Winter of the World

9

1941 (II)

The phone rang on Greg Peshkov’s desk on a hot morning in July. He had finished his penultimate year at Harvard, and was once again interning at the State Department for the summer, working in the information office. He was good at physics and math, and passed exams effortlessly, but he had no interest in becoming a scientist. Politics was what excited him. He picked up the phone. ‘Greg Peshkov.’

‘Morning, Mr Peshkov. This is Tom Cranmer.’

Greg’s heart beat a little faster. ‘Thank you for returning my call. You obviously remember me.’

‘The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, 1935. Only time I ever got my picture in the paper.’

‘Are you still the hotel detective?’

‘I moved to retail. I’m a store detective now.’

‘Do you ever do any freelance work?’

‘Sure. What did you have in mind?’

‘I’m in my office now. I’d like to talk privately.’

‘You work in the Old Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I’m a detective.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m around the corner, at Aroma Coffee on F Street and Nineteenth.’

‘I can’t come now.’ Greg looked at his watch. ‘In fact, I have to hang up right away.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Give me an hour.’

Greg hurried down the stairs. He arrived at the main entrance just as a Rolls-Royce motor car came silently to a stop outside. An overweight chauffeur clambered out and opened the rear door. The passenger who emerged was tall, lean and handsome, with a full head of silver hair. He wore a perfectly cut double-breasted suit of pearl-grey flannel that draped him in a style only London tailors could achieve. As he ascended the granite steps to the huge building, his fat chauffeur hurried after him, carrying his briefcase.

He was Sumner Welles, Undersecretary of State, number two at the State Department, and personal friend of President Roosevelt.

The chauffeur was about to hand the briefcase to a waiting State Department usher when Greg stepped forward. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, and he smoothly took the briefcase from the chauffeur and held the door open. Then he followed Welles into the building.

Greg had got into the information office because he was able to show factual, well-written articles he had produced for the Harvard Crimson. However, he did not want to end up a press attaché. He had higher ambitions.

Greg admired Sumner Welles, who reminded him of his father. The good looks, the fine clothes and the charm concealed a ruthless operator. Welles was determined to take over from his boss, Secretary of State Cordell Hull, and never hesitated to go behind his back and speak directly to the President – which infuriated Hull. Greg found it exciting to be close to someone who had power and was not afraid to use it. That was what he wanted for himself.

Welles had taken a shine to him. People often did take a shine to Greg, especially when he wanted them to; but in the case of Welles there was another factor. Though Welles was married – apparently happily, to an heiress – he had a fondness for attractive young men.

Greg was heterosexual to a fault. He had a steady girl at Harvard, a Radcliffe student named Emily Hardcastle, who had promised to acquire a birth-control device before September; and here in Washington he was dating Rita, the voluptuous daughter of Congressman Lawrence of Texas. He walked a tightrope with Welles. He avoided all physical contact while being amiable enough to remain in favour. Also, he stayed away from Welles any time after the cocktail hour, when the older man’s inhibitions weakened and his hands began to stray.

Now, as the senior staff gathered in the office for the ten o’clock meeting, Welles said: ‘You can stay for this, my boy. It will be good for your education.’ Greg was thrilled. He wondered if the meeting would give him a chance to shine. He wanted people to notice him and be impressed.

A few minutes later, Senator Dewar arrived with his son Woody. Father and son were lanky and large-headed, and wore similar dark-blue single-breasted linen summer suits. However, Woody differed from his father in being artistic: his photographs for the Harvard Crimson had won prizes. Woody nodded to Welles’s senior assistant, Bexforth Ross: they must have met before. Bexforth was an excessively self-satisfied guy who called Greg ‘Russkie’ because of his Russian name.

Welles opened the meeting by saying: ‘I now have to tell you all something highly confidential that must not be repeated outside this room. The President is going to meet with the British Prime Minister early next month.’

Greg just stopped himself from saying Wow.

‘Good!’ said Gus Dewar. ‘Where?’

‘The plan is to rendezvous by ship somewhere in the Atlantic, for security and to reduce Churchill’s travel time. The President wants me to attend, while Secretary of State Hull stays here in Washington to mind the store. He also wants you there, Gus.’

‘I’m honoured,’ said Gus. ‘What’s the agenda?’

‘The British seem to have beaten off the threat of invasion, for now, but they’re too weak to attack the Germans on the European continent – unless we help. Therefore Churchill will ask us to declare war on Germany. We will refuse, of course. Once we’ve got past that, the President wants a joint statement of aims.’

‘Not war aims,’ Gus said.

‘No, because the United States is not at war and has no intention of going to war. But we are non-belligerently allied with the British, we’re supplying them with just about everything they need on unlimited credit, and when peace comes at last we expect to have a say in how the postwar world is run.’

‘Will that include a strengthened League of Nations?’ Gus asked. He was keen on this idea, Greg knew; and so was Welles.

‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Gus. If we want our plan implemented, we need to be prepared. We have to get FDR and Churchill to commit to it as part of their statement.’

Gus said: ‘We both know that the President is in favour, theoretically, but he’s nervous about public opinion.’

An aide came in and passed a note to Bexforth, who read it and said: ‘Oh! My goodness.’

Welles said testily: ‘What is it?’

‘The Japanese Imperial Council met last week, as you know,’ Bexforth said. ‘We have some intelligence on their deliberations.’

He was being vague about the source of information, but Greg knew what he meant. The Signal Intelligence Unit of the US Army was able to intercept and decode wireless messages from the Foreign Ministry in Tokyo to its embassies abroad. The data from these decrypts was codenamed MAGIC. Greg knew about this, even though he was not supposed to – in fact, there would have been a hell of a stink if the army found out he was in on the secret.

