The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(79)
“Mr. Hull …” Nomura began.
“Go,” Hull said softly. “Go now and never come back.”
Gil Winnant, the American Ambassador to London, was Churchill’s special guest at Chequers. Still, the P.M. didn’t go easy on him. “Where are the Americans?” Churchill asked as they drank in his study before dinner, his voice breaking. He was exhausted. There was no time left for flatteries and subtleties. It was do or die.
“Mr. Churchill,” replied Winnant, “I wish I could say. You know if it were my decision, the U.S. would be in this war already, but the President—”
“Your president …”
“—by most people’s standards FDR’s doing enough with Lend-Lease. But even he can’t declare war—”
“Yes, yes, only bloody Congress can declare war!” the P.M. roared. “I am half-American! My mother was Jennie Jerome, from Brooklyn Heights, New York! I know how these things work!”
“Of course, Prime Minister. But with public opinion the way it is …”
“The President told me he would find a way of going to war, even on a pretext. Nazi submarines have sunk American ships, and still he bides his time. After Hitler’s done in Russia it will be our turn. And if we are gone, who’s next in line? I had such high hopes after the Atlantic Charter …”
Winnant looked apologetic. “The President must walk—so to speak—a very fine line. He must support Britain, but not alienate the antiwar faction …”
The Prime Minister regarded Winnant from above his golden spectacles, then chose his words carefully, as if he had come to a decision. “I will tell you one thing—you’re not going to be neutral forever. The U.S. is like Prospero in Poe’s ‘Masque of the Red Death’—war, like Death, will prove impossible to avoid forever. And now, please excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. I have a war to fight.”
Admiral Yamamoto was still sitting statue-still, white-gloved hands folded in front of him. A military march played over the ship’s loudspeakers, and officers chatted, some smoking cigarettes, and some drinking sake from small ceramic cups. With the exception of Yamamoto, the atmosphere felt like a party.
The Japanese radio announcer broke into the music. “Just in—we have an announcement from the Navy Department, released today, December eighth. Before daybreak, the Imperial Navy successfully launched a large-scale air attack against the United States Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, destroying the U.S. Fleet. We salute the Commander in Chief of our Fleet, Admiral Yamamoto.”
The men applauded. “The attack went as planned!” one called. “It was a success!” shouted another.
Yamamoto remained motionless. “Yes, but did the U.S. government receive the communiqué before one P.M.?”
One of the men sobered, facing Admiral Yamamoto. “Ambassador Nomura was late in Washington, sir. And Air Commander Fuchida was early in Hawaii.”
Yamamoto shook his head. His face was tired and sad. “We didn’t follow Geneva Conventions—and now we look every bit like the sneaky slit-eyed dwarfs their propaganda paints us.”
Conversation in the room ceased. Yamamoto kept speaking, as though to himself. “I had intended to strike a fatal blow to the American fleet by attacking Pearl Harbor immediately after Japan’s official declaration of war. But according to all our reports, we attacked fifty-five minutes before the message was delivered. I can’t imagine anything that would infuriate the Americans more than what they’re going to see as a ‘sneak attack’ by the Japanese. The Emperor, too, will be most displeased.
“The fact that we have had a small success at Pearl Harbor is nothing. The fact that we have succeeded so easily pleases people. But they should think things over—and realize how serious the situation will become.”
News of the attack was spreading. “Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it,” sounded the burnished tones of the BBC announcer over the hiss of the airwaves.
“Turn the damn thing up!” Winston Churchill bellowed from across the Hawtree Room at Chequers. “What’s Lidell saying?”
“Winnie,” his wife, Clementine, chided. “Language, dear—really.”
“Not now, Clemmie!” the old man snapped, stomping over to the wireless. He fiddled with the buttons and dials of the Emerson. “How the hell do you fly this damn thing? Inces! Where are you, you damn fool?”
David stepped in and adjusted the knobs.
“This just in,” Lidell was saying.
“Shhhhh,” the Prime Minister growled to the assembled crowd, who were chatting over Martinis and silver bowls of smoked almonds: American Ambassador John Winnant; Averill Harriman, Roosevelt’s special representative in the UK; Harriman’s daughter Kathleen; and the P.M.’s daughter-in-law, Pamela Churchill.