The Wilson Deception (2 page)

“And”—Grayson pointed in the direction of the plaza outside—“you saw the special position that President Wilson holds. He's something the world has never seen, a leader who wants only good. He holds the power to make good into something real. The British and French want to return to the old ways, to imperialism and competing armies, all that medieval nonsense that led to war in the first place. Wilson is different. He's no mere politician. Do you know he never asked a man for his vote until he was fifty-four years old? Today he has the power to transform the world. He can make it so right triumphs over might, and will ever after.”

An hour before, Fraser had experienced a sort of ecstasy over the president's ability to remake the world, but now he drew back. Right has triumphed over might, he thought, because several Allied armies engaged in four years of uninterrupted killing and dying. “How can I help?”

“I've tracked the influenza in America. You're right about that. Of course, it's been catastrophic. Why, we had almost 50,000 cases in Philadelphia alone. Many thousands have died. Many, many thousands. I have to protect the president from it if I can, and I must know how to deal with it if that becomes necessary. Tell me about the influenza in Europe. Its etiology, its course, its prevalence. What prophylactic measures are prudent. What therapies are available.”

Fraser told him what he could, embarrassed by how little he could relate. Quarantining flu cases from the healthy population did seem to limit its spread, but no one knew how the disease got started. No one knew how to treat it. None of the available drugs made much headway with it. Like in America, a significant percentage of those who got the flu then died from it, gasping in agony, sometimes bleeding from every orifice.

Millions he added, had died around the world.

 

F
raser, not a particularly social animal, volunteered to represent the Medical Corps at the American Embassy's party to welcome the president. He craved a closer look at Wilson. Grayson, supposedly a man of science, had described Wilson in terms suitable to a messiah, if not a supernatural being. On the Place de la Concorde, Fraser had responded ecstatically to the president's arrival. Somehow events had placed Wilson at the center of the world's hopes. It was impossible not to be curious about him.

Entering the main reception hall, Fraser didn't experience the vague disquiet and awkwardness that most formal affairs brought on for him. His army uniform was entirely acceptable, even without a riot of medals on his chest or a shiny sash of office. He accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and enjoyed its fizzy amiability.

He exchanged small nods with other military men in the room. None of them, he assumed, had faced enemy gunfire or gone over the top in one of the mad rushes on German positions. They were the old men who sent young men to die. What, he wondered, if officers could know which soldiers would die before they sent them off? Would that change their decisions? Fraser felt no guilt about his own role. The front lines were no place for men in their mid-fifties. Or men who had recently been in their mid-fifties. In any event, during the flu epidemic he had faced death every day. Hundreds of doctors and nurses died from the disease.

These thoughts were dragging down his mood. Each passing minute offered fresh evidence that he knew no one in the room. Shying from striking up a word with the august personages swirling around him, he pretended to study the paintings on the wall. They were largely nymphs and satyrs and mythical creatures. He found none to be of the slightest interest.

“Major Fraser?” A younger man with close-cropped hair bowed slightly. Fraser missed his name as it flew by. “Colonel Siegel said you'd be coming. He asked that we look after you.”

“Very kind of you, but I don't think I need looking after.”

“Perhaps you'd like to meet Mr. Lansing, my boss?” The young man indicated a small group underneath a precise rendering of nude figures gamboling in pastel woods.

From news photos, Fraser recognized Robert Lansing—erect, slender, white hair and mustache. He looked like Fraser's idea of a banker and Princeton man. After living in New York for almost twenty years, Fraser had an idea of what bankers educated at Princeton looked like. He followed his nameless guide.

“Major,” Lansing said after the introductions, “what's the spirit of our wounded men?”

“Well, I suppose it varies from man to man, based to some considerable extent upon how badly hurt they are.”

“Eager to get home, are they?”

“All of us, sir. We hope the peace will come quickly and will be a just one.”

Lansing's face slid into a fish-eyed stare. The pause was awkward.

“I'll drink to that!” The cheerful voice came from a young man on Fraser's right. He had been introduced as Lansing's nephew, but Fraser had missed his name, too.

Fraser felt hopeless. He tapped glasses with the nephew, who looked a younger, less constipated version of his powerful uncle. The same lanky build, even features and trim mustache. The younger man had an appealing ease and confidence. “Uncle Bert,” he called over, “won't you drink to a speedy and honorable peace?”

