Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (22 page)

“What if they've come up with some sort of new fuel?” Sandys queried.

“And again, I say, balderdash.” The older man defied Sandys through narrowed eyes.

Sandys struggled to keep his temper. In the close confines of the windowless room, the stale, smoky air was beginning to heat up; beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.

“Lord Cherwell,” he said, “with all due respect, we have aerial photographs of Peenemünde from Medmenham. We have independent talk of ‘mystery weapons' from one of our spy houses, Chatswell Hall. The Germans are most definitely recruiting scientists from the occupied countries. And we have the Oslo Report. We also have three-dimensional confirmation of a forty-foot rocket.”

“It could be a fake!” Cherwell growled. “To distract us from something else! Something we
don't
anticipate.”

“Paranoia doesn't become him,” whispered one of the members to another behind a raised manila folder.

Cherwell was undeterred. “The tubes in those photographs could be chimneys! They could be exhaust pipes!
My
best guess is that they're sewage drains!”

There was low laughter from the others.

Cherwell's face was strained. “Yes, by all means, let's squander the few precious resources we have left on the Nazis' sewage system!”

The room erupted, and Sandys let them go on for a minute before standing and commanding, “Quiet, gentlemen—quiet, please.”

A hush fell over the room as the Cabinet members smoked. “I propose bombing what is most likely a German rocket installation,” he said, “before they can get them off the ground.”

“But that's exactly what they want us to do!” Cherwell retorted. “And waste our bombs!” Then he backpedaled, just a bit. “Say—for the sake of argument—that the Germans
do
have a rocket program in place. We need more information. We have the capacity to take three-dimensional photographs now? Well, then let's take some more and build a model of Peenemünde. Show it to the P.M. See what he has to say.”

There was an overwhelming chorus of
“Yes!”

“All right, we'll convene next time with a model of the Peenemünde site to scale.” Sandys saluted. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Duncan Sandys knew he'd been beaten in this battle. But he wasn't prepared to lose the war.

On the afternoon of December 27, Maggie and David ventured out into the mist to buy the nation's newspapers from the shouting boys in woolen caps selling them on the street. Chilled and damp, they returned to the P.M.'s map room to warm up and also read through each one, clipping out any mention of Churchill's speech. Everywhere, the Boss's Senate debut was rated a grand success.

“Oh, look!” Maggie exclaimed, as she used small silver scissors to cut through the inky pages. “David Lawrence says,
‘He brought with him a tonic of reassurance and confidence that makes long-range planning for victory seem comprehensible in spite of the setbacks and defeats of the immediate future. Nothing compares with it
…' 
”

“Who's David Lawrence?” David asked, looking up from his desk.

“A columnist with the
United States News
—he's also syndicated.”

“Holy Hera!” David yelped, pulling out a section of the
Los Angeles Times.
There, in black and white, was a large photo of John in uniform, giving the V for Victory sign.
RAF War Hero John Sterling Arrives at the Beverly Hills Hotel,
blared the caption.

Maggie looked down at the photograph, stunned. John looked so familiar and yet at the same time almost a stranger. This was how the rest of the world saw him now, she realized. “But why is he there? Why wouldn't he tell us?”

But David, who probably already knew, had moved on and was going through more papers. “The Boss's in meetings all day today, and I'm nailing down the final details for his trip to Ottawa.”

“Do you need me to go with him?”

“Let me guess. You're working on something else, right?”

Maggie nodded. She didn't know how much he knew, but she sensed it was nearly everything.

“Then you'll stay here, with the First Lady. I'll be accompanying the P.M., of course. And tonight they're showing
The Maltese Falcon
after dinner, if you're interested.” David was an enthusiastic Dashiell Hammett aficionado and knew Maggie was, too.

“I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm—”

“Busy, right.” Then, “Not with that mick, I hope. John told me about him.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “No, not with him. But is it your business?” With hands on her hips, she admonished, “And stop calling Tom a mick. That's just mean. We're in the U.S. It's nearly 1942, for heaven's sake.”

David had the grace to look ashamed. “Your security clearance is higher than mine. I won't ask any more questions.” He looked up, eyes bright behind his spectacles. “And I'll mind my own business about your love life from now on. I promise, Mags.”

He does sound truly remorseful.
Maggie impulsively jumped up and gave him a hug. “David, dear, I only wish I had something juicier to report. By the way, how's
Little Women
coming?”

“Amy just burned Jo's manuscript!” he reported, shaking his head. “What a witch! I don't know how Jo will ever forgive her.”

Later, when David had been summoned to one of the meetings, Maggie looked up from her clippings. She rose, listening. No one seemed to be around, but one could never be sure.

