Hitler's peace

XXIV

I spent three uncomfortable nights in a cell beneath the police station in Cairo’s Citadel. No lack of precedents for a philosopher spending time in prison: Zeno, Socrates, Roger Bacon, Hugo Grotius, and Dick Tracy’s brother, Destutt. None of them had been accused of murder, of course. Not even Aristotle, of whom Bacon had remarked, jokingly, that, like an Eastern despot, he had strangled his rivals in order to reign peaceably.

Philosophers’ jokes are always a real belly laugh.

Missing the chance to see the city of Teheran gave me little cause for regret. Everything I had heard about the place-the water, the pro-Nazi Iranians, the haughty colonialism inflicted on the country by the British and the Russians-made me glad I wouldn’t be going there. All I wanted now was to clear myself of the murder charge and return to Washington. Once there, I was going to quit the OSS, sell the house in Kalorama Heights, and return to Harvard or Princeton. Whichever would have me. I would write another book. Truth looked like a subject that might be interesting. Provided I could decide exactly what truth was. I thought I might even write another letter to Diana, something much more difficult than writing a book about Truth.

Early on the morning of the fourth day of my holiday in the Citadel I awoke to find Mike Reilly in my prison cell. Even in his tropical cream suit, he was hardly anyone’s idea of the Lord’s angel.

“Did the maid let you in?” I shook my head, groggy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up,” Reilly said quietly and handed me a cup of coffee. “Here. Drink this.”

“It smells a lot like coffee. How do you make it?”

“With a little brandy. There’s more in the car outside. Brandy, I mean. It’s just the thing to settle the stomach ahead of a long flight.”

“Where are we going?”

“Teheran, of course.”

“Teheran, huh? I hear it’s a dump.”

“It is. That’s why we want you along.”

“What about the British?”

“They’re coming, too.”

“I meant the police.”

“Harry Hopkins has spent the last thirty-six hours pulling strings for you,” said Reilly. “It seems both he and the president regard your presence in Teheran as absolutely essential.” He shook his head and lit a cigarette. “Don’t ask me why. I have no idea.”

“My things at the hotel-”

“Are in the car outside. You can wash, shave, and change your clothes in a room upstairs.”

“And the murder charges?”

“Dropped.” Reilly handed me my wristwatch. “Here. I even wound it for you.”

I glanced at the time. It was five-thirty in the morning. “What time is our flight?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Then there’s still time to drop into Grey Pillars.”

Reilly was shaking his head.

“C’mon, Reilly, we’ve got to cross the Nile to get to the airport, so Garden City is on our way. More or less.” I glanced up again at the barred window. Outside, the early-morning sky looked very different from its usual bright shade of orange. “Besides, haven’t you noticed the fog? I’ll be very surprised if we take off on time.”

“My orders are to get you to the airport, Professor Mayer. At all costs.”

“Good. That makes things easy for us both, then. Unless we go to Grey Pillars first, I’m not going to Teheran.”

Grey Pillars was only two miles west of the Citadel, and the journey, by official car, took but a few minutes. The British GHQ was always open for business and, showered and shaved and wearing the clean clothes Reilly had brought from Shepheard’s Hotel, I had little difficulty in gaining access again to the cells in the basement. I found Corporal Armfield just coming off duty.

“I’m here to see Major Reichleitner,” I told the bemused corporal.

“But he’s gone, sir. Transferred to a POW transport last night. On Major Deakin’s orders. He turned up here with your General Donovan, sir, wanting to know about some codebooks, sir. Major Reichleitner told your General Donovan that he’d burned them all, at which point the general got rather upset with him, sir. After that, he and Deakin had a bit of a chat like, and it was decided to put Reichleitner on a POW ship leaving Alexandria this morning.”

“Where’s the ship going, Corporal?”

“Belfast, sir.”

“Belfast? Did he leave a message for me?”

“No, sir. On account of how the general told him you’d been arrested on suspicion of being a German spy. Major Reichleitner seemed to think that was quite funny, sir. Very funny indeed. Fair roared with laughter.”