“Really, Allen,” Lansing said with a trace of irritation, “I pray for it with every breath I take.” He turned to Fraser. “If you will excuse me.” Lansing nodded toward the entrance to the room, filled now with President Wilson, his tall and sturdy wife, and their attendants. “Duty calls.”

“You must overlook Uncle Bert's manners,” young Allen said in a soft voice. “He finds it tedious to be a bit player at the Second Coming.”

“Was the president in Paris on an earlier occasion?”

Allen laughed with delight and turned to the enchanting brunette on his arm. “We're in luck, Dorothy. Our doctor is a droll one.” Allen gathered their empty glasses and set off in search of a waiter with full ones.

Dorothy, Fraser learned quickly, worked as a typist with the British delegation. The champagne began to make him animated. Good God, it was a tonic to talk with a pretty woman who was dressed for a party. She was a few years older than Violet, he guessed. Her perfume drew him closer. He leaned near to taste the damp aroma. It was more intoxicating than the champagne. He complimented her gown, a blue satin brocade with a square neck that stopped just short of daring.

“The French, you know,” she said, holding the skirt to the side and letting it fall. “They understand how to dress in a way that we British never will.”

“I've had little opportunity to observe that, given our hospital schedule. But it would do wonders for my patients' morale if the nurses wore such lovely frocks.”

A look of slight concern crossed her face.

His smile felt foolish. Was he playing the aged lecher? He straightened and asked about Allen's connection to the peace conference.

“Oh, you don't know?”

Fraser shook his head.

In an exaggerated whisper, she said, “He's a spy.”

“Shouldn't that be a secret?”

She smiled. “Not if I know it.”

On cue, Allen's good humor burst upon them. His hands wedged three full champagne glasses in a precarious triangle. “Fetching drinks effectively is a low skill, but a useful one.”

After a few minutes of banter, Fraser, emboldened by alcohol, mentioned that he had thought of inviting the president to visit the American soldiers at Neuilly Hospital. There were more than a thousand there, and nothing would be better for their spirits.

“Why, you clever chap!” Allen took Fraser's arm. “We must go at once so you can extend your invitation. Dorothy, you sweet girl, come with us. Your presence increases my social appeal immeasurably.”

Her smile made clear that Allen's brand of lechery caused her no dismay at all.

Aware of being light-headed, Fraser lagged behind them, steering carefully around the obstacle-strewn room. Grande dames swished, men in white tie and tails swerved unpredictably, the thirsty pursued waiters, and furniture reared up from the floor at unpredictable locations. The champagne worked more quickly than the bourbon he was used to. He arrived at Wilson's side a full minute behind Allen and Dorothy.

Lansing stood on the president's other side with a look of escalating indigestion.

“Mr. President,” Allen cried out, “Allow me to present Major James Fraser of the medical corps, who has an intriguing proposition to make.”

With a mild smile, Wilson extended his hand. His grip was firm. He looked straight into Fraser's face.

Based on news photos that highlighted the president's rigid posture and pursed-lips grimaces, Fraser expected a pompous prig. But Wilson didn't seem pompous or priggish. With a champagne-lubricated tongue, Fraser said his piece.

The president listened with bowed head. “Yes. Yes, of course. Mr. Dulles”—he turned to Allen—“can you arrange this with Colonel House? We should have some time in the next few days. I would like to do this very much. Mrs. Wilson, too.” The president dismissed Fraser with a nod and a quick thank you.

As Fraser and the others retreated from the president's party, a fierce-looking man with dark hair accosted them. “Sir, we must speak,” he said to Allen, intensity radiating from his deep-set eyes. His strong jaw seemed to bite off his words.

“Ah, Rabbi Wise, allow me to introduce you to my friends.” Imperturbable smile in place, Allen Dulles—
that
was his name—showered social niceties on the rabbi.

“See here, Dulles.” The rabbi was not much impressed by good manners. “We must discuss Palestine. I've been talking with Colonel Lawrence. We're in agreement that the president has an opportunity to bring real peace to the Arabs, but that he must be very strong in doing so.”

“I'm so grateful, Rabbi, that you and Colonel Lawrence have been willing to resolve this problem for us. That will make our lives much easier.” Dulles smiled at Fraser. “You're familiar with the challenge that Rabbi Wise and his British friend have resolved for us?”

“I fear not,” Fraser said, his mind still replaying his successful conversation with Wilson. The president's voice had been pleasant to the ear, a resonant tenor that carried well in the noisy hall, yet seemed to involve little effort to project.