‘The Japanese discussed extending their empire,’ Bexforth went on. They had already annexed the vast region of Manchuria, Greg knew, and had moved troops into much of the rest of China. ‘They do not favour the option of westward expansion, into Siberia, which would mean war with the Soviet Union.’

‘That’s good!’ said Welles. ‘It means the Russians can concentrate on fighting the Germans.’

‘Yes, sir. But the Japs are planning instead to extend southwards, by taking full control of Indochina, then the Dutch East Indies.’

Greg was shocked. This was hot news – and he was among the first to hear it.

Welles was indignant. ‘Why, that’s nothing less than an imperialist war!’

Gus interposed: ‘Technically, Sumner, it’s not war. The Japanese already have some troops in Indochina, with formal permission from the incumbent colonial power, France, as represented by the Vichy government.’

‘Puppets of the Nazis!’

‘I did say “technically”. And the Dutch East Indies are theoretically ruled by the Netherlands, which is now occupied by the Germans, who are perfectly happy for their Japanese allies to take over a Dutch colony.’

‘That’s a quibble.’

‘It’s a quibble that others will raise with us – the Japanese ambassador, for one.’

‘You’re right, Gus, and thanks for forewarning me.’

Greg was alert for an opportunity to make a contribution to the discussion. He wanted above all else to impress the senior men around him. But they all knew so much more than he did.

Welles said: ‘What are the Japanese after, anyway?’

Gus said: ‘Oil, rubber and tin. They’re securing their access to natural resources. It’s hardly surprising, since we keep interfering with their supplies.’ The United States had embargoed exports of materials such as oil and scrap iron to Japan, in a failed attempt to discourage the Japanese from taking over ever larger tracts of Asia.

Welles said irritably: ‘Our embargoes have never been applied very effectively.’

‘No, but the threat is obviously sufficient to panic the Japanese, who have almost no natural resources of their own.’

‘Clearly we need to take more effective measures,’ Welles snapped. ‘The Japanese have a lot of money in American banks. Can we freeze their assets?’

The officials around the room looked disapproving. This was a radical idea. After a moment Bexforth said: ‘I guess we could. That would be more effective than any embargoes. They would be unable to buy oil or any other raw materials here in the States because they couldn’t pay for them.’

Gus Dewar said: ‘The Secretary of State will be concerned, as usual, to avoid any action that might lead to war.’

He was right. Cordell Hull was cautious to the point of timidity, and frequently clashed with his more aggressive deputy, Welles.

‘Mr Hull has always followed that course, and very wisely,’ said Welles. They all knew he was insincere, but etiquette required it. ‘However, the United States must walk tall on the international stage. We’re prudent, not cowardly. I’m going to put this idea of an asset freeze to the President.’

Greg was awestruck. This was what power meant. In a heartbeat, Welles could propose something that would rock an entire nation.

Gus Dewar frowned. ‘Without imported oil, the Japanese economy will grind to a halt, and their military will be powerless.’

‘Which is good!’ said Welles.

‘Is it? What do you imagine Japan’s military government will do, faced with such a catastrophe?’

Welles did not much like to be challenged. He said: ‘Why don’t you tell me, Senator?’

‘I don’t know. But I think we should have an answer before we take the action. Desperate men are dangerous. And I do know that the United States is not ready to go to war against Japan. Our navy isn’t ready and our air force isn’t ready.’

Greg saw his chance to speak and took it. ‘Mr Undersecretary, sir, it may help you to know that public opinion favours war with Japan, rather than appeasement, by a factor of two to one.’

‘Good point, Greg, thank you. Americans don’t want to let Japan get away with murder.’

‘They don’t really want war, either,’ said Gus. ‘No matter what the poll says.’

Welles closed the folder on his desk. ‘Well, Senator, we agree about the League of Nations and disagree about Japan.’

Gus stood up. ‘And in both cases the decision will be made by the President.’

‘Good of you to come in to see me.’

The meeting broke up.

Greg left on a high. He had been invited into the briefing, he had learned startling news, and he had made a comment that Welles had thanked him for. It was a great start to the day.

He slipped out of the building and headed for Aroma Coffee.

He had never hired a private detective before. It felt vaguely illegal. But Cranmer was a respectable citizen. And there was nothing criminal about trying to get in contact with an old girlfriend.

At Aroma Coffee there were two girls who looked like secretaries taking a break, an older couple out shopping, and Cranmer, a broad man in a rumpled seersucker suit, dragging on a cigarette. Greg slid into the booth and asked the waitress for coffee.

‘I’m trying to reconnect with Jacky Jakes,’ he said to Cranmer.

‘The black girl?’

She had been a girl, back then, Greg thought nostalgically; sweet sixteen, though she was pretending to be older. ‘It’s six years ago,’ he said to Cranmer. ‘She’s not a girl any more.’

‘It was your father who hired her for that little drama, not me.’

‘I don’t want to ask him. But you can find her, right?’

‘I expect so.’ Cranmer took out a little notebook and a pencil. ‘I guess Jacky Jakes was an assumed name?’

‘Mabel Jakes is her real name.’

‘Actress, right?’

‘Would-be. I don’t know that she made it.’ She had had good looks and charm in abundance, but there were not many parts for black actors.

‘Obviously she’s not in the phone book, or you wouldn’t need me.’

‘Could be unlisted, but more likely she can’t afford a phone.’

‘Have you seen her since 1935?’

‘Twice. First time two years ago, not far from here, on E Street. Second time, two weeks ago, two blocks away.’

‘Well, she sure as hell doesn’t live in this swanky neighbourhood, so she must work nearby. You have a photo?’

‘No.’

‘I remember her vaguely. Pretty girl, dark skin, big smile.’

Greg nodded, remembering that thousand-watt smile. ‘I just want her address, so I can write her a letter.’

‘I don’t need to know what you want the information for.’

‘Suits me.’ Was it really this easy, Greg thought?