“I bet he did. What else did Donovan tell him? Did he tell him that I was accused of murder? About that woman who was shot?”

“No, sir. I was standing in the doorway all the time they were in there and I heard every word.”

So Reichleitner didn’t know that his girlfriend was dead. Perhaps that was just as well. A man facing a stretch in a POW camp in Northern Ireland needed something to look forward to.

“Have you heard? My arrest was a mistake. Just in case you were wondering, Corporal.”

“I was sort of wondering that, sir,” grinned Armfield.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Corporal. I’m pleased to see that not all the English are bastards.”

“Oh, they are, sir. I’m Welsh.”

Reilly was waiting impatiently in the back of the car, and even before I had closed the door, we were speeding west across the English Bridge and dashing between the limousines of the British pashas, the ice carts, the gold-and-tinsel hearses, the handcarts, the donkeys, and the gharries. “Are we flying via Basra?” I asked Reilly.

“There’s typhus in Basra. And, for all I know, Nazi paratroopers, too. Besides, it’s a hell of a train journey from Basra to Teheran. Even in the shah’s personal train.” He offered me a cigarette and then lit us both. “No, we’re flying direct to Teheran. That’s if we ever get through this goddamned Cairo traffic.”

“I like the Cairo traffic,” I said. “It’s honest.”

Reilly handed me his hip flask. “Looks like you were right,” he said, nodding out of the window at the fog.

“I’m always right,” I told Reilly. “That’s why I became a philosopher.”

“I just figured out why they want you along, Professor,” he said. “You’re easier to carry than a set of encyclopedias.”

I took a swig of his brandy. And then another.

“Better make it last. That’s breakfast until we get to Teheran.”

I was starting to like him again, thinking maybe there was more under his Panama hat than a thick head of black-Irish hair.

There were several planes on the runway at Cairo Airport, and Reilly directed me toward the president’s own C-54. I climbed aboard and sat down alongside Harry Hopkins. It was as if nothing had happened. I shook hands with Hopkins. I shook hands with Roosevelt. I even exchanged a few jokes with John Weitz.

“Nice of you to join us, Professor,” said Hopkins.

“I’m very glad to be here, sir. I understand from Reilly that but for you I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

Hopkins nodded happily. “It’s all behind us now. All forgotten. Besides, we couldn’t afford to leave you behind, Willard. We’re going to have need of your linguistic skills.”

“But surely the only foreign language that’s going to be spoken at the Big Three is Russian.”

Hopkins shook his head. “The shah went to school in Switzerland. And I think you are aware of his father’s hatred of the British. Hence, His Majesty speaks only French and German. Because of the delicacy of the political situation in Iran, it was decided to keep any meetings between Reza Shah and the Big Three a secret. For the sake of the shah himself. He’s only twenty-four years old and not yet secure on the throne. Until thirty-six hours ago, we weren’t exactly sure he would risk meeting us at all. That’s why you haven’t been kept informed of what was happening. We didn’t know ourselves. After the war, oil is going to be the key to world power. There’s an ocean of the stuff underneath Iran. It’s why the president agreed to come here in the first place.”

I was already forming the strong impression that, but for my German-language skills, I would still be in a prison cell in Cairo facing a murder charge. Yet even now there was something about Hopkins’s story that didn’t quite add up.

“Then, with all due respect, wouldn’t it have been better to have brought someone along who speaks Farsi?” When Hopkins looked at me blankly, I added, “That’s the Persian name for the modern Persian language, sir.”

“Easier said than done. Even Dreyfus, our ambassador in Teheran, doesn’t speak the local lingo. Hungarian and a little French, but no Farsi. Our State Department isn’t up to snuff in terms of linguists, I’m afraid. Nor anything else, for that matter.”

I glanced around. John Weitz, the State Department’s Russian-language specialist and Bohlen’s substitute, was sitting right behind me, and, having clearly heard Hopkins’s remark, he raised his eyebrows at me with a show of diplomatic patience. A few moments later he got out of his seat to walk back to the plane’s tiny lavatory. Meanwhile, the president, Elliott Roosevelt, Mike Reilly, Averell Harriman, Agent Pawlikowski, and the Joint Chiefs were each of them staring out of the windows as the plane flew over the Suez Canal near Ismailia.

