Chapter 9
Friday, September 8, 1944
6:37 p.m.
“Keep warm, Gracie,” the three-year-old said as she tucked her doll under a blanket made from a London newspaper sheet. Rosemary Clarke leaned over the small crib and kissed Gracie on the forehead. “Don’t worry. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
A growl erupted from the other side of the bedroom as Rosemary’s older brother, Johnny, sent his toy airplane on another dangerous mission, this time to bomb Berlin. Veering his craft downward, the bold aviator dropped one bomb after another. “Take that, you Jerries!” the boy cried, releasing pennies from his free hand.
“You two, no more noise!” their mother called out from downstairs in the kitchen, where the scent of burned sausage lingered, permeating the small two-story house.
Rosemary put her finger slowly to her mouth, signaling her brother to be quiet. He smiled at her exaggerated gesture and nodded. He wanted to fly his kite the following morning and knew that the outing wouldn’t happen if he didn’t comply.
The pair had been sent to bed right after dinner for misbehaving. Even though it was far too early for him to sleep, Johnny knew that he could still indulge his game in silence. So he curled up on his cot with his plane, his tank, and a spoon that doubled as a catapult. He watched his sister run to her own cot and crawl between the sheets. Rosemary’s eyelids snapped shut as her curly head sank into the pillow beside the room’s only window, pale light filtering through a tattered set of cotton curtains.
Johnny rose stealthily, so as not to disturb Rosemary, and crept out of the room, toward the bathroom.
They both heard the high-pitched whistle at the same time.
Rosemary’s eyes opened wide, looking to her big brother for an explanation.
Within seconds, their simple, tidy home had exploded.
Rosemary died immediately, her body perfectly preserved on the outside, but her lungs had been crushed by the blast because of her proximity to the window at the very front of the house. Miraculously, her family survived, including her brother. The explosion that had literally sucked the life out of little Rosemary left a thirty-foot crater, one story deep, in the middle of Staveley Street—damaging or destroying thirty-eight homes, injuring dozens, and killing three.
Not long afterward, the authorities in London’s West End announced that a faulty gas line was responsible for the disaster. They were lying, and everyone in Rosemary Clarke’s neighborhood knew it.
—
Emma moved briskly down the first-floor corridor of the Gloriette, glancing sideways at a seventeenth-century Fromanteel clock and noting the time—7:10 p.m.—as she made her way to see Nash, the first time in days that she’d been able to free herself for a visit. She had intended to check in on him every day, but an influx of patients into the new castle had kept everyone busy, temporarily relocating her and leaving Nurse Seymour to attend to Nash in her absence.
She peeked into his room. He waved her in, the fireplace blazing behind him as he sat at the table. In front of him, two meals lay ready, covered with silver warmers.
“Sorry I was delayed, Mr. Nash!” she exclaimed, apologizing as well for not having changed out of her blue apron and nursing dress before arriving for dinner. She felt underdressed as she looked at what lay before her.
“I know you’ve been busy,” said Nash. “I’m just glad you got my message.” Something was different about him, and it didn’t take her long to discover what it was. Nash rose slowly to greet her, limping around the table, his wheelchair nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, my! What progress!”
“I’ve been working hard, Nurse Doyle—exploring the grounds, doing push-ups, lifting every form of weight with both my legs and my arms. Just as we agreed.”
She gazed at him, marveling at how far he’d come in fewer than three weeks.
He was walking, the scars from his facial injuries had faded, and the hair that had been shaved from the left side of his head in order to sew it up cleanly had been replaced by new growth. Also surprising, compared with four days earlier, was the fact that he now wore civilian clothes, including a bright-blue shirt and a silk ascot. He explained that Lady Baillie had gleefully outfitted him in pieces of her most recent husband’s wardrobe.
They took their seats. He lifted the dish covers. Emma gasped at the grilled steaks, roasted potatoes, and broccoli. From under the table, Nash pulled a bottle of red wine, again from Lady Baillie—this one French and fifty years old, he told her. He filled their two goblets.
“A toast,” he said. She smiled. “To your education, and my recovery, both of which are well under way.” She raised her goblet, and they drank.
As they began to eat, talk quickly turned to the hospital’s high patient numbers, which had only aggravated the ongoing penicillin shortage. The remaining supply had been spread thin, with patients now receiving a fraction of the daily dose recommended for fighting off bacteria. Already one man had died of an infection that could have been prevented. Nash was supposed to get eight shots a day for his wounds. While Emma had seen to it that he was injected with more than his allotted share, even he was down to three shots daily.
“As you can see, I’m doing just fine with my lower dose,” he assured her. But she knew that, given the nature of his injuries, his recovery wouldn’t be sustainable without more penicillin. As healthy as he looked, he’d regress quickly if Dr. Meyers couldn’t solve the supply issue. Demand for the miracle drug wasn’t diminishing anytime soon. Following years of war, and with mounting casualties from intensified fighting across the Channel, every hospital was experiencing shortages in one form or another.
“They were at your grave,” Emma said suddenly. “I placed a number of subtle markers over the burial plot. They’ve been moved.”