‘I charge ten bucks a day, with a two-day minimum, plus expenses.’

It was less than Greg had expected. He took out his billfold and gave Cranmer a twenty.

‘Thanks,’ said the detective.

‘Good luck,’ said Greg.

(ii)

Saturday was hot, so Woody went to the beach with his brother, Chuck.

The whole Dewar family was in Washington. They had a nine-room apartment near the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Chuck was on leave from the navy, Papa was working twelve hours a day planning the summit meeting he referred to as the Atlantic Conference, and Mama was writing a new book, about the wives of presidents.

Woody and Chuck put on shorts and polo shirts, grabbed towels and sunglasses and newspapers, and caught a train to Rehoboth Beach, on the Delaware coast. The journey took a couple of hours, but this was the only place to go on a summer Saturday. There was a wide stretch of sand and a refreshing breeze off the Atlantic Ocean. And there were a thousand girls in swimsuits.

The two brothers were different. Chuck was shorter, with a compact, athletic figure. He had their mother’s attractive looks and winning smile. He had been a poor student at school, but he also displayed Mama’s quirky intelligence, always taking an off-centre view of life. He was better than Woody at all sports except running, where Woody’s long legs gave him speed, and boxing, in which Woody’s long arms made him nearly impossible to hit.

At home, Chuck had not said much about the navy, no doubt because their parents were still angry with him for not going to Harvard. But alone with Woody he opened up a bit. ‘Hawaii is great, but I’m really disappointed to have a shore job,’ he said. ‘I joined the navy to go to sea.’

‘What are you doing, exactly?’

‘I’m part of the Signal Intelligence Unit. We listen to radio messages, mainly from the Imperial Japanese Navy.’

‘Aren’t they in code?’

‘Yes, but you can learn a lot even without breaking the codes. It’s called traffic analysis. A sudden increase in the number of messages indicates that some action is imminent. And you learn to recognize patterns in the traffic. An amphibious landing has a distinctive configuration of signals, for example.’

‘That’s fascinating. And I bet you’re good at it.’

Chuck shrugged. ‘I’m just a clerk, annotating and filing the transcripts. But you can’t help picking up the basics.’

‘How’s the social life in Hawaii?’

‘Lots of fun. Navy bars can get pretty riotous. The Black Cat Cafe is the best. I have a good pal, Eddie Parry, and we go surfboarding on Waikiki Beach every chance we get. I’ve had some good times. But I wish I was on a ship.’

They swam in the cold Atlantic, ate hot dogs for lunch, took photos of each other with Woody’s camera, and studied the swimsuits until the sun began to go down. As they were leaving, picking their way through the crowd, Woody saw Joanne Rouzrokh.

He did not need to look twice. She was like no other girl on the beach, nor indeed in Delaware. There was no mistaking those high cheekbones, that scimitar nose, the luxuriant dark hair, the skin the colour and smoothness of café au lait.

Without hesitation he walked straight towards her.

She looked absolutely sensational. Her black one-piece swimsuit had spaghetti straps that revealed the elegant bones of her shoulders. It was cut straight across her upper thighs, showing almost all of her long, brown legs.

He could hardly believe that he had once taken this fabulous woman in his arms and smooched her like there was no tomorrow.

She looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘Woody Dewar! I didn’t know you were in Washington.’

That was all the invitation he needed. He knelt on the sand beside her. Just being this close made him breathe harder. ‘Hello, Joanne.’ He glanced briefly at the plump brown-eyed girl beside her. ‘Where’s your husband?’

She burst out laughing. ‘Whatever made you think I was married?’

He was flustered. ‘I came to your apartment for a party, a couple of summers back.’

‘You did?’

Joanne’s companion said: ‘I remember. I asked you your name, but you didn’t answer.’

Woody had no memory of her at all. ‘I’m sorry I was so impolite,’ he said. ‘I’m Woody Dewar, and this is my brother Chuck.’

The brown-eyed girl shook hands with both of them and said: ‘I’m Diana Taverner.’ Chuck sat beside her on the sand, which seemed to please her: Chuck was good-looking, much more handsome than Woody.

Woody went on: ‘Anyway, I went into the kitchen, looking for you, and a man called Bexforth Ross introduced himself to me as your fiancé. I assumed you’d be married by now. Is it an extraordinarily long engagement?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said with a touch of irritation, and he remembered that she did not respond well to teasing. ‘Bexforth told people we were engaged, because he was practically living at our apartment.’

Woody was startled. Did that mean that Bexforth had been sleeping there? With Joanne? It was not uncommon, of course, but few girls admitted it.

‘He was the one who talked about marriage,’ she went on. ‘I never agreed to it.’

So she was single. Woody could not have been happier if he had won the lottery.

There might be a boyfriend, he warned himself. He would have to find out. But anyway, a boyfriend was not the same as a husband.

‘I was at a meeting with Bexforth a few days back,’ Woody said. ‘He’s a great man in the State Department.’

‘He’ll go far, and he’ll find a woman more suitable than I to be the wife of a great man in the State Department.’

It seemed from her tone that she did not have warm feelings towards her former lover. Woody found that he was pleased about that, although he could not have said why.

He reclined on his elbow. The sand was hot. If she had a serious boyfriend, she would find a reason to mention him before too long, he felt sure. He said: ‘Speaking of the State Department, are you still working there?’

‘Yes. I’m assistant to the Undersecretary for Europe.’

‘Exciting.’

‘Right now it is.’

Woody was looking at the line where her swimsuit crossed her thighs, and thinking that no matter how little a girl was wearing, a man was always thinking about the parts of her that were hidden. He began to get an erection, and rolled on to his front to conceal it.

Joanne saw the direction of his gaze and said: ‘You like my swimsuit?’ She was always frank. It was one of the many things he found attractive about her.

