Hitler's peace

XXV

After leaving the carpet factory in the bazaar, Ebtehaj had taken North Team to a house in Abassi Street, where Oster, having refined his new plan still further, left all but five of his men there with orders to wait until dark and then try to make their way out of the city and across the border into Turkey. Oster had decided that what was now required was a small commando team of no more than half a dozen men, and after a few emotional good-byes, he, Schoellhorn, Unterturmfuhrers Schnabel and Shkvarzev, and three other Ukrainians were driven to a pistachio farm northeast of the city.

At the celebrated court of Queen Belghais of Sheba, pistachios were a delicacy for royalty and the privileged elite. Luckily for Captain Oster and his men, Iranian pistachios were no longer the preserve of the wealthy, but popular throughout the country. Jomat Abdoli was one of the largest wholesalers of pistachios in Iran, and farmers from all over the major pistachio-producing provinces sold their crops to him. He roasted and stored them at a facility in Eshtejariyeh, to the northeast of the city. Jomat hated the British. When Ebtehaj, the wrestler, had come to him asking that he hide some Germans, Jomat said he was only too willing to help.

Ebtehaj, Schoellhorn, Oster, Schnabel, and the three others had been sleeping in the main storehouse and had just finished a traditional Iranian breakfast of tea, boiled eggs, salted cheese, yogurt, and unleavened bread when news reached them that a truck carrying Russian troops had been sighted at the foot of the hill leading up to Jomat’s warehouse. Shkvarzev reached for his Russian-made PPSh41 submachine gun. Neither Jomat nor any of the six men at the pistachio warehouse were aware that everyone back at the house in Abassi Street had now been shot resisting arrest. Oster had no idea that they had been discovered. Had he known, he might have assumed that it was their turn next and acquiesced with the Ukrainian officers’ desire to shoot it out.

“No,” he told Shkvarzev, “we wouldn’t stand a chance.” Then he said to Jomat, “Can we hide somewhere?”

Jomat was already picking up a pile of empty sacks. “Follow me,” he said and led them through the main storehouse and the roasting shed into an empty brick silo. “Lie on the floor, and cover yourselves with the sacks,” he told them. As soon as they had done so, he tugged a metal chute over the silo and then pulled open a feeder drawer so that the silo was filled with half a ton of smooth, purple, recently harvested pistachios.

Oster had never given pistachios much thought. There was a cocktail bar at the Hotel Adlon that served them in little brass bowls, and once or twice he had eaten some; he thought he would certainly make a point of eating them more often if pistachios ended up saving his life. Besides, Jomat insisted they were a perfect after-dinner aphrodisiac. “Your Bible’s King Solomon was a great lover,” Jomat had told him, “only because Queen Belghais, she gave him plenty of peste. ” Peste was the Farsi word for pistachios.

Dust filled Oster’s nose and mouth, and he tried to ignore the impulse to cough. What would he have given now for a glass of water? Not the local water that ran alongside the streets in gaping, unprotected gutters called qanats but the pure water that ran off the glacier in his home town in the Austrian Alps. It was typical of the British that they should pipe down the only reliably pure supply of water in Teheran, and then sell it by the gallon to their friends. A nation of shopkeepers, indeed. There were plenty of water carts in and around Teheran, but none of the other embassies trusted these. Which was just as well, he thought. The British sense of hygiene and commerce was going to be their downfall.

Nearly all of Teheran’s horse-drawn water carts had been made by an Australian company, J. Furphy of Shepperton, Victoria, and had arrived in Mesopotamia with Australian troops during the First World War, before being sold on to Iranians when the Australians had left the country. The Iranian drivers of these water carts were notorious sources of unreliable information and gossip, with the result that the word “furphy” had become a local synonym for unfounded rumor. On Oster’s orders, Ebtehaj had purchased a Furphy from the owner of the Cafe Ferdosi, and a Caspian pony from a local horse trader. The Furphy had then been taken to the pistachio warehouse in Eshtejariyeh, where Shkvarzev and Schnabel set about converting it into a mobile bomb.

The tank part of the water cart was made of two cast-iron ends, thirty-four inches in diameter, and a sheet steel body rolled to form a cylinder about forty-five inches long. Filled with 180 gallons of water, the Furphy weighed just over a ton and, carefully balanced over the axle to distribute the weight, was a fair load for a good horse. The frame of the cart was made of wood and fitted with two thirty-inch wheels. Water was poured out of the tank from a tap in the rear, and poured in through a large lidded filler hole on top. It was a simple enough job to use this filler hole to pack the empty Furphy with nitrate fertilizer and sugar, thereby making a bomb that was about half the size of the largest bomb in general use by the Luftwaffe on the eastern front-the two-and-a-half-ton “Max.” Oster had seen one of these dropped from a Heinkel, and it had destroyed a four-story building in Kharkov, killing everyone inside, so he calculated that a well-placed bomb weighing more than a ton was easily capable of bringing down one small villa housing the British embassy.

Oster froze as he heard the muffled sound of Russian voices. At the same time, he saw, in close-up, Shkvarzev’s hand tightening on his submachine gun. The German could hardly blame him for not wanting to be taken alive. A particularly harsh fate was said to await all of Vlasov’s Zeppelin volunteers: something special devised by Beria himself, at Stalin’s express order. Oster didn’t much care if Churchill and Roosevelt survived the explosion, but the prospect of killing Stalin was something else again. There wasn’t a German on the eastern front who wouldn’t have risked his life for a chance to kill Stalin. Lots of Oster’s friends and even one or two relatives had been in Stalingrad and were now dead-or worse, in Soviet POW camps. Stalin’s assassination was something any German officer would be proud of.

The plan was almost too straightforward. Every morning two Iranians set off with a water cart from the U.S. embassy and traveled some two miles across the city to the British embassy to fill a Furphy with pure water. With some of the British gold sovereigns Oster had brought from Vinnica, it was a simple matter to buy off the two Iranians. On Tuesday morning, Oster and Shkvarzev, disguised as locals, would drive two Furphys onto the grounds of the embassy. If they were asked about having two, Oster would tell the British that more water was required because of the visit of President Roosevelt’s delegation. According to the two water carriers bribed by Ebtehaj, the British water supply appeared underneath the roof of the embassy building in an ornamental dome with honeycomb tracery and a pool of water tiled in blue-what the French called a rond-point. The rond-point appeared on the other side of the embassy’s kitchen wall. The harness of the Furphy carrying the bomb would be disabled, necessitating its temporary abandonment. The bomb would then be armed using a cheap Westclox “Big Ben” alarm clock-which to Oster seemed only appropriate-an Eveready B103 radio battery, an electrical blasting cap, and three pounds of plastic explosive. Oster and Shkvarzev would then leave the embassy with one Furphy filled with water and, having left the second Furphy behind, the two men would use both cart horses and ride fifteen miles to Kan, where Ebtehaj would be waiting with a truck-load of roasted pistachios. They would then make the 400-mile journey to the Turkish border. By the time the bomb went off, Oster hoped to be in a neutral country.

Oster thought that if the plan did have a fault, it was that it seemed too simple. He spoke some Persian, and a little English, and since neither he nor Shkvarzev had washed or shaved since their arrival in Iran, he didn’t doubt that in the right clothes they could easily pass for locals. At least as far as the British were concerned. If all went to plan, they would arm the bomb at around nine A.M. and, twelve hours later, just as Churchill’s birthday guests were sitting down to dinner, it would go off. And while Oster did not think this would win the war, it would be enough to force an armistice. That had to be worth any amount of risk.

Oster finally heard Jomat shout that the Russians had left and, breathing a sigh of relief, he and the others began to struggle out from under the pistachios. He did not think that they would be so lucky again. With forty-eight hours still to go before he and Shkvarzev could put their plan into action, it was going to be all they could do to keep their nerve and sit it out.

0800 Hours

The Amirabad U.S. Army base was close to the Gale Morghe Airport, yet despite the noise of American C-54s arriving throughout the night, carrying materiel for the Russian war effort, I slept extremely well. This was easy. I had a proper bed, instead of a wooden pallet next to an open slops bucket. And the door of my room had a key I was allowed to keep. Like most army camps, the accommodations and facilities at Amirabad were basic. That was just fine with me, too. After three nights as the guest of the Cairo police, the camp felt like the Plaza. I saw a couple of army football teams practicing their plays on a field of mud. But there was little time to see if they were any good. Not that I cared very much either way. I wouldn’t have known a good football team from the choir at the Mount Zion United Methodist Church. After a hurried breakfast of coffee and scrambled eggs, a jeep took Bohlen and me not to the American legation, as before, but to the Russian embassy.

Beyond its heavily guarded exterior walls, the main part of the embassy was a square building of light-brown stone set in a small park. On its front was a handsome portico with white Doric columns and, behind these, six arched French windows. In the distance I saw fountains, a small lake, and several other villas, one of them now occupied by Stalin and Molotov, his foreign commissar, and all of them closely guarded by yet more Russian troops armed with submachine guns.

The president was already in official residence in the main building, having been smuggled into the embassy in the early hours of the morning. But as far as most people other than the Joint Chiefs and the Secret Service knew, he was still at the American legation. Bohlen and I found Roosevelt seated alongside Hopkins, who was perched on the edge of a two-seater leather sofa in a small drawing room at the back of the residence.

On the floor was a new Persian rug with a peacock motif that matched the light blue curtains; behind the president’s shoulder was an ornate table lamp and, to the side, a huge oil-fired radiator. Clearly the Russians had tried to make Roosevelt comfortable, but the general effect was as if the interior decorator had been Joseph Stalin himself.

Reilly came into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Marshall and Arnold?” asked Roosevelt.

“No, sir,” said Reilly.

“Churchill?”

Reilly shook his head.

“Fuck,” said Roosevelt. “Fuck!.. So who are we waiting for?”

“Admiral Leahy, sir.”

Roosevelt caught sight of Bohlen and me and motioned us to sit.

I saw that Hopkins had Reichleitner’s Beketovka File on his lap. He patted the file. “Explosive stuff,” he said to me as Roosevelt began to curse Generals Marshall and Arnold yet again. “But I’m sure you’ll understand why we can’t act on any of this.”

I nodded. In truth I had seen this coming.

“Not right now. For the same reason we couldn’t do anything about the Katyn Forest massacre.”

And then he handed the file back to me.

The door opened again and Leahy came into the room, followed closely by Agent Pawlikowski, who took up a position of vigilance between me and the door. To my left, I had a pretty good view of the president. And to my right, I had an equally good view of Pawlikowski, which was how I came to notice that one of his jacket’s three buttons was different from the other two.

I looked away so as not to arouse suspicion. When I looked back again, I knew there could be no doubt about it. The button was plain black, whereas the other two looked like tortoise-shell. The original button was missing. But was it the same as the one I had seen on the floor in Elena’s bedroom? It was hard to be sure.

“Thanks for coming, Bill,” Roosevelt said to Leahy. “Well, it looks like this is it.”

