opinion. Why do you say that, Major?”
Walter said: “They don’t love the fatherland. Why do you think they left? They may eat wurst and drink beer, but they’re Americans and they’ll fight for America.”
“What about the Irish-born?”
“Same thing. They hate the British, of course, but when our submarines kill Americans they’ll hate us more.”
Otto said irritably: “How can President Wilson declare war on us? He has just won reelection as the man who kept America out of war!”
Walter shrugged. “In some ways that makes it easier. People will believe he had no option.”
Von Henscher said: “What might hold him back?”
“Protection for ships of neutral countries-”
“Out of the question,” his father interrupted. “Unrestricted means unrestricted. That’s what the navy wanted, and that’s what His Majesty has given them.”
Von Henscher said: “If domestic issues aren’t likely to trouble Wilson, is there any chance he may be distracted by foreign affairs in his own hemisphere?” He turned to Otto. “Mexico, for example?”
Otto smiled, looking pleased. “You’re remembering the Ypiranga. I must admit, that was a small triumph of aggressive diplomacy.”
Walter had never shared his father’s glee over the incident of the shipload of arms sent by Germany to Mexico. Otto and his cronies had made President Wilson look foolish, and they could yet come to regret it.
“And now?” said von Henscher.
“Most of the U.S. Army is either in Mexico or stationed on the border,” said Walter. “Ostensibly they’re chasing a bandit called Pancho Villa, who raids across the border. President Carranza is bursting with indignation at the violation of his sovereign territory, but there isn’t much he can do.”
“If he had help from us, would that change anything?”
Walter considered. This kind of diplomatic mischief-making struck him as risky, but it was his duty to answer the questions as accurately as he could. “The Mexicans feel they were robbed of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. They have a dream of winning those territories back, much like the French pipe dream of winning back Alsace and Lorraine. President Carranza may be stupid enough to believe it could be done.”
Otto said eagerly: “In any event, the attempt would certainly take American attention away from Europe!”
“For a while,” Walter agreed reluctantly. “In the long-term our interference might strengthen those Americans who would like to join in the war on the Allied side.”
“The short term is what interests us. You heard von Holtzendorff-our submarines are going to bring the Allies to their knees in five months. All we want is to keep the Americans busy that long.”
Von Henscher said: “What about Japan? Is there any chance the Japs might be persuaded to attack the Panama Canal, or even California?”
“Realistically, no,” Walter said firmly. The discussion was venturing farther into the land of fantasy.
But von Henscher persisted. “Nevertheless, the mere threat might tie up more American troops on the West Coast.”
“I suppose it could, yes.”
Otto patted his lips with his napkin. “This is all most interesting, but I must see whether His Majesty needs me.”
They all stood up. Walter said: “If I may say so, General… ”
His father sighed, but von Henscher said: “Please.”
“I believe all this is very dangerous, sir. If word got out that German leaders were even talking about fomenting strife in Mexico, and encouraging Japanese aggression in California, American public opinion would be so outraged that the declaration of war could come much sooner, if not immediately. Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, but this conversation should remain highly secret.”
“Quite all right,” said von Henscher. He smiled at Otto. “Your father and I are the older generation, of course, but we still know a thing or two. You may rely on our discretion.”
Fitz was pleased that the German peace proposal had been spurned, and proud of his part in the process, but when it was over he had doubts.
He thought it over, walking-or, rather, limping-along Piccadilly on the morning of Wednesday, January 17, on his way to his office in the Admiralty. Peace talks would have been a sneaky way for the Germans to consolidate their gains, legitimizing their hold over Belgium, northeastern France, and parts of Russia. For Britain to take part in such talks would have amounted to an admission of defeat. But Britain still had not won.
Lloyd George’s talk of a knockout went down well in the newspapers, but all sensible people knew it was a daydream. The war would go on, perhaps for a year, perhaps longer. And, if the Americans continued to remain neutral, it might end in peace talks after all. What if no one could win this war? Another million men would be killed for no purpose. The thought that haunted Fitz was that Ethel might have been right after all.
And what if Britain lost? There would be a financial crisis, unemployment, and destitution. Working-class men would take up Ethel’s father’s cry and say that they had never been allowed to vote for the war. The people’s rage against their rulers would be boundless. Protests and marches would turn into riots. It was only a little over a century ago that Parisians had executed their king and much of the nobility. Would Londoners do the same? Fitz imagined himself, bound hand and foot, carried on a cart to the place of execution, spat upon and jeered at by the crowd. Worse, he saw the same happening to Maud, and Aunt Herm, and Bea, and Boy. He pushed the nightmare out of his mind.
What a little spitfire Ethel was, he thought with mingled admiration and regret. He had been mortified with embarrassment when his guest was ejected from the gallery during Lloyd George’s speech, but at the same time he found himself even more attracted to her.
Unfortunately, she had turned against him. He had followed her out and caught up with her in the Central Lobby, and she had berated him, blaming him and his kind for prolonging the war. From the way she talked you would think every soldier who died in France had been killed by Fitz personally.
That was the end of his Chelsea scheme. He had sent her a couple of notes but she had not replied. The disappointment hit him hard. When he thought of the delightful afternoons they might have spent in that love nest he felt the loss like an ache in his chest.
However, he had some consolation. Bea had taken his reprimand to heart. She now welcomed him to her bedroom, dressed in pretty nightwear, offering him her scented body as she had when they were first married. In the end she was a well-brought-up aristocratic woman and she knew what a wife was for.
Musing on the compliant princess and the irresistible activist, he entered the Old Admiralty Building to find a partly decoded German telegram on his desk.
It was headed:
Berlin zu Washingon. W.158. 16 January 1917.
Fitz looked automatically at the foot of the decrypt to see who it was from. The name at the end was:
Zimmermann.
His interest was piqued. This was a message from the German foreign minister to his ambassador in the United States. With a pencil Fitz wrote a translation, putting squiggles and question marks where code groups had not been decrypted.
Most secret for Your Excellency’s personal information and to be handed on to the imperial minister in (? Mexico?) with xxxx by a safe route.
The question marks indicated a code group whose meaning was not certain. The decoders were guessing. If they were right, this message was for the German ambassador in Mexico. It was simply being sent via the Washington embassy.
Mexico, Fitz thought. How odd.
The next sentence was completely decoded.
We propose to begin on 1 February unrestricted submarine warfare.
“My God!” Fitz said aloud. It was fearfully expected, but this was firm confirmation-and with a date! The news
