He still used the wheelchair, although the treatment had restored his mobility to an amazing degree. Eleanor said he looked twenty years younger, but Franklin Roosevelt still felt uncomfortable.
He knew he wasn't long for the world, even with the treatments devised by Kolhammer's doctors. He might have given himself an additional three or four years at best, but you could never tell. There was so much to do, and he wasn't sure he could see it through to the end. The Transition had proved to be as hideously complicated as he'd expected. Creating the Special Administrative Zone where companies like Douglas and Boeing and Ford could fully exploit the patents they already had on future technologies meant that the market drove the pace of innovation as fast as it possibly could, without sending a shockwave through the "old" economy. But of course, it had also meant establishing an enclave within the body politic of the Republic, which many saw as being a protected reserve for the worst sort of subversive elements. It had cost him enormous amounts of political capital to ram the thing through Congress, even with a sunset clause, and he just knew that his enemies would play merry hell with it at every opportunity. Indeed, they were already doing so. The damnable House Un-American Activities Committee of Congressman Dies had suddenly stopped investigating the Ku Klux Klan and the German American Bund and announced hearings into the Zone that very morning.
Roosevelt had to wonder whether it was significant that Dies had met with Hoover and Tolson for dinner last night.
He really needed a smoke.
Giving up had been remarkably easy after receiving the implant, and it was a wonder how clear-headed he'd become. His mind ran at twice the speed, and he seemed to retain much more of what he read and heard. The physical craving for a cigarette was only a fleeting twinge nowadays, and even that bothered him less and less frequently. But at times like this, he still suffered a powerful need for the soothing familiarity of the habit.
It made him ponder what to do about the cigarette companies when the war was over.
For the moment, however, the war was a long way from being over. In fact, from many angles, the situation looked significantly worse. From the point of view of Lord Halifax, the British ambassador, who sat in the armchair directly across from him in the Oval Office, the course of events must have looked very grim, indeed. A long Roman nose and a high domed forehead conspired to give the ambassador a mournful countenance at the best of times. These last few months, his naturally forlorn expression had grown longer and more strained.
Admiral King wasn't helping.
"Ambassador," King rumbled, "you've got the Trident blocking the Channel. And you still have one of the most powerful fleets in the world anyway. If and when Hitler is fool enough to send his pissant little navy against you, it will be destroyed."
Halifax, who had been born without a hand at the end of his withered left arm, managed to balance a bone china cup of tea on his knee, and take a sip without any apparent effort. "Admiral King," he replied calmly, "the Trident is indeed a powerful deterrent. But she cannot be rearmed. She wasted a good many of her rockets on the Singapore raid."
King raised an eyebrow. "Wasted, you say?"
"You know what I mean, Admiral. It was a marvelous achievement, rescuing so many of our POWs-and yours, I suppose. It played very well with the press, and the Parliament. A second Dunkirk, and all that. But in so many ways, it was irresponsible."
Roosevelt felt the need to break in before this old argument flared up again. There were no representatives of the Multinational Force present, just the president, his three joint chiefs, and the British ambassador. But he'd found, time and again, that whenever two or more people gathered together, they could quickly and easily find themselves coming to blows on this particular topic. Indeed, it had joined religion and politics as a third great social taboo, never to be discussed in bars or at dinner. He knew, as well, that King privately agreed with Halifax, but he could see the navy chief squaring off for an argument.
"Gentlemen," he interjected, "there's no point raking over these coals again. The choice was not ours. It belonged to Kolhammer and his people, and they knew exactly what they were doing. Let's just move on, and deal with the present, shall we?"
It was midmorning in Washington, with an autumn chill lying hard against the windows of his office. Gusting, uncertain winds blew drifts of fallen leaves across the manicured lawns of the White House. The newly formed joint chiefs had gathered to give Halifax some unwelcome news. The U.S. Army simply did not have enough combat-ready divisions to bolster Great Britain's defenses against a renewed threat of invasion. The navy, heavily engaged in the South Pacific and still reeling from Midway and the seizure of convoy PQ 17 by the Soviet Union, could not secure the Atlantic or offer much more than token assistance in the event of a lunge across the channel by the Third Reich. And the army air force was still training pilots and building up its squadrons.
