“Has the president already met with the Russians?”
“That’s what I—”
Someone knocked at the door, and he called out, “Come in!”
For the briefest moment, Mia stared, puzzled, at the slowly opening door, waiting for a head to appear. Only when she dropped her glance did she perceive feet, then knees, and finally a man rolling into the room in a wheelchair. She stood up.
“Mr. President,” Hopkins said, though he remained sitting.
“Good morning, Harry. Just thought I’d stop by and see what you’re hatching.”
Franklin Roosevelt looked tired, in spite of his good cheer. His long, oval face and prominent chin had always appeared amiable and paternal. But now his cheeks were sunken, his hair thin and receding. His gray-blue eyes were puffy, and he seemed to squint through his rimless glasses. It was strange to be in the presence of two men with such political power who appeared so physically feeble.
But FDR’s vigorous tenor voice belied his appearance. “Oh, please sit down, Miss Kramer. No need for formalities.” He maneuvered himself into place next to her. “So, you are to be our plenipotentiary to the Kremlin.”
“I’ll serve the White House in whatever way I can, Mr. President, but I’m still only a lowly assistant.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. We won’t overtax you. Mr. Hopkins tells me you have the best possible skills, though I suppose you are not fond of Mr. Stalin.”
She winced, not knowing what to reply, but he laid a soft hand on her forearm and leaned toward her as if confiding. “Mr. Churchill is not fond of him either, but he’s on our side in this war, so we have to keep him happy.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President. I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”
“Good to hear you say it, my dear. Now, would you like to see our command center?”
“Command center? Really? Isn’t that top secret?”
The president chuckled. “I’m not going to show you our military strategies, only our wonderful setup. Very futuristic. Hopkins, would you be so kind as to wheel me there? Saves wear and tear on my hands.”
Hopkins leapt from his seat and took hold of the handlebars at the back of the wheelchair. They proceeded down the corridor to the elevator, and she strode alongside the president’s chair as he explained. “It used to be a simple map room, but now it’s staffed twenty-four hours a day and fitted out with… well, you’ll see.”
The elevator opened on the ground floor, and they turned right. The guard who stood before one of the rooms snapped to attention, then stepped in front of them to open the door.
What had been a low buzz now became a cacophony of orders, conversations, and ringing telephones. Mia felt her jaw drop slightly, and she closed it again.
The otherwise drab walls were papered with gigantic maps—of Europe, Africa, Asia, all the theaters of the war. Uniformed staff, both army and navy, stood before them, some on the floor and some on ladders, moving little markers here and there, though she was too far away to discern any patterns or identifications.
“Those markers show the progress of the armies?” she asked.
“Oh, much more than that. The staff tracks the movements of all the belligerents. The land armies, the convoys, ships’ day-to-day positions, sea battles and losses. It marks the whereabouts of certain people, too. You can’t see from here, but Mr. Churchill is a cigar, my marker is a cigarette holder, and Mr. Stalin is a pipe. Good thing we all smoke, eh?”
Mia let her glance sweep over the walls and the military personnel moving between them. “And that’s where the information comes from?” She nodded toward a long table where a row of men and women wearing headphones sat in front of typewriters.
“Yes. That’s our communication staff—smart, loyal people who can be trusted. They also transcribe and file all messages that pass between myself, Chiang Kai-shek, Churchill, and Stalin. They work in alternating teams, twenty-four hours a day, and I come in periodically with the war secretary to check on our progress.”
“So this is where strategy is formulated,” she murmured.
“Only to a certain degree. In fact, conferences in person are much more important. We have to coordinate with our allies.”
Hopkins spoke for the first time. “Which is why we’ve finally arranged a meeting with Stalin.”
“We’d have done it earlier, but the sonofabitch is hard to pin down,” Roosevelt grumbled, then glanced up at Hopkins. “Have you told her yet about Tehran?”
“No, sir. Not yet. I was about to when you arrived.”
“Well, then, let’s talk about it now. If you wouldn’t mind, Harry?” He tilted his head back toward the corridor.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Hopkins drew the wheelchair back from the open doorway, and the guard closed the double door.
“Tehran? That’s in Iran, isn’t it?” Mia asked as she hurried alongside the rolling wheelchair. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand Iran’s position in the war.”
The president chuckled as they entered the elevator. “Neither do we, and even my advisors have trouble keeping track of who’s in control there. They just inform me that Iran has oil fields that the whole world covets, but since the double invasion—of the Soviets from the north and the British from the west—the Allies now occupy them. So now we can move millions of tons of war materials across Iranian territory to the Russians. Since they’re close to Russia, Stalin decided it was a good place to meet.”
The elevator carried them back up to the second floor, and a moment later, they stood before the president’s office in the Yellow Oval Room. The door opened from behind as they reached it, Mia followed the wheelchair inside, discreetly perusing the office.
The president’s dark wooden desk stood at the center of three tall windows, all hung with velvet drapery and square valances bordered in gold. The American flag and the presidential flag flanked the desk and chair, America’s stately but unglamorous version of a throne.
“This is Mr. Watson, my personal secretary,” the president said, as a broad-shouldered man in a gray suit wheeled him around behind his desk. Once in place, Roosevelt took a plastic holder from his desk drawer and inserted a cigarette into it. Leaning over his shoulder, Watson lit it for him. “Please, take a seat, Miss Kramer.” The president motioned to the cushioned chairs in front of his desk.
“As I was saying, we’ve planned a conference in Tehran next month, with Mr. Churchill and Stalin. Mr. Hopkins, as always, will assist me with some of the policy statements, and you, in turn, will assist him.”
“Uh, yes, certainly. A great honor,” Mia stammered. “When will the conference take place?”
Roosevelt puffed on his cigarette holder through clenched teeth. “Date’s not certain, and it’s a matter of security to not announce it beforehand anyhow. But you should be prepared to be out of the country late in November. If you need a passport, the State Department will see to it.”
“Passport, yes, sir.” She could think of nothing to add.
A butler stepped in from a side door. “Mr. President, Secretary Stimson is here.”
Obviously it was the signal to leave. Hopkins was already standing, and Mia leapt up to join him.
Mia’s head was spinning. Her first day on the new job and she was about to be sent into the cauldron of diplomatic negotiations with Churchill and Stalin.
Tehran. Iran. The words barely held meaning for her. And the two men she was supposed to assist were physical wrecks. She felt herself bend slightly with the weight of responsibility.
As they arrived back at Hopkins’s office, Mia expected to learn some of the details of the upcoming conference, but he only handed her a folder of papers and asked her to translate them. Then the phone rang.