comment on the state he was in. He had tried to clean up after the battle on the train, but his jacket was ripped, his trousers stained and his face bruised, with dried blood along his jaw and in his scalp. Even before, his face had become thin and drawn, his shattered shoulder distorting the shape beneath his shirt. To Harrison, who had last seen James fit, tanned and youthful in the heady summer of thirty-six, he must have looked a wreck — a premonition of James’s future, aged self.
‘It’s not been an easy time, to be truthful. I stayed on in Spain; fought with the International Brigade.’
‘I remember.’
‘And I was wounded.’
Harrison nodded.
‘Shot in the shoulder. Took a long time to recover.’
‘And your buddy, what was he called? Fine man.’
‘Harry. Harry Knox. Killed, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Same incident.’ James tapped his shoulder in a gesture that cursed the sheer dumb luck of it.
‘I’m real sorry. I went back, you know. To Spain. To cover the war. Several times, even at the end.’
‘I was back in England by then. Oxford.’
‘I thought I was doing my bit for the cause by reporting the war, “telling the world” and all that. But you guys, taking up arms — you’re all heroes, you know that.’
‘I didn’t feel much like a hero.’
‘You were taking a stand against fascism, that’s the point. Not many ready to do that. Especially not here.’
‘So I’ve gathered.’
‘My magazine’s on the right side: the boss would have Roosevelt declare war tonight if he could. But you know public opinion, it’s… Well, put it this way, not many Americans have seen what I’ve seen.’
‘In Spain, you mean?’
‘Spain, Germany, Poland. I’ve been covering this story as best as I can, telling it like it is, but-’
‘People don’t want to know.’
‘People don’t like war, James.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Ed. Some people like war very much. In fact, some people want to see this war run its course, unimpeded, till Britain is reduced to ashes.’
‘You talking about the Yale guy?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Before we get to that, what about the girl?’ the American asked, as they walked out of Union Station, the dome of the US Capitol visible and bright in the early morning sunshine. James had seen it in paintings; maybe the odd news photograph. It was like a pristine version of St Paul’s.
‘What girl?’ For a brief, guilty moment James thought he meant Dorothy Lake.
‘The girl I had to get the letter to? The one in England?’
A shot of pain went through James, as he thought of Florence and Harry at Hope Farm, wherever that might be. Were they still there? Or had they already left? The thought that they might have been spirited away once their location had been discovered, that James had forfeited his one chance to see them again, did not go through his brain, but his flesh, like an electric current of sadness.
‘I’m proud to say Florence Walsingham is now my wife. And the mother of my child.’
Harrison slapped him on the back. ‘Well done, old man. Well done! You couldn’t have married a more beautiful girl. They back home in England?’
James took that as his cue to fill Ed Harrison in — as briefly as he could — on what he knew and how he had come to know it. He did not linger on the disappearance of Florence or Harry, instead focusing narrowly on the Dean’s ‘Cleansing Fire’ lecture and the mysterious death of a subordinate who had apparently stumbled across his plans.
‘You mean to say that one of the country’s most senior scholars actually wants the British to lose the war, just so he can see what happens? Like, for an experiment?’
‘Yes, but also as an end in itself. He’s simply taking eugenic theory to its logical conclusion: we want more of the strong and less of the weak, so why not let war do what it does best?’
‘And eliminate those too weak to survive.’ Harrison shook his head. ‘You’ve had quite a month, haven’t you, my friend? No wonder you look like duck crap.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No offence. But, Jesus. And you think this is why he’s come here?’
‘Based on what he told his niece, yes.’
‘Well, you may be right. Look what’s on page sixteen.’ Ed handed him a newspaper. ‘That’s what I love about the Washington Post: you never know where you’re gonna find a front-page story.’
James read the headline. ‘Demanding “No foreign entanglements,” anti-war campaigners plan next move.’ He skimmed the details: business leaders and politicians coming together… promise to build mass opposition to intervention in the war in Europe… no shortage of funding, several millionaires… political backing in both Senate and the House… strongest support in Chicago and Illinois… lead spokesman the illustrious aviator, Charles H Lindbergh… socialist allies in the Keep America out of War Committee… prime mover Yale Law School student, P Alexander Tudor, who hopes to launch a formal anti-interventionist movement in September, likely to be called the America First Committee…
One word stopped him: Yale. As if reading his mind, Harrison leaned over, pen in hand, and circled the same word. He then said, ‘I’ve asked around. Turns out they’re meeting today, trying to secure some big names on the Hill in time for launch in September.’
James felt a tremor of anticipation run through him. ‘Where?’
‘Willard Hotel. Right by the White House. Sending a message to FDR, nice and direct.’
‘Can we go there now?’
‘I’m ahead of you, Dr Zee.’ As he spoke, Harrison gestured for them to turn right down Constitution Avenue, as wide and grand as a boulevard in Paris. James shot a glance over his shoulder, to check that no one was following. Soon, if not by now, McAndrew would learn that the killer he had hired had failed to complete his mission — and he would surely send another in his place.
‘The meeting’s closed to the public, of course,’ said Ed.
‘Damn.’
‘Worry not, Jimbo. When I say closed to the public, I mean closed to the public. Not the press.’
‘So you’ll be allowed in?’
‘As will you.’ And, with a flourish, Harrison reached into his bag, a deep satchel slung over his shoulder that James remembered from Spain, and produced a camera. Bigger than an encyclopaedia and twice as heavy, with a flashbulb post doubling as a grip for the right hand, it was the object James had seen in a hundred newsreels, but never up close. ‘Congratulations, Jim Zennor, newest addition to Time ’s legendary team of photographers.’
They passed a series of imposing, governmental buildings rendered with imperial grandeur in grey-white stone. This must have been how London looked a century ago, James thought: a capital city with the power to rule the world. How that had changed, the great British Empire now reduced to praying that the young Americans would ride to their rescue. Without their help, his country was doomed. All that muscle, but so useless if America refused to flex it.
He was just beginning to feel the heat — a damp, humid, almost tropical heat — when Ed signalled that they had arrived. The hotel was tall and wedge-shaped; it too would not have looked out of place on a European street corner. Through the windows on one side, he could see waiters in white aprons fussing over guests, lifting chrome plate covers to reveal steaming hot breakfasts. Even from the pavement, James could see a custard-yellow cloud of scrambled eggs placed before a moustached man, distractedly reading his morning newspaper. Even in his agitated state, James worked out that there must have been three weeks’ egg ration on that plate.
They walked into the lobby, as tall as a cathedral and as opulent as a palace, the floor shiny, the pillars dizzyingly high in amber marble, the ceiling decorated in gold. It could have been Versailles. ‘Remember,’ muttered Harrison through gritted ventriloquist’s teeth, ‘you’re the snapper. Hang back.’
James dipped his head to hide his face and whispered back, ‘But you don’t know what McAndrew looks