“Yes, sir, it does,” said Leahy.

“Any last reservations?”

“No, sir,” said Leahy. “What about Winston?”

Roosevelt shook his head bitterly.

“Stubborn old bastard,” said Leahy.

“Fuck him,” shrugged Hopkins. “We don’t need him for this. In fact, it’s probably best he’s not here. Besides, in the long run, he’ll come around. You’ll see. He has no choice but to do what we do. Any other position would be untenable.”

“I sure hope you’re right,” said Roosevelt.

There was a moment or two of silence, during which time I sought another look at Pawlikowski. It was much cooler in Teheran than in Cairo, but I couldn’t help but notice that the Secret Service agent was sweating heavily. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief several times, and as he raised his arm I caught sight of the. 45-caliber automatic in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Then he caught me looking at him.

“I couldn’t bum a cigarette off you, could I?” I asked him. “I left mine back at Amirabad.”

Pawlikowksi said nothing, just dipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a pack of Kools. He knocked one out for me and then lit it.

“Thanks.” I was now quite certain Pawlikowski was my man. And who better than a Polish-American to assassinate Stalin? But even as I pictured Pawlikowski in the radio room at Elena’s house, I heard Roosevelt speaking to me.

“With Churchill and two of my Joint Chiefs sulking in their tents, I can’t afford any more losses in this negotiating team. Not now. And especially not you boys. You are my ears and my voice. Without you, this would be over before it even got started. So whatever happens, I want both of you to make a personal promise that you won’t duck out on me. I want your word that you’ll see this through, no matter how repugnant you might find your duties as translators. Especially you, Willard, since the major part of what happens today is going to fall on your shoulders. And I must also apologize for keeping you both in the dark. But here’s the thing. If we get this morning right, I believe the world will thank us. But if we screw up, it’ll be the dirtiest secret in the history of this conflict. Perhaps of all time.”

“I won’t desert you, Mr. President,” I said, still wondering what the hell this was all about. “You have my word on it.”

“Mine, too, sir,” said Bohlen.

Roosevelt nodded and then spun his chair into action. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Pawlikowski leaped to open the door for his boss, but instead of turning toward the main door of the residence, Roosevelt propelled himself toward the end of the corridor, where Mike Reilly was already grappling with a heavy steel door. I followed the president’s small party through it and down a long slope. It felt as if we were going into a bomb shelter.

Pawlikowski caught up with me and we walked down the corridor. I thought to tell him that I was on to him, if only as a deterrent, but he suddenly accelerated forward to open another door that led into yet another corridor, this one level and almost fifty yards long. It was well lit and seemed recently constructed.

We reached a third door, this one guarded by two uniformed NKVD who, seeing the president, came to attention smartly, the heels of their jackboots clicking loudly. Then one of them turned and knocked three times. The door swung open slowly, and Pawlikowski and Reilly led our small party into the vast round room that lay beyond.

There were no windows inside that room, which was as big as a tennis court and lit by an enormous brass light that hung over a Camelot-sized round table with a green baize cover.

Around the table were two rings of chairs: the inner ring, fifteen ornate mahogany chairs upholstered in a Persian-patterned silk; the outer ring, twelve smaller chairs, on each of which lay a notepad and a pencil. The room itself was guarded by ten NKVD men positioned at regular intervals around the tapestry-covered walls, stoic and unmoving, like so many suits of armor. Roosevelt’s Secret Service agents took up positions between the NKVD guards along the same circular wall.

Sixty seconds later, I hardly noticed any of this. Sixty seconds later I hardly noticed Stalin, or Molotov, or Beria, or Voroshilov, his Red Army field marshal. Sixty seconds later, even Pawlikowski was forgotten. Sixty seconds later, as I stared openmouthed at the man coming through a door on the opposite side of the chamber, and then at the others who accompanied him, I wouldn’t have noticed if Betty Grable had climbed onto my lap and stripped down to her ankle-strap platforms.

In any other circumstances I might have assumed it was a joke. Except that the man was now advancing on Roosevelt with an outstretched hand, wearing a smile on his face as if he were actually pleased to see the president of a country on which he had personally declared war.

The man was Adolf Hitler.

0830 Hours

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

“Get a grip on yourself,” Roosevelt murmured and then shook the outstretched hand in front of him. Acting almost automatically, I started to translate Hitler’s first words to the president. It was all now quite clear: how it was that Harry Hopkins and Donovan could have been so adamant that the Germans were not planning to assassinate the Big Three at Teheran, for example; and why Churchill, and very likely Marshall and Arnold, too, were “sulking in their tents.”

Not the very least of what I now understood quite clearly was why Roosevelt had asked me along in the first place, for of course he needed a fluent speaker of German who had also demonstrated himself to be what the president had called “a Realpolitiker,” someone who was prepared to keep his mouth shut for the sake of some supposed greater good. That “greater good” was now all too apparent to me: Roosevelt and Stalin intended talking peace with the Fuhrer.

“The British prime minister is not here,” said Hitler, whose speaking voice was much softer than the one I knew from German radio broadcasts. “Am I to assume that he will not be joining us?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Roosevelt. “At least not for the present.”

“A great pity,” said Hitler. “I should like to have met him.”

“There may yet be an opportunity for that, Herr Hitler,” said Roosevelt. “Let us hope so, anyway.”

Hitler glanced around as his own translator appeared behind his shoulder to interpret the president’s words. It was my chance to take another quick look around the room, just in time to see Molotov shaking hands with von Ribbentrop, Stalin speaking to Harry Hopkins through Bohlen, and the various plainclothes SS men grouped around Himmler, who was smiling broadly as if delighted that things were off to a reasonably amicable start.

“Your Mr. Cordell Hull has asked me to assure you that he is quite well,” said Hitler. “And that he is being well looked after. Also the Russian commissar of foreign trade, Mr. Mikoyan.”

I made the translation, and seeing me frown while I spoke, Roosevelt thought to provide me with a short explanation of what the Fuhrer had just said: “Cordell Hull is in Berlin,” he told me. “As a hostage for the Fuhrer’s safe return home.”

Everything seemed to be falling into place now-even the reason the secretary of state had not been invited to the Big Three.

Hitler walked over to Stalin, who was a little shorter than Hitler and resembled a small, tubby bear. All the pictures I had seen of Stalin had created the illusion of a much taller man, and I guessed that these must have been taken from a lower level. When Stalin lit a cigarette, I also noticed his left arm was lame and slightly deformed, like the kaiser’s.

“Will you be all right, Willard?” Roosevelt said, and I guessed he was referring to my Jewishness more than anything else.

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m fine.”

Seeing his opportunity, Himmler moved smartly forward and, still smiling broadly, dipped his head, and then, relaxing somewhat, offered the president his hand. He was wearing a suit, with a silk shirt and tie and a pair of handsome gold cuff links that flashed like alarm signals under the room’s bright lights.

“I believe you are the principal architect of these negotiations,” said Roosevelt.

“I have only tried to make all parties see the sense of what is to be attempted here this morning.” The Reichsfuhrer-SS spoke pompously and with one eye always on Hitler. “And I sincerely believe that this war can be ended before Christmas.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Roosevelt. “Let’s hope so.”

The representatives of Russia, the United States, and Nazi Germany and their advisers seated themselves around the big green table. As host, it fell to Stalin to initiate the proceedings. With Bohlen translating, I was able to catch my breath and reflect on what was happening. That the Russians had managed to keep Hitler’s arrival in Teheran a secret was almost as amazing as the fact that Hitler should have ever come at all. And already I had decided that if the talks did, for some reason, fail, Roosevelt’s reputation was probably safe, for surely no one would believe that such a thing could ever have taken place.

Of the two dictators seated at the table, Stalin seemed the less attractive, and not because I could understand no Russian. He had a cold, crafty, almost corpselike face, and when the yellowish eyes flickered on me and he smiled to reveal his teeth, broken and stained with nicotine, it was all too easy to imagine him as a modern Ivan the Terrible, sending men, women, and children off to their deaths without mussing a hair. At the same time, his mind seemed sharper than Hitler’s, and he spoke well and without notes:

“We are sitting around this table for the first time with but one object in mind,” he said. “The ending of this war. It is my sincere belief that we shall do everything at this conference to make due use, within the framework of our cooperation, of the power and authority that our peoples have vested in us.”

Stalin nodded at Roosevelt, who removed his pince-nez and, using it to emphasize his opening remarks, began to speak: “I should like to welcome Herr Hitler into this circle,” said the president. “In past meetings between Britain and the United States, it has been our habit to publish nothing, but to speak our minds very freely. And I do urge each one of us all to speak as freely as he wishes on the basis of the good faith that has already been demonstrated by our presence in this room. Nevertheless, if any one of us does not want to talk about any particular subject, we do not have to do so.” Roosevelt leaned back in his wheelchair and waited for von Ribbentrop, who spoke excellent English, to finish the translation.

Hitler nodded and folded his arms across his chest. For a moment he was silent and only Stalin, filling his pipe from torn-up Russian Belomor cigarettes, seemed oblivious to the effect the Fuhrer’s pause was having on the room. When Hitler started to speak, I realized, with some amusement, that the Fuhrer had been trying to finish the PEZ mint he was sucking before saying anything.

“Thank you, Marshal Stalin and Mr. President. I should like to have offered my thanks to Mr. Churchill, too; however, since it is my belief that the three countries in this room represent the greatest concentration of worldly power that has ever been seen in the history of mankind, I also believe that we three alone have the potential to shorten the war, and that peace lies in our collective hands. Providence favors men who know how to use the opportunities fate has given them. This is such an opportunity, and to those who might criticize us for taking it, I would say that the notions of what is proper in war and peace have little to do with political reality. Morality has no place at the negotiating table, and the only truths we need recognize are the truths of pragmatism and expediency.”

Roosevelt beamed like a benevolent uncle and nodded happily as Hitler continued to speak.

“And now, let me come to the subject that commands all our attention: the second front. I shall not say that I do not believe in the possibility of a second front, for that would jeopardize the whole basis of my coming here. Instead, I shall merely say that German military precision and thoroughness already ensure that we are certainly prepared for such an eventuality. The fact remains that to attempt a landing on the coast of Europe would give any sane military strategist some considerable pause for thought. The reasons that forestalled my own invasion of England in 1940 are now the same reasons that haunt your generals. The difficulty of this landing cannot be overstated, and a bloodbath seems inevitable. My own generals estimate that at least half a million men will die-German and Allied combined. In 1940 I did not think England was worth the lives of so many German soldiers, and today I wonder if you will think that a beachhead in Holland, Belgium, or France is worth the lives of as many British and American soldiers. Doubtless Marshal Stalin, whose losses have been nothing short of heroic, is thinking the same thing.”

Hitler shrugged. “Oh, I won’t say that we can win the war. After the defeats at El Alamein in October ’42 and, more decisively, the defeat of the German Sixth Army at Stalingrad, I know that victory is now beyond our capability. We cannot win this war. There, I say it openly-as you, Mr. President, have urged us all to be open. I will say it again. Germany cannot win this war. But, equally, Germany can still make it painfully difficult for you to win it yourselves.”