“So presumably Moore and Suggs dug me up and found that I didn’t quite look myself.” He tried to sound light, but his heart started to pound.
“Not to worry, Mr. Nash. Sadly for our dear pilot Gordon Bradley, prior to his interment I had access to warm weather, clostridia from his intestines, and a jar of pregnant flies—all of which accelerated his decomposition. He—should I say you—was entirely unrecognizable.” She looked down, toying with a piece of broccoli. “Part of me feels bad for what I did, but I reminded myself that Mr. Bradley is dead and you are not. I’d like to keep it that way. Since we haven’t heard from Mr. Moore and Mr. Suggs again, it would seem they found nothing to contradict the facts surrounding your tragic demise.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Nash said, raising his goblet again. “By the way, if you’re not working, are you allowed to remove your nursing cap?” Her face turned as red as the wine she was enjoying. She removed the cap and let her hair fall, rising to take off her dirty apron, too.
“Better?” she said, smirking.
“Better,” he replied, striking a match to light his cigarette. “I’m almost out of these, so I’ve begun to ration myself.”
“Is that a bad thing, Mr. Nash? You know, they’re not particularly good for you.”
“They’re good for my nerves,” he shot back. She said nothing. She’d never seen him act ill-tempered, but he’d clearly been irked by her comment. After an awkward silence, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can do without penicillin—but not my nicotine. It’s soothed me since I was sixteen. I’ve tried to stop, but stressful situations make it impossible.”
She smiled, suppressing a cough. “You know, it’s almost endearing.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, shifting to reposition his leg.
“Well, you like to project as though you’re in total control of yourself and your actions, as well as the people around you, so it’s hard for me to believe you can’t control the simple impulse to stuff a flaming stick into your mouth.”
He guffawed, and she joined him, snorting into her hand, which caus
ed him to laugh even more.
“You’re right. Nothing I’m proud of, truly. But if you do hear of anyone with a carton or two to spare, I’d be thankful. I’ve now received and stored away five more sacks of oranges from my Mediterranean contact, and I’d be happy to enter into an exchange.” He pointed to the bag in the corner and gestured for her to help herself to another orange, which she did.
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open,” she said, returning to her seat. “Mr. Nash, just so you don’t think it’s the smoke, I have to warn you that I’m exhausted and won’t last long, so my lesson tonight will have to be a short one.”
“Perfect. I happen to have a short bedtime story for you,” he said, smiling. “Once upon a time in the late 1800s, a Russian matchmaker named Olga boasted to her late-night drinking pal, Natasha, that she could convince the most eligible young woman on earth to marry any pauper, while ensuring that the girl’s family happily agreed to the marriage.”
“That’s quite a claim,” Emma said.
“Natasha thought so, too, and laughed at her friend. Well, Olga took great offense. ‘You wanna bet?’ she slurred to Natasha. ‘Of course,’ Natasha said. The winner of the wager would receive a bottle of Russia’s finest vodka. It was agreed that Olga had six months to complete her task, and that Natasha would have the honor of choosing the unlikely couple.”
“So which princess and pauper did Olga have to bring together?” Emma asked.
“Natasha chose Edith Rockefeller, the daughter of John D. Rockefeller, the wealthiest man on the planet.” Emma whistled. “And the man Edith needed to marry was Natasha’s twenty-year-old son, Igor—a young farmer whose only assets were his looks, his brawn, and a handful of seeds.”
“This sounds like a brilliant bet for Natasha,” Emma said. “She wins if Olga fails, and if Olga succeeds her penniless son becomes a millionaire by marriage. So what happened next?”
“Can you guess?” Nash asked, carefully rising to place another log on the cherrywood fire.
“Why, yes, I can,” Emma said. “If it’s like some of my experiences, Olga woke up with a huge hangover, regretted what she’d done, and denied that it ever happened.”
Nash exploded with laughter, his head tilting backward, his eyes alight. Emma grinned and laughed with him.
He sat down again, still chuckling. “The following morning, Olga stuck to her bet and mapped out a plan. First she approached Igor. ‘How would you like an American wife?’ she asked. Igor wasn’t interested. ‘But what if she was the daughter of the world’s richest man?’ Igor was suddenly very interested.”
“No surprise there,” Emma interjected.
“The matchmaker packed up her bag,” Nash continued, “and traveled to Zurich, talking her way in to see the chairman of the world’s biggest bank. ‘How would you like a handsome young Russian farmer on your board?’ she asked. The banker wasn’t interested. ‘But what if he was Rockefeller’s son-in-law?’ The banker was suddenly very interested.”
“He stood to get more business from Rockefeller, right?”
“Right,” Nash confirmed. “Then Olga crossed the Atlantic to see John D. Rockefeller himself, who lived in Cleveland. ‘How would you like a young Russian farmer to marry your daughter Edith?’ Olga asked. The businessman wasn’t interested. ‘But what if he had a seat on the board of the world’s biggest bank?’ The businessman was suddenly very interested.”
“Never hurts for a businessman to have a big bank in his pocket.”
