The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(40)
“And so the bloodthirsty Frain wants to execute Hess. Blindfold and shoot her, just like Josef Jakobs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s mentioned some rather interesting prognoses of her current mental state. Regression and whatnot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It might be real—it might be an act. Frain seems to think she’s playacting—as she did in her operas. The doctor doesn’t.” The P.M. contemplated the orange flames. “But just because she won’t talk doesn’t mean we can’t use her.” He cleared his throat. “Hitler and his cronies don’t know she’s not talking. And as long as she’s alive, they’ll wonder what secrets our little nightingale is singing. Tell Frain to keep his bloody hands off her—at least for now.”
“Yes, sir.” David waited a moment. “Will that be all, sir?”
The P.M. held out one hand. “Gimme.” As Churchill scanned through the documents, David braced himself, knowing that there was a transcript of a particularly harsh speech about the British Prime Minister that Joseph Goebbels had given to a huge crowd in Berlin.
Churchill squinted and reached for the gold-framed spectacles in his breast pocket. He put them on and read aloud, “… ever since Gallipoli, Winston Churchill has spent a life wading through streams of English blood, defending a lifestyle that has long outlived its time—”
“That’s not true, sir.”
“Ah, but the monster does have a point, young Mr. Greene,” Churchill replied, his face tired and eyes sad. “I grew up during Queen Victoria’s reign, then came of age under King Edward the Seventh. It was a magical time to be an Englishman—‘the sun never set on the British Empire,’ et cetera, et cetera. Soldiers in red coats, the union Jack. That world is gone now.”
“Sir?”
“Britain will live through this war, but we will be changed, utterly unrecognizable. We are now too damaged, too small, perhaps even too gentle to compete in this brave new world. We are Tolkien’s hobbits—small and provincial, yet surprisingly resilient in stern times. No, we have Hitler and Fascism, Stalin and Communism, and America—young, foolish, capitalist America—who are all poised to lead now.”
David scratched his head. “If the British are the hobbits, who are the Americans, sir?”
“The Americans are the eagles, Mr. Greene! The American eagles, of course! It’s their country’s symbol, for God’s sake—that Tolkien’s none too subtle!”
The Prime Minister contemplated the fire. “The eagles save Bilbo and the dwarves from the bloody orcs. What did Tolkien write about the eagles? ‘Eagles are not kindly birds. Some are cowardly and cruel. But the ancient race of the northern mountains were the greatest of all birds; they were proud and strong and noble-hearted.’ If that doesn’t describe the bloody Americans, I don’t know what does.”
“But, sir—the Lend-Lease Act—all those destroyers, all the aid—”
“All of their oldest destroyers, held together with tape and taffy. They’re keeping their best at Pearl Harbor, in order to defend their territories in the Pacific. And for those few, ancient ships, we are expected to give up our military bases, our gold, maybe even our art and manuscripts.”
“But surely America will join the war?” David’s voice had the edge of desperation.
“Sit down, my boy,” Churchill said, gesturing to the chair opposite.
David did. “I’m not so sure anymore,” the Prime Minister continued, taking a sip of cognac. “I do everything I can with President Roosevelt, and I flatter and cajole him as I would any woman I’d want as my mistress. But Roosevelt is, as we used to say in the Navy, a tease. I would like to believe America will choose to fight on the side of right in this war, but I no longer feel I can guarantee it, the way I felt a year or so ago. We can’t depend on them. Unless …”
“Unless?”
Churchill stared into the red embers of the dying fire. “Unless their hand is forced.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“We’ve had new posters made, in case of invasion—‘Keep Calm and Carry On.’ ”
“Miss Tuttle!”
Trudy Tuttle started when she heard Admiral Kimmel’s bellow over the noise of the rusted rotary fan that did nothing against Hawaii’s heat and humidity. She was young, in her twenties, in a new white cotton dress covered with a pattern of yellow hibiscus blossoms.
She rose from her desk and walked to the door of his office. It was dominated by a framed photograph of President Roosevelt. Turquoise maps of the Pacific speckled with colored pushpins covered the walls, and the window afforded a sweeping view of the Pacific Fleet, docked in Pearl Harbor. Outside, an American flag snapped in the warm, jasmine-scented breeze.