He decided to be equally candid. ‘I like you, Joanne. I always did.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Woody – come right out with it!’

All around them, people were packing up. Diane said: ‘We’d better get going.’

‘We were just leaving,’ Woody said. ‘Shall we travel together?’

This was the moment for her to give him the polite brush-off. She could easily say Oh, no, thanks, you guys go on ahead. But instead she said: ‘Sure, why not?’

The girls pulled dresses over their swimsuits and threw their stuff into a couple of bags, and they all walked up the beach.

The train was crowded with trippers like them, sunburned and hungry and thirsty. Woody bought four Cokes at the station and produced them as the train pulled out. Joanne said: ‘You once bought me a Coke on a hot day in Buffalo, do you remember?’

‘On that demonstration. Of course I remember.’

‘We were just kids.’

‘Buying Cokes is a technique I use with beautiful women.’

She laughed. ‘Is it successful?’

‘It has never got me a single smooch.’

She raised her bottle in a toast. ‘Well, keep trying.’

He thought that was encouraging, so he said: ‘When we get back to the city, do you want to get a hamburger, or something, and maybe see a movie?’

This was the moment for her to say No, thanks, I’m meeting my boyfriend.

Diana said quickly: ‘I’d like that. How about you, Joanne?’

Joanne said: ‘Sure.’

No boyfriend – and a date! Woody tried to hide his elation. ‘We could see The Bride Came C.O.D.,’ he said. ‘I hear it’s pretty funny.’

Joanne said: ‘Who’s in it?’

‘James Cagney and Bette Davis.’

‘I’d like to see that.’

Diana said: ‘Me, too.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ said Woody.

Chuck said: ‘How about you, Chuck? Would you like that? Oh, sure, I’d like it swell, but nice of you to ask, big brother.’

It was not all that funny, but Diana giggled appreciatively.

Soon afterwards, Joanne fell asleep with her head on Woody’s shoulder.

Her dark hair tickled his neck, and he could feel her warm breath on his skin below the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt. He felt blissfully contented.

They parted company at Union Station, went home to change, and met up again at a Chinese restaurant downtown.

Over chow mein and beer they talked about Japan. Everyone was talking about Japan. ‘Those people have to be stopped,’ said Chuck. ‘They’re Fascists.’

‘Maybe,’ said Woody.

‘They’re militaristic and aggressive, and the way they treat the Chinese is racialist. What else do they have to do to be Fascists?’

‘I can answer that,’ said Joanne. ‘The difference is in their vision of the future. Real Fascists want to kill off all their enemies then create a radically new type of society. The Japanese are doing all the same things in defence of traditional power groups, the military caste and the emperor. For the same reason, Spain is not really Fascist: Franco is murdering people for the sake of the Catholic Church and the old aristocracy, not to create a new world.’

‘Either way, the Japs must be stopped,’ said Diana.

‘I see it differently,’ said Woody.

Joanne said: ‘Okay, Woody, how do you see it?’

She was seriously political, and would appreciate a thoughtful answer, he knew. ‘Japan is a trading nation, with no natural resources: no oil, no iron, just some forests. The only way they can make a living is by doing business. For example, they import raw cotton, weave it, and sell it to India and the Philippines. But in the Depression the two great economic empires – Britain and the USA – put up tariff walls to protect our own industries. That was the end of Japanese trade with the British Empire, including India, and the American zone, including the Philippines. It hit them pretty hard.’

Diana said: ‘Does that give them the right to conquer the world?’

‘No, but it makes them think that the only way to economic security is to have your own empire, as the British do, or at least to dominate your hemisphere, as the US does. Then nobody else can close down your business. So they want the Far East to be their backyard.’

Joanne agreed. ‘And the weakness of our policy is that every time we impose economic sanctions to punish the Japanese for their aggression, it only reinforces their feeling that they’ve got to be self-sufficient.’

‘Maybe,’ said Chuck. ‘But they still have to be stopped.’

Woody shrugged. He did not have an answer to that.

After dinner they went to the cinema. The movie was great. Then Woody and Chuck walked the girls back to their apartment. On the way, Woody took Joanne’s hand. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand, and he took that for encouragement.

Outside the girls’ building he took her in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chuck do the same with Diana.

Joanne kissed Woody’s lips briefly, almost chastely, then said: ‘The traditional goodnight kiss.’

‘There was nothing traditional about it last time I kissed you,’ he said. He bent his head to kiss her again.

She put a forefinger on his chin and pushed him away.

Surely, he thought, that little peck was not all he was going to get?

‘I was drunk that night,’ she said.

‘I know.’ He saw what the problem was. She was afraid he was going to think she was easy. He said: ‘You’re even more alluring when you’re sober.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘That was the right thing to say,’ she said eventually. ‘You win the prize.’ Then she kissed him again, softly, lingering, not with the urgency of passion but with a concentration that suggested tenderness.

All too soon he heard Chuck sing out: ‘Goodnight, Diana!’

Joanne broke the kiss with Woody.

Woody said in dismay: ‘My brother was a bit quick!’

She laughed softly. ‘Goodnight, Woody,’ she said, then she turned and walked to the building.

Diana was already at the door, looking distinctly disappointed.

Woody blurted out: ‘Can we have another date?’ He sounded needy, even to himself, and he cursed his haste.

But Joanne did not seem to mind. ‘Call me,’ she said, and went inside.

Woody watched until the two girls disappeared, then he rounded on his brother. ‘Why didn’t you kiss Diana longer?’ he said crossly. ‘She seems really nice.’

‘Not my type,’ said Chuck.

‘Really?’ Woody was more mystified than annoyed. ‘Nice round tits, pretty face – what’s not to like? I’d have kissed her, if I wasn’t with Joanne.’

‘We all have different tastes.’