“Since we’re speaking frankly, sir,” I said, taking advantage of Weitz’s absence, “it’s still my belief that we have a German spy traveling in our delegation. A man who has now killed twice. Possibly more. I firmly believe that one of our party intends to assassinate Joseph Stalin.”

Hopkins listened patiently and then nodded. “Professor, I just know you’re wrong. And you’ll have to take my word for why that is, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you why. Not yet. But I happen to know that what you say is just impossible. When we’re on the ground, we can talk about this again. Until then, it might be a good idea if you were just to can this theory of yours. Got that?”

We flew over Jerusalem and Baghdad, crossing the Tigris, up and along the Basra-Teheran railroad, and then from Ramadan to Teheran, always at only five or six thousand feet off the ground so that the lame constitutions of Roosevelt and Hopkins would not be taxed too much by the journey. All the same, I guessed it was quite a job for the pilot, having to negotiate several mountain passes instead of just flying the big C-54 over them.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when finally we caught sight of the Russian army airfield at Gale Morghe. Dozens of American B-25s repainted with the red star of the Soviet Union sat on the airfield.

“Jesus Christ, that’s a terrifying sight,” joked Roosevelt. “Our own planes in Russian livery. I guess that’s what it will look like if the Commies ever conquer the States, eh, Mike?”

“Painting them is one thing,” said Reilly. “Flying them’s another. The last time I was in this lousy country I learned that to fly with a Russian pilot and live is to lose all fear of death.”

“Mike, I thought you knew,” laughed Roosevelt. “My security exists in inverse proportion to your own insecurity.”

The presidential plane began to make its turn for a landing, banking over a checkerboard of rice fields and banks of puddle mud.

A military escort commanded by General Connolly conveyed Roosevelt and his immediate party to the American legation in the north of the city. I went with the Joint Chiefs, Harriman, Bohlen, and some of the Secret Service to our quarters at Camp Amirabad.

Amirabad was a U.S. Army facility that was still in the process of being built, and it already had a brick barracks, a hospital, a movie theater, some shops, offices, warehouses, and recreational facilities. It looked like any army base in New Mexico or Arizona, and seemed to indicate that the American presence in Teheran was hardly temporary.

As soon as the Joint Chiefs, Bohlen, and I had changed our clothes, we were driven through the streets of Teheran in a convoy of jeeps, cars, and motorcycles to the American legation, where, on the verandah, Secret Service agents Qualter and Rauff were already on guard. I nodded to the agents, and much to my surprise they nodded back.

“Have you got a cigarette?” I asked Qualter. “I seem to have left mine somewhere.”

“Prison, by any chance?” said Qualter, and, smiling wryly, he took out a packet of Kools and tapped one out for me. “Do you mind mentholated?”

“Nope,” I said, quietly noting the brand. “You don’t actually think I killed that woman, do you?”

I didn’t really care what he thought, but I wanted to keep him talking. I was more interested in the discovery that he was smoking Kools.

Qualter lit my cigarette and shrugged. “Not my place to think anything that doesn’t affect the safety of the boss. Hell, I dunno, Professor. You sure don’t look like a murderer, I’ll say that much for you. But, then, you don’t look like a secret agent, either.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I glanced down the front of Qualter’s single-breasted jacket, counting the buttons. There were three, just as there were supposed to be. “Anyway, thanks for the cigarette.”

“That’s okay.” Qualter grinned. “They ain’t mine.”

“Oh? Whose are they?”

But Qualter had already turned away to open the door for the Joint Chiefs. I followed them inside, walking up a wooden ramp that had been built by army carpenters to facilitate Roosevelt’s entry and exit. It seemed the ramp had also presented the American delegation with a problem. Settled in the drawing room, the president was asking for a drink and Ambassador Dreyfus had to explain that the ramp had been built on top of the only entrance to the legation’s wine cellar. He had been obliged to borrow eight bottles of scotch from the British ambassador, Sir Reader Bullard. Reilly heard Dreyfus out politely, then steered the ambassador to the door.