Maggie made her way down the corridor, listening for any signs of people approaching. At the door to the President's private study, she hesitated, heart thudding. She tapped. Nothing. No response.

As assured as she'd ever be, she opened the door, scanned the room, and when she was certain it was empty, slipped into the President's private study.
If I'm caught, can I be hanged for treason?
she wondered as she stepped over the lion-skin rug, avoiding the sharp bared fangs. Leo the Lion's glassy eyes seemed to be watching her with suspicion as she made her way across the room to the President's desk.
Do the Americans use firing squads? Or perhaps the electric chair?

The enormous desk was a mess, she realized, with file folders crammed with papers balanced precariously on top, books piled below. As she'd been taught, she gleaned as much information as she could before touching anything, memorizing how each item was placed.

She had made it through the files on top of the desk and was going through the first desk drawer when she heard a noise. She recognized the bold, echoing tread instantly; it was the butler, Fields.

Bugger, bugger, bugger!
Heart pounding in her ears, Maggie dove underneath the desk and curled up in the leg space. Like the President's
Resolute
desk in the Oval Office, this one had a small door built for the gap to hide his leg braces. Her breathing came quickly, and she struggled to slow it, as she'd been trained.

She peeked through the tiny gaps in the wood. Mr. Fields picked up a tea tray that had been left on the coffee table. He left, footsteps resounding in the corridor.

Maggie went limp with relief. Seated on the threadbare green carpet, she opened desk drawers, making her way up from the bottom. Nothing. Nothing useful to her, at least.

Victorian
. The thought reverberated. Franklin Roosevelt was Victorian in his manners and tastes. Weren't the Victorians known for secret compartments? Could there be one in the President's personal desk?

Gently, she pressed on different wooden panels. Nothing.

She ran her fingernails into different carved pieces, looking for a hinge or a release.
Bugger.

She got to her knees and opened the center drawer. Nothing, at least nothing relevant. Inside the drawer was a cubby for pens. She removed the fountain pens and pencils and pressed her finger on one side of the shallow tray.

It flipped open.

But the compartment was empty.
Oh, bugger
.

But hadn't she seen a desk like this one before? At one of the manor houses in Scotland where she'd trained? Maybe…

She pulled on the entire tray. It came up easily, revealing yet another secret compartment. This time, something was there. It was a small leather-bound appointment book.
1941
was embossed on the cover in gold.

Maggie flipped thorough the well-worn pages.

All of the entries were in code.
Bugger!

The next morning, John Sterling removed his RAF cap and tucked it under his arm as he strode through the double doors and into the reception area. Framed and matted movie marquee posters lined the walls.

The receptionist, a young, very blond woman with large white teeth, glanced up. “Good morning!” Taking in his uniform, her eyes widened. “You must be Lieutenant Sterling.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She giggled, a silvery bell-like sound. “Call me Cora, please. And it's miss—not ma'am.” She blushed. “I'll let him know you're here. Please have a seat.” She scooped up the telephone receiver and pressed a button. “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Sterling is here.”

She looked back to John, who didn't sit but paced the length of the room, uncharacteristically nervous
.
He stopped and turned when he heard a voice behind him.

“Dumbo was supposed to be on the cover of
Time
magazine this month, but then, well, Pearl Harbor was attacked. Now there's only one small black-and-white photo on the inside, but what can you do? I'm Walt”—the man said as he stuck out his hand, deep brown eyes shining—“Walt Disney. And you must be John Sterling. We've been waiting for you.”

John shook it, taking in the man's appearance. Disney was shorter than John and trim, with black patent-leather hair, a thin mustache, and a narrow chin.

“Well, you're a long, tall drink of water, aren't you?” Disney scratched his head and broke into a smile. “I think I just might have to call you Stalky. Stalky, you know, after the—”

“Kipling character,” they finished in unison. This time both grinned more like schoolboys.
Stalky & Co.
by Rudyard Kipling was one of John's favorite childhood books. “I'd be honored, Mr. Disney.”

“Now, now, Stalky, call me Walt. Everyone does. We don't stand on ceremony here.” Disney escorted John into his office. Even with his longer legs, the younger man struggled to keep up.

“I know I probably sounded terrible, complaining about
Dumbo
with the war and everything going on. We're proud Americans here, I'll have you know! We've started making military-contract aircraft and warship-identification films. And my boys already have a new film in the hopper—not sure what to call it, but it'll probably be
Donald Duck in Nutzi Land
or, my favorite,
Der Führer's Face.
And we're working on a tax collection picture with Minnie. Dry as burned toast, but the old girl'll give it some shine.”