They started to walk back towards their parents’ apartment. ‘Well, what is your type, then?’ Woody asked Chuck.

‘There’s something I should probably explain to you, before you plan any more double dates.’

‘Okay, what?’

Chuck stopped, forcing Woody to do the same. ‘You have to swear never to tell Papa and Mama.’

‘I swear.’ Woody studied his brother in the yellow light of the street lamps. ‘What’s the big secret?’

‘I don’t like girls.’

‘A pain in the ass, I agree, but what are you going to do?’

‘I mean, I don’t like to hug and kiss them.’

‘What? Don’t be stupid.’

‘We’re all made differently, Woody.’

‘Yeah, but you’d have to be some kind of pansy.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, I’m some kind of pansy.’

‘You’re such a kidder.’

‘I’m not kidding, Woody, I’m dead serious.’

‘You’re queer?’

‘That’s exactly what I am. I didn’t choose to be. When we were kids, and we started jerking off, you used to think about bouncy tits and hairy cunts. I never told you that I used to think about big stiff cocks.’

‘Chuck, this is disgusting!’

‘No, it’s not. It’s the way some guys are made. More guys than you think – especially in the navy.’

‘There are pansies in the navy?’

Chuck nodded vigorously. ‘A lot.’

‘Well . . . how do you know?’

‘We usually recognize one another. Like Jews always know who’s Jewish. For example, the waiter in the Chinese restaurant.’

‘He was one?’

‘Didn’t you hear him say he liked my jacket?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t think anything of it.’

‘There you are.’

‘He was attracted to you?’

‘I guess.’

‘Why?’

‘Same reason Diana liked me, probably. Hell, I’m better-looking than you.’

‘This is weird.’

‘Come on, let’s go home.’

They continued on their way. Woody was still reeling. ‘You mean there are Chinese pansies?’

Chuck laughed. ‘Of course!’

‘I don’t know, you never think of Chinese guys being that way.’

‘Remember, not a word to anyone, especially the parents. God knows what Papa would say.’

After a while, Woody put his arm around Chuck’s shoulders. ‘Well, what the hell,’ he said. ‘At least you’re not a Republican.’

(iii)

Greg Peshkov sailed with Sumner Welles and President Roosevelt on a heavy cruiser, the Augusta, to Placentia Bay, off the coast of Newfoundland. Also in the convoy were the battleship Arkansas, the cruiser Tuscaloosa, and seventeen destroyers.

They anchored in two long lines, with a broad sea passage down the middle. At nine o’clock in the morning of Saturday 9 August, in bright sunshine, the crews of all twenty vessels mustered at the rails in their dress whites as the British battleship Prince of Wales arrived, escorted by three destroyers, and steamed majestically down the middle, bearing Prime Minister Churchill.

It was the most impressive show of power Greg had ever seen, and he was delighted to be part of it.

He was also worried. He hoped the Germans did not know about this rendezvous. If they found out, one U-boat could kill the two leaders of what remained of Western civilization – and Greg Peshkov.

Before leaving Washington, Greg had met with the detective, Tom Cranmer, again. Cranmer had produced an address, a house in a low-rent neighbourhood on the far side of Union Station. ‘She’s a waitress at the University Women’s Club near the Ritz-Carlton, which is why you saw her in that neighbourhood twice,’ he had said as he pocketed the balance of his fee. ‘I guess acting didn’t work out for her – but she still goes by Jacky Jakes.’

Greg had written her a letter.

Dear Jacky,

I just want to know why you ran out on me six years ago. I thought we were so happy, but I must have been wrong. It bugs me, that’s all.

You act scared when you see me, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m not angry, just curious. I would never do anything to hurt you. You were the first girl I ever loved.

Can we meet, just for a cup of coffee or something, and talk?

Very sincerely,

Greg Peshkov

He had added his phone number and mailed the note the day he left for Newfoundland.

The President was keen that the conference should result in a joint statement. Greg’s boss, Sumner Welles, wrote a draft, but Roosevelt refused to use it, saying it was better to let Churchill produce the first draft.

Greg immediately saw that Roosevelt was a smart negotiator. Whoever produced the first draft would need, in all fairness, to put in some of what the other side wanted alongside his own demands. His statement of the other side’s wishes then became an irreducible minimum, while all of his own demands were still up for negotiation. So the drafter always started at a disadvantage. Greg vowed to remember never to write the first draft.

On Saturday, the President and the Prime Minister enjoyed a convivial lunch on board the Augusta. On Sunday, they attended a church service on the deck of the Prince of Wales, with the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack draping the altar red, white and blue. On Monday morning, by which time they were firm friends, they got down to brass tacks.

Churchill produced a five-point plan that delighted Sumner Welles and Gus Dewar by calling for an effective international organization to assure the security of all states – in other words, a strengthened League of Nations. But they were disappointed to find that that was too much for Roosevelt. He was in favour, but he feared the isolationists, people who still believed America did not need to get involved with the troubles of the rest of the world. He was extraordinarily sensitive to public opinion, and made ceaseless efforts not to provoke opposition.

Welles and Dewar did not give up, nor did the British. They got together to seek a compromise acceptable to both leaders. Greg took notes for Welles. The group came up with a clause that called for disarmament ‘pending the establishment of a wider and more permanent system of general security’.

They put it to the two great men, who accepted it.

Welles and Dewar were jubilant.

Greg could not see why. ‘It seems so little,’ he said. ‘All that effort – the leaders of two great countries brought together across thousands of miles, dozens of staffers, twenty-four ships, three days of talks – and all for a few words that don’t quite say what we want.’

‘We move by inches, not miles,’ said Gus Dewar with a smile. ‘That’s politics.’

(iv)

Woody and Joanne had been dating for five weeks.

