Beneath Gray Skies (33 page)

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Because we’re the lepers of the world, right?” Brian nodded in silent agreement, and Vickers continued. “We should have got rid of slavery long ago and allowed our blacks to become full and equal citizens. We’re just too damned cowardly to let it happen. We’re frightened the blacks will rise up and kill us if we take their chains away. And I wouldn’t blame them one goddamned bit if they did. And, as you mentioned, we’re running this country as a perpetual war economy. It doesn’t advance our society in any fruitful way. We need to get rid of the politicians at the top. You know what they say about politicians and diapers?” Brian shook his head. “You need to change them regularly, and for the same reason.”

Brian thought about it for a second or two, and then laughed along with Vickers, who went on, “Joking apart, these guys in Richmond are corrupt and undemocratic, as you said. And you’re right about the religion, too. I was brought up a Catholic, and it’s not easy to follow my religion here.”

Brian sighed audibly. “I really don’t know what to say right now. I never thought I’d hear words like this from a man wearing a Confederate colonel’s uniform. So what do you want me to do?”

Vickers sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked at Brian fixedly without saying anything. It was something he did a lot, Brian thought to himself. Maybe he practiced. It seemed to be one of his more effective tricks, anyway. “Let me see,” Brian offered. “You’d like someone to do your dirty work for you to help you to get into the Executive Mansion in Richmond? And from there, you’ll abolish slavery, wipe out corruption and institute democracy and freedom of religion?”

“Precisely,” Vickers nodded. “Except that it wouldn’t be me in the Executive Mansion, but some colleagues of mine who think as I do.”

“But you’d get a place in the government?”

“I’d expect one. Yes.”

“Sounds wonderful. But how do you differentiate yourselves from the Nazis and the way they grabbed power?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We stand for decency and fair play—isn’t that what you British call it? All the things that you mentioned earlier that you stand for, we stand for, too. Isn’t that enough to set us apart from those thugs?”

“If you believe the end justifies the means, I suppose so.”

“And you don’t believe the end justifies the means?” retorted Vickers sarcastically. “For a man with your history, you’re mighty picky, I’ll tell you that.”

“So I’m picky,” Brian spat back.

“And you’re also either mighty brave or mighty stupid. Remember, I can have you shot at any time. We don’t need to go through the formality of a trial. No-one need know anything about it.”

“Balls. You haven’t shot me yet,” pointed out Brian, “and you’re not going to. You need me too much—I’m not quite sure what for just now, but you need me. There’s no-one else around whom you can trust who’s got my kind of experience.”

“Sadly, you’re right. But I’m not sure that we need you, in any case. Maybe we could find someone else, after all.”

“Hang on,” Brian said, holding up a warning hand. “I didn’t actually say that you were wrong or that I disagreed with you. You just inferred it from my words. Guilty conscience, old man?” Vickers bristled. “No, listen to me. I might just agree with you that the old order should go down in a fiery funeral pyre, and if it takes the Nazi leaders with it, then who am I to piss on your parade? But what I’m saying to you is, if you succeed, and you get your people into power, do you think that the rest of the world is going to suddenly welcome the Confederate States of America with open arms?”

“When we abolish slavery, they’ll be a lot more receptive to the idea.”

“True. But just how long is it going to take for you to do that? You can’t just set the slaves free, can you? Won’t they need somewhere to go? And more important for your continued power, won’t you need to compensate the owners? If you don’t do that, I can see you getting lynched.”

“We’re working on the details,” admitted Vickers. “But our thought is that starting right out, we’ll declare any children under twelve years old born to slaves to be free citizens, and any over seventy years old will also be set free. That way, we’re not taking any productive slaves away from their owners at the start. Of course, we’ll be giving some sort of pension and support money to the old and the young ex-slaves. Some of us keep up with what’s happening in Europe and like the idea of a country that looks after its people properly.”

“It’s a start,” agreed Brian. He yawned. “Excuse me. I’m far from bored. I was asleep when I got brought here.”

“I understand,” said Vickers, looking at his watch. “It’s too late to be talking about this kind of thing. Let’s continue our conversation tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I can’t let you go, so I’m going to have to lock you in a cell. Meanwhile, give some very serious thought to what I’ve been talking about. If you think we’re serious and you like what I’ve told you, there’s a job for you.”

“
This Hitler fellow has just tapped a wave of anti-Jewish sentiment that seems to exist everywhere.”

I
t was the morning of Christopher’s wedding, and Henry Dowling was attempting to knot his bow tie neatly. For the tenth time that morning, he swore at it as the left side continued to be either markedly longer or shorter than the right, despite his careful adjustments.

There was a knock on the door. “Enter, blast your eyes!” he roared, by now in a thoroughly foul mood.

“Sir?” It was Travers, one of the secretarial assistants, who was already smartly attired in full morning dress.

“Sorry, Travers. Didn’t mean to snap like that. This bloody thing just won’t come out right.” He gestured at the offending article of neckwear.

“If you’ll allow me, sir.” Travers reached up, and with a few deft movements tied the tie neatly and competently.

“Thank you, Travers.” Dowling’s good mood, which had been destroyed by his failure to achieve perfection in his bow tie, was now almost completely restored, but Travers still seemed apprehensive.

“Sir, some bad news, I’m afraid.” For the first time, Dowling noticed a folded sheet of paper sticking out of Travers’s coat pocket.