Roosevelt lit the cigarette in his holder and, removing the pince-nez once again, leaned forward to make a point. “I appreciate your candor, Herr Hitler. So let me be quite candid, too. The important strategic objective for the Allies is not a northern European landing, but rather to draw more German divisions away from the Soviet front. To this end, there are other operations available to us. A drive up through Italy, a thrust from the northeastern Adriatic, an operation in the Aegean Sea, even operations from Turkey. Any of these would oblige you to withdraw some of your forces from the eastern front. And yet, having said all that, there are many people in Britain and America who might think that the sacrifice of a quarter of a million men is a price worth paying for a free and democratic Europe.”

Hitler swept the forelock off his brow and shook his head slowly. “We all know that the Italian campaign is of value only in opening the Mediterranean to Allied shipping and is of no great importance as far as the defeat of Germany is concerned. Marshal Stalin will tell you as much himself when I am no longer in the room. At the risk of sounding pedantic, Mr. President, I must remind you of some European history with which Marshal Stalin is already doubtless familiar. In 1799, Marshal Suvorov discovered that the Alps presented an insuperable barrier to an invasion of Germany from Italy. And Turkey? Yes, that might open the way to an Allied invasion of the Balkans, but that is a very long way from the heart of Germany. No, gentlemen, no, Germany’s weakest spot is France, which, let’s face it, you and the British have had all year to invade. What is more, I do not see that you could even contemplate a French invasion until the summer of 1944, by which time it is my calculation that as many as a million more Red Army soldiers will be dead. Out of respect to Marshal Stalin, I do not say this lightly. The losses inherent in any European invasion are negligible to what he has lost already. And what he will lose. A million Red Army soldiers killed is four times as many losses as the quarter of a million British and American casualties that you and Mr. Churchill are hesitating about. Only after France has been secured will it make military sense to send more forces to Italy. In this way you will then be able to secure southern France and, after these two Allied armies have linked up, make your big push into Germany.” Hitler was speaking quickly, dismissively, as if considering Allied options off the top of his head. “But not Turkey. It would be a mistake for you to disperse your forces by sending two or three divisions to Turkey. Besides, Turkey is still a neutral country, and it is my understanding that she continues to reject Mr. Churchill’s attempts to persuade her to come into this war. Like Iran, perhaps, the Turks have a low opinion of British fair play after what happened at Versailles.”

Stalin had spent the last few minutes doodling wolf heads on a pad with a thick red pencil. He stopped now and, removing the pipe from his mouth, began to speak. “The Red Army,” he said quietly, hardly looking at either Hitler or Roosevelt, “has enjoyed a number of successes this year. But these have had more to do with simple numerical superiority. There are three hundred thirty Russian divisions opposing two hundred sixty Axis divisions. When all that remains of the German forces on the eastern front has been wiped out, there will still be seventy Russian divisions left. But this is the arithmetic of the madhouse. I would hope it does not ever come down to that. Besides, the Germans have achieved some unexpected victories. Nothing is certain save that, like the Germans, we, too, believe that the British and the Americans will be at their most effective by striking at the enemy in France, and nowhere else. From our point of view, the Fuhrer’s assessment of the task facing the British and the Americans is entirely accurate. But surely the Fuhrer has not come all this way to Teheran-and I must take the opportunity now to applaud his very great personal courage in doing so-merely to state that he intends to remain in those countries that he has invaded. Assuming that he is as anxious to put an end to this war as we are, what are his proposals regarding Germany’s occupied territories? Specifically, what are his proposals regarding those parts of Russia and the Ukraine that remain under his control? And then, also Hungary, Romania, the Balkans, Greece, Poland, Czechoslovakia, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, and Italy? I should like to hear what he proposes as the basis for a peace that Germany might regard as honorable.”

Hitler nodded and took a deep breath. “My proposal is this, Marshal Stalin. A withdrawal of German troops to pre-1939 borders in the West, and the East. This would leave Russia as the dominant power in Eastern Europe. With a negotiated withdrawal-note, I do not use the word ‘surrender’-the war in Europe would be over by Christmas, perhaps even earlier, thereby permitting America and its allies to concentrate on the defeat of Japan, which I imagine America still sees as its own strategic priority. Under these circumstances, Mr. President, you can hardly fail to win next year’s election. For not only will you have saved two hundred and fifty thousand British and American men from certain death on Europe’s beachheads, but you will also have delivered the Jews of Hungary, Italy, Norway, Denmark, and France from their liquidation.”

Roosevelt looked beyond speech for a moment.

Hitler smiled thinly. “It was my understanding that we should talk frankly,” he said. “Of course, Mr. President, if you do not wish to talk about this particular subject, you do not have to do so. But it is my impression that the fate of three million European Jews would have enormous importance among a very vocal section of your own electorate.”

“Is it your intention to use Europe’s Jews as hostages?” Roosevelt spoke curtly, and for the first time, in German.

“Mr. President,” said Hitler. “My back is against the wall. The German people are facing nothing less than total destruction. You have offered us only unconditional surrender, at least in public. I am merely suggesting the existence of a factor that perhaps you had not considered.”

“As the Fuhrer will recall,” Roosevelt said stiffly, “the use of the phrase ‘unconditional surrender’ was always intended to be only a means of bringing him to the negotiating table.”

“I am here,” said Hitler. “I am negotiating. And one of the chips on this card table, besides the fate of two hundred and fifty thousand Allied soldiers, is the fate of European Jewry. Marshal Stalin has some very similar chips to play himself, such as the fate of Europe’s Cossacks and those White Russians who preferred to fight for Germany rather than the Soviet Union.”

“We have always been in favor of a negotiated surrender,” said Stalin, “and believed that the president’s notion of an unconditional surrender would serve only to unite the German people. But quite frankly, I don’t give a damn about the fate of Europe’s Jews.”

“Well, I sure as hell do,” insisted Roosevelt. “And by the way, I have a few conditions of my own. I might agree to Germany’s withdrawal to her pre-1939 borders if there was also a return to the pre- 1933 German constitution. That means free and fair elections and the Fuhrer’s retirement from German politics.”

“I might concede this,” said Hitler, “if I had the right to nominate my successor as the leader of my party.”

“I don’t see how that would work,” objected Roosevelt.

Now Stalin was shaking his head. “Speaking for myself, I care even less about German elections than I do about Europe’s Jews. Frankly, I have no faith that the German people are capable of reform, and I really don’t see that an election would be enough to curb their militarism. As far as I can see, the only condition I would insist on would be the payment by Germany of war reparations to Russia. This would have a twofold effect. First, it would go a long way toward preventing the German Reich from ever making war again. And, second, it would only restore that which Germany’s aggressive war against Russia has destroyed.” Stalin waved his hand dismissively in the direction of Roosevelt. “Everything else is of little account to us, including the matter of the Fuhrer’s retirement. Indeed, we should probably prefer to have one strong man in charge of the country rather than see it collapse into the anarchy that would surely follow on his retirement. At the very least, we should prefer him in semiretirement only, at the Berchtesgaden perhaps, with Reich Marshal Goring taking over the day-to-day running of the country.”

Roosevelt smiled uncomfortably. “I don’t see that I could ever sell that kind of deal to the American people,” he said.

“With all due respect to the president,” Stalin said, “Russia has had greater experience of making deals with Germany than the United States. There is no reason to suppose that a deal cannot be reached now. Still, I recognize your difficulties in this regard. Might I suggest that your best policy might be to present the American people with the fact that there existed a fait accompli between Germany and the Soviet Union and that there was very little you could do about said fait accompli except to recognize that fact and deal with it.”

I could already see the direction these negotiations were headed in, and how Stalin was determined to have a peace, albeit at the right price. And I remembered something that John Weitz had said to me back on the Iowa: that Stalin’s greatest fear was not the Germans, but that the Russian army might mutiny, as it had done back in 1917.

“I have two conditions,” said Hitler, holding up his hand almost imperiously. “My first is that the British should return the German deputy fuhrer, Rudolf Hess.”

“I am opposed to the return of Hess,” said Stalin. “The British have held Hess in reserve in order that they might make a separate deal with Germany. But what is more offensive to us is that Hess went to the British to solicit their help as an ally in an attack on Russia. This we cannot forgive. We say that Hess must stay in prison.”

“Haven’t the Russians tried to make a separate peace with Germany themselves?” Roosevelt asked. “Has Marshal Stalin forgotten the negotiations in Stockholm between the Soviet ambassador, Madame de Kollontay, and Germany’s foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop? I don’t see how you can criticize the British for doing what you yourselves have done.”

“I did not criticize the British,” said Stalin. “Only Rudolf Hess. My objection was only to his repatriation. But since we are on the subject of negotiations for a separate peace, it did not escape the attention of our intelligence services that your own personal representative, Commander George Earle, and von Papen, the German ambassador in Turkey, also held a series of peace talks.”

There was long silence. Then Hitler, smiling now, a little gleefully it seemed to me, as if he had enjoyed this display of tension between Stalin and Roosevelt, spoke up: “My second condition,” he said, “is that Germany cannot afford to pay any war indemnities. All property removed from occupied territories will be returned, of course. But it only seems to us fair that each should bear his own costs. For Germany to pay war reparations to Russia would then open the way to other claims by Britain, France, Poland, and the rest. Where would it stop? And what would Russia say to paying war reparations to Poland? And what about Italy? Would they pay Abyssinia at the same time as they tried to make a claim on Germany? No, gentlemen, we must wipe the slate clean, or there can be no real peace. Need I remind you that it was the bill presented to Germany by the League of Nations, and more especially the French, after the Great War of 1914 to 1918, that left Germany with no alternative but to go to war again?”

“Speaking for myself,” Roosevelt said, deliberately echoing Stalin’s turn of phrase, “I care less about war reparations than I do about the return of Rudolf Hess. Neither of these matters is an issue for us.”

“That is because you have lost so little,” said Stalin, somewhat irritated. “I don’t see how we could ever meet our lend-lease payments without receiving German war reparations.”

“I think the Fuhrer has made a good point, Marshal Stalin,” said Roosevelt. “If he pays you reparations, then what war reparations will you pay the Poles?”

Hitler, trying to contain his pleasure, now seemed intent on playing the peacemaker between Roosevelt and Stalin. “But is it possible,” he said, “to reach any kind of negotiated deal at all without the British? Am I to conclude by their absence that they will agree to nothing? Will Germany negotiate a peace with Russia and America only to find herself still at war with Britain?”

“Don’t worry about Britain,” Roosevelt said. “It’s the United States and the USSR that will decide things from here on. America certainly didn’t come into this war to restore the British Empire. Or the French. The United States is footing the bill in this war, and that gives us the right to pull rank. If we want peace, there will be no more war waged by the Western allies, I can assure the Fuhrer of that much at least.”