Nash nodded. “Finally, Olga rode in a horse-drawn carriage to see Edith: ‘How would you like to marry a man who sits on the board of the world’s biggest bank?’ Edith wasn’t interested. ‘But what if he was a handsome, muscular young Russian farmer?’ She looked at Olga, a smile spreading across her face. Slowly, Edith nodded her approval.” Emma clapped her hands, smiling herself. Nash finished his story. “In the days that followed, Olga confirmed her four deals and the details of the marriage. She returned to Russia to collect her vodka from Natasha, who—once she’d recovered from the shock—celebrated and drank for days, realizing that she would never have to work again.”
“Olga started with an impossible goal and reached it!” Emma cried.
“Tell me how she did it,” Nash said. He waited, sipping his wine until she was ready.
“Olga must have started with the end in mind, anticipating Edith’s personal interests and working her way backward. To get Rockefeller’s approval, she knew she had to appeal to his business interests, so she involved the banker before approaching him. And, before that, she had to gain Igor’s consent or she’d be wasting her time. He’d also likely be the easiest to convince.”
“Good, what else?” Nash asked.
“Each conversation was tailored to the unique interests of the person Olga was trying to influence, with her three tentative deals entirely dependent on the final negotiation with Edith. Once Edith agreed to marry Igor, Olga knew that the other ‘if-then’ deals would be easy to close.”
“Excellent. You can see through this story that sequencing—the order in which you do things—is critical. We must always think ahead to our ultimate goal, and map backward from there to find the best place to begin,” Nash said. “Sequencing matters in all areas of negotiation, from which helpers we approach, and when, as we quietly build a winning team—or winning coalition, as I call it—as Olga did, to the order we use to address different issues in talks.”
“All right, Mr. Nash,” Emma said, “what about the way she lowered each person’s expectations with her first proposition, before making it clear through her second proposition that their overall needs would in fact be very well satisfied?”
“Again, this relates to sequencing,” he said. “A different kind of sequencing, though—something I call the contrast phenomenon. You see, we don’t experience things in absolute terms; we experience them relative to the order in which they present themselves. This, of course, can dramatically alter what we’d feel if we only experienced one of the two things on its own.”
“I don’t think I fully understand your point,” Emma said slowly.
Nash tossed his butt into the fire. “If I put your hand in warm water, it would feel warm. But if I put your hand in cold water first, then warm water, how would the warm water feel?”
“Hot.”
“If I put your hand in hot water first, then warm water, how would the warm water feel?”
“Cold,” Emma answered, beginning to nod.
“Isn’t that something?” he said. “You can experience warm water as hot or cold depending on what comes before it, even though by objective measures, like a thermometer, it’s still warm water. That’s the contrast phenomenon in play. Olga risked her credibility by lowering expectations, but her next proposition seemed much more attractive by contrast—leading everyone to say ‘Yes’ to her, and more quickly than they otherwise would.”
“I love that. How else might this phenomenon be applied?”
“It’s everywhere. Take bad cop–good cop—and that is the right order. The police make the second cop seem not just good but incredibly nice in comparison to the difficult cop, so that the subject of their questioning will be more inclined to share information, or even confess. Retailers show a discounted sales price in contrast to the regular price, leading customers to commit to buying something they really don’t need, or that was overvalued in the first place. Even in relationships, if a woman breaks up with a man she no longer cares for—”
“She might think her next suitor is brilliant by contrast and commit too quickly to him—even though he’s simply different from her previous beau and likely has other major flaws.”
“I think you’ve got it! Our matchmaker Olga would be proud of you,” Nash said.
“So how do you defend yourself against these traps?”
“Just being aware of them is useful. And before
deciding if any deal—or man—you’re considering is hot, cold, or lukewarm, look at objective measures—what I call standards—including the marketplace, facts, the law, precedents, expert opinion, and other reliable sources.”
“So are these standards another part of our defenses?” Emma asked.
“Absolutely, Nurse Doyle. Standards can act as a shield when someone is trying to take too much from us. They can also act as a sword to advance a solution when you’re trying to influence someone to do the right thing.”
A silence followed, with Emma nodding slowly.
“Okay, Mr. Nash, I have a lot to think about. Let’s retire, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, though he hated to say good night. “Would you like your homework?”
“Homework?”
“Yes. I’ve just decided tonight that your homework is cigarettes and penicillin, our two most pressing shortages here at the castle. We clearly need both—and in that order.”
“That’s impossible.”
“So was Olga’s challenge. You said so yourself. One way or another, your graduation from my little course will depend on this homework being completed.”
He was running out of time. This challenge would push her forward faster, he hoped.
“I’ll do my best,” she said, shaking her head with a shrug.
“I’m not looking for your best, Nurse Doyle. I’m looking for cigarettes and penicillin.”
He reached for her hand, which she offered up easily, and he walked her to the door.
They looked at each other, neither of them saying anything.
“Good night, Emma,” Nash finally said quietly.
She looked into his eyes. “Good night, Everett.”
—
Britain’s home secretary, Herbert Morrison, slipped through the drinking establishment’s heavy front door, pulling it behind him to distance a late-night storm from the cozy confines of the Red Lion.
Weapons of Peace Page 9