Diaz said: “So you would give us guns-”
“Sell, not give,” Otto murmured.
“You would sell us guns now, in exchange for a promise that we would withhold oil from the British in the event of war.” Diaz was clearly not used to the elaborate waltz of normal diplomatic conversation.
“It might be worth discussing.” In the language of diplomacy that was a yes.
The footman called out: “Monsieur Honore de Picard de la Fontaine!” and the presentations began.
Otto gave Diaz a direct look. “What I’d like to know from you is how such a proposal might be received in Mexico City.”
“I believe President Huerta would be interested.”
“So, if the German minister to Mexico, Admiral Paul von Hintze, were to make a formal approach to your president, he would not receive a rebuff.”
Walter could tell that his father was determined to get an unequivocal answer to this. He did not want the German government to risk the embarrassment of having such an offer flung back in their faces.
In Walter’s anxious view, embarrassment was not the greatest danger to Germany in this diplomatic ploy. It risked making an enemy of the United States. But it was frustratingly difficult to point this out in the presence of Diaz.
Answering the question, Diaz said: “He would not be rebuffed.”
“You’re sure?” Otto insisted.
“I guarantee it.”
Walter said: “Father, may I have a word-”
But the footman cried: “Herr Walter von Ulrich!”
Walter hesitated, and his father said: “Your turn. Go on!”
Walter turned away and stepped into the Throne Room.
The British liked to overawe their guests. The high coffered ceiling had diamond-patterned coving, the red plush walls were hung with enormous portraits, and at the far end the throne was overhung by a high canopy with dark velvet drapes. In front of the throne stood the king in a naval uniform. Walter was pleased to see the familiar face of Sir Alan Tite at the king’s side-no doubt whispering names in the royal ear.
Walter approached and bowed. The king said: “Good to see you again, von Ulrich.”
Walter had rehearsed what he would say. “I hope Your Majesty found the discussions at Ty Gwyn interesting.”
“Very! Although the party was dreadfully overshadowed, of course.”
“By the pit disaster. Indeed, so tragic.”
“I look forward to our next meeting.”
Walter understood this was his dismissal. He walked backward, bowing repeatedly in the required manner, until he reached the doorway.
His father was waiting for him in the next room.
“That was quick!” Walter said.
“On the contrary, it took longer than normal,” said Otto. “Usually the king says: ‘I’m glad to see you in London,’ and that’s the end of the conversation.”
They left the palace together. “Admirable people, the British, in many ways, but soft,” said Otto as they walked up St. James’s Street to Piccadilly. “The king is ruled by his ministers, the ministers are subject to Parliament, and members of Parliament are chosen by the ordinary men. What sort of way is that to run a country?”
Walter did not rise to that provocation. He believed that Germany’s political system was out of date, with its weak parliament that could not stand up to the kaiser or the generals; but he had had that argument with his father many times, and besides, he was still worried by the conversation with the Mexican envoy. “What you said to Diaz was risky,” he said. “President Wilson won’t like us selling rifles to Huerta.”
“What does it matter what Wilson thinks?”
“The danger is that we will make a friend of a weak nation, Mexico, by making an enemy of a strong nation, the United States.”
“There’s not going to be a war in America.”
Walter supposed that was true, but all the same he was uneasy. He did not like the idea of his country being at odds with the United States.
In his apartment they took off their antiquated costumes and dressed in tweed suits with soft-collared shirts and brown trilby hats. Back in Piccadilly they boarded a motorized omnibus heading east.
Otto had been impressed by Walter’s invitation to meet the king at Ty Gwyn in January. “Earl Fitzherbert is a good connection,” he had said. “If the Conservative Party comes to power he may be a minister, perhaps foreign secretary one day. You must keep up the friendship.”
Walter had been inspired. “I should visit his charity clinic, and make a small donation.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Perhaps you would like to come with me?”
His father had taken the bait. “Even better.”
Walter had an ulterior motive, but his father was all unsuspecting.
The bus took them past the theaters of the Strand, the newspaper offices of Fleet Street, and the banks of the financial district. Then the streets became narrower and dirtier. Top hats and bowlers were replaced by cloth caps. Horse-drawn vehicles predominated, and motorcars were few. This was the East End.
They got off at Aldgate. Otto looked around disdainfully. “I didn’t know you were taking me to the slums,” he said.
“We’re going to a clinic for the poor,” Walter replied. “Where would you expect it to be?”
“Does Earl Fitzherbert himself come here?”
“I suspect he just pays for it.” Walter knew perfectly well that Fitz had never been there in his life. “But he will of course hear about our visit.”
They zigzagged through backstreets to a nonconformist chapel. A hand-painted wooden sign read: “Calvary Gospel Hall.” Pinned to the board was a sheet of paper with the words:
Baby Clinic
Free of Charge
Today and
every Wednesday
Walter opened the door and they went in.
Otto made a disgusted noise, then took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Walter had been there before, so he had been expecting the smell, but even so it was startlingly unpleasant. The hall was full of ragged women and half-naked children, all filthy dirty. The women sat on benches and the children played on the floor. At the far end of the room were two doors, each with a temporary label, one saying “Doctor” and the other “Patroness.”
Near the door sat Fitz’s aunt Herm, listing names in a book. Walter introduced his father. “Lady Hermia Fitzherbert, my father, Herr Otto von Ulrich.”
At the other end of the room, the door marked “Doctor” opened and a ragged woman came out carrying a tiny baby and a medicine bottle. A nurse looked out and said: “Next, please.”
Lady Hermia consulted her list and called: “Mrs. Blatsky and Rosie!”
An older woman and a girl went into the doctor’s surgery.
Walter said: “Wait here a moment, please, Father, and I’ll fetch the boss.”
He hurried to the far end, stepping around the toddlers on the floor. He tapped on the door marked “Patroness,” and walked in.
The room was little more than a cupboard, and indeed there was a mop and bucket in a corner. Lady Maud Fitzherbert sat at a small table writing in a ledger. She wore a simple dove-gray dress and a broad-brimmed hat. She looked up, and the smile that lit up her face when she saw Walter was bright enough to bring tears to his eyes. She leaped out of her chair and threw her arms around him.
He had been looking forward to this all day. He kissed her mouth, which opened to him immediately. He had kissed several women, but she was the only one he had ever known to press her body against him this way. He felt embarrassed, fearing that she would feel his erection, and he arched his body away; but she only pressed more
