Britain — like a cleansing fire. But it will cleanse nothing if the United States puts out the flames.
Chapter Thirty-seven
He left the book unclosed, sprinted to the nearest exit and galloped down the stairs two at a time. Heading back onto York Street, his mind was running faster than his body, processing and analyzing what he had just read. He could not say he had absorbed its meaning: it was too big, too important.
He turned left and crossed Elm Street, dodging the yellow beams of car headlights switched on in the summer twilight. As he walked down York Street he knew he was taking an absurd gamble, one that was almost certainly doomed. And yet he had no idea where else he could turn.
She had mentioned this location only once, in an aside during their dinner, but it had lodged in his memory. And there it was, just next to the School of Architecture, confirmed by a small sign in the window: the offices of the Yale Daily News.
Dorothy Lake had also said that even in summer, when there was no daily newspaper to produce, there were usually people around — ambitious, would-be editors preparing for the new term. And indeed, when he pushed at the door, it opened.
He seemed to have entered some kind of basement, exposed brick arches rising around him as if he were under a railway bridge. In front were tables covered with newspapers, battered typewriters, rulers and scalpels. The floor was littered with old ink ribbons, photographs, discarded flashbulbs and piles and piles of paper. All around the walls were recent front pages of the newspaper.
James picked his way through this paraphernalia to reach a staircase on the other side, its first few steps similarly covered with debris. To his relief, he could hear voices. He had not even reached the top when he saw Dorothy.
She had her back to him, turning only when a young man — who, from his posture, James took to be the editor — gestured in his direction. Her face, a picture of shock, told him what he already knew. A moment later, she recovered her poise and gave him a bright smile. ‘Dr Zennor!’
James said nothing. He held her gaze for a long moment and felt some small gratification when she blushed. So she was capable of feeling shame. ‘Could we speak? In private?’ he said at last.
Dorothy looked away. She said something he couldn’t quite catch to the editor then walked briskly across the room, her heels clicking on the stone floor. As she passed James on the staircase, he caught the scent of her, as potent as it had been last night, and for a moment felt a renegade stab of desire. Then he turned and followed her.
She tried to seize the initiative, speaking even before they had reached the bottom. ‘James, it’s so good to see you. I’d wondered where you’d-’
‘No need for any of that, Dorothy.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She bit her lip, a gesture of feigned innocence, but he hardened his heart.
‘Yes, you do. The Dean is your uncle and you’ve been telling him — and the police — what I’m up to.’
For a moment he wondered if she was going to brazen it out, but then she looked down at her feet, which was all the confession James needed.
‘What kind of woman does that? Getting a man to trust you, to spill his guts out, telling you everything that matters to him, then betraying him — for what? Did your uncle pay you for this information? Did he tell you to kiss me, Miss Lake? Was that his idea? Was that part of the job, too, eh? Because I know what kind of woman behaves like that and they’re not called reporters.’
She slapped him hard, across the face. It stung.
‘OK, fine,’ he said. ‘But we’re not even yet. I need to know where your uncle is. Where has he gone?’
‘My uncle?’
He found himself looking at her, his gaze taking her all in. She was tall, her body curved and shapely, her hair styled just so. She had the patina of a charming, sophisticated woman polished to a shine. And yet he was sure he had glimpsed something else, someone else, a moment ago, beneath that hard veneer, just as he had for a fleeting moment when they had had dinner together, the moment he had talked about his son, Harry. His voice softened.
‘Dorothy, you do this so well. Playing the sharp, beautiful cynic. The woman of the world. I bet they love it here.’ He gestured at the wall of yellowing front pages. ‘But you weren’t always like this. And you won’t always be like this.’
She gave him a curious look, almost a smirk, as if he were being a sap.
He carried on, undeterred. ‘One day you’ll be a mother. And you’ll be a good one too.’ He watched her eyes narrow, puzzled, assessing. ‘You’ll love your child so much and that child will love you. And the only thing you won’t be strong enough to bear will be being apart from that little boy or little girl.’ The smirk began to fade. ‘If someone took your child from you, you’d fight like a tiger to get them back, I know you would. And you know it too. So I’m asking you, Dorothy, as a father addressing the good mother you will one day be, and as a husband speaking to the loyal, loving wife I know you will one day be — please, help me. Tell me where Preston McAndrew has gone.’
For a moment she looked bewildered, a lost child herself. Then she took two or three faltering steps, gripping the shoulder of a chair piled high with old notebooks to keep herself steady. She kept her eyes down as she spoke, her voice so small he could barely hear her. ‘I don’t understand how Florence and Harry are caught up in this.’
‘Leave that to me. Just tell me where the Dean has gone.’
She touched her eye with just the side of her index finger, using the knuckle rather than the tip so as not to smudge her make-up, a minute, feminine gesture that made him instantly long for Florence. For long seconds she said nothing and James fought the urge to shake the information out of her.
At last it seemed she had reached a decision. She looked up, her blue eyes suddenly candid. ‘He left in a hurry. Very excited. More excited than I’ve ever seen him.’
It required enormous willpower for James not to reply immediately, not to demand more information, not to speak too loudly and break the moment. But he forced himself to remain silent and to wait.
He was rewarded when she spoke again. ‘He said he was off to have an important meeting. “The most important meeting of my entire life” is what he actually said. He said that he had to go right away, that what he was about to do would be the greatest act of service he could ever perform for his fellow man.’
James reeled. It was confirmation of what he feared most, that the deadly idea McAndrew had articulated in that Cleansing Fire lecture was not some abstract hypothesis for rarefied academic discussion. It was a plan, one he aimed to implement in the real world — and soon. Of course he would describe it that way, not as an abominable act of wickedness but as the greatest act of service he could ever perform for his fellow man. He surely could not have been referring to anything else.
James could wait no more, repeating his question for the fourth time. ‘Where has he gone?’
Was he imagining it, or were those blue eyes wet with tears? Dorothy stepped closer, so that they were standing just inches apart. She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him towards her. ‘I hope that one day I meet a man as good as you, James Zennor. And that he loves me the way you love your wife.’ She hugged him tight, then moved her mouth next to his ear and whispered, ‘Washington. He’s gone to Washington, DC.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
London
He straightened the cloth across the small dining table one more time, cocking his head to check that it was right. Of course it was and of course it did not matter if it wasn’t. Yet Taylor Hastings could not help himself. He was as nervous about this meeting as any in his entire life.
And yet the nervousness was three parts excitement to one part anxiety. He believed this would be, to quote that bombastic blusterer who was now Britain’s prime minister, his ‘finest hour’. He had done what all great men do: seized his opportunity and bent history to his will. His act of heroism would be secret now, but one day it would