Woody wanted to go out with her every night, but he held back. Nevertheless, he had seen her on four of the last seven days. Sunday they had gone to the beach; Wednesday they had dinner; Friday they saw a movie; and today, Saturday, they were spending the whole day together.

He never tired of talking to her. She was funny and intelligent and sharp-tongued. He loved the way she was so definite about everything. They jawed for hours about the things they liked and hated.

The news from Europe was bad. The Germans were still thrashing the Red Army. East of Smolensk they had wiped out the Russian 16th and 20th Armies, taking 300,000 prisoners, leaving few Soviet forces between the Germans and Moscow. But bad news from afar could not dampen Woody’s elation.

Joanne probably was not as crazy about him as he was about her. But she was fond of him, he could tell. They always kissed goodnight, and she seemed to enjoy it, though she did not show the kind of passion he knew she was capable of. Perhaps it was because they always had to kiss in public places, such as the cinema, or a doorway on the street near her building. When they were in her apartment there was always at least one of her two flatmates in the living room, and she had not yet invited him to her bedroom.

Chuck’s leave had ended weeks ago, and he was back in Hawaii. Woody still did not know what to think about Chuck’s confession. Sometimes he felt as shocked as if the world had turned upside-down; other times he asked himself what difference it made to anything. But he kept his promise not to tell anyone, not even Joanne.

Then Woody’s father went off with the President, and his mother went to Buffalo to spend a few days with her parents. So Woody had the Washington apartment – all nine rooms – to himself for a few days. He decided he would look out for an opportunity to invite Joanne Rouzrokh there, in the hope of getting a real kiss.

They had lunch together and went to an exhibition called ‘Negro Art’, which had been attacked by conservative writers who said there was no such thing as Negro art – despite the unmistakable genius of such people as the painter Jacob Lawrence and the sculptor Elizabeth Catlett.

As they left the exhibition Woody said: ‘Would you like to have cocktails while we decide where to go for dinner?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said in her usual decisive manner. ‘I’d really like a cup of tea.’

‘Tea?’ He was not sure where you could get good tea in Washington. Then he had a brainwave. ‘My mother has English tea,’ he said. ‘We could go to the apartment.’

‘Okay.’

The building was a few blocks away on 22nd Street NW, near L Street. They breathed easier as they stepped out of the summer heat into the air-conditioned lobby. A porter took them up in the elevator.

As they entered the apartment Joanne said: ‘I see your Papa around Washington all the time, but I haven’t talked to your Mama for years. I must congratulate her on her bestseller.’

‘She’s not here right now,’ Woody said. ‘Come into the kitchen.’

He filled the kettle from the tap and put it on the heat. Then he put his arms around Joanne and said: ‘Alone at last.’

‘Where are your parents?’

‘Out of town, both of them.’

‘And Chuck is in Hawaii.’

‘Yes.’

She moved away from him. ‘Woody, how could you do this to me?’

‘Do what? I’m making you tea!’

‘You’ve got me up here on false pretences! I thought your parents were at home.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me they were away!’

‘You didn’t ask!’ he said indignantly, though there was a grain of truth in her complaint. He would not have lied to her, but he had been hoping he would not have to tell her in advance that the apartment was empty.

‘You got me up here to make a pass! You think I’m a cheap broad.’

‘I do not! It’s just that we’re never really private. I was hoping for a kiss, that’s all.’

‘Don’t try to kid me.’

Now she really was being unjust. Yes, he hoped to go to bed with her one day, but no, he had not expected to do so today. ‘We’ll go,’ he said. ‘We’ll get tea somewhere else. The Ritz-Carlton is right down the street, all the British stay there, they must have tea.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid, we don’t need to leave. I’m not afraid of you, I can fight you off. I’m just mad at you. I don’t want a man who goes out with me because he thinks I’m easy.’

‘Easy?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Hell! I’ve waited six years for you to condescend to go out with me. Even now, all I’m asking for is a kiss. If you’re easy, I’d hate to be in love with a girl who’s difficult!’

To his astonishment, she started to laugh.

‘Now what?’ he said irritably.

‘I’m sorry, you’re right,’ she said. ‘If you wanted a girl who was easy, you would have given up on me long ago.’

‘Exactly!’

‘After I kissed you like that when I was drunk, I thought you must have a low opinion of me. I assumed you were chasing me for a cheap thrill. I’ve even been worrying about that in the last few weeks. I misjudged you. I’m sorry.’

He was bewildered by her rapid changes of mood, but he figured this latest phase was an improvement. ‘I was crazy about you even before that kiss,’ he said. ‘I guess you didn’t notice.’

‘I hardly noticed you.’

‘I’m pretty tall.’

‘It’s your only attractive feature, physically.’

He smiled. ‘I won’t get swollen-headed talking to you, will I?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

The kettle boiled. He put tea in a china pot and poured water on top.

Joanne looked thoughtful. ‘You said something else a minute ago.’

‘What?’

‘You said: “I’d hate to be in love with a girl who’s difficult.” Did you mean it?’

‘Did I mean what?’

‘The part about being in love.’

‘Oh! I didn’t intend to say that.’ He threw caution to the wind. ‘But hell, yes, if you want to know the truth, I’m in love with you. I think I’ve loved you for years. I adore you. I want—’

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

This time it was the real thing, her mouth moving urgently against his, the tip of her tongue touching his lips, her body pressing against his. It was like 1935, except that she did not taste of whisky. This was the girl he loved, the real Joanne, he thought ecstatically: a woman of strong passions. And she was in his arms and kissing him for all she was worth.

She pushed her hands up inside his summer sports shirt and rubbed his chest, pressing her fingers into his ribs, grazing his nipples with her palms, grasping his shoulders, as if she wanted to sink her hands deep into his flesh. He realized that she, too, had a store of frustrated desire that was now overflowing like a busted dam, out of control. He did the same to her, stroking her sides and grasping her breasts, with a feeling of happy liberation, like a child let out of school for an unexpected holiday.