Dulles grinned broadly and gripped the winsome Dorothy's hand as it rested on his arm. “The British, it turns out,” he said to Fraser, “have done something naughty, really very naughty.”

Wise began to speak, but Dulles held up a finger to stop him. “Ah, a man of the cloth like yourself cannot condone the duplicity of perfidious Albion.” He spoke like a schoolboy gleefully correcting the teacher. “There are many portions of the map to be rearranged due to the collapse of the late, unlamented Turkish Empire. Our English-speaking cousins have been very busy. They promised the lands of Syria and the Trans-Jordan to their brave Arab allies and our Jewish friends, to share in perpetuity and monotheistic brotherhood. But”—his finger went up again—“they also promised much of the selfsame lands to the French, to enjoy in perhaps slightly less than perpetuity. Both promises, of course, involved the British retaining a delicious slice of that territory for themselves. Actually, the British slice might even have deposits of petroleum which would fuel the Royal Navy for generations. A most definite moral quandary, don't you agree, Rabbi?”

“Not at all,” Wise said. “As a moral matter, you merely look at the strength of the claim of each party. The French would be mere colonialists on those lands, while the Arabs and the Jews have occupied the lands for millennia.”

“Millennia, Rabbi? I thought the Emperor Hadrian dismantled Judea in the second century after the death of our Lord. The Jews have been a bit thin on the ground there ever since.” Dulles' expression turned less playful. “And as for your Colonel Lawrence, as an officer of King George's army he would be well advised to concentrate on assisting his own government in choosing which of its solemn promises it will honor, rather than providing advice to the American government.”

Rabbi Wise was unimpressed. “We are riding the tide of history, a tide that President Wilson is at the very crest of. You cannot resist this, Dulles. That tide will ensure these precious biblical lands should be shared by the Jews and the Arabs.”

“You misunderstand me.” Dulles seemed again relaxed and happy. “I resist nothing. I merely anticipate that the president will very much value hearing what the British intend. Perhaps his majesty's government would also benefit from your moral vision. You might share it with them.”

As they walked away from Rabbi Wise, Dulles apologized for the intrusion. “He's a tiresome windbag, of course. Really, the Hebrews have been insufferable since Jeremiah. With them, self-righteousness never goes out of fashion. It's their great misfortune, and thus is ours.”

“That's not been my experience,” Fraser said, unable to keep the stiffness out of his voice. “Several excellent Jewish doctors gave their lives while treating our soldiers here in France.”

“Yes, very commendable, I'm sure.” Dulles flashed a smile that made Fraser feel patronized by a man thirty years younger. “Dorothy and I must be off. She insists that we dance to that orchestra at the British hotel, and I am powerless to resist. I will be in touch about the president's visit. That was a brilliant stroke, Major.”

Fraser patted his jacket pockets. “I have no business card with me. Let me write out my address and telephone.”

“Not to worry,” Dulles said. “I'll find you.”

Outside the embassy, Fraser paused at the stand of taxis and limousines, then decided to walk to the hospital through the chilly air. He set off at a brisk pace down Boulevard Victor Hugo, elated by the evening. The street lights sparkled. The stone buildings lining the road seemed eternal, unassailable. Droning motorcars impatiently steered around horse-drawn wagons. Paris was shedding the leathery hide of war and mourning and fear. He wondered about New York, whether it had grown the same sort of hide so far from the battlefields of France. He hadn't thought about New York for months. His family was there—a wife who had run short on love, a daughter whose social ambitions made him feel an alien in his own home.

Fraser slowed his pace. He felt a headache coming on. He looked for a taxi, but there were none.

 

 

 

“Hello, son.” The president paused at the foot of a bed in the ward for gas victims.

The sixty beds usually hummed with conversation and movement, but today all attention was focused on the man in a formal suit buttoned to his collarbone, both hands holding his hat by the brim. Those patients who could walk were clustered around him. Some wore uniforms for the first time in weeks or months. Others were in standard-issue pajamas and robe. Those who had sight guided those who were blind.

“Where are you from, soldier?”

The man on the bed moved his head, then moved his lips, but nothing came out.

“Bobby can only whisper,” said one of the hangers-on.

Wilson stepped around to the side of the bed, shifting his hat to a single hand that dropped by his side. The blanket over the soldier was rough gray wool, clean and pulled taut, tucked in on both sides. The president leaned over and said something to the soldier, patting his arm. The man nodded. Wilson straightened and looked back at Fraser, who gestured toward the door.