At this, Stalin smiled broadly. I began to be concerned that the president had bitten off more than he could chew. It was bad enough for Roosevelt to try to deal with Stalin on his own, but to deal with Hitler as well was like trying to fend off a pair of hungry wolves, each attacking from a different side. For Roosevelt to have admitted to Stalin that Britain was almost irrelevant to the decision-making that lay ahead-that Russia and America would dominate the postwar world-was surely more than Stalin could ever have hoped for.

1030 Hours

Himmler was congratulating himself, not just at having pulled off these secret talks but also at the way his Fuhrer was handling things. Hitler actually seemed to be enjoying the conference. His grasp of affairs had suddenly improved and he had even stopped indulging in his two common mannerisms: the compulsive picking at the skin on the back of his neck and the biting of the cuticles around his thumbs and forefingers. Himmler wasn’t sure, but he thought it was even possible that Hitler had dispensed with his usual morning injection of cocaine. This was like seeing the old Hitler, the Hitler who had made the French and the British dance to his tune in 1938. What would have been hard to believe but was now quite obvious was just how divided the Allies were: Churchill’s refusal to negotiate, or even meet, with Hitler was understandable, but it seemed extraordinary to Himmler that Roosevelt and Stalin should not have agreed on a common position before sitting down with the Fuhrer. This was more than he could reasonably have expected when, secretly, they had left Prussia and traveled to Teheran, leaving a stenographer named Heinrich Berger to impersonate Hitler at the Wolfschanze and Martin Bormann in effective control of the Greater German Reich.

The Russians had, he admitted, behaved with great hospitality. Von Ribbentrop said that Molotov and Stalin seemed no less friendly than when he had visited Russia in August 1939, in pursuit of the nonaggression pact. And their control of security and secrecy had been predictably excellent. No one was better at keeping secrets and manipulating public perceptions than the Russians. Secrecy was, of course, the reason that Stalin had insisted on having the Big Three in Teheran. The peace talks could not have been arranged anywhere else, except perhaps in Russia itself. Just look what had happened to the secrecy of the Allied talks in Cairo, Himmler reflected. Even so, it had been Himmler’s idea to use General Schellenberg’s Operation Long Jump as a way of demonstrating German good faith to the Russians. Giving up those men to the NKVD had been regrettable, but it was made easier by the late discovery that most of Schellenberg’s team were not German at all but Ukrainian volunteers. Himmler cared nothing for these men, and as a result he had been able to denounce them to the NKVD without scruple. As for the handful of renegade German officers and NCOs, they would be on Schellenberg’s conscience, not his.

Of course, the warmth of the Russian reception had a lot to do with the secret payment of ten million dollars in gold from Swiss bank accounts held by Germany into those of the Soviet Union. How right the Fuhrer had been about Russia: it was the very acme of the capitalist state headed by a man who would do anything, make any sacrifice, and take any bribe to pay for the realization of his idee fixe. And, despite what Hitler had said in front of Roosevelt, he was already reconciled to paying Stalin a fifty-million-dollar “bonus” if a peace could be negotiated at Teheran, for this was a drop in the ocean compared to the gold Germany had on reserve in its secret Swiss bank accounts.

“In the final analysis,” Hitler had told Himmler in their preparatory talks at the Wolfschanze, “Stalin is nothing more than some plutocratic tycoon looking for his next payday. For that reason alone, you know where you are with the Russians. They’re realistic.”

Realistic? Yes, thought Himmler, you knew where you were with the Popovs. They would do anything for money. Even so, there was no way he was going to let Goring take over the country, as Stalin had suggested as the best alternative to the Fuhrer remaining as head of state. Himmler hated Goring almost as much as he hated Bormann, and he hadn’t put his neck on the line persuading Hitler to come to the Big Three in person just to see the country handed over to that fat bastard.

In some respects, the British were just like the Popovs, he reflected. Quite predictable. Churchill most of all. Very likely the British prime minister was worried that once a peace with Germany was signed, the generous terms offered to Great Britain by Hess in 1940-a peace without any conditions whatsoever-would be made public and there would be an uproar in the British newspapers. Could the Fuhrer have been more generous? No wonder Churchill refused to come to the negotiating table. Surely, as soon as the war was over, Churchill would be kicked out of office.

No one could accuse the Americans of not being realistic, but, unlike the Russians, they could not be influenced by money. Still, as the Fuhrer had always argued, they could be influenced by their own paranoia. “They fear Bolshevism more than they fear us,” he had told Himmler back at the Wolfschanze. “And the greatest success of the Red Army has not been defeating the German army, but in the way it has intimidated the Americans. We must take advantage of that fact. If they cannot be bribed in these negotiations, then they must be blackmailed. They are, of course, aware of the secret weapons we have been developing at Peenemunde, or why else would they have used the whole of Bomber Command to target the area back in August? It will require great subtlety, Himmler, for without telling the Americans exactly what we have, we must imply that if Germany were forced to negotiate a separate peace with the Russians, we would feel obliged to share our new weapons with them, in lieu of war reparations. Naturally, the Americans will fear this because even now it is clear that they are more concerned about the shape of postwar Europe than they are about defeating Germany.

“The vengeance-weapon film that the people at Fieseler made in May-the Americans should see a copy. And just in case they still don’t believe it, let’s plan to fire one such weapon at England on November twenty-eighth, the day of the conference. Not from the new site, of course, but from Peenemunde. That should help them to decide if we’re serious or not. But don’t fire it at London. No, choose an American air base. The one at Shipham, near Norwich, perhaps. That’s a large one. A V1 rocket might have quite a chastening effect there, Himmler.”

Although a V1 had been placed on a launching ramp at Peenemunde earlier that same day, it had not, in fact, been fired. In the final analysis, it had not been seen as necessary. Now, possessed of film footage of a successful V1 test flight and a list of German scientists, American military intelligence had persuaded Roosevelt that it was imperative for the German rocket secrets to be in American, not in Russian, hands after the war. Consequently, the president had already been persuaded in secret not to insist on large German war reparations, and also to abandon his demand for free and fair elections.

Since the Americans and the Russians both thought they had already made a secret deal to their own advantage, Himmler did not see how, short of a disaster-one of the rages that were inbuilt features of Hitler’s character, perhaps, or Churchill prevailing on Roosevelt at last to break off the talks with Hitler-these negotiations could fail. If a peace was agreed at Teheran, Himmler felt his own achievements in this diplomatic triumph would make his name more illustrious in German history than Bismarck’s.

1100 Hours

I sipped the last of my water and tried to ignore a need to visit the lavatory.

The arguments had turned to France, a topic Hitler refused to consider with any seriousness. At the very least the French had no right to the return of their empire, he argued. And why should Roosevelt and Stalin be disposed to treat France as anything other than their enemy, since the current government was Nazi in all but name and actively helping Germany?

“France is hardly an occupied country,” said Hitler. “There are less than fifty thousand German soldiers in the whole country. That’s not an occupying army so much as an auxiliary police force helping to carry out the will of the Vichy French government. The thing that strikes me above all about the French is that because they have been so anxious to sit on every chair at the same time, they have not succeeded in sitting firmly on any one of them. They pretend to be your ally and yet they conspire with us. They fight for free speech and yet France is the most anti-Semitic country in Europe. She refuses to renounce her colonies and expects Russia and America, two countries that have thrown off the yoke of imperialism, to restore them to her. And in exchange for what? A few bottles of good wine, some cheese, and perhaps a smile from a pretty girl?”

Stalin grinned. “I tend to agree with Herr Hitler,” he said. “I can see no good reason why France should be allowed to play any role in formal peace negotiations with Germany. I was very much in agreement with what the Fuhrer said earlier. To my mind, there wouldn’t have been another war at all if France hadn’t insisted on trying to punish Germany for the last one. Besides, the entire French ruling class is rotten to the core.”

I wished that Stalin would say more, for it was my opportunity to rest for a moment. Roosevelt was easy to work for, breaking up his statements into short lengths, which demonstrated some concern for his two translators. But Hitler was always much too carried away by his own eloquence to pay much attention to von Ribbentrop, who had struggled to find the words to convey Hitler’s thoughts into English, so much so that I had felt obliged to step in and help; and, after a while, the exhausted-looking von Ribbentrop had given up altogether, leaving me to translate all of the conversation between Hitler and Roosevelt.

Roosevelt had smoked steadily throughout the negotiations and, suddenly afflicted with a fit of coughing, now reached for the carafe of water that stood on the table in front of him. But he succeeded only in knocking it over. Both Bohlen and I had now run out of water, and seeing the president’s predicament, Hitler poured a glass from his own untouched carafe. Standing up quickly, he brought it around the table to the still-coughing Roosevelt. Stalin, slower on his feet than Hitler, started to do the same.

The president took the glass of water from Hitler, but as he put it to his lips, Agent Pawlikowski sprang forward and knocked it from his hand. Some of the water spilled over me, but most ended up on the president’s shirtfront.

For a moment, everyone thought that the Secret Service agent had gone mad. Then von Ribbentrop expressed the thought that was now in the minds of every man in the room. Picking up Hitler’s water carafe, he sniffed it suspiciously and then said, in his Canadian-accented English, “Is there something wrong with this water?” He looked around the room, first at Stalin, then at Molotov, and then at Stalin’s two bodyguards, Vlasik and Poskrebyshev, who both grinned nervously. One of them said something in Russian that was immediately translated by Pavlov, the Soviet interpreter, and Bohlen.

“The water is good. It comes fresh from the British embassy. First thing this morning.”

Meanwhile Roosevelt had turned in his wheelchair and was regarding Pawlikowski with something like horror. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, John?”

“John,” Reilly said calmly. “I think you should leave the room immediately.”

Pawlikowski was trembling like a leaf, and, seated immediately in front of him, I could see that his shirt, soaked in sweat, was almost as wet as the president’s. The Secret Service man sighed and smiled almost apologetically at Roosevelt. The very next second he drew his weapon and aimed it at Hitler.

“No,” I yelled and, jumping to my feet, I forced Pawlikowski’s arm and gun up in the air so that the shot, when it came, hit only the ceiling.

Wrestling Pawlikowski onto the table, I caught sight of Stalin’s bodyguard pulling the Russian leader onto the floor, and then others diving for cover as Pawlikowski fired again. A third shot followed close on the second, and then Pawlikowski’s body went limp and slid onto the floor. I pushed myself up off the table and saw Mike Reilly standing over the agent’s body, a smoking revolver extended in front of him. And seeing that his colleague was not dead, Reilly kicked the automatic from the wounded agent’s hand.

“Get an ambulance, someone,” he yelled. The next second, seeing that both Hitler’s and Stalin’s bodyguards had their own weapons drawn and were now covering him in case he, too, felt impelled to take a shot at one of the two dictators, Reilly holstered his gun carefully. “Take it easy,” he told them. “It’s all over.” Coolly, Reilly picked up Pawlikowski’s automatic, made it safe, ejected the magazine, and then laid these items on the conference table.