Of all the joints chiefs, Admiral King was the most dedicated to the idea of defeating Japan first. He was a constant critic of the accepted Europe First strategy, and the recent events had only hardened his resolve. "We are already heavily engaged in repelling an invasion, Mr. Ambassador," he said with customary bluntness. "Unless you had forgotten about abandoning your former colony. Remember? Australia? We have nearly a quarter million men down there right now because your Royal Navy built its guns facing the wrong way in Singapore, letting the Japs run wild."
Roosevelt closed his eyes and counted to five, but Halifax was a practiced diplomat and refused to rise to the bait. As brilliant an officer as King was, Roosevelt wished he could curb his tongue sometimes. He was without a doubt the most deeply loathed admiral in the U.S. Navy.
"Do I need to remind you, Mr. Ambassador, that if we lose Australia, we will find it virtually impossible to fight our way back into Asia? Tojo will control the East. He'll also have seized a significant manufacturing base and all the continent's natural resources, including massive uranium deposits."
When King sat down, the other joint chiefs started up, and Halifax listened to all the arguments, sipping from his precariously placed cup of tea, waiting until the last man, General Henry H. Arnold, finished explaining why precious resources were being diverted from building B-17s to B-29s, and even a prototype test squadron of B-52s.
Then the ambassador placed his teacup on the table in front of him and spoke quietly, but with great force. "Do you not see, gentleman, that this is exactly what Hitler is gambling on? That he can strike, and make up for his blunders, while we are still reeling from the aftermath of the Transition. It is exactly what the Japanese have done in the Pacific, withdrawing from China and moving their forces south to block any advance on the Home Islands. You may think yourself safe, protected by two oceans as you are, but we all know they are rushing to develop their own atomic weapons, and the means of delivering them onto your cities. If we give them time-even a little time-they will succeed."
Admiral King had developed the habit of playing devil's advocate in any discussion with the British, and much to Roosevelt's chagrin, he did so again now. "Mr. Ambassador, it's inevitable that Hitler will attempt a Channel crossing. We all agree with that. He shut down the Eastern Front when he had Stalin on the executioner's block. He would only have done that because he discovered what was about to happen out there. And no doubt, Stalin agreed to cease hostilities when records from the future confirmed us as his ultimate foe.
"But Hitler doesn't have it all his own way. I don't believe he can cross the Channel in the face of your air and naval forces. And from what we can gather, he and Stalin have agreed to a cease-fire, not an alliance. We're not facing two enemies. In fact, it's most likely that Stalin is using the breather to build his forces up for an assault into Western Europe."
Halifax pursed his lips, showing his annoyance. "And how, exactly, is that reassuring? Do you imagine that exchanging one tyranny for another is any sort of comfort?" He turned to face Roosevelt. "The British Isles remains the keystone, Mr. President. For the foreseeable future, American security is ultimately to be found in Europe, and you cannot secure Europe without first securing Great Britain.
"I understand the temptation to avoid every crisis and entanglement that might just befall you over the next hundred years. Nobody wants to see their mistakes repeated before they even happen. But the next six months might render all of that null and void. If Hitler controls Britain, you will be trapped inside your continental fortress, forever… or at least until he develops a missile capable of reaching you. You know he's mad enough to start an atomic war. He's most likely planning one against Russia, before he even completes his first bomb."
Roosevelt regarded the ambassador, then considered the faces of his joint chiefs, King, Arnold, and General George C. Marshall. Each man wore the same gloomy expression. It had been an increasingly common sight in Washington, ever since Stalin had pulled out of the war and the Japanese had turned away from China to launch what looked increasingly like a strategic kamikaze raid into the South Pacific.
The president realized he was playing with an imaginary cigarette, and he was irritated with himself for showing the weakness. The subdermal patches had ended his addiction to nicotine, but they could not eradicate the habits of a lifetime.
"General Marshall," he said to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "The ambassador is essentially correct. Hitler is going to invade, or try to anyway, and he's going to do it very soon. He's building up forces just like he did after Dunkirk. He's moved two entire army groups from Russia into France. He's stopped bombing the cities and returned to attacking airfields. We have to assume, given his rapprochement with Moscow, that he is going to receive some sort of help from them, although God only knows what. And if he takes the British Isles, we may find it impossible to take them back.
