The Winds of War

whatever, as it turns out. The authorization was sent out a while ago. It may have been delayed en route, the way things often are nowadays. At any rate it’s all set. We double-checked by cable with Rome. Dr. Jastrow can have his passport any time he’ll come down from Siena to pick it up, and has been so informed. It’s all locked up.”

“Good. That was fast work.”

“As I say, there was no work to do. It had already been taken care of.”

“Well, my son will be mighty glad to hear about this.”

“Oh yes. About your son.” Whitman uttered a laugh. He rose, hands jammed in the patch pockets of his green and brown jacket, and leaned casually on the edge of his desk near Pug, as though to make the chat less official. “I hope you’ll take this in the right spirit. The Undersecretary was disconcerted to have this thing raised at the President’s dinner table.”

“Naturally. I was mighty jarred myself. So was my wife. I chewed Byron out afterward, gave him holy hell, but the thing was done.”

“I’m awfully glad you feel that way. Suppose you just drop a little note to the President, sort of apologizing for your son’s rather touching gaffe, and mentioning that you’ve learned the matter was all taken care of long ago?”

“An unsolicited letter from me to the President?”

“You’re on very good terms with the President. You just dined with him.”

“But he asked for a report from Mr. Welles.”

The captain and the State Department man looked each other in the eye. Whitman gave him the brightest of smiles and paced the little office. “We went to a rather dramatic effort this morning, Captain, just to make sure young Mrs. Henry could get home. Literally thousands of these cases of Jewish refugees come to us, all the time. The pressure is enormous. It’s absolutely unbelievable. Now the problem in your family is settled. We hoped you’d be more appreciative.”

Rightly or wrongly, Henry sensed an unpleasant nuance in the way the man said “your family,” and he broke in, “Natalie and her uncle aren’t Jewish refugees, they’re a couple of Americans.”

“There was some question, Captain — apparently a very serious question — as to whether Aaron Jastrow was technically an American. Now we’ve cleared it up. In return I really think you should write that letter.”

“I’d like to oblige you, but as I say, I wasn’t asked to address the President on this subject.” Pug got to his feet. “Is there something else?”

Whitman confronted him, hands in jacket pockets. “Let me be frank. The Undersecretary wants a report from me, for him to forward to the President. But just a word from you would conclude the matter. So -”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Whitman, I might even write it, if I could find out why a distinguished man like Jastrow got stopped by a technicality when he wanted to come home. That’s certainly what the President wants to know. But I can’t give him the answer. Can you?” Whitman looked at Victor Henry with a blank face. “Okay. Maybe somebody in your section can. Whoever was responsible had better try to explain.”

“Captain Henry, the Undersecretary of State may find your refusal hard to understand.”

“Why should he? He’s not asking me to write this letter. You are.”

Pulling hairy hands from his pockets, Whitman chopped both of them in the air with a gesture that was both a plea and a threat. He suddenly looked weary and disagreeable. “It’s a direct suggestion of the State Department.”

“I work for the Navy Department,” said Pug. “And I have to get back on the job. Many thanks.”

He walked out, telephoned the Norfolk Navy Yard from a booth in the lobby, and sent a message to Byron on the S-45. His son called him at his office late in the afternoon.

“Eeyow!” shouted Byron, hurting his father’s ear. “No kidding, Dad! Do you believe it this time?”

“Yes.”

“God, how marvellous. Now if she can only get on a plane or a boat! But she’ll do it. She can do anything. Dad, I’m so happy! Hey! Be honest now. Was I right to talk to the President, or was I wrong? She’s coming home, Dad!”

“You had one hell of a nerve. Now I’m goddamned busy and I hope you are. Get back to work.”

Chapter 43

“…Therefore I have tonight issued a proclamation that an UNLIMITED national emergency exists, and requires the strengthening of our defenses to the extreme limit of our national power and authority…”

“Okay!” exclaimed Pug Henry, sitting up, striking a fist into a palm, and staring at the radio. “There he goes!”

Roosevelt’s rich voice, which in broadcasting always took on a theatrical ring and swing, rose now to a note of passion.

“I repeat the words of the signers of the Declaration of Independence — that little band of patriots, fighting long ago against overwhelming odds, but certain, as we are, of ultimate victory: ‘With a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.’”

After a moment of crackling static, the announcer sounded awed: “You have been listening to an address by the President of the United States, speaking from the East Room of the White House in Washington.”

That’s terrific! It’s far more than I expected.” Pug snapped the radio off. “He finally did it!”

Rhoda said, “He did? Funny. I thought he just pussy-footed around.”

“Pussy-footed! Weren’t you listening? ‘We are placing our armed forces in position… we will use them to repel attack… an unlimited national emergency exists…’”

“What does all that mean?” Rhoda yawned and stretched on the chaise lounge, kicking her legs. One pink- feathered mule dropped off her naked foot. “Is it the same as war?”

“Next thing to it. We convoy right away. And that’s just for starters.”

“Makes me wonder,” said Rhoda, flipping the negligee over her legs, “whether we should pursue those houses any further.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll surely give you a sea command if we go to war, Pug.”

“Who knows? In any case, we need a place to hang our hats.”

“I suppose so. Have you thought any more about which house you’d want?”

Pug grimaced. Here was an old dilemma. Twice before they had bought a bigger house in Washington than he could afford, with Rhoda’s money.

“I like the N street house.”

“But, dear, that means no guest room, and precious little entertaining.”

“Look, if your heart is set on Foxhall Road, okay.”

“We’ll see, honey. I’ll look again at both of them.” Rhoda rose, stretching and smiling. “It’s that time. Coming to bed?”

“Be right up.” Pug opened a briefcase.

Rhoda swished out, purring, “Bring me a bourbon-and-water when you come.”

Pug did not know why he was back in her good graces, or why he had fallen out in the first place. He was too preoccupied to dwell on that. His arithmetic on merchant shipping was obsolete if the United States was about to convoy. Transfers of ownership and other roundabout tricks could be dropped. It was a whole new situation now, and Pug thought the decision to convoy would galvanize the country. He made two bourbon-and-waters, nice and rich, and went upstairs humming.

* * *

The yeoman’s voice on the intercom was apologetic. “Sir, beg your pardon. Will you talk to Mr. Alistair Tudsbury?” Victory Henry, sweating in shirt-sleeves over papers laid out on every inch of his desk, as trying — at the urgent demand of the office of the Chief of Naval Operations — to bring up to date before nightfall the operation