Gradually, the room came to order. Hogl, the detective superintendent guarding Hitler, was the first bodyguard to put away his gun. Then Vlasik, Stalin’s bodyguard, did the same. Pawlikowski, bleeding heavily from a wound in his back, was swiftly carried out of the room by Agents Qualter and Rauff.

I sat down on my chair and stared at the blood on my shirt sleeve. It was another few seconds before I realized that someone was standing immediately in front of me. I lifted my gaze, up from the polished black shoes and over the dark trousers, the plain brown military tunic and the white shirt and tie, to meet Hitler’s watery blue eyes. Instinctively, I stood up.

“Young man,” said Hitler, “I owe you my life.” And before I could say anything, he was shaking my hand and smiling broadly. “But for your prompt action, that man would surely have shot me.” As he spoke, the Fuhrer rose slightly on his toes, like a man for whom life suddenly had a new zest. “Yes, indeed. You saved my life. And judging from his behavior with the water glass, I think he had already failed to poison me, eh, Mr. President?”

Roosevelt nodded. “My deepest apologies to you, Herr Hitler,” he said, speaking German again. “It would appear you are right. That man meant to kill you, all right. For which I am deeply ashamed.”

Stalin was already adding his own apologies as host.

“Don’t mention it, gentlemen,” Hitler said, still holding me by the hand. “What is your name?” he asked me.

“Mayer, sir. Willard Mayer.”

Even as Hitler held my hand, I felt an understanding of what the Fuhrer and I were: two men for whom the entire spectrum of moral values had no real meaning, who had no real need of the humanities and the immaterial world. Here was the obvious extension of everything that I, as a logical positivist, believed in. Here was a man without values. And I suddenly perceived the bankruptcy of all my own intellectual endeavors. The meaninglessness of all the meanings I had striven to find. This was the truth of Hitler and all rigid materialism: it had absolutely nothing to do with being human.

“Thank you,” said Hitler, squeezing my hand in his own. “Thank you.”

“That’s all right, sir,” I said, smiling thinly.

At last the Fuhrer let go. It was Hopkins’s cue to suggest that this might be an appropriate opportunity to call a temporary halt to the proceedings. “I suggest that during our recess,” he said, “we examine those documents we have prepared supporting our respective negotiating positions. Willard?” He nodded at a file that lay on the table. “Would you hand that to the Fuhrer, please?”

I nodded numbly, and handed the file over to Hitler.

The three delegations now moved toward three of the room’s four doors. It was only now that I saw how the room had been constructed so that four delegations might enter the room from four separate entrances and, presumably, four separate dachas inside the Russian embassy compound.

“Wait a minute,” said Hopkins, as the American delegation neared the door that led back the same way they had come. “I’ve still got the American position papers. What was it that you gave the Fuhrer, Willard?”

“I don’t know. I think it must have been that Beketovka File,” I said.

“Then no harm done,” said Hopkins. “I expect Hitler’s seen it before. Still, it’s a lucky thing you didn’t give it to the Russians. Now that would have been embarrassing.”

1215 Hours

Himmler was amazed that the peace talks still appeared to be on track. After the attempt on the Fuhrer’s life, he had assumed Hitler would insist on returning to Germany immediately. And indeed, he could hardly have blamed him. But you never could tell how the Fuhrer would react to an attempt on his life. In a way, of course, he had lived with the idea of assassination all his political life. As early as 1921, someone-Himmler had never found out who it was-had fired shots at Hitler in Munich during a rally at the Hofbrauhaus. Since then, there had been at least thirty other attempts, not including the trumped-up plots that the Gestapo dealt in. During a twelve-month period in 1933 and 1934 alone, there had been ten attempts on Hitler’s life. By any standard, the Fuhrer was a man possessed of the most astonishing luck. Usually, once the shock and anger had disappeared, Hitler managed to see an escape from death as nothing short of miraculous. It was a sign of divine intervention, and after thirty or more attempts, Himmler was half-inclined to agree.

Surviving an attempt on his life was the only time Hitler ever talked about God with any real conviction or enthusiasm, and it always affected both his oratory and his self-belief. It was a vicious circle, too: the more attempts to assassinate him Hitler survived, the stronger became his certainty that God had marked him out to make Germany great. And having convinced himself that this was the case, he more easily persuaded others to think the same way.

In the middle of a difficult war, there was, understandably, less hysterical adoration of the Fuhrer than once there had been. Himmler still remembered the feeling of shock and awe he had experienced at the 1934 Nuremberg rally, when Hitler had driven through the town in an open-top Mercedes. The faces of those thousands of women who had screamed Hitler’s name and reached out to try and touch him, as if he were the risen Christ incarnate-no other comparison served as well. Himmler had seen houses with shrines to the Fuhrer. He had met schoolgirls who painted swastikas on their fingernails. There were even small towns and villages in Germany where the sick were encouraged to touch Hitler’s portrait in search of a cure. All of which only served to bolster Hitler’s sense that he was God’s elect. Still, it took an assassination attempt to give Hitler a lift-but usually only after a couple of days had elapsed and the guilty caught and punished, with maximum cruelty. On this particular occasion, however, Hitler returned to the villa on the grounds of the Russian embassy with his face shining and his eyes flashing, reassuring Himmler and the others in the German delegation that there was no need to be concerned about the future of the talks.

“God and Providence have made it impossible for anything to happen to me,” he told Himmler and von Ribbentrop, “until my historic mission is completed.”

The Fuhrer retired to his bedroom “to rest and read these Allied position papers.” Himmler felt sufficiently reassured by Hitler’s show of optimism to order a bottle of champagne for himself and von Ribbentrop.

“Remarkable, is it not?” said Himmler, toasting the German foreign minister. “Who but the Fuhrer could come through such an ordeal? To sit there for two hours and not drink any of that water. And then, having survived an attempt to poison him, to be saved from shooting by a Jew, of all people.” Himmler laughed out loud.

“Are you sure?” asked von Ribbentrop. “The translator is Jewish?”

“You may take it from me, Joachim. There’s not much I don’t know about Jews, and I can tell you that Mayer is an undeniably Jewish name. Besides, there is his rather obvious physiognomy. The dark hair and high cheekbones. The man is Jewish, all right. I haven’t dared to tell the Fuhrer.”

“Perhaps he already knows.”

“I rather think the actual assassin is a Pole, however. Or at least of Polish descent.”

Von Ribbentrop shrugged. “Perhaps he’s a Jew, too.”

“Yes, perhaps. John Pawlikowksi.” Himmler thought for a moment. “Is Molotov a Jew?”

“No,” said von Ribbentrop. “Merely married to one.”

Himmler laughed. “I bet that’s awkward for him. Stalin is openly anti-Semitic. I had no idea. Do you know, I heard him tell the Fuhrer that the Jews were ‘middlemen, profiteers, and parasites.’”

“Yes, he and the Fuhrer got on rather well, I thought. They see eye-to-eye on a great many things. For example, like the Fuhrer, Stalin hates people with mixed loyalties. It’s why he thinks that Roosevelt is weak. Because of the powerful Jewish lobby in America.” Von Ribbentrop sipped some of his champagne with satisfaction. “And something else. He has the same low opinion of his generals that Hitler has.”

“That’s hardly surprising when you see the general he brought with him. Did you smell that man Vorishilov’s breath? My God, he must have had beer for breakfast. How did he ever come to be a field marshal?”

“I think he was the only one who wasn’t executed during Stalin’s last purge. He was much too mediocre to shoot. Thus his current elevated position in the Red Army. Incidentally, on the subject of shooting, I don’t know whether you noticed, but last night at the dinner with Stalin, every one of those Russian waiters was carrying a gun.”

“NKVD probably. Beria told me there are a few thousand of them in and around the embassy. Schellenberg’s team never stood a chance. It just makes me all the more glad I told Beria about them.”

“Have they all been captured?”

“Beria says they have. But I’m not so sure. Still, even if they haven’t all been caught, I don’t give much for their chances. Not in this country. It’s a filthy place. Not at all what I imagined. From what I’ve observed so far, the tap water is hardly less lethal than the stuff that was in the Fuhrer’s carafe.”

“I rather think President Roosevelt sipped some of that water,” said von Ribbentrop. “Before it was knocked from his hand.”

“He seems all right.” Himmler shrugged. “I sent Brandt to enquire after his health-in plain clothes, of course. But it seems that Roosevelt has gone shopping.”

“Shopping?”

“Yes, the Russians have set up a shop on the grounds of the embassy. They say it’s for the convenience of all the delegates, so that we don’t have to leave the estate-but, oh, my, the prices! Brandt says they’re astronomical.”

“But what is there to buy?” laughed von Ribbentrop.

“Oh, it’s well stocked with everything that might appeal to an American tourist. Water pipes, carpets, wooden bowls, Persian daggers, silver. Brandt says there is even a box of silk teddy bears.”

“Perhaps Roosevelt is picking out a teddy bear for Churchill’s birthday.” Von Ribbentrop laughed. “Or, perhaps, some sour grapes. The son is here, too, you know. Randolph. It seems that he’s an even bigger drunk than his father.”

“I hear Roosevelt’s son, Elliott, is just as bad. Apparently he and Randolph stayed up late last night getting drunk. There is no greater curse than the curse of a great man for a father.”

“Can you imagine what Hitler’s son would have been like?” von Ribbentrop asked. “I mean, if he had ever had a son. To live up to such a man as the Fuhrer. Impossible.”

Himmler smiled quietly to himself: there were perhaps only three people in the world who knew that Hitler had indeed fathered a son, by a Jewish woman in Vienna in 1913. In Mein Kampf, Hitler had claimed to have left the old Austro-Hungarian capital for “political reasons”; he had even written a version that had him leaving Vienna to escape conscription into the Austro-Hungarian army, preferring to enlist in a German regiment, the Tenth Bavarian Reserve Infantry Regiment, instead. But only Hitler, Himmler, and Julius Streicher knew the truth-that Hitler had an affair with a Jewish prostitute, Hannah Mendel, who had borne him a son. Mendel and her son had disappeared from Vienna sometime in 1928 and not even Hitler knew their final fate. Only Himmler knew that Mendel had abandoned her son in 1915; that she had died of syphilis in 1919; that her son, Wolfgang, had been brought up in the Catholic orphanage in Linz; that Wolfgang Mendel had changed his name to Paul Jetzinger and become a waiter at Sacher’s Hotel in Vienna until the outbreak of war, when he had enlisted in the Third Motorized Infantry Division; and that Corporal Paul Jetzinger had been killed or captured at Stalingrad. Which Himmler had thought was probably for the best. Great men like Hitler shouldn’t have sons, he thought; especially sons who were half-Jewish.

Himmler and von Ribbentrop were in an excellent mood when the drawing room door was suddenly flung open and Hitler stormed in. His face was wreathed in fury as he marched up to Himmler, brandishing a file in front of the Reichsfuhrer’s face.

“Did you know about this?” he yelled.

