Daniel Silva: The Unlikely Spy

"Roosevelt returned to Washington a week ago," Margaret said.

"That's right. Do the math yourself. And I think Stimson was being optimistic. I think war could be hours away."

"But what about this communication I read about this morning in the Times? " Peter asked. Hitler had sent a message to Britain the previous night, and the Times suggested it might pave the way for a negotiated settlement of the Polish crisis.

"I think he's stalling," Hardegen said. "The Germans have sixty divisions along the Polish border waiting for the word to move."

"So what's Hitler waiting for?" Margaret asked.

"An excuse."

"Certainly the Poles aren't going to give him an excuse to invade."

"No, of course not. But that won't stop Hitler."

"What are you suggesting, Walker?" Bratton asked.

"Hitler will invent a reason to attack, a provocation that will allow him to invade without a declaration of war."

"What about the British and the French?" Peter asked. "Will they live up to their commitments to declare war on Germany if Poland is attacked?"

"I believe so."

"They didn't stop Hitler at the Rhineland, or Austria, or Czechoslovakia," Peter said.

"Yes, but Poland is different. Britain and France now realize Hitler must be dealt with."

"What about us?" Margaret asked. "Can we stay out?"

"Roosevelt insists he wants to stay on the sidelines," Bratton said, "but I don't trust him. If the whole of Europe slides into war, I doubt if we'll be able to stay out of it for long."

"And the bank?" Margaret asked.

"We're terminating all our deals with German interests," Hardegen replied. "If there is a war there will be plenty of other opportunities for investment. This war may be just what we need to finally pull the country out of the Depression."

"Ah, nothing like earning a profit from death and destruction," Jane said.

Margaret frowned at her younger sister and thought, Typical Jane. She liked to portray herself as an iconoclast, a dark, brooding intellectual, critical of her class and everything it represented. At the same time she socialized relentlessly and spent her father's money as if the well were about to run dry. At thirty, she had no means of support and no prospects for marriage.

"Oh, Jane, have you been reading Marx again?" Margaret asked playfully.

"Margaret, please," Dorothy said.

"Jane spent time in England a few years ago," Margaret continued, as though she had not heard her mother's plea for peace. "She became quite a Communist then, didn't you, Jane?"

"I'm entitled to an opinion, Margaret!" Jane snapped. "Hitler's not running this house."

"I think I'd like to become a Communist too," Margaret said. "The summer has been rather dull, with all this talk of war. Converting to communism would be a nice change of pace. The Huttons are throwing a costume party next weekend. We could go as Lenin and Stalin. After the party we'll go out to the North Fork and collectivize all the farms. It will be great fun."

Bratton, Peter, and Hardegen burst into laughter.

"Thank you, Margaret," Dorothy said sternly. "You've entertained us all quite enough for one day."

The talk of war had gone on long enough. Dorothy reached out and touched Hardegen's arm.

"Walker, I'm so sorry you couldn't come to our party last night. It was wonderful. Let me tell you all about it."

The lavish apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park had been a wedding present from Bratton Lauterbach. At seven o'clock that evening, Peter Jordan stood at the window. A thunderstorm had moved in over the city. Lightning flashed over the deep green treetops of the park. The wind drove rain against the glass. Peter had driven back into the city alone because Dorothy had insisted that Margaret attend a garden party at Edith Blakemore's. Margaret was being driven back into the city by Wiggins, the Lauterbachs' chauffeur. And now they were going to be caught in the bad weather.

Peter shoved out his arm and glanced at his watch for the fifth time in five minutes. He was supposed to meet the head of the Pennsylvania road and bridge commission at the Stork Club for dinner at seven thirty. Pennsylvania was accepting bids and design proposals for a new bridge over the Allegheny River. Peter's boss wanted him to lock up the deal tonight. He was often called on to entertain clients. He was young and smart, and his beautiful wife was the daughter of one of the most powerful bankers in the country. They were an impressive couple.

He thought, Where the hell is she?

He telephoned the Oyster Bay house and spoke to Dorothy.

"I don't know what to say to you, Peter. She left in plenty of time. Perhaps Wiggins was delayed by the weather. You know Wiggins-one sign of rain and he slows to a crawl."

"I'll give her another fifteen minutes. Then I have to leave."

Peter knew Dorothy wouldn't apologize, so he hung up before there could be an awkward moment of silence. He made himself a gin and tonic and drank it very fast while he waited. At seven-fifteen he took the elevator downstairs and stood in the lobby while the doorman went out into the rain and flagged down a taxi.

"When my wife arrives, ask her to come directly to the Stork Club."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jordan."

The dinner went well, despite the fact that Peter left the table three times to telephone the apartment and the Oyster Bay house. By eight-thirty he was no longer annoyed, he was worried sick.

At eight forty-five p.m. Paul Delano, the headwaiter, presented himself at Peter's table.

"You have a telephone call at the bar, sir."

"Thanks, Paul."

Peter excused himself. At the bar he had to raise his voice above the clinking glasses and the din of conversation.

"Peter, it's Jane."

Peter heard her voice tremble. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"Where are you?"

"I'm with the Nassau County Police."

"What happened?"

"A car pulled in front of them on the highway. Wiggins couldn't see it in the rain. By the time he did it was too late."

"Oh, God!"

"Wiggins is in very bad shape. The doctors aren't holding out much hope for him."

"What about Margaret, dammit!"

Lauterbachs did not cry at funerals; grieving was done in private. It was held at St. James's Episcopal Church, the same church where Peter and Margaret had been married four years earlier. President Roosevelt sent a note of condolence and expressed his disappointment that he could not attend. Most of New York society did attend. So did most of the financial world, even though the markets were in turmoil. Germany had invaded Poland, and the world was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Billy stood next to Peter during the service. He wore short pants and a little blazer and tie. As the family filed out of the church, he reached up and tugged on the hem of his aunt Jane's black dress.

"Will Mommy ever come home?"

"No, Billy, she won't. She's left us."

Edith Blakemore overheard the child's question and burst into tears.

"What a tragedy," she gasped, sobbing. "What a needless tragedy!"

Margaret was buried under brilliant skies in the family plot on Long Island. During the Reverend Pugh's final words a murmur passed through the graveside mourners, then died away.

When it was over Peter walked back to the limousines with his best friend, Shepherd Ramsey. Shepherd had introduced Peter to Margaret. Even in his somber dark suit, he looked as though he'd just stepped off the deck of his sailboat.

"What was everyone talking about?" Peter asked. "It was damned rude."

"Someone arrived late, and they'd been listening to a bulletin on the car radio," Shepherd said. "The British and French just declared war on Germany."