When he pressed his eager hand between her thighs she pulled away.

But what she said surprised him. ‘Have you got any birth control?’

‘No! I’m sorry—’

‘It’s okay. In fact, it’s good. It proves you really didn’t plan to seduce me.’

‘I wish I had.’

‘Never mind. I know a woman doctor who’ll fix me up on Monday. Meanwhile, we’ll improvise. Kiss me again.’

As he did so he felt her unbuttoning his pants.

‘Oh,’ she said a moment later. ‘How nice.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ he whispered.

‘I may need two hands, though.’

‘What?’

‘I guess it goes with being so tall.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Then I’ll shut up and kiss you.’

A few minutes later she said: ‘Handkerchief.’

Fortunately, he had one.

He opened his eyes, a few moments before the end, and saw her looking at him. In her expression he read desire and excitement and something else that he thought might even be love.

When it was over he felt blissfully calm. I love her, he thought, and I’m happy. How good life is. ‘That was wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’d like to do the same for you.’

‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Really?’

‘You bet.’

They were still standing, there in the kitchen, leaning against the door of the refrigerator, but neither of them wanted to move. She took his hand and guided it under her summer dress and inside her cotton underwear. He felt hot skin, crisp hair, and a wet cleft. He tried to push his finger inside, but she said: ‘No.’ Grasping his fingertip, she guided it between the soft folds. He felt something small and hard, the size of a pea, just under the skin. She moved his finger in a little circle. ‘Yes,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Just like that.’ He watched her face adoringly as she abandoned herself to the sensation. In a minute or two she gave a little cry, and repeated it two or three times. Then she withdrew his hand and slumped against him.

After a while he said: ‘Your tea will be cold.’

She laughed. ‘I love you, Woody.’

‘Do you really?’

‘I hope you’re not spooked by me saying that.’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘It makes me very happy.’

‘I know girls aren’t supposed to come right out with it, just like that. But I can’t pretend to dither. Once I make up my mind, that’s it.’

‘Yes,’ said Woody. ‘I’d noticed that.’

(v)

Greg Peshkov was living in his father’s permanent apartment at the Ritz-Carlton. Lev came and went, stopping off for a few days between Buffalo and Los Angeles. At present Greg had the place to himself – except that the congressman’s curvy daughter, Rita Lawrence, had stayed overnight, and now looked adorably tousled in a man’s red silk dressing gown.

A waiter brought them breakfast, the newspapers, and a message envelope.

The joint statement by Roosevelt and Churchill had caused more of a stir than Greg had expected. It was still the main news more than a week later. The press called it the Atlantic Charter. It had seemed, to Greg, to be all cautious phrases and vague commitments, but the world saw it otherwise. It was hailed as a trumpet blast for freedom, democracy and world trade. Hitler was reported to be furious, saying it amounted to a declaration of war by the United States against Germany.

Countries that had not been at the conference nevertheless wanted to sign the charter, and Bexforth Ross had suggested the signatories should be called the United Nations.

Meanwhile, the Germans were overrunning the Soviet Union. In the north they were closing in on Leningrad. In the south the retreating Russians had blown up the Dnieper Dam, the biggest hydro-electric power complex in the world and their pride and joy, in order to deny its power to the conquering Germans – a heartbreaking sacrifice. ‘The Red Army has slowed the invasion a bit,’ Greg said to Rita, reading from the Washington Post. ‘But the Germans are still advancing five miles a day. And they claim to have killed three and a half million Soviet soldiers. Is it possible?’

‘Do you have any relatives in Russia?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. My father told me, one time when he was a little drunk, that he left a pregnant girl behind.’

Rita made a disapproving face.

‘That’s him, I’m afraid,’ Greg said. ‘He’s a great man, and great men don’t obey the rules.’

She said nothing, but he could read her expression. She disagreed with his view, but was not willing to quarrel with him about it.

‘Anyway, I have a Russian half-brother, illegitimate like me,’ Greg went on. ‘His name is Vladimir, but I don’t know anything else about him. He may be dead by now. He’s the right age to fight. He’s probably one of those three and a half million.’ He turned the page.

When he had finished the paper, he read the message the waiter had brought.

It was from Jacky Jakes. It gave a phone number and just said: Not between 1 and 3.

Suddenly Greg could not wait to get rid of Rita. ‘What time are you expected home?’ he asked unsubtly.

She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, my gosh, I should be there before my mother starts looking for me.’ She had told her parents she was staying over with a girlfriend.

They got dressed together and left in two cabs.

Greg figured the phone number must be Jacky’s place of work, and that she would be busy between one o’clock and three. He would phone her around mid-morning.

He wondered why he was so excited. After all, he was only curious. Rita Lawrence was great-looking and very sexy, but with her and several others he had never recaptured the excitement of that first affair with Jacky. No doubt that was because he could never again be fifteen years old.

He got to the Old Executive Office building and began his main task for the day, which was drafting a press release on advice to Americans living in North Africa, where British, Italians and Germans fought backwards and forwards, mostly on a coastal strip two thousand miles long and forty miles wide.

At ten-thirty he phoned the number on the message.

A woman’s voice answered: ‘University Women’s Club.’ Greg had never been there: men went only as guests of female members.

He said: ‘Is Jacky Jakes there?’

‘Yes, she’s expecting a call. Please hold on.’ She probably had to get special permission to receive a phone call at work, he reflected.

A few moments later he heard ‘This is Jacky, who’s that?’

‘Greg Peshkov.’

‘I thought so. How did you get my address?’

‘I hired a private detective. Can we meet?’

‘I guess we have to. But there’s one condition.’

‘What?’

‘You have to swear by all that’s holy not to tell your father. Never, ever.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Do you swear?’

