy. It rang once. He breathed out, steadied himself, breathed in, and smiled.

  “Guard room.”

  King recognized the voice as belonging to an old salt of a marine sergeant named Bob Fisher.

  “Fisher? It’s Frank King, I’m trying to get hold of Allen Dulles but I can’t get an answer on his line. Do you know where he is?” King kept on smiling, letting his expression lighten his voice.

  There was a pause.

  ­“People are looking for you, sir.”

  “Yeah . . . I know that, I need to speak to Dulles to sort things out.”

  “Umm, I haven’t seen or heard of him today, sir.”

  “You don’t sound too certain there, Bob.”

  ­“People have left messages for you, sir. Pretty urgent messages.”

  The smile slipped a little on King’s face. “What ­people?”

  “Umm, pretty much everyone, sir, from the ambassador’s office down.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I was told to let you know about the messages and that’s all.”

  “Hey, come on, Bob. Nothing happens in that place without you knowing what’s going on.” King had made a career on developing relationships, all the way down and all the way up the chain of command. He was everyone’s pal, everyone’s buddy in the bar, and he hoped all those drinks he’d bought would start paying off.

  They did.

  Fisher lowered his voice. “It’s a rumor sir, just a rumor, but I heard Mr. Dulles is under house arrest.”

  “What?” The smile was now most definitely gone.

  “It’s just what I heard; they took a squad over there an hour ago.”

  “They?”

  “The ambassador, Captain Bryan, and some men, they all went over to his apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir, and you never heard that from me, okay?”

  “They want to speak to me?”

  “Bryan telephoned down here himself, sir, said if you were to call, we were to tell you to come in right away.” Fisher was whispering now.

  King turned his head an inch and looked out the window of the call box at the ­people passing by.

  “Dulles is at his apartment?”

  “You never heard this from me, sir.”

  “Is Dulles at his apartment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With the ambassador?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who is in his office?”

  “They posted some men on the door, sir.”

  King ran his free hand over the top of his hair, then rested it on the shelf in the call box.

  “Okay, thanks, Bob.”

  “Are you coming in, sir? Shall I tell them you’re on your way?”

  “I gotta go, Bob. Stay safe.” King put down the phone and stared at it. A million thoughts bottlenecked in his brain. He felt a fluttering in his chest, which lifted and then sunk to his stomach.

  He breathed out, turned his head, and watched a shopkeeper shoveling snow away from the front door of his business. More snow was falling, settling quickly on the freshly exposed walk, making the shopkeeper struggle in a losing battle.

  Frank King knew how he felt.

  King used the last of his change to call Dulles’s private number again. It rang once.

  “Hello?”

  “Put the ambassador on.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Put him on the goddamn phone, Bryan!” King shouted and then looked up at the shopkeeper, who had paused at the sound coming from the callbox. King did a half turn, presenting his back to the shopkeeper and lowering his head.

  “Who is this?” Kennedy sounded calm and in control. Frank realized it was only the second time they had spoken directly in all the time he had been at the embassy.

  “Sir, this is Frank King.”

  “Hello, Frank. Where are you?”

  “I’m in a call box in London, sir.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “In London, sir.”

  There was a pause, and for some reason King imagined Kennedy smiling.

  “What can I do for you, Fr
ank?”

  “Sir, I think I’m involved in something that has gotten out of hand.”

  “I heard something along those lines, Frank.”

  “I’ve been working on a . . . a project for Mr. Dulles, and, uh, I may have drifted out of the loop, sir.”

  “You have, Frank.”

  “I’m wondering what I can do about that, sir.”

  Kennedy paused before answering.

  “You and Mr. Dulles have broken the law, Frank. You two have been plotting with God knows who to destabilize the relationship between the United States, Great Britain, and Germany. I don’t know who put Dulles up to this, but they have left you seriously out on a limb. You understand that?”

  “I was following orders, sir.”

  “You were conspiring, Frank. You knew what you were doing was wrong. Some ­people would say you were acting against your government’s best interest, and that’s treason, so don’t take me for a fool.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re a good guy, Frank. I have some sympathy for what you were doing, son, but you were doing it the wrong way. There is a lot at stake here, do you understand?”

  “I was—­”

  Kennedy interrupted. “You need to come in so we can sort this out.”

  “I . . . I don’t know if I can do that, sir.”

  “You can’t stay out there forever, Frank.”

  “Sir, I need some guarantees. I don’t deserve to . . .”

  “Frank, you are embarrassing me, and you are not in a position to ask for anything. You gentlemen have left us exposed here at a time when our country cannot afford it. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “You could get shot for this.”

  “Sir, I was . . .”

  “Where are you up to with this whole scheme?”

  “The matter is still in hand, sir,” King lied.

  “It is not, so don’t try to bullshit me. The British resistance have the kid you kidnapped, they’ve told me themselves. You lost her, didn’t you?”

  “As I said, sir, the matter is in hand.” King clenched a fist and slowly drove it into his own forehead as he struggled to keep his voice steady.

  The line popped and hissed while King waited for Kennedy’s next move. Finally the ambassador spoke.

  “I am aware of the scientist and what you were doing; Mr. Dulles has explained the reasons for this clusterfuck. I am also aware of her importance to Germany. It might surprise you, but I have some . . . sympathy with what you were trying to do.” Kennedy paused again, and when he continued his voice was lower, softer. “The way I see it, you have no choices, son. Come in now, and you get shipped home with Dulles to face the music. You forget what you’ve been mixed up in, try to save your career, yours and the kid, what’s his name . . . Cook?”

