Kirsten laughed quietly. She knew what Richard would have done. He would have climbed into the tub with her, washed the riding dirt from her body, and then thrown her down on the bed where they would have romped like naked bunnies. Damn, she missed him. It wasn’t fair, she thought as she closed her eyes and envisioned him. It just wasn’t fair.
“Good morning, Mister Vice President.”
Secretary of State Robert Lansing was startled. Then he grinned at his secretary, the gray-haired and middle-aged spinster, Hedda Tuttle.
“Not yet, Mrs. Tuttle, and maybe never. There’s still an election to be won and votes to be counted.”
Robert Lansing was fifty-six years old, a distinguished-looking lawyer from New York, and had been secretary of state since June, 1915, following resignation of William Jennings Bryan. He liked to brag that he was the only secretary of state to have a state capital named after him—Lansing, Michigan. It was a joke. The capital of Michigan had not been named after him or his family.
He had opposed Woodrow Wilson on a number of issues, which made him wonder why Wilson had chosen him to be his running mate instead of the very pliable and not overly bright Thomas Marshall who had already served two terms as Wilson’s vice president. Lansing had a nagging feeling he knew why, but was unwilling to face it just yet.
Hedda Tuttle waved her hand dismissively. The election had been the day before, and the returns were already coming in showing a substantial plurality for the ticket of Woodrow Wilson and Robert Lansing, as well as a decisive lead in the even more important Electoral College. Warren Harding had been a viable alternative until his many sexual romps with women other than his wife became public knowledge.
“Mr. Wilson will win and so will you,” Mrs. Tuttle said with serene confidence. “There’s no doubt about it, sir.”
“Thank you for your support,” Lansing said sincerely. He just hoped he would be up to the task. He wondered just what the devil was going on in the White House where a nearly invisible Woodrow Wilson allegedly resided. Nobody had seen the man for weeks.
But for now he was still the secretary of state and third in the succession to the Presidency of the United States. There’d been talk of changing the Constitution so that the Speaker of the House, an elected office, would be number three, but nothing had come of it.
Of more immediate concern was the bombshell that had been handed to him by the ambassador from Great Britain. It said that the Germans were up to their old tricks, were coveting more territory, and that covetousness directly involved the United States of America. He had to get to see President Wilson, no matter what Wilson’s harpy of a wife said. Edith Bolling Galt, now Edith Wilson, was Woodrow Wilson’s second wife. His first wife had died in 1914.
Edith Wilson was extremely protective of Woodrow Wilson, and, as his health deteriorated, had blocked almost all access to him, allowing only written notes and questions that were responded to in her hand. Edith Wilson, some suspected, had promoted herself to the position of acting President of the United States. Lansing shook his head. Even if they could prove it, what would happen? The constitution was vague on the matter of a president being incapacitated.
Regardless, Robert Lansing had to see the president, no matter how difficult it might prove. The information provided by the British was so devastatingly important. The country had to be prepared for what might come.
“Mrs. Tuttle, is that nice young cousin still visiting you?”
She beamed. “Lieutenant Martel will be here for a couple more days. Did you know I raised him when his parents died?”
Lansing did, of course. She’d mentioned it at least a dozen times. Mrs. Tuttle was a spinster and raising the boy was the high point of her life. After he had grown, she’d moved to Washington and gotten the job as his secretary through the simple expedient of answering an ad.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Tuttle. I would like to come over and meet him. Why don’t I drop by about eight?”
Hedda Tuttle was quite surprised and flustered. “That would be such an honor.”
“And I might just bring another friend with me. Please tell the lieutenant to be in civilian clothes, and I know I can trust your discretion not to tell anyone of this, ah, little tryst.”
A thoroughly puzzled Luke Martel sat in Hedda Tuttle’s pleasantly cluttered living room. Until his arrival from out west, he’d never seen the place. She lived in a little cottage about a mile from the State Department office where she worked. She walked to work every day, regardless of the weather.
Hedda hadn’t begun her government work until after Luke had run off and enlisted. Her early letters had deplored his actions, but then, after he’d been promoted to sergeant and later awarded the Medal of Honor as well as promotion to lieutenant, her tone had changed. She was proud of him.
Luke knew he’d disappointed her by enlisting, but it seemed like the only thing to do at that time. She and he were dirt poor and he was a financial burden to her. He was deeply fond of her and wondered just what the hell was going on this evening. Sit still and wait, were her instructions.
Like most people, Cousin Hedda had no phone. Instructions had come by courier and caught him just as he’d returned from a pleasant day of sightseeing at the Smithsonian. Two important but unnamed people were going to visit him. He was to wear civilian clothes. He was to greet them warmly and neither stand at attention nor salute where anyone could see him. He was to do nothing that would draw the attention of nosy neighbors to their guests. If anybody was watching, their arrival just after nightfall was to look like the reunion of old friends.
Okay, he laughed. Washington was a city of plots and secrets, so why should he be surprised at anything?
At eight in the evening, a car pulled up and two men got out with the driver remaining behind the wheel. Martel went to the door and, despite instructions, had to fight the urge to snap to attention. Instead, he calmly gestured them to come in and closed the door behind them.
“Mr. Vice President or do you prefer Mr. Secretary?” he looked to Lansing and then, “Sir,” to Lieutenant General Peyton March, the commanding general of the United States Army.
Lansing took the lead. “Even though the election is formally over and I am now the vice president elect, I will continue to be the Secretary of State until my inauguration in March. Just call me sir, it’s easier.” He handed Martel a sheet of paper. “Read this, Lieutenant.”
It was only a few paragraphs, and Luke read it quickly. His eyes widened and he swallowed. The contents were dynamite, but were they true? “With respect, General, do you have the message in the original German?”
March smiled slightly and handed over another sheet of paper while Lansing raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. Luke handed it back a moment later. “Thank you, sir.”
“And what do both documents say, Lieutenant?” Lansing asked.
“Sir, they are a message from the German Foreign Minister, Arthur Zimmerman, to their ambassador to Mexico, Heinrich von Eckhardt. It says that the German Army in Mexico is directed to attack and invade California on November 18 of this year.”
“Very good,” said Lansing with only a hint of sarcasm. “And, just out of curiosity, where did you learn to read German?”
“Sir, a long time ago I thought things would go bad with the Kaiser, so I taught myself. And I was helped along by a couple of guys I served with who were German immigrants themselves. I don’t think I speak the cultured High German, but I can make myself understood and I can read it quite well.”
Lansing actually smiled. “And what other languages do you have?”
“Well, Spanish of course, sir. I learned that on the border and with Pershing in Mexico.”