Himmler stood and clicked his heels together as he came to attention. “Know about what, my Fuhrer?”

“It’s an SD file entitled ‘Beketovka.’”

“Beketovka?” stammered Himmler, and, wondering how on earth Hitler could have come into possession of the file, he colored noticeably.

“I can see you recognize the name,” Hitler barked. “Why was I not shown this before? Why did I have to receive this from the Americans?”

“I don’t understand. The Americans gave you this file?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But that hardly matters beside the fact that I have never been shown the contents of this file.”

Himmler winced, suddenly understanding exactly what must have happened. The Beketovka File. He had forgotten all about it. The file had reached Roosevelt’s hands, as he had ordered it should, and mistakenly, the Americans had simply handed it back to Hitler. As Himmler searched for an explanation, Hitler struck him on the shoulder with the file and then threw it on the floor.

“Do you really think I would have come here, ready to withdraw my forces from Russia, if I had known about this?” he said.

Himmler stayed silent. Knowing Hitler as well as he did, it seemed to him that the question hardly needed to be answered. This was the end of Teheran, he could see that. Plainly, Hitler’s rage, the worst Himmler had witnessed, made it impossible that the Fuhrer could continue to sit at the same negotiating table as the people he would hold responsible for the atrocities detailed in the Beketovka File.

“Thousands and thousands of our brave musketeers and lieutenants have been murdered by these Russian pigs, in circumstances that beggar belief, and yet you would have had me sit down and talk peace with them. How could I look my soldiers in the eye if I made a deal with these animals?”

“My Fuhrer, it was for those soldiers who still remain alive that I thought it best to pursue these talks,” Himmler said. “Those German prisoners still in Russian camps may yet be released.”

“What kind of a man are you, Himmler? Two hundred thousand German prisoners have been systematically starved, frozen, or beaten to death by these subhuman Slavs and you can still contemplate cozying up to them.” Hitler shook his head. “Well, that’s a matter for your own conscience. Assuming you have one. But I for one will not make a peace with the cold-blooded murderers of German soldiers. Do you hear me? I will not shake hands that are dripping with German blood. You’re an unprincipled swine, Himmler. Do you know that? You are a man without values.”

Still beside himself with fury, Hitler marched around the room, biting the cuticle around his thumbnail and calling down vengeance upon the heads of the Russians.

“But what will we tell them?” Himmler asked weakly. He knew that the question hardly needed to be asked since he was quite certain that the room concealed hidden microphones: a large part of his negotiating strategy had been based on the assumption that the Russians would listen to their supposedly private conversations; another sign of good faith, as Himmler had described it to Hitler. But in his anger, the Fuhrer seemed to have forgotten this.

“Tell Stalin that because of the attempt on my life you no longer believe that my safety can be guaranteed and that we are forced, reluctantly, to withdraw from these negotiations. Tell them what you like. But we’re leaving. Now.”

1245 Hours

As soon as Sergo Beria read the transcript of Hitler’s conversation with Himmler and von Ribbentrop, he hurried over to the NKVD villa to tell his father what had happened. Sergo loved his father and was probably the only man in Russia, including Stalin, who wasn’t afraid of the state security boss. Despite Lavrenti Beria’s incessant womanizing, Sergo recognized that Beria had always been a good father who wanted nothing more than to keep his son out of politics, encouraging him to be a scientist. But Stalin favored his security commissar’s nineteen-year-old son, and hoped that the handsome Sergo might one day marry his own daughter, Svetlana, with whom Sergo had gone to school. To this end Stalin had promoted Sergo to the rank of captain in the NKVD, invited him to the conference in Teheran, and personally charged Sergo with briefing him every morning on what the other two leaders were saying “privately” in their respective villas.

Lavrenti Beria was nervous about the apparent high regard in which his son was held by Stalin, for he knew how capricious the old man was and feared the idea of Sergo marrying Svetlana. Stalin might have encouraged a romance between these two young people, but Beria knew that in a year’s time, the boss might think very differently about it, even to the extent, perhaps, of accusing the security commissar of trying to worm his way into Stalin’s family. There was no telling what a paranoid personality like Stalin was capable of.

Arriving at the NKVD villa, Sergo found his father already speaking to Himmler. Their meeting lasted only a few minutes, after which Himmler exited through a secret passage in the basement, leaving father and son alone. Beria stared glumly at his son.

“I can see you already know what has happened,” the older man observed.

“Yes, but the reason I think he gave you-that Himmler no longer believes the Fuhrer’s safety can be guaranteed-that’s a load of crap.” Sergo showed his father the transcript of what Hitler had said to Himmler and von Ribbentrop. Lavrenti Beria read the half-dozen pages without comment. Eventually the younger man blurted out the question he had been dying to ask since first hearing of Beketovka. “Who or what is Beketovka?” he asked his father.

“It’s a prisoner-of-war camp near Stalingrad,” Beria explained. “For German prisoners. I don’t have to tell you that Stalin thinks even less about them than he does about the welfare of his own soldiers. I haven’t seen this camp myself, but I imagine conditions there are harsh. Extremely harsh. If this Beketovka File that Hitler talks about documents the camp in any detail, then it would be hardly surprising if he were upset about it. Very likely the Germans gave the file to the Americans in an attempt to support the contention that they are no more morally reprehensible than we are. Most likely Himmler has been concealing this file from Hitler. He must have been well aware of the effect it would have on him, and on these peace talks. The only question, therefore, is if the Americans were aware of that when they gave it to him. For one would then have to conclude that they meant for these negotiations to fail.”

Sergo Beria shrugged. “There must be some Americans who continue to share Churchill’s point of view: that we should not be negotiating with these Fascists.”

Lavrenti Beria picked up the phone. “Get me Molotov,” he told the embassy switchboard. And then to Sergo: “I didn’t see what happened in the conference room myself. Perhaps our foreign minister can tell us which one of the Americans gave the file to Hitler.”

Molotov came on the line and, at some length, Beria explained what had happened, after which there arose the delicate question of who was going to tell Stalin that Hitler was leaving.

“This is a security matter, surely,” Molotov argued. “It’s your responsibility, Beria.”

“On the contrary,” said Beria. “Without question this is a foreign affairs matter.”

“Under normal circumstances I might agree with you,” Molotov said. “But as I recall, it was Himmler, your opposite number, who put out these peace feelers in the first place. And you who dealt with them. Moreover, all matters pertaining to the Fuhrer’s presence here in Teheran have, as I understand it, been arranged by you, Comrade Commissar.”

“That’s true. However, the initial contacts were made by Himmler via Madame de Kollontay, in Stockholm. It’s my understanding that these conversations were cleared by Stalin himself, through you, Comrade Secretary.”

“And it was agreed that all matters relating to the handling of the German legation would be administered jointly by the NKVD and the SS. As I see it, Hitler is going home because of a security breakdown of one sort or another. Either because an American tried to kill him or because another American gave him an intelligence file right under our noses.”

For once, Beria had to concede that Molotov was right. “Do you happen to recall which American it was that gave him the file?” he asked Molotov.

“It was the man who saved Hitler’s life. The interpreter.”

“Why would he save Hitler’s life and then fuck up the peace negotiations?”

“I suspect it was just a mistake. The fellow was confused after what had just happened. I think if I had just saved Hitler’s life, I might feel a little perplexed myself. To put it mildly. Anyway, Hopkins told this fellow Mayer to hand over the American position papers and he handed him something else. As simple as that. It must have been this file you describe, because Hopkins was almost at the door when he realized he still had the position papers that were meant for Hitler. Probably he was a bit rattled himself. That’s what happened. The Americans fucked up, that’s all. They probably thought it hardly mattered that this fellow had just given Hitler the Beketovka File, since they could hardly have imagined that Hitler had never seen an important file prepared by his own SD.”

“Jesus Christ,” groaned Beria. “The boss is going to go nuts.”

“Blame it all on the Yank,” advised Molotov. “That’s my advice. Let him take the heat. There’s not much point in saving Hitler’s life if you then manage to fuck up the peace talks.”

“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.”

Hopkins was still trying to restore the president’s belief in himself and in his capacity to charm Stalin when, accompanied by Vlasik, Pavlov, and several Georgian NKVD bodyguards, the great man himself appeared in the doorway of the president’s drawing room.

“Jesus Christ, it’s Uncle Joe. He’s here,” muttered Hopkins.

Leaving the bodyguards in the corridor, Stalin edged his way clumsily into the room, his presence most clearly marked by the strong smell of Belomor cigarettes that clung to his marshal’s mustard-colored summer tunic like damp on a wet dog. Pavlov and Vlasik followed as if on an invisible leash. Chip Bohlen was quickly on his feet, bowing curtly to the Soviet leader and acknowledging something Stalin had said with an obsequious “Da vy, da vy.”

Roosevelt maneuvered his wheelchair to face Stalin and held out his hand. “Hello, Marshal Stalin,” he said. “I’m very sorry about what has happened. Very sorry. After all your brave and courageous efforts to secure a peace, that it should come to this is a great shame.” Stalin shook Roosevelt’s hand in silence while Bohlen translated. “And I am deeply ashamed that it should have been one of my own people who tried to kill Hitler.”

Stalin let go of the president’s hand and then shook his head. “But that is not what made him angry,” he said gruffly, taking the Beketovka File from Pavlov, his translator, and placing it gingerly on the president’s lap. “This is what made him abandon the talks.”

“What is it?” asked Roosevelt.

“It’s a dossier prepared by German intelligence for your eyes, Mr. President,” said Stalin. “It purports to provide details of atrocities committed by Red Army soldiers against German prisoners of war. It was given to the Fuhrer by one of your people this morning. The dossier is a forgery, of course, and we believe that it was prepared by die-hard Fascists in Germany with the intention of driving a wedge between the United States and the Soviet Union. Of course Hitler knew nothing about its provenance. Why should he? A commander in chief cannot see every piece of disinformation that emanates from his own counterintelligence department. When he saw the dossier, however, he assumed, incorrectly, that the lies and calumnies it contained regarding the atrocious treatment of German POWs were true, and he reacted as any commander in chief would, by calling off the talks with those he believed carried out these atrocities.”

“You’re saying that this dossier was prepared for my deception?” said Roosevelt. “And handed over to Hitler by one of my people?”

Stalin lit a cigarette, coolly. “That is correct.”

“But I don’t recall ever seeing such a file,” said Roosevelt. “Have I, Harry?”

“I saw it, Mr. President,” said Hopkins. “I decided that it was inappropriate for you to see it in the present circumstances. Certainly until we’d had a chance to evaluate it properly.”

“Then I still don’t understand,” said Roosevelt. “Who gave this dossier to Hitler?”

“Your Jewish doctor of philosophy.”

I felt a chill as Stalin stared balefully at me with his yellow, almost Oriental, eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Professor. Is this true? Did you give this dossier to Hitler?”