“Will it keep?”

“No, sir. I think you should know about it straight away. Mr. Gatt just told me, and asked me to pass it on to you immediately. His words, sir. Brian Finch-Malloy has been taken.”

“You mean captured? Arrested?”

“One of Mr. Gatt’s agents in the CBI headquarters in Richmond said that three of their agents dragged him out of bed and delivered him to the Army camp. Doesn’t sound like a formal arrest to me, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Bloody hell! No, it doesn’t. Poor bugger’s probably been shot by now, I suppose, given the Confederate notion of military justice. For God’s sake, don’t tell Christopher on this day of all days.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“Any idea who’s got him now?”

“A Colonel Anthony J. Vickers. Number two in Army Intelligence, and seconded to the airship base, presumably to help with security.”

“Your guess or Gatt’s about Vickers?”

“Mr. Gatt’s, sir.”

Dowling grunted. “How did they get wind of him, anyway? If they dragged him out of bed they didn’t catch him on the job. Bloody Brian was always pretty smart, and we thought he had perfect cover.”

“Well, sir, that’s something else that Mr. Gatt told me.” Travers moved to the door, opened it slightly, peeked outside, and closed the door again pointedly. “According to Mr. Gatt, sir, there’s reported to be an informant in the American side passing on information to the Confederates. So he told me to tell you, sir, and no-one else. He’s not going to tell any of the other Americans.”

“Hell and damnation, Travers!”

“Yes, sir.”

“He shouldn’t even have told you. Are you enjoying yourself here in Washington, Travers?” It was a rhetorical question. Travers had been making a name for himself among the daughters of Georgetown society and was constantly being chaffed about his amorous exploits by the other members of the team.

“Yes, sir. Very much, sir.”

“Good. Because if you want to keep enjoying yourself, you keep your damned mouth shut about this. When I get hold of the rat who betrayed Finch-Malloy, I’ll be screwing his head off his neck against the thread.” Travers smiled. “What’s so bloody funny, Travers?”

“I think you’ll have to wait until Mr. Gatt’s finished with him. Except he said he’d, er, start from the other end, if you see what I mean, sir.”

“Very well, Travers. Well, this is a happy occasion, I suppose. Stiff upper lip and all that, though I don’t know how I’m going to be able to look Christopher in the eye. Ever been to an American wedding before, Travers? I’ve no idea how to be a best man at one of these events. The work’s been keeping me away from all the rehearsals.”

“No, sir, I can’t honestly say that I have.”

“Nor me. Maybe we’d better just look confused and British, and then no-one will say anything.”

-o-

T
he wedding went well. The Wassersteins weren’t religious, and Dowling discovered the ceremony was to be a secular one. He missed the hymns that he’d spent his life singing, but Mendelssohn’s Wedding March provided a familiar musical anchor.

Virginia looked ravishing in her white gown, but Christopher proved to be the magnet for all eyes—novelty value, thought Dowling cynically, looking at the assembled Wasserstein friends and relations, most of whom, he guessed, had never been in the same room as a black man before, and had certainly never envisaged themselves as being related to one by marriage.

At the reception following, Dowling made a brief speech, his British accent causing further social consternation among the guests, and made the usual toasts.

After the meal, as the guests circulated around the room, lubricated by champagne (and not a mint julep in sight, Dowling reflected ruefully), Vernon Gatt, who was attending as a friend of both the bride and groom, rescued him from an elderly aunt of Virginia’s who seemed intent on giving him a detailed description of every one of her stomach operations over the past twenty years.

“Thank you, Vernon,” said Henry, gratefully accepting the champagne glass that was pushed into his hand. “I really couldn’t take it any more, and I hate being rude, especially to old ladies, but my fuse was getting shorter and shorter.”

“Young Travers told you?” replied Gatt, obviously not wanting to waste time on small-talk.

“Yes, just before we came here. Devilish bad luck.”

Gatt swung round to glare at him. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Henry. This was a traitor to the United States and all that we stand for!”

“Keep your voice down, Vernon,” Henry warned him. “People are listening. No, of course I didn’t mean it was luck. It’s horrible when this kind of thing happens. During the war we found a fellow in one of our departments who was selling secrets to the Germans for money. He’d been betting on the horses and losing.”

“What did you do with him?”

“Tried by court-martial and shot,” replied Henry calmly, finishing off his champagne and reaching over to a waiter’s tray for another two glasses, one of which he passed to Gatt.

“Is that all?” asked Gatt. “I reckon I’d have been a tad more violent in my feelings.”

“We were all violent in our feelings, Vernon, but we had to abide by the rule of law when it came to our actions.”

Before the discussion could proceed any further, Virginia swept up to them. “Thank you, Henry, for your wonderful speech, and thank you, Vernon, for gracing this occasion.” Both men squirmed under the force of her praise. “Now, I’m going to take you to meet some of my folks,” she said, placing herself between the two men and taking an arm of each.

“I’ve already met Aunt Miriam,” said Henry in alarm.

“Then I don’t think you need to hear her medical history again. Sorry about her, but she does enjoy inflicting her woes on the whole world and it’s the job of the whole family to try and stop her from doing it.” She smiled, and introduced them to an uncle who worked on Wall Street, and who was vehemently against what he’d heard of Nazi Germany.