"I need to know what we can do about it. We are looking at a new Dark Age, General. If these maniacs do develop atomic bombs, we may even be looking at the end of the world."
Marshall shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then spoke. "We've just sent the First Marine and the Americal Division down to MacArthur in Australia, Mr. President. They should have been on Guadalcanal by now, but after Midway we didn't have the Fleet assets to contest the island, and the Japs took it when they swarmed south out of China. It will be months before any more of our divisions come online. Even with the revised training techniques coming out of California-"
Roosevelt noticed that all three of his military advisers glanced awkwardly at the floor at mention of California.
"-we just can't push them any further."
"Can we move some of the trainees to the British Isles, to continue their training there, just as the Canadians have done?"
Marshall didn't look happy at the suggestion. "We could, sir. But in the event of an invasion, you would have unprepared troops fighting battle-hardened Nazis."
The comment hung in the air, unaddressed, for an uncomfortably long time. Roosevelt stared at the painting of George Washington that hung on his office wall. The first American president had also led poorly prepared forces against a formidable enemy. Ironically, that enemy now sat across from him, pleading for help.
"Nevertheless, please do it, General," he said at last. "If a nation of shopkeepers can stand against the Nazis, I don't see why our armed forces can't do the same. Prepare for the redeployment."
The office was immaculate, as always. Unlike many of the other seats of power in Washington, it did not boast any newfangled technology, such as computating machines or flexible pads.
Director Hoover had certainly secured a goodly number of those for the Bureau, to be certain, but they were located elsewhere, in the Records Department, in the laboratories, and in Assistant Director Tolson's office. Hoover liked to boast that steely nerve, a good aim, and unquestionable moral rectitude were still the primary weapons of any FBI agent. These new gizmos were really just better filing cabinets, and he, for one, didn't need them cluttering up his desk. He was perfectly capable of running the best counterintelligence service in the world without having to rely on some electronic brain.
When he used that line with the press, as he had at least six times this week, he always managed to put such a mocking emphasis on the last phrase that he never failed to gain an appreciative laugh from his audience of Bureau-approved reporters.
There was no laughter in the director's office this morning, however. Indeed, J. Edgar Hoover was incandescent with rage. His double-breasted suit squeezed around him like a straitjacket. Sweat prickled in his hair and ran down his neck. It hurt to breathe, and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking the sheaf of paper he was holding, ripping it into tiny little bits, and throwing them back in the face of the trembling agent who stood in front of him.
Normally, Hoover spoke in a high-pitched, rapid-fire staccato. It could be hundreds of words a minute when he was particularly upset. However, he'd sat white and shaking and utterly silent for ten minutes while he read the agent's summary report, over and over again. Sometimes, when he reached an especially odious passage, he was tempted to skim, but he forced himself to read those parts twice.
When he was finished, he put the paper down and said nothing. His small mouth puckered once or twice, but mostly his lips remained pressed tightly together. Assistant Director Tolson sat nearby and stared at the carpet. Agent Clayton, the bearer of bad news, waited for the hammer to fall.
"Despicable, filthy, gutter talk," Hoover managed to squeak out at last.
Clayton's mouth worked like that of a fish that had been snatched out of its bowl.
"I'm sorry, sir," was all he could say.
"Filthy!" Hoover roared now. "Get out of my office, and never set foot in this building again."
Clayton gaped and blubbed some more, but finally he had no choice but to bow and exit at high speed, with the director's red-rimmed eyes boring into his back as he fled.
"Is it as bad as people have been saying?" Tolson asked when the other man was gone.
Hoover turned on him like a spitting cobra, but as Tolson flinched, the director got a hold of his temper. It wasn't Clyde's fault, after all. As best anyone could tell, it was some egghead named Pope who was ultimately responsible, and he was dead. Hoover had briefly contemplated assigning a team of agents to track down this Pope fellow's parents or grandparents, just to ensure they never met, but he'd been told such efforts would be futile. This accursed time travel didn't work like that. Even if Pope was never born, it wouldn't return any semblance of sanity or balance to the world.
