Hitler's peace

“Jesus Christ, that’s a terrifying sight,” joked Roosevelt. “Our own planes in Russian livery. I guess that’s what it will look like if the Commies ever conquer the States, eh, Mike?”

“Painting them is one thing,” said Reilly. “Flying them’s another. The last time I was in this lousy country I learned that to fly with a Russian pilot and live is to lose all fear of death.”

“Mike, I thought you knew,” laughed Roosevelt. “My security exists in inverse proportion to your own insecurity.”

The presidential plane began to make its turn for a landing, banking over a checkerboard of rice fields and banks of puddle mud.

A military escort commanded by General Connolly conveyed Roosevelt and his immediate party to the American legation in the north of the city. I went with the Joint Chiefs, Harriman, Bohlen, and some of the Secret Service to our quarters at Camp Amirabad.

Amirabad was a U.S. Army facility that was still in the process of being built, and it already had a brick barracks, a hospital, a movie theater, some shops, offices, warehouses, and recreational facilities. It looked like any army base in New Mexico or Arizona, and seemed to indicate that the American presence in Teheran was hardly temporary.

As soon as the Joint Chiefs, Bohlen, and I had changed our clothes, we were driven through the streets of Teheran in a convoy of jeeps, cars, and motorcycles to the American legation, where, on the verandah, Secret Service agents Qualter and Rauff were already on guard. I nodded to the agents, and much to my surprise they nodded back.

“Have you got a cigarette?” I asked Qualter. “I seem to have left mine somewhere.”

“Prison, by any chance?” said Qualter, and, smiling wryly, he took out a packet of Kools and tapped one out for me. “Do you mind mentholated?”

“Nope,” I said, quietly noting the brand. “You don’t actually think I killed that woman, do you?”

I didn’t really care what he thought, but I wanted to keep him talking. I was more interested in the discovery that he was smoking Kools.

Qualter lit my cigarette and shrugged. “Not my place to think anything that doesn’t affect the safety of the boss. Hell, I dunno, Professor. You sure don’t look like a murderer, I’ll say that much for you. But, then, you don’t look like a secret agent, either.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I glanced down the front of Qualter’s single-breasted jacket, counting the buttons. There were three, just as there were supposed to be. “Anyway, thanks for the cigarette.”

“That’s okay.” Qualter grinned. “They ain’t mine.”

“Oh? Whose are they?”

But Qualter had already turned away to open the door for the Joint Chiefs. I followed them inside, walking up a wooden ramp that had been built by army carpenters to facilitate Roosevelt’s entry and exit. It seemed the ramp had also presented the American delegation with a problem. Settled in the drawing room, the president was asking for a drink and Ambassador Dreyfus had to explain that the ramp had been built on top of the only entrance to the legation’s wine cellar. He had been obliged to borrow eight bottles of scotch from the British ambassador, Sir Reader Bullard. Reilly heard Dreyfus out politely, then steered the ambassador to the door.

“Jesus,” remarked Roosevelt when Dreyfus had gone. “Forget the scotch, what about the gin? And the vermouth? Mike? How am I going to mix a goddamned martini without any gin and vermouth?”

Reilly nodded at Pawlikowski, who left the room, presumably in search of some gin and vermouth.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” said Hopkins.

I sat down beside Chip Bohlen, facing the president, Hopkins, Admirals King and Leahy, and Ambassador Harriman. I hadn’t seen much of Harriman up close. He was tall, with a prominent jaw and the kind of smile lines that put you in mind of a clown without makeup. He had dark hair, with big furry eyebrows that anchored a forehead as high as Grand Central Station. His father had been a robber baron, one of the big railway magnates, and I supposed he was even richer than my mother. He looked a little how I was feeling, which was nervous.

Seeing that Roosevelt was still talking to Harriman and King, I leaned toward Bohlen and said: “Since most of the interpreting is going to be done by you, it had better be you that reminds the president of any system you want to get going.”

“System?” Bohlen frowned and shook his head. “Hell, there’s not even a stenographer. And as far as I can see, no one seems to have prepared any position papers on questions that might be discussed. Certainly none that I’ve seen. Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit strange?”

“Come to think of it, yes. But that’s FDR. He likes to improvise. Keep things informal.”

“Is that really feasible when you’re discussing the fate of the postwar world? This ought to be about as formal as it can be, don’t you think?”

“Nothing can surprise me anymore, Chip. Not on this trip.”

“What’s in the briefcase?” Hopkins asked me, pointing to the case at my side. “A bomb?”