The Wild Rose (62 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” said Amanda Downes, David Lloyd George’s secretary, “but you and the cabinet are due downstairs now for photographs with the German trade commission.”

Lloyd George, who’d replaced Asquith in the general election, and who was in the midst of haranguing his chancellor of the exchequer, Andrew Bonar Law, over the government’s proposed budget, paused. “Thank you, Amanda,” he said. He turned to his minister of trade, Archibald Graham. “Remind me, Archie, why we are going along to this dog and pony show. This was your idea, wasn’t it? What’s it all about?”

“Reestablishing trade with Germany. Lifting embargoes. Making loans. Abolishing tariffs,” Graham said.

“Business as usual,” Joe Bristow said, with a note of bitterness in his voice.

“Precisely. They want our tea. We want their motorcycles,” Graham said.

“But none of it can happen until we put that slight incident behind us,” Joe said.

Graham raised an eyebrow. “Slight incident?” he said.

“The war.”

“I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that,” Graham said, “but yes, that is correct.”

Lloyd George sighed. He stood up and picked his cravat up off his desk, where he’d tossed it earlier. “I suppose there will be press?” he asked, tying the cravat around his neck.

“Quite a bit from what I understand,” Graham said. He, and the ten other men seated around the large mahogany table in Lloyd George’s office, also rose. All but Joe, who pushed his wheelchair away from the table.

“The kaiser starts a war, kills millions, then he wants to sell us motorcycles,” he said, disgustedly. “I want no part of this.”

“What we want to do and what we must do are two separate things,” Graham said patronizingly. “In politics we must sometimes make deals and compromises. You’ve been in the House a long time. You know that well enough. This particular compromise is for the greater good.”

Joe cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?” he said.

“It will create trade. And trade creates jobs. Which the men who have fought for this country, and have returned home to it, desperately need. We treat with the enemy to secure our advantage.”

Lloyd George sighed deeply. “You’re right, of course, Archie.”

“I usually am, sir,” Graham said. “Now, gentlemen, if we can please present a united front to the press on this issue. Smiles and warm words would be helpful.”

Joe, who had wheeled himself to the doorway, now turned his chair around, blocking everyone else’s way out. “A united front?” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “I don’t know, Archie. I have to tell you that this is going to be a very hard sell in East London,” he said.

“Ah. Now we come to the heart of the matter. I’m surprised it took you so long,” Graham said archly.

“I’m going to need something I can take to my constituents.”

“Have you any ideas on what that something might be?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I somehow thought you would.”

“I’ll want three new factories. One in my constituency, Hackney. One in Whitechapel and one in Limehouse. If Gerry wants to sell us motorcycles, he can bloody well build them in East London.” He paused, then said, “In politics, Archie, we must sometimes make deals and compromises. You’ve been in the House a long time. You know that well enough.”

Graham crossed his arms over his chest. “Two factories,” he said at length. “Put them wherever the hell you like.”

“Done,” Joe said, flashing the man a wide smile.

“If you gentlemen are finished?” the prime minister said.

“We are,” Joe replied, wheeling himself out of the way so that Lloyd George could pass him.

The prime minister led the way from his office, down a series of corridors, to the foyer of Number 10 Downing Street, his ministers following in his wake. There, Lloyd George stiffly shook hands with the head of the German trade commission—Wilhelm von Berg—as his ministers mingled with the delegates. The conversation was cool. Both sides were coming together because they had to, not because they wished to.

Joe made small talk with a coal baron from the Ruhr Valley, an economist from Berlin, and a manufacturer of farm equipment. The atmosphere was stiff and uncomfortable, and Joe found himself actually wishing to be outside, in the bear garden of journalists and photographers that awaited.

“Congratulations on your reelection, Mr. Bristow,” a voice behind him said, in impeccable, polished English. Joe turned. A tall, blond man stood nearby. As Joe looked at him, he realized he knew him. His hair was shorter than the last time Joe had seen him, and there was a vicious scar running down the left side of his face, but even so, he had not changed greatly over the last four years.