  King touched the back of his knuckles to his mouth and lowered his head before replying.

  “Cook’s dead, sir.”

  “How?” Kennedy finally asked.

  “Brit resistance, sir.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Things got out of hand.”

  “How many?”

  “A few, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Come in, Frank, before you totally fuck up the whole U.S.-­German relationship single-­handedly.”

  “What about Koehler’s daughter?”

  “Forget her; she’s not your problem.”

  “The British, they’ll kill her.”

  “Like you killed her mother?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “No, Frank, that was two idiots with guns, and you were one of them. Forget the girl and come in.”

  “There is the scientist, sir, she’s very important to America. She can help us . . .”

  “King, you have no idea what is at stake here!” Kennedy was shouting now. “We’ve got a government in America that wants to get closer to the Germans, not upset them. Dulles was wrong to lead you down this route.” Kennedy subsided slightly. “Jesus, son, trade is at stake here, not just your career; we’re talking billions of dollars, and you could blow it out of the water.”

  “They could blow us out the water if we leave them the scientist.”

  “Forget that, it isn’t your problem.”

  “If they have a superbomb and we don’t, they’ll walk all over us, sir.”

  “Get your ass in here now. That is a direct fucking order. You’re going home, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay,” Kennedy took a deep breath. “All right, go to the embassy and wait for me there.” He hung up.

  King slowly placed the receiver in the cradle and then pushed open the door of the call box. He stood in the falling snow a moment, then climbed back into the car he’d stolen earlier.

  He thought about Eric Cook.

  He closed his eyes and lifted his head slightly, breathing out through his mouth, letting his chin drop to his chest.

  “Poor kid,” he said softly. “Poor kid didn’t deserve that.”

  King thought of Cook’s face, eyes fluttering, his blood in the snow. King shook his head. He needed to think clearly. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, not now. Maybe later, maybe never, but not now.

  He wanted a cigarette badly.

  He looked at the shopkeeper, who was watching him back.

  King started the car, checked over his shoulder, then pulled away from the curb. London was still quiet, heavy clouds pushing down with each gust of wind seeming to shake another shower of snow down from the sky.

  He shivered, drifting across the city, not heading for the embassy, not just yet. He had a feeling he was experiencing his last hours of freedom, at least for some time to come. He drove on, not knowing where he was going, lost in thought.

  Once Dulles’s backers in Washington knew the plot was blown they’d disappear into the shadows from where they had come, leaving him and Dulles to carry the can in the courtroom.

  Kennedy was right. They were an embarrassment.

  Maybe he and Dulles wouldn’t make it to a courtroom.

  It would be easier for the government if they didn’t; maybe they’d end up in one of the camps he’d heard were being built in the Midwest.

  He stopped at some lights and looked around. The bright white snow was losing its luster. London was slowly turning back to the same old gray, grimy shithole the occupation had turned it into a few years before.

  The only color he could see was red.

  A red traffic light and a sodden red swastika flag, waving on a four-­story building.

  King wondered what Washington would look like if the Nazis had a bomb. Would the same bloodred flag hang low over the White House?

  The lights changed and he pulled away slowly, no direction in his mind. He drifted to a halt at another set of lights less than one hundred yards down the road, and looked around for a tobacconist.

  Then he saw her: a young woman, stopped on the street corner by two Germans and a British HDT foot patrol. The woman was presenting papers. Her head was down; she was looking at the heavy boots on her feet. Men’s boots, too big for the spindly bare legs that sprouted from the top of them.

  She was holding a shawl over her shoulders, and one of the Germans grabbed it and dragged it from her, half turning her before she let go. The German dropped the shawl into the gutter and the young woman stared at it, too scared to look up. The German jabbed at the star of David on her chest, the mark that had been covered by the shawl she had been using to shelter from the snow.

  She finally said something, and the HDT hit her. A backhanded slap, hard across the mouth. She fell, down into the gutter, next to the shawl, and her papers fluttered to the ground next to her.

  Frank King felt the blow that knocked her down.

  He opene
d the car door. He heard someone beeping their horn because the lights had changed, but he ignored them. He walked toward the HDT with his hand in his pocket, his knuckles brushing his pistol.

  The Germans watched him approaching. One of them unshipped the MP40 he was carrying from his shoulder, as the other held out his hand.

  “Stop!” the German shouted.

  Frank King leaned down to the girl in the gutter. “Are you all right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Get away. This is nothing to do with you,” the HDT man said to King, who ignored him.

  “Papers.” The German with the MP40 held out his hand.

  King looked at him.

  “Papers!” the German shouted this time.

  King took his hand out of his pocket, brushing the pistol again. He wanted to kill them all. He held out his ID, watching the flicker of uncertainty that often clouded the eyes of bullies who no longer were in charge.

  “This is nothing to do with you.” The HDT sounded less confident now.

  “Can you get up?” King asked the girl on the ground, stretching out his hand.

  “Please leave me,” she said quietly. She looked away. She didn’t want his help.

  A car horn sounded again, and King lowered his hand.

  He figured that she was too scared to stand up in case they knocked her down again once he was gone. He couldn’t always be there for her; by helping now he was making it worse, unless he helped forever.

  And he couldn’t.

  He was just one man. What good could one man do?

  He straightened up and looked at the men in front of him.

  “You must be proud,” he said quietly.

  “She was hiding what she is. It is against the law,” said the HDT man, handing back King’s ID.

  “She was trying to keep warm.”

  “She was breaking the law.”

  Another horn. The lights had changed again. Frank looked at the girl, who slowly turned to face him. The whites of her eyes were yellowish and looked too big for her face.