“Jesus,” remarked Roosevelt when Dreyfus had gone. “Forget the scotch, what about the gin? And the vermouth? Mike? How am I going to mix a goddamned martini without any gin and vermouth?”

Reilly nodded at Pawlikowski, who left the room, presumably in search of some gin and vermouth.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” said Hopkins.

I sat down beside Chip Bohlen, facing the president, Hopkins, Admirals King and Leahy, and Ambassador Harriman. I hadn’t seen much of Harriman up close. He was tall, with a prominent jaw and the kind of smile lines that put you in mind of a clown without makeup. He had dark hair, with big furry eyebrows that anchored a forehead as high as Grand Central Station. His father had been a robber baron, one of the big railway magnates, and I supposed he was even richer than my mother. He looked a little how I was feeling, which was nervous.

Seeing that Roosevelt was still talking to Harriman and King, I leaned toward Bohlen and said: “Since most of the interpreting is going to be done by you, it had better be you that reminds the president of any system you want to get going.”

“System?” Bohlen frowned and shook his head. “Hell, there’s not even a stenographer. And as far as I can see, no one seems to have prepared any position papers on questions that might be discussed. Certainly none that I’ve seen. Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit strange?”

“Come to think of it, yes. But that’s FDR. He likes to improvise. Keep things informal.”

“Is that really feasible when you’re discussing the fate of the postwar world? This ought to be about as formal as it can be, don’t you think?”

“Nothing can surprise me anymore, Chip. Not on this trip.”

“What’s in the briefcase?” Hopkins asked me, pointing to the case at my side. “A bomb?”

I smiled thinly, opened the briefcase, took out the Beketovka File, and handed it over. I was still explaining the contents when Roosevelt cleared his throat loudly and interrupted.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “Let’s get down to business. I’ll have to ask Professor Mayer and Mr. Bohlen to suspend their curiosity for a while longer. A lot of this might not make any sense to you right now, so you’ll have to be patient. All will be explained to you both eventually. I’ve asked you here now for a damn good reason. But I’ll come to that presently. Mike-have all the delegations arrived safely?”

“Yesterday.”

“How’s Churchill, Harry?”

“Sulking.”

“Well, I can’t say that I blame him. I’ll call him myself. See if I can’t persuade him to go along with this. As a matter of fact, I think we’re going to have some problems with General Marshall and General Arnold, for the same reason.”

Hopkins shrugged.

“All the same, it’s a pity.” Roosevelt lit a cigarette, smoking it without his holder, which seemed to bespeak a greater nervousness. Adjusting his position in his wheelchair, he looked at Reilly. “Mike? What’s our cover story to justify moving to the Russian embassy?”

“That it’s quite a hike between here and the Soviet embassy. Which would mean you driving through unguarded streets when there are still some German paratroopers at large. Between three and six still unaccounted for, according to the Ivans. Equally, there might be some kind of demonstration against the British, or against the Russians, in which case we might get caught up in it.”

“Actually, that’s quite true,” admitted Roosevelt. “Did you see the welcome we had on the way from the airport? I felt like Hitler driving into Paris.”

“And there’s no doubt,” continued Reilly, “that the Russian and British embassies are, by comparison with ours, almost impregnable. Did you know that this embassy has been robbed several times in the last month? Anyway, the Brits and the Ivans are right next door to each other, so if something did go wrong while we were there, we’d have plenty of troops to protect you, Mr. President. Anyway, the bottom line is this: that I don’t think anyone would argue if we claimed it was your safety that prompted us to move you into the Russian embassy.”

For a moment I wondered if my ears had deceived me. That Reilly had said something about moving the president of the United States into the “safety” of the Russian embassy. But then Roosevelt nodded.

“You say that, Mike,” he said. “But it’ll cause some comment, don’t think it won’t. Whatever the reason we put out. Everyone in the press corps will say that all of my conversations will be taped by the Russians using secret microphones. Unless we have some kind of line on that, I’ll be accused of being naive. Or worse. Not on the ball. Lame. Sick.”

