Philip Kerr - Hitler's peace

“But how? It was a mistake. That’s all. You said so yourself, Molotov.”

“Look, you know what the boss is like, Beria. And he saw it just as I did. Maybe he’ll decide that it was an accident. But just remember it’s our treatment of German POWs that’s sending Hitler away. In other words, the Americans will find out that this is the reason Hitler’s run home. Now that puts the ball in our court, and the boss won’t like that at all. Better give him something he can throw at the Yanks, just in case he’s feeling bloody-minded.”

“Such as?”

“All right. But this is just a thought. And you owe me, Lavrenti Pavlovich. Got that? A favor.”

“Fine, fine, whatever. What’s this thing the boss can level at the Yanks?”

“Just this. The interpreter. He’s a Jew.”

“And?”

“And maybe he’s a pal of Cordell Hull, the American hostage in Berlin. He might want the talks to fail without Hitler getting assassinated, and his friend Hull’s life being forfeit as a result. Something like that.”

“But you heard Hitler. He’s threatening to massacre the rest of Europe’s Jews. Why would a Jew want these talks to fail?”

“Maybe for the same reason Churchill does. Because the total defeat of Germany will require an American army in Europe. Churchill wants that army in Europe as a bulwark against us, Beria. Churchill knows that if Hitler is left in control there will be another European war, which Stalin will win. Meaning the whole of Europe, including Great Britain, will come under Soviet control. It could be that this Jewish interpreter hates communism more than he hates the Nazis. Like a lot of other Americans.”

“That’s not bad, you know,” admitted Beria. “That’s not bad at all. You’ve got a devious fucking mind, Molotov. I respect that.”

“It’s why I’ve stayed alive so long. One more thing: Hopkins was telling me that this Jew is also quite a famous philosopher. Did his doctorate in Germany. Very likely he’s a kraut-lover. Maybe you can make something out of that as well.”

Beria laughed. “Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, you would have made a fucking good policeman, do you know that?”

“If you fuck this up, Lavrenti Pavlovich, there might just turn out to be a job vacancy.”

1430 Hours

It was a beautiful, mild, sunny Sunday afternoon. Birds were singing in the many cherry trees that grew on the grounds of the Russian embassy compound, and somewhere something delicious was being prepared. But among the president’s immediate entourage, spirits were low and no one felt like eating the late lunch that was scheduled. Hitler’s abrupt departure from the peace talks-he was already aboard his Condor, flying back to the Crimea, and then home-had hit Roosevelt hard.

“Things were going so well,” he said, shaking his head. “We were going to make a peace. Not a perfect peace, but a peace nonetheless. Hitler was ready to withdraw his forces from nearly all the occupied territories. You heard him, Professor. You understood what he said better than any man in this room. He did say that, didn’t he?”

My despair was no less profound than Roosevelt’s, although for very different reasons. “Yes, sir. I think he was ready to do it.”

“We had peace in our hands and we screwed up.”

“No one could have foreseen what happened this morning,” Hopkins said. “That nutcase pulling a gun on Hitler like that. Jesus Christ. What the hell made him do it, Mike? And the water. That was poisoned, right?”

“Yes, sir, it was,” said Reilly. “The Russians gave the rest of the water in that carafe to a dog, which has since died.”

“Goddamn Russians,” said Roosevelt. “What did they want to go and do a thing like that for? The poor dog. What kind of fucking people would do that sort of thing?”

“It’s too early to say what the poison was, however,” continued Reilly. “This country is rather short on proper laboratory facilities.”

“Why the hell did he do it, Mike?” asked Roosevelt. “Has he said anything?”

After the shooting, Agent Pawlikowski had been taken to the American military hospital at Camp Amirabad.

“They’re still operating, sir. But it doesn’t look too good. The bullet went through his liver.” Reilly swallowed uncomfortably. “On behalf of the United States Treasury and the Secret Service, I’d like to offer you an apology, Mr. President.”

“Oh, forget it, Mike. Not your fault.”

“And to you, Professor Mayer. You’ve been right about this all along. Ever since the Iowa you’ve been saying that there was an assassin among us.”

“I was only half right. I thought it was Stalin he was after. And half right is as bad as wholly wrong in my book.”

“I think we all owe Professor Mayer our thanks,” said Hopkins. “But for him, Cordell Hull would be facing a firing squad round about now.”

“Yes,” said Roosevelt, pressing his hand to his own stomach. “Thank you, Willard.”

“You don’t look too good sir,” Reilly told the President. “Shall I fetch Admiral McIntire?”

“No, Mike, I’m all right. If I look sick it’s because I’m thinking of all those American boys who are going to lose their lives on the beaches of Normandy next year. To say nothing of Europe’s Jews.” Roosevelt shifted uneasily in his wheelchair. “Do you think he meant it, Harry? Do you really think he means to kill three million Jews?”

Hopkins said nothing.

“Professor?” asked Roosevelt. “Did he mean it?”

“It’s a thought that’s been troubling me a lot, sir. Not least because I’m the man who saved Hitler’s life. I’d hate to spend the rest of my days regretting what happened here this morning. But I’ve a terrible feeling that I might.” I took a cigarette from Chip Bohlen. “As a matter of fact, I’d sincerely prefer it if no one ever mentioned it to me or anyone else again. I’m going to try to forget all about it, if you don’t mind.”

“We’re all of us walking away from here with some dirty secrets,” Roosevelt said. “Me most of all. Can you imagine what people will say about Franklin D. Roosevelt if they ever find out what I’ve done? I’ll tell you what they’ll say. They’ll say it was bad enough he tried to make a peace with a bastard like Hitler, but it was even worse that he fucked it up. Jesus Christ. History is going to piss all over me.”

“No one is going to say anything of the kind, Mr. President,” Bohlen said. “Because none of us is ever going to talk about what happened here. I think we should all agree, on our honor, never to talk about what I for one regard as a brave attempt that almost came off.”

There was a murmur of assent from the others in the room.

“Thank you,” said Roosevelt. “Thank you all, gentlemen.” Roosevelt screwed a cigarette into his holder and took a light from my Dunhill. “But I must confess I still don’t quite understand why he’s gone. Hitler seemed okay about what happened, didn’t he? Grateful, to you, he said. He shook your hand, Professor.”

“Maybe he just lost his nerve,” said Reilly. “Back in his room, Hitler sat down, thought about it some more, and realized just what a narrow escape he’d had. Happens that way sometimes, when someone escapes being shot.”

“I guess so,” said Roosevelt. “But I really thought I could get Hitler. You know? Win him over.”

“Now you have to make sure you get Stalin,” Harry Hopkins said. “We always knew there was a big risk that these secret peace talks might not work out. Hell, that’s why they were secret, right? So now we go back to plan B. The Big Three. The way this conference in Teheran started out in the first place. We have to make sure that we make Stalin appreciate just what’s entailed in a second front across the English Channel, and get him behind our United Nations idea.”