I hesitated to call Stalin a liar to his face, but it was clear what the Soviet leader was trying to do. Stalin could hardly explain why Hitler had left without bringing up the Beketovka File. And that risked the possibility that Roosevelt might lay responsibility for the Fuhrer’s departure on the Soviets themselves.

I had to hand it to him: insisting that the file was a forgery was the best way of avoiding any potential embarrassment. And throwing the blame on me put the ball squarely back in the American court.

Believing Roosevelt would never forgive me if I challenged Stalin’s assertion that the file was a forgery, I decided to appeal to the president’s sense of fair play.

“I did give it to him, Mr. President. When I was struggling with Agent Pawlikowski on the conference table, the files got mixed up. When Mr. Hopkins told me to hand our position papers to Hitler, I mistakenly handed over the Beketovka File instead.”

“That’s right, Mr. President,” Hopkins said. “It was an accident. And partly my fault. I was holding on to the position papers when I told Willard to hand them over. I didn’t realize I was holding them. I guess I was kind of shocked myself. Under the circumstances, it could have happened to anyone.”

“Perhaps,” said Stalin.

“I don’t think we should forget that but for Professor Mayer’s presence of mind,” added Hopkins, “the Fuhrer would probably be dead, and our hostages in Berlin, Mr. Hull, and Mr. Mikoyan, would certainly have been executed by now.”

Stalin shrugged. “Speaking for myself, I think I should prefer to have seen Hitler dead on the floor of that conference room than to have him walk out of these peace talks. I cannot speak for Mr. Hull, but I know that Mr. Mikoyan would gladly have gone to the wall if it had meant us being rid of a monster like Hitler.” Stalin sniffed unpleasantly and wiped his mustache with the back of a liver-spotted hand. Waving dismissively in my direction, he said, “It seems to me that, thanks to your translator, we now find ourselves with the worst of all possible outcomes.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” I said, “I think that Marshal Stalin is, perhaps, being a little unfair.”

I was still smarting from Stalin’s description of me as “the Jewish doctor.” I was already cursed with the knowledge that I had saved the life of perhaps the most evil man in history, and I was damned if I could see why I should have to shoulder the responsibility for the failure of the peace talks as well.

“All right, Professor, all right,” said Roosevelt, gesturing with the flat of his hand that I should try to keep calm.

“Are we to worry about what these parrots, our interpreters, think is fair and what is unfair?” snorted Stalin. “Perhaps your man is one of these American capitalists who wants to see his country’s armies in Europe if only because he imagines that the Soviet Union wishes to make an empire for itself. Such as the British have made in India. I’m told that his mother is one of the richest women in America. Perhaps he hates Communists more than he hates Nazis. Perhaps that is why he gave the forgery to Hitler.”

I wished that I could have mentioned my previous membership in the Austrian Communist Party. But Roosevelt was already trying to change the subject.

“I think that India is certainly ripe for a revolution, Marshal Stalin,” he said. “Don’t you? From the bottom up.”

Recognizing that perhaps he had gone too far in his denunciation of me, Stalin shrugged. “I’m not sure about that,” he said. “India’s caste system makes things more complicated. I doubt a revolution along the lines of the straightforward Bolshevik model is a realistic proposition.” Stalin smiled thinly. “But I can see that you’re tired, Mr. President. I only came to tell you that, if you are agreeable, we will reconvene at four o’clock in the main conference hall, with Mr. Churchill. So I’ll leave you now, to rest a while and to gather your strength for what we must discuss. A second front in Europe.”

And with that, Stalin was gone, leaving each of us in openmouthed amazement. It was Roosevelt who spoke first.

“Professor Mayer? I don’t think Uncle Joe likes you very much.”

“No, sir. I don’t think he does. And I’m counting myself lucky that I’m an American and not a Russian. Otherwise I guess I’d be facing a firing squad.”

Roosevelt nodded wearily. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “it might be best if you went back to Camp Amirabad. After all, it’s not as if we’ll be needing your interpreting services anymore. Not now that the Fuhrer has gone. And there’s no sense aggravating Stalin any further by your presence here in the Russian compound.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir.” I walked toward the door of the drawing room. There, with my fingers on the door handle, I stopped and, looking back at the president, added: “Just for the record, Mr. President, as someone who knows about German intelligence, it’s my considered opinion that the Beketovka File is one hundred percent genuine and accurate. You can take that from a man who was a member of the Austrian Communist Party when he was a lot younger and less wise than he is now. And there’s nothing Stalin can say that will change that.”

Standing in the door of the Russian embassy, I took a deep, unsteady breath of the warm afternoon air. I closed my eyes and reflected on the extraordinary events of the day and my unwitting role in the history of Hitler’s peace. It was a story that would probably never be told because it was a history of lies and dissembling and hypocrisy, and it revealed the greatest truth of history: that truth itself is an illusion. I was a part of that big lie now. I always would be.

I opened my eyes to find myself facing a tubby-looking man wearing the uniform of a British RAF Commodore and smoking a seven-inch Romeo y Julieta.

“Sir,” said the tubby little commodore, “you appear to be in my way.”

“Mr. Churchill, I appear to be in everyone’s way. My own most of all.”

Churchill removed the cigar from his mouth and nodded. “I know that feeling. It is the antithesis of being alive, is it not?”

“I feel myself unraveling, sir. There’s a dog that’s got hold of the end of my yarn and pretty soon there’s going to be nothing of me left.”

“But I know that dog,” he said. Churchill took a step toward me, his eyes wide with excitement. “I have given that dog a name. I call it the black dog, and it must be driven off as if it were the real thing.” The prime minister glanced at his watch and then pointed toward the grounds with his walking stick. “Stroll with me for a moment, in these Persian gardens. We may not have five miles meandering with a mazy motion, as Mr. Coleridge has it, but I think it will do very well.”

“I’d be honored, sir.”

“I feel I should know you. I know we have met somewhere before now. But beyond the fact you are an American and perhaps something in the diplomatic services, or else you would be wearing a uniform, I cannot for the life of me remember who you are.”

“Willard Mayer, sir. I’m the president’s German translator. At least I was. And we said hello in the corridor of the Mena House Hotel last Tuesday.”

“Then you are the unfortunate young man who saved the life of the German dictator,” said Churchill. Even in the open air, there was a loud echoing timbre to his voice, as well as a slight speech impediment, more noticeable in person than on radio. It made me think the prime minister must once have had a small problem with his palate. “And whose subsequent actions have caused the collapse of the parley with Hitler and his dreadful gang.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Mayer, I venture to think that you believe the failure of these peace talks is something to be lamented, as doubtless Mr. Stalin does, and your own president, to be sure. I have an enormous admiration and affection for Mr. Roosevelt, indeed for all Americans. You must know I am half American myself. But I tell you frankly, sir, that this policy was ill conceived. Hitler is a leviathan of wickedness, a bloodthirsty guttersnipe unparalleled in the history of tyranny and evil, and we have not fought for four long years only now, when victory is in our sights, to turn around and make a peace with these foul fanatics. So do not hold yourself to blame for this morning’s fiasco. No civilized government could ever have countenanced having diplomatic relations with this Nazi power, a power that spurns Christian ethics, cheers its onward course by a barbarous paganism, vaunts the spirit of aggression and conquest, derives strength and perverted pleasure from persecution, and uses with pitiless brutality the threat of massacre against the innocents. That power could not ever be the trusted friend of democracy, and to have made a peace with Hitler would have been morally indecent and constitutionally disastrous. In a matter of a few years, perhaps a few months, your country and mine would have come to regret that we did not scotch this snake when we had the chance. I tell you, Willard Mayer, do not hold yourself to blame. The only shame is that such a repugnant course of action was ever contemplated at all, and akin to the man who stroked a rabid dog and said how gentle it seemed to be, until it bit him, whereof he fell sick and died. We do not want Hitler’s peace any more than we wanted Hitler’s war, for only a fool comes down from a tree to look into the eyes of a wounded tiger.”

Churchill took a seat beside a cherry tree and I sat down beside him.

“This is only the beginning of the reckoning,” he said. “The first taste of the world’s judgment on Nazi Germany, and many stern days lie ahead of us. The best of our young men will be killed, almost certainly. That is not your fault, nor is it your president’s fault. Rather, it is the fault of that bloodthirsty Austrian butcher who led us down the dark stairs and into the abyss of a European war. No more should you regret saving Herr Hitler’s life, for it would have dishonored us all to have invited him here and seen him murdered in our midst, like some ancient Roman tyrant, for that would have been to have made ourselves look as vile and detestable as he who has murdered his way across Europe and Russia. The destiny of mankind should never be decided by the trajectory of an assassin’s bullet.

“And now I must leave you,” and Churchill stood up, with some difficulty. “If the black dog returns to growl at your heels, I offer you these three pieces of advice. One, strip off your shirt and place yourself in some direct sunlight, which I have found has a most restorative and uplifting effect. The second is to take up painting. It is a pastime that will take you out of yourself when that seems like an unpleasant place to be. And my third piece of advice is to go to a party and drink a little too much champagne, which is no less efficacious than the sun in lifting the gloom. Wine is, after all, the greatest gift that the sun has made to us. Fortunately for you, I myself am giving a party to celebrate my birthday on Tuesday, and I should be delighted if you would come.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m not sure that Marshal Stalin would welcome my being there.”

“Since it is not Marshal Stalin’s birthday-assuming that there was ever such an occasion for celebration-that need not concern you at all, Mr. Mayer. I shall expect you at the British embassy at eight o’clock on Tuesday evening. Black tie. No dog.”

I found my ears were still ringing with Churchill’s words long after the prime minister had gone and I was on my way back to Camp Amirabad in an army jeep, certain that I had just met the one man in the world who embodied truth and who would demonstrate the courage of truthfulness.

2100 Hours

At night there is no sun. There is only darkness. In Iran, the darkness comes quickly and with its own peculiar demons. I lay awake on my bed in a Quonset hut, smoking cigarettes and quietly getting drunk. Just after ten o’clock, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find a tall, round-shouldered man, who had the looselimbed look and large feet of a basketball player. He was wearing a white coat on top of his army fatigues and eyed the drink and the cigarette in my hand with a combination of military and medical disapproval.

“Professor Mayer?”

“If that’s what’s written on the tag on my toe.” I turned away from the open door and sat down on my bed. “Come on in. Pour yourself a drink.”

“No, thanks, sir. I’m on duty.”

“Nice to know someone is on duty.”

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant John Kaplan,” he said, advancing only a short way into my room. “I’m the assistant chief medical officer in the army field hospital here at Camp Amirabad.”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant Kaplan. I’m only a little tight. No need for the stomach pump just yet.”

“It’s Mr. Pawlikowski, sir. The Secret Service guy. He’s asking for you.”

“For me?” I laughed and sipped my drink. “Asking, as in wants to talk or to tell me I’m a son of a bitch? Well, I’m feeling a little fragile right now.”

“I don’t think he’s angry.”

“No? I would be if someone stopped me from-” I smiled and started again, with the official version. “If someone had put a hole in my liver. How is he, anyway?”