“Then how about we say this?” offered Hopkins. “That in an effort to seem like we came to Teheran with no preconceived strategies cooked up by us and the British…” Hopkins paused for a moment and then added, “That in the spirit of openness and cooperation, we stayed at the Russian embassy in full knowledge that all our conversations would probably be monitored by the Soviets. But that we had nothing to hide from our Soviet allies. And that therefore it really didn’t matter a damn if they recorded our conversations. What do you think, Mr. President?”

“Sounds good, Harry. I like it. Of course, once we’re in the Russian compound we can close everything down and no one in the press will know a goddamned thing about what’s going on. Eh, Mike? No one’s better at keeping a lid on things than the Soviets.”

“That’s why we came to Teheran,” said Reilly. “To keep a lid on things. But before any of this, how about if we say that we asked Stalin over for a drink and he turned us down? That he refused to come over here. That way we can make it look like he’s the one who is more worried about his personal security than you are. And that this is what prompted us to make the move to their embassy in the first place.”

“Good,” said Roosevelt. “I like that, too.”

“And after all, Mr. President,” said King, “let’s not forget that it’s you who has come halfway around the world to be here. Not Stalin. It isn’t you who’s afraid of flying.”

“True, Ernie, true,” admitted Roosevelt.

“So when do we pull off this charade?” asked Harriman.

“Tonight,” said Roosevelt. “That way we can get things under way first thing in the morning. If the other side is agreeable.”

“They are,” said Reilly. “But Mr. Harriman raises a useful point when he mentions a charade. I mean, it might be best if we arranged some kind of decoy that saw you leaving the legation here and going to the Russian compound. Like before, with Agent Holmes pretending to be you.”

“You mean like a dummy cavalcade? Yes, that’s good. And meanwhile we go there in an unmarked van, through a side door, maybe. The servants’ entrance.”

“Are Soviet embassies allowed to have a servants’ entrance?” Hopkins laughed. “It sounds kind of anti-Communist.”

“I for one am not sure I like the idea of the president of the United States sneaking in and out of buildings like a common thief,” said Admiral King. “It sounds, well, sir, lacking in dignity.”

“Believe me, Ernie,” Roosevelt said, “there’s not much dignity when you’re a man in a wheelchair. Besides, whatever happens I’m going to be having a better time than Hull.”

Harry Hopkins laughed again. “I’d love to see him now, the bastard. Thay, are thoth bombth I heard jutht now?”

Roosevelt guffawed. “You’re a cruel son of a bitch, Harry. I guess that’s why I like you. And you’re right. I’d love to see Cordell’s face right now.”

“What about records?” asked Hopkins. “Stenographers?”

Roosevelt shook his head. “No, we’ll just exchange the position papers that we have each prepared. Otherwise there’s to be no formal record. Professor Mayer and Mr. Bohlen-if you don’t mind I’m going to start using your first names. Willard? Chip? You will make what notes you need to help with your translations, but I don’t want a written record of what’s said here. At least not in the beginning. And all notes are to be destroyed afterwards. Chip? Willard? Have you got that?”

Bohlen and I, both of us now thoroughly bewildered, nodded our compliance. I had started to think that there was something else we hadn’t yet been told. Something we might not like. Averell Harriman was looking even more uncomfortable.

“Sir,” said Harriman now. “The absence of records could be dangerous. It’s one thing not to have a record when it’s you speaking to Mr. Churchill. You and he are on the same wavelength, at least most of the time. But the Soviets can be quite literal-minded about things. You say something, they will expect to hold you to the letter.”

“I’m sorry, Averell, but my mind is made up. That’s the way it’s got to be for now.” He looked at Reilly. “Mike, pour us some of Sir Whatshisname’s scotch, will you? I’m sure we could all use a drink.”

Roosevelt surveyed his drink thoughtfully. “I wish Churchill could reconcile himself to this.” He sipped some of the British ambassador’s whiskey. “Averell? Did he say what he’s doing tonight?”

“He said he planned to make it an early night and read a novel by Charles Dickens, Mr. President.”