Walt Disney's office was spacious, modern, lined with bookcases, and flooded with lemony California sunshine. Birds of paradise swayed outside the rectangular windows, which had views of a water tower and mountains in the distance. On the desk were figures from movies, some of which John recognized and many he didn't. Mickey and Minnie dolls held a place of honor.

“Have a seat, Stalky.” Disney jabbed a thumb at one of the chairs in front of his massive corner desk, then slid into the leather seat behind it. “Well, I'll be—Flight Lieutenant John Sterling, war hero—right here in my office. One of Churchill's ‘the few.' Thank goodness Regina Wolffe sent you my way.”

“Indeed,” John said, crossing and then uncrossing his long legs.

“And look at you. You're like a movie star yourself! All the girls must be swooning. Have you had a chance to hit the Polo Lounge yet?”

“No…” John struggled to not say “sir” or “Mr. Disney.” “…W-Walt.”

“Well, you should. The ladies'll be all over you.”

The subject made John uncomfortable. He repressed a vision of Maggie and a lacy negligee and said, “This is a beautiful studio.”

Disney sat back and made a steeple of his fingers. “It's new,” he said. “We just bought it. My brother Roy called me at one point and said we owed the bank four point five million dollars. Four point five mil, can you believe? And I just started to laugh.

“And so Roy said, ‘What are you laughing at?'

“And I told him, ‘I was just thinking back to the days when we couldn't even borrow a thousand dollars.' ” Walt gave a hearty chortle.

John wasn't used to people discussing money at all, let alone so openly.

“Now—” Disney leaned forward. “Tell me about these Gremlins of yours, Stalky.”

“Well, sir—Walt—Gremlins are rogues of the air.” John realized who he was talking to and changed his approach. “Once upon a time, like all pixies, Gremlins lived in hollow banks beside rivers and waterfalls. Some of them migrated to the crags by the seashore and subsisted on pancakes made of tide foam. And now they've moved into the air.”

John could see the spark of interest in the man's eye. “Gremlins and Alicias and Wonkers. Gremlins ride on RAF planes with suction-cup boots and drill holes in planes. Wonkers are young Gremlins born in a nest, and Alicias are the girl Gremlins—they're all cousins to leprechauns. They're having the time of their lives flying all over Britain, the Atlantic, and Germany in our Royal Air Force planes.” He leaned forward. “But only pilots and gunners and people who work with planes can see them.”

Disney leaned back in his chair. “Can
you
see them?”

“Well, of course,” John said, his lips twitching into a smile.

The older man jabbed a thumb at a silver-framed photograph of two young girls. “My daughters. I like to show them what I'm working on, and when they saw your drawings of the Gremlins, they couldn't stop jabbering about them. Giggled their socks off. And I'll have you know, they're severe critics—‘That's
corny,
Dad,' they'll say.” He pointed at John. “But they love your Gremlins. Love them!”

“Thank you.” John decided against using any and all names.

“Would you like coffee? Or tea?”

“Er—coffee, please.”

“Attaboy,” Disney said as he pushed a button. “Cora, some coffee for Stalky and me. Thanks, hon.”

He came out from behind the desk and perched on its edge, looking down at John. “Now, as I see it, we've got our work cut out for us. The first step is your story being published somewhere like
Cosmopolitan
. That's a fabulous introduction. Then we'll do a book.”

“A book?”

“Yes, a book! ‘For children and everyone young at heart.' ” He stared into the middle distance, imagining it. “
The Gremlins: A Royal Air Force Story
by Flight Lieutenant John Sterling. You'll write it. I'll get the illustrator. Got to make those rascals more sympathetic, though—but we'll talk that through later. Then comes the merchandise—toys and games and hand puppets—jigsaw puzzles, comics, Charlotte Clark dolls. Then, we release the film.”

“The film?”

“Yes, the film!” Disney exclaimed. “A movie! A motion picture!”

Cora came in with coffee and a heaping plate of doughnuts with rainbow-colored sprinkles, set it on a side table beside John, then left. Disney sat on the chair next to John's and poured. “Cartoon, but maybe some live action, too, all mixed together.” He nodded, as if seeing various versions in his mind's eye. “That's what we do here, after all, Stalky. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black.”

Disney poured, then handed John a steaming cup. “You know, Hitler and his boys hate me. Goebbels, especially. The Nazis hate what they call the Mickey cult. They think the idealization of a mouse is a sign of Jewish decadence. As early as 'thirty-three, they were saying things like ‘Down with Mickey Mouse! Wear the Swastika cross!' And Hitler tried to ban Mickey in 'thirty-seven but had to give up. The mouse was just too darned popular.”