‘Sure.’

She persisted. ‘Say it.’

‘I swear it, okay?’

‘All right. You can buy me lunch.’

Greg frowned. ‘Are there any restaurants in this neighbourhood that will serve a white man and a black woman together?’

‘Only one that I know of – the Electric Diner.’

‘I’ve seen it.’ He had noticed the name, but he had never been inside: it was a cheap lunch counter used by janitors and messengers. ‘What time?’

‘Half past eleven.’

‘So early?’

‘What time do you think waitresses have lunch – one o’clock?’

He grinned ‘You’re as sassy as ever.’

She hung up.

Greg finished his press release and took the typed sheets into his boss’s office. Dropping the draft into the in-tray, he said: ‘Would it be convenient for me to take an early lunch, Mike? Around eleven-thirty?’

Mike was reading the op-ed page of the New York Times. ‘Yeah, no problem,’ he said without looking up.

Greg walked past the White House in the sunshine and reached the diner at eleven-twenty. It was empty but for a handful of people taking a mid-morning break. He sat in a booth and ordered coffee.

He wondered what Jacky would have to say. He looked forward to the solution of a puzzle that had mystified him for six years.

She arrived at eleven thirty-five, wearing a black dress and flat shoes – her waitress uniform without the apron, he presumed. Black suited her, and he remembered vividly the sheer pleasure of looking at her, with her bow-shaped mouth and her big brown eyes. She sat opposite him and ordered a salad and a Coke. Greg had more coffee: he was too tense to eat.

Her face had lost the childish plumpness he remembered. She had been sixteen when they met, so she was twenty-two now. They had been kids playing at being grown up; now they really were adults. In her face he read a story that had not been there six years ago: disappointment and suffering and hardship.

‘I work the day shift,’ she told him. ‘Come in at nine, set the tables, dress the room. Wait at lunch, clear away, leave at five.’

‘Most waitresses work in the evening.’

‘I like to have evenings and weekends free.’

‘Still a party girl!’

‘No, mostly I stay home and listen to the radio.’

‘I guess you have lots of boyfriends.’

‘All I want.’

It took him a moment to realize that could mean anything.

Her lunch came. She drank her Coke and picked at the salad.

Greg said: ‘So why did you run out, back in 1935?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t want to tell you this, because you’re not going to like it.’

‘I have to know.’

‘I got a visit from your father.’

Greg nodded. ‘I figured he must have had something to do with it.’

‘He had a goon with him – Joe something.’

‘Joe Brekhunov. He’s a thug.’ Greg began to feel angry. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘He didn’t need to, Greg. I was scared to death just looking at him. I was ready to do anything your father wanted.’

Greg suppressed his fury. ‘What did he want?’

‘He said I had to leave, right then. I could write you a note but he would read it. I had to come back here to Washington. I was so sad to leave you.’

Greg remembered his own anguish. ‘Me, too,’ he said. He was tempted to reach across the table and take her hand, but he was not sure she would want that.

She went on: ‘He said he would give me a weekly allowance just to keep away from you. He’s still paying me. It’s only a few bucks but it takes care of the rent. I promised – but somehow I managed to summon up the nerve to make one condition.’

‘What?’

‘That he would never make a pass at me. If he did, I would tell you everything.’

‘And he agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not many people get away with threatening him.’

She pushed her plate away. ‘Then he said if I broke my word Joe would cut my face. Joe showed me his straight razor.’

It all fell into place. ‘That’s why you’re still scared.’

Her dark skin was bloodless with fear. ‘You bet your goddamn life.’

Greg’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Jacky, I’m sorry.’

She forced a smile. ‘Are you sure he was so wrong? You were fifteen. It’s not a good age to get married.’

‘If he had said that to me, it might be different. But he decides what’s going to happen and just does it, as if no one else is entitled to an opinion.’

‘Still, we had good times.’

‘You bet.’

‘I was your Gift.’

He laughed. ‘Best present I ever got.’

‘So what are you doing these days?’

‘Working in the press office at the State Department for the summer.’

She made a face. ‘Sounds boring.’

‘It’s the opposite! It’s so exciting to watch powerful men make earth-shaking decisions, just sitting there at their desks. They run the world!’

She looked sceptical, but said: ‘Well, it probably beats waitressing.’

He began to see how far apart they had moved. ‘In September I’m going back to Harvard for my last year.’

‘I bet you’re a gift to the co-eds.’

‘There are lots of men and not many girls.’

‘You do all right, though, don’t you?’

‘I can’t lie to you.’ He wondered whether Emily Hardcastle had kept her promise and got herself fitted with a contraceptive device.

‘You’ll marry one of them and have beautiful children and live in a house on the edge of a lake.’

‘I’d like to be something in politics, maybe Secretary of State, or a senator like Woody Dewar’s father.’

She looked away.

Greg thought about that house on the edge of a lake. It must be her dream. He felt sad for her.

‘You’ll make it,’ she said. ‘I know. You have that air about you. Even when you were fifteen you had it. You’re like your father.’

‘What? Come on!’

She shrugged. ‘Think about it, Greg. You knew I didn’t want to see you. But you set a private dick on me. He decides what’s going to happen and just does it, as if no one else is entitled to an opinion. That’s what you said about him a minute ago.’

Greg was dismayed. ‘I hope I’m not completely like him.’

She gave him an appraising look. ‘The jury’s still out.’

The waitress took her plate. ‘Some dessert?’ she said. ‘Peach pie’s good.’

Neither of them wanted dessert, so the waitress gave Greg the bill.

Jacky said: ‘I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’

‘Next time you see me on the street, just walk on by.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

She stood up. ‘Let’s leave separately. I’d feel more comfortable.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘Good luck, Greg.’

‘Good luck to you.’

‘Tip the waitress,’ she said, and she walked away.