“We need to work on Churchill again,” Roosevelt said.

“He’ll come around, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt nodded and, catching my frown, smiled wryly. “Willard. Chip. I guess you boys are wondering what in hell this is all about?”

“It had crossed my mind, sir.”

Bohlen just nodded.

“All will become very clear to you both tomorrow morning,” said Roosevelt. “Until then, I must ask for your indulgence. If ever there was a time in which the president of the United States needed the full confidence and support of the people around him, that time is now, gentlemen. Great risks are involved, but great rewards are to be had.”

“Whatever it takes, Mr. President,” said Bohlen.

“We’re a team, now,” added Roosevelt. “I just wanted to make sure you boys understood that.”

“You have our total support, sir,” I added.

“All right, gentlemen, that’ll do for now.”

We’d been dismissed. I finished my scotch hurriedly and followed Reilly into the hallway, where he handed me an official-looking document.

“‘The Espionage Act, 1917,’” I said, reading the cover. “What’s this, Mike? A little light bedtime reading?”

“I’d like you both to familiarize yourselves with the contents of this document before tomorrow morning,” he said. “It relates to the disclosure of non-security-related government information.”

I said nothing. The Democrat in me wanted to remind the Secret Service agent that the United States had no official secrets act for the simple reason that the First Amendment of the Constitution guaranteed free speech. But, feeling I had perhaps caused enough trouble already, I decided to let it alone.

“What the hell is this, Mike?” Bohlen asked.

“Look,” said Reilly, “the president is pretty worked up about secrecy on this mission. You can understand that, can’t you? That’s why he wanted you along to this meeting. So you could see that for yourself. And so that you might realize that you are an important part of this team.”

I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.

Bohlen nodded.

“The administration has taken legal advice, and all we’re asking is that you both sign a document saying you’re aware of the need for secrecy, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, legal advice?” asked Bohlen.

“Three Supreme Court judges have ruled, in private, that the Espionage Act doesn’t just cover spying. It also covers leaks of government information to someone other than an enemy, such as a newspaper or magazine.”

“You’re trying to gag us?” said Bohlen. “I don’t believe it.”

“No, not gag. Not at all. This is merely to make you aware of the possible consequences of speaking about what might go on while we’re here in Teheran. All we’re asking is that you sign an affidavit after you’ve read this thing, just to indicate that you appreciate the full meaning of the act.”

“What about our legal advice, Mike?” I asked.

“I think this is illegal,” Bohlen objected, smiling nervously.

“I’m not a lawyer. Not anymore. I couldn’t tell you what is and what’s not illegal here. All I know is that the boss wants everyone who’s involved in our effort here to sign this. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what, Mike?” Bohlen asked, coloring visibly around his prominent ears.

Reilly thought for a moment. “Stalin’s translator,” he said, then snapped his fingers at Bohlen. “What’s his name?”

“There are two. Pavlov and Berezhkov.”

“And what do you think would happen to them if they said anything out of line?”

Bohlen and Willard remained silent.

“They’d be shot,” said Reilly, answering his own question. “I don’t think they’re in any doubt about that.”

“What’s your point, Mike?” Bohlen asked.

“Only that it would be a shame if they ended up having to do all of the translations because the president couldn’t find anyone he trusted, that’s all.”

“Of course the president can trust us, Mike,” I said. “We’re just a little surprised that you want us to sign a piece of paper to that effect.”

“I know I can trust you, Professor,” Reilly said, with extra meaning. “We have to go back to Cairo after Teheran, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have to speak to the British police again about that unfortunate incident in Garden City.”

It was my turn to feel the color enter my ears. There were no two ways about it. I was being blackmailed into toeing the line.

“Professor, why don’t you have a word with Chip,” Reilly said smoothly, “and point out the expediency of what’s being proposed?”

Reilly walked away to have a word with Pawlikowski, leaving an exasperated-looking Bohlen alone with me.

“We just got tackled by our own offensive linemen,” I said.

Bohlen nodded. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But whatever it is, I could sure use another glass of Sir Reader Bullard’s scotch.”