No, he was stuck with things the way they were, with a colony of perverts and half-castes spreading the most terrible lies about him, and poisoning America with their toxic philosophies and practices.
He again read the first page of Clayton's report, gripping the papers so tightly, his hands were trembling. Twenty-two subversive bookstores had been caught stocking copies of these awful books about him. They were cheap, pulpy copies, and there was no publisher's imprint on the spine, but the booksellers were all known Communists or fellow travelers, so there was no doubt the reds were behind it. He could hardly bring himself to look at Clayton's description of the latest "biography" that had surfaced out of California. American Tyrant by this so-called Professor Forstchen. A dime-store novelist of some sort, according to Special Agent Clayton. A purveyor of filth and fiction, even when he was writing alleged history like American Tyrant: The Biography of J. Edgar Hoover.
Again, if only he could stop this Forstchen's parents from meeting…
The director read Clayton's summary of the book.
It claimed that he was a blackmailer. That he befriended criminals and that he had suppressed evidence about the assassination of a President John F. Kennedy-the son of that bootlegging villain in London, no less! It said he was corrupt, and a liar, and had nothing at all to do with the killing of Dillinger or the capture of the Lindbergh baby's kidnapper, two of the greatest triumphs of his career so far.
There was even one claim that his mother had twisted his mind, and that he was a… a homosexual, and a pervert who dressed in women's clothing.
His head reeled. It was practically unbearable.
"Eddie, people have always gossiped," said Tolson, who looked worried even when he wasn't. "You can't let it get to you. It's just words."
Hoover's eyes were nearly brimming with tears as he regarded his constant companion. For once he spoke slowly. "Junior, words… they are… grossly insufficient to express the thoughts in my mind and the feelings in my heart for you. But mark me well, words can be weapons, too, every bit as deadly as a knife or a gun.
"Look at this, just look at it, would you. They're saying I knew about Pearl Harbor before it happened. That little weasel Popov is behind that, or that bastard Stephenson, or both of them, believe you me. And that Jewish rat Kolhammer is pulling their strings, and…"
He was beginning to heat up again, accusations and insults spilling out of him in a cascade of high-pitched, verbal machine-gun fire.
Tolson rubbed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. It was unusual for him to play an assertive role in their relationship. He was loyal, but very much the subordinate partner, two steps behind and one to the side. "Eddie, Eddie, please, you'll kill yourself. Come on, now, we've faced worse than this before. And besides, these people are vulnerable. They're a rabble. There's not a genuine hero amongst them, not like you and me. You know what it's like in California now. Those sort of degenerate shenanigans might play well with the Hollywood set, but decent Americans won't stand for it. You need to rally the people against this menace. You know Roosevelt won't do it. Why, he's half a red himself, what with that awful wife of his. The New Deal was naked socialism, no less. And then there's this desegregation garbage."
Tolson had actually climbed to his feet, and was stalking around the office now. He slammed the door closed and turned on the startled director. When he spoke, it was with unusual intensity.
"The real people aren't happy at all with that gang of perverts out there. They want things put right again. And we can do it, Eddie. They'd expect us to do it, to protect them the same way we protected them from the mobsters and kidnappers. They expect you to do it."
J. Edgar Hoover blinked away a tear. It fell to his desk, smudging a line of Special Agent Clayton's report, a horrid passage alleging that the director had worn-or would wear-a red dress and a black feather boa to some sort of homosexual orgy in a hotel in the 1950s. It was all lies and filth, carefully crafted to break his will.
But Clyde, that wonderful, dear, dear man, had led him through the darkness that threatened to envelop them both.
"You are my sword and my shield, Junior," he croaked as he stood and hurried around his desk to embrace the only human being, besides his sainted mother, whom he had ever really known and loved.
Clyde was right. Kolhammer and his kind would have to be fought. And J. Edgar Hoover, American patriot, would lead that fight.
As he pressed up against the familiar, reassuring bulk of Clyde Tolson's body, he was already plotting his counterattack. "I think I need to see Congressman Dies again," he said.