“Stable.”

“Will he make it?”

“It’s too early to say. In themselves, most liver injuries are simple. Sepsis is the main postoperative problem. And rebleeding. And bile leaks.” Kaplan shrugged. “But he’s in good hands. I was a hepatologist at Cedars Sinai before the war. With anyone else but me I’d say his chances might not be so good.”

“Good to meet a man who still has faith in what he does.” I nodded. “I wish I could say the same.”

“Will you come?”

I stood up and collected my coat off the back of my door. As I put it on, I saw that there was still some blood on the sleeve. It was Pawlikowski’s blood, but I almost wished it had been mine.

I followed Kaplan out of the Quonset. He switched on a GI anglehead flashlight and led the way along some duckboards.

“What happened, anyway?” he asked. “Information is a little confused. Someone said that he tried to shoot the president.”

“No. That’s not true. I was there. I saw it happen. Nobody tried to shoot FDR.”

“So what happened?”

“It was an accident, that’s all. Around the president, I think that some of these Secret Service boys get a little trigger happy, that’s all.”

The lies had started.

John Pawlikowski was pale and asleep when I found him. There was a plasma drip in his arm and a couple of cannulae in his lower torso. He looked like a chemical plant.

Kaplan took Pawlikowski’s arm and squeezed it gently.

“Don’t wake him,” I said. “Let him sleep for now. I’ll sit with him awhile.”

The doctor pulled up a chair and I sat down.

“Besides, being in here gives me an excuse to leave that bottle alone. I take it alcohol is forbidden in here.”

“Strictly forbidden,” said Kaplan, smiling.

“Good.”

Kaplan went away to check on one of his other patients, and, clasping my hands, I leaned my elbows on Pawlikowski’s bed. Anyone who didn’t know me might have thought I was praying for him. And in a way I was. I was praying John Pawlikowski would wake up and tell me who he had been working for. So far I seemed to be the only member of the American delegation who wondered what kind of German spy it was that attempted to kill Adolf Hitler. I already had a few ideas on that one. But I was tired. It had been a long and stressful day followed by an alcohol-fueled evening and, after ten or fifteen minutes, I fell asleep.

I awoke with a start and the beginnings of a hangover, to hear the sound of a U.S. Military Police siren. Some kind of an emergency was on its way. Moments later, several cars drew up noisily outside the field hospital. Then the doors flew open and Roosevelt was wheeled inside on a hospital gurney, accompanied by Mike Reilly, Agents Rauff and Qualter, his physician, Admiral McIntire, and his valet, Arthur Prettyman. They were followed by several U.S. Army medical personnel, who quickly lifted Roosevelt onto a bed and began to examine him.

My head was clearer now. I went over to see what was happening.

The president did not look at all well; his shirt was wet through with perspiration, his face was deathly pale, and from time to time he was wracked with stomach cramps. One of the doctors attending him removed Roosevelt’s pince-nez and handed it to Reilly. The doctor was Kaplan. He straightened up for a moment and surveyed the melee of people around Franklin Roosevelt with obvious disapproval. “Will all those who are not medical personnel please step back? Let’s give the president some air.”

Reilly backed into me. He looked around.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

He shook his head and shrugged. “The boss was hosting a dinner for Stalin and Churchill. Steak and baked potatoes cooked by the Filipino mess boys he brought on the trip. One minute he’s fine, talking about having access to the Baltic Sea or something, and the next he’s looking like shit. If he hadn’t already been sitting down in his chair, he’d have fainted for sure. Anyway, we wheeled him out of there and then McIntire decided we should bring him here. Just in case-”

Roosevelt twisted down on the bed again, holding his stomach painfully.

“Just in case he was poisoned,” continued Reilly.

“I guess anything’s possible after this morning.”

“The boss mixed the cocktails himself,” objected Reilly. “Martinis. The way he always does. You know, too much gin, too much ice. That’s all he drank. Churchill had one or two and he’s fine. But Stalin didn’t really touch his at all. He said it was too cold on the stomach.”

“Very sensible of him. They are.”

“It made me think-I don’t know what.”

“Either he just didn’t like them, or Stalin’s now afraid of being poisoned himself,” I said. “And consequently reluctant to drink anything that someone he doesn’t know has prepared.”

Reilly nodded.

“On the other hand…” I hesitated to say anything more.

“Let’s hear it, Professor.”

“I’m not an expert on these things. But it seems likely that the president’s being in that wheelchair gives him a very slow metabolism. Mike, it could be he drank more of that poison this morning than we figured on. This could be a delayed reaction.” I glanced at my watch. “It might just have taken ten hours for the poison to take its effect on him. What does McIntire say?”

“I don’t think that’s even occurred to him. McIntire thinks it’s indigestion. Or some kind of seizure. I mean the man is under so much pressure right now. After you-know-who skedaddled, I’ve never seen the boss so depressed. But then he picked himself right up again for this afternoon’s Big Three. Like nothing happened, you know?” He shook his head. “You should tell someone what you just told me. One of the doctors.”

“Not me, Mike. When I cry wolf, people have a nasty habit of saying, ‘What big teeth you have.’ Besides, that kind of information would only be useful if we knew what kind of poison was involved here.” I shrugged. “There’s only one man who can tell us and he’s unconscious.” I jerked my head behind me at Pawlikowski, lying on his hospital bed.

“Well, he’s awake now, ” said Reilly. The agent glanced back at Roosevelt as one of the U.S. Army doctors finished fitting an intravenous line into the president’s arm to help rehydrate him. “Come on,” he said, and headed toward Pawlikowski’s bed. “There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s see what we can find out.”

Pawlikowski was staring up at the fan on the ceiling so that for a moment I almost thought he might be dead. But then his eyes flickered as he let out a long sigh and they closed again. Reilly leaned over his pillow. “John? It’s me, Mike. Can you hear me, John?”

Pawlikowski opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. “Mike?”

“How are you doing, pal?”

“Not so good. Some dumb bastard shot me.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. I guess you were aiming for my leg, huh? You always were a lousy shot.”

“Why’d you do it, John?”

“It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time, I guess.”

“Want to tell us all about it?” Reilly paused. “I brought Professor Mayer along.”

“Good. I wanted to tell him something.”

“John, before you do-”

“What about Hitler?” asked Pawlikowski. “What happened to him?”

“He went home, John.”

Pawlikowski closed his eyes for a moment. “Mike? Give me a cigarette, will you?”

“Sure, John, anything you say.” Reilly lit a cigarette and then placed it carefully between Pawlikowski’s lips. “John. I need to know something right now. You poisoned Hitler’s water, right?”

Pawlikowski smiled. “You noticed that, huh?”

“What kind of poison was it?”

“Strychnine. You should have let me kill him, Mike.”

But Reilly was already heading toward Admiral McIntire and Dr. Kaplan. Pawlikowski closed his eyes for a moment. I removed the cigarette from his mouth.

“Professor? Give me a drink of water, will you?”

I poured him a glass of water and helped him to drink it. When he had swallowed enough he shook his head and then looked at me strangely. But I was getting used to this. And Pawlikowski wasn’t in the same league as Stalin when it came to giving me a look.

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” I asked. But I knew very well what he meant. Reilly came back and went around the other side of Pawlikowski’s bed. I put the cigarette back in his mouth.

“How does it feel to be the man who saved Hitler’s life?”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve done good deeds that I felt better about.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No.”

“What did you want to say to Professor Mayer?” asked Reilly.

“Only that he was right all along, Mike. And to apologize to him. For killing his girlfriend.”

“You killed that woman in Cairo? The princess?”

“Had to. She could have given me away. You understand, don’t you, Professor? I was there that afternoon when you came calling unexpectedly. I was up in the radio room when you arrived. Receiving a message from Berlin. When you showed up I had to wait until you and Elena were in bed before I could sneak out the back door. Which is why I forgot to burn the signal from Berlin. I remembered later. And came back in the small hours, to burn it. I figured you would be in bed with her again, and otherwise engaged. She was a great-looking broad. Nothing between us, though. Not that I would have minded, of course. But it was strictly professional. Anyway, I had just come in when I saw you up in the radio room. I stayed downstairs while you went back in her bedroom. And after you’d left the house, I went back in there and saw that you’d taken the signal.”

“But why didn’t you just kill me? Why kill her?”

Pawlikowski smiled thinly. The shadows under his eyes looked like the ash on the end of his cigarette and his lips were blue, as if the priest had been there slightly before me, with the communion wine.

“After all that heat you’d made about a German spy? No way. Killing one member of the president’s delegation was risky enough. But two? Besides, she would never have stood for it. She was fond of you, Professor. Very fond. So, I killed her, hid the radio, and made it look like you had done it. I’m sorry about that, Professor. Really I am. But I had no choice. Killing Hitler was more important than anything.”

“Yes, I see. But who put you up to this? Can you tell us who you were working for?”

“The Abwehr. Admiral Canaris. And some people in the Wehrmacht who don’t want the Allies to make a peace with Germany that leaves Hitler in power. They figured it might be easier killing him here than in Germany. That he wouldn’t be expecting it here. You see, back in Germany it gets more difficult each time they try.”

“But why you?”

“I’m a Polish-German Jew from Danzig, that’s why.” Pawlikowski took another drag off the cigarette. “That’s all the reason I needed.”

“Who recruited you, and where?”

Pawlikowski smiled. “I can’t tell you that.”

“But Thornton Cole was on to you, right? That’s why he was killed.”

“He wasn’t on to me. But he was on to my contact in Washington. That’s why he was killed. But I didn’t do it. Someone else did that.”

“But you did kill Ted Schmidt, aboard the USS Iowa, right?”

“He came to me with information that would have persuaded the police to take a closer look at Cole’s murder. It was a split-second thing. I guessed that if the Metro cops managed to find out who really did kill him, then they might find my contact. And that might put them on to me. That it might stop me from killing Hitler. So I hit him and threw the body overboard.”

“And on the Iowa, it was you who radioed your German friends back in the States, for the same reason.”

Pawlikowski nodded. “I love the boss,” he whispered. “I love him like he was my own dad. But he should never have tried to make peace with Hitler. You can’t make deals with someone like that. I’m sorry I killed those people. I didn’t like doing it. But I’d do it again, tomorrow, if it gave me another chance to kill Hitler.” He grabbed Reilly’s hand. “I’m sorry I let you down, Mike. And the boss, too. Tell him that for me, will you? But I did what I thought was right.”

“We all did, John. You, me, the professor here, and the president. We all did what we thought was right.”

“I guess so,” said Pawlikowski and fell asleep once again.

Reilly took his cigarette and stubbed it out. Straightening up, he glanced over his shoulder at the president, who was already looking a little more comfortable. We went to his bed. Dr. Kaplan said that poisoned or not, he was now quite stable and was going to be okay.

“It’s been a helluva long day,” groaned Reilly, pressing a fist into the small of his back. “So, Professor? What do you think?”

“I think that, all things considered, I wish I’d never left Princeton.”