“Max von Brandt,” the man said. “We met before the war. At Holloway prison. You invited me to your home. For your brother-in-law’s wedding.”

“Yes,” Joe said coldly. “Yes, I did.”

“I’m pleased to see you again,” Max added, “this time in my role as delegate to the trade commission.”

A terrible anger rose inside Joe at the sight of von Brandt. With great effort, he forced himself to contain it. He was conducting the people of Britain’s business here, not his own. He had words for von Brandt, but they would have to wait. He forced himself to listen, politely and attentively, while Max, and two more men who’d joined him, greeted him and congratulated him.

“Gentlemen, this way if you will . . . ,” Joe heard Archie Graham say.

They were all shepherded outside, in front of the prime minister’s residence. Hordes of reporters, jostling behind a cordon, started peppering them with questions.

“Rather reminds one of standing in front of a firing squad,” Graham, who was standing next to Joe, said.

“I think the firing squad would go easy on us compared to this lot,” Joe replied.

It was announced that the prime minister, his cabinet, and their German guests would stand for pictures first and then take questions. Joe looked out over the sea of press and saw his daughter in the scrum. She had her notebook out and was scribbling in it furiously. She had a photographer with her. Joe frowned at her. She was no longer on her term holidays. She should have been up at university and must have skipped classes to come to London. Fiona would certainly be unhappy if she knew, and there would be a row. Joe was proud of Katie for her devotion to journalism, but that paper of hers could sometimes cause a good deal of trouble, too.

After three or four minutes of picture-taking, the questions started. Reporters were shouting, interrupting, demanding answers. An irate Fleet Street wanted to know why the government was holding trade talks with Britain’s erstwhile enemy.

Graham spoke first, telling them how renewed trade ties would help strengthen Britain’s economy. The prime minister followed, urging for magnanimity in victory, and then it was the Germans’ turn. Max von Brandt, their spokesman, stepped forward. He carefully and cogently outlined his commission’s plans, detailing benefits for both Britain and Germany. He talked for about ten minutes, then finished by saying, “We will, of course, explain our plans more fully during our meetings with our British counterparts here in London over the next few weeks, but we appreciate being able to outline our ideas for you here. Fleet Street has been ill-disposed toward us, and understandably so, but I wish to assure you that it is my sincere hope, and the hope of the German people—now that the hostilities between us have ended—that we can work together for peace and prosperity, and for the benefit of both our nations. Good day, gentlemen.”

Throughout Max’s speech, Joe sat in his chair smiling woodenly and all the while raging inside. Von Brandt’s presence was a cruel taunt to him. It was unbelievable that this man who had caused so much damage to his family, and to countless others, could stand here, smiling and talking about better days to come, as if nothing had ever happened. Joe’s rage boiled up inside him and he could not contain it.

After a few more minutes of questions, the prime minister gave the members of the press a wave good-bye and headed back inside Number 10.

“Mr. von Brandt,” Joe said, as German and British statesmen followed him. “Might I have a moment?”

Max stopped. He turned around, a questioning expression on his face.

“In here, please,” Joe said, gesturing toward a receiving room off the foyer.

Max followed Joe. Once they were both inside the room, Joe closed the door. “Berlin should have sent someone else. Anyone but you,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way, Mr. Bristow. I hope my work has not been lacking in some way?”

“I know who you are. And what you are. Maud Selwyn Jones died at your hands, didn’t she? Why? Because she saw something she shouldn’t have? Gladys Bigelow killed herself because you were blackmailing her. Jennie Finnegan went to her grave tortured over the fact that she’d helped you, a German spy. Her husband was very nearly killed by the information your network passed to Berlin. But I guess all’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?” Joe said.

Max shook his head. He gave Joe a puzzled smile. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Bristow,” he said. “But before you destroy a man’s reputation by accusing him of espionage and murder, you’d better have proof. A good deal of it. British libel laws, from what I understand, are highly punitive.”

Max was right, of course. Joe had nothing concrete with which to hang him. He believed Jennie Finnegan’s and John Harris’s stories, but others would not. And he remembered, too, what had happened with Jack Flynn when they’d tried to bring him in for spying.

“You heartless bastard,” Joe said. “I’d nail your head to the floor if I could only get out of this chair.”

“How lucky for me, then, that you cannot,” Max said. The smile was gone. His blue eyes were cold and hard. “A bit of advice, if I may: Things are not always what they seem, Mr. Bristow, especially when it comes to politics. The war is over. The entire world has accepted that. I urge you to do the same. Good day.”

Max smiled icily, then left the room, slamming the door behind him. Joe stared after him, knowing he couldn’t touch Max. Knowing he had only theories and hearsay, no proof. Knowing a treacherous and deadly man once again walked the streets of London and that he had no way to stop him. If only he did. If only there was some way, some one, some thing,
anything,
that could show the world what Max von Brandt was.

“Damn you,” Joe said aloud. He picked up a glass paperweight and hurled it at the door. It shattered into a million useless pieces.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

Willa lay sprawled out on her bed, tangled in her sheets, dreaming. She had fallen into a deep, narcotic sleep. A length of rubber tubing lay on the floor next to the bed, along with a syringe. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the inside of her right elbow.

She dreamed that she was standing on a platform at a train station, all alone. It was late and dark. A cold wind howled. It was a dangerous place. She knew she had to get out of there, but she didn’t know how. There were no exit signs, no doors or stairs, no way out.

She couldn’t quite remember how she’d got here. The pain had been very bad tonight—she remembered that. She’d been walking by the Seine earlier in the evening. She’d gone to buy wine, bread, and cheese. She’d seen a man walking toward her. He was handsome and tall and had red hair, and for the merest of seconds, her heart had leapt and she though it was him: Seamie. But of course it wasn’t. Seamie was dead.

She’d felt so heartbroken afterward, so crushingly alone. The pain of knowing that she’d never see his face again had been agonizing. She’d rushed back to her flat, thrown her food down on the table, tied the tourniquet around her arm, and shot herself full of morphine. Nothing could save her. Not her work. Not Oscar. He was a good man, but she didn’t love him. Couldn’t love him. Something in her had died when Seamie died—her heart. She wanted the rest of her to die now, too.

The train pulled in, billowing steam. She was so glad. The wind had grown colder, the darkness more menacing. She desperately wanted to get on board. Faces, gray and expressionless, looked at her from the windows, but she wasn’t scared of them. Seamie will be on this train, she thought. I know he will. More than anything, she wanted to see his face again, to hear his voice, to touch him. She climbed the steps from the platform to the train, turned into the car itself, and started to walk down the aisle, looking around expectantly for Seamie, but she could not find him. She walked into the next car, and the next. “Where is he?” she said aloud. “Where?” She was running now. Calling his name. But he was not there.

“Willa!”

She stopped and turned around. Was that him? It must be. But where was he?

“Seamie!” she called out. “Seamie, where are you?”

“Willa. Come on, Willa, sit up. . . .”

She felt pain, sudden and sharp. Someone was slapping her face. Hurting her. Again and again.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Let me go!”

“You’re conscious. Oh, thank God. Willa, open your eyes.”

She tried. But it was so hard.

Hands pulled her into a sitting position. A glass was pressed to her lips. The voice urged her to drink. Willa did so, then forced her eyes open. Josie was leaning over her. She looked terrified. And well dressed.

“You look so nice. Going out?” Willa mumbled.

“That was the idea,” Josie said tightly. “We were going to meet you for dinner. Oscar and me. Remember? How much did you take?”

“Not enough, apparently,” Willa said.

“Come on. Get up,” Josie barked. “You’re going to drink some coffee and walk this off.”

As Josie tried to get her out of bed, another voice was heard—a man’s. It was coming from the doorway. “Damn it, Willa,” he said. It was Oscar. He looked heartsick.

“I’m sorry,” Willa whispered.

“How could you do it?” he asked her.

“Oh, Oscar,” she said brokenly. “How could I not?”