Beyond Revanche, page 41
The three gendarmes reacted to the American’s arrogance with defiance. Though their shift had finished they stayed on to help Mathieu understand what had been happening around Toul.
“When they first hoisted the American flag over the old Custom House we were taken aback that they could use the canal to get through, somehow, to the Rhine. But they could. They had special permits. They were the American Relief Agency, which made them popular at first. But very little was actually destined for Toul. A few scraps of tinned fruit or fish, a handful of rice, some old clothing. Nothing regular. We followed their lorries to find out where their cargo was heading, but the best we could establish was that they went towards Paris, which could mean anywhere.”
The stoutest of them, Gregor, had worked in Toul all his life, and accepted over time that the “American” basin and Custom House were off limits, even to the police.
“What we couldn’t work out was what their barges carried, or how far they were allowed to travel through German lines. We knew that a few locks were damaged but were the tunnels open? They wouldn’t say. Cut themselves off from the town. Didn’t drink with locals.”
Henri added his concern. “What did they carry in the other direction? We hadn’t a clue. It wasn’t food. When I realized that the metal container could have been a crucible or mold something fell into place. The Custom House chimneys frequently belched black smoke over the canal, but I never imagined that they might be dealing in metals.”
“Can I see your drawings, Henri?” Mathieu considered the outline of what appeared to be a brick-like mold but it meant little. “And what about the smashed centerpiece, the hallmarks you thought you could see?”
The young gendarme shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t make it out, but if they could generate enough power to smelt small amounts of gold into the mold, the hallmark would indicate where the gold ingot was made, or allegedly made, in this case. That way the police wouldn’t know where the gold came from.”
“Truth is, we don’t know if it was coming into the country or going out. And that’s the point. They never wanted us to know. Ever. These Americans have a special agenda. With the unspoken approval of our president and his allies, they are stealing all the evidence of how the war was run from the earliest days of the fighting. They don’t want anyone to know what was actually going on. Or who was making vast profits.” Mathieu sat back solemnly. “If this is happening elsewhere in Europe, it’s world class theft on an international scale.”
They sat quietly as the evening sun cooled its ardor in the growing shade. Black languid shadow spread through the streets with a stealth which matched the darkness of their mood. Gregor stood and took two immense breaths, filling his lungs with the clear air that promised to return next day. He just couldn’t comprehend what had been said.
“If we can’t stop them, Captain, and the president and all his men encourage them, who governs France?”
“Who indeed? Tomorrow, I’ll take all these notes and ideas back to Paris. The Deuxième Bureau may not be able to do much to stop this, but politicians change. Sometimes the only way to win is to outlive the buggers.”
The gendarmes parted with a handshake and nod. Further words were unnecessary.
In all that had happened to him in Toul, the person whom Mathieu most appreciated was Margarite. Voiceless but priceless, she had saved his life with that expert stroke from her sharpened coal shovel. The blow which all but decapitated Timon, servant to the Lords of Darkness, one of whom was Basil Zaharoff, had imprinted itself on Mathieu’s memory. He would have been dead. Instead, he was given another chance. Yet she lived in fear. Petrified that she would be charged with murder.
“It wasn’t murder,” he had told her a hundred times and more in his dreams and daydreams. He had to tell her once more. Reassure her. Hopefully. Bistrot had opened a bottle of local red and set in on the upper deck table. It looked like an offering to the gods, sitting on an old threadbare table cloth, a shard from the rising moon catching the ruby draught as if from a rose-window in a grand Basilica. He saw Mathieu from a distance and hailed him with a great yell.
“Welcome back, my policeman friend. Take care, the mare is loose!” He slowed his pace to a cautious stride but Margarite caught him unexpectedly from his right and they almost tumbled into the canal. She kissed his cheeks with frantic enthusiasm while Bistrot laughed his approval from the deck.
“Hurry up, you young lovers, or I’ll drink this bottle myself.” He certainly would have, for Bistrot was well practiced in the art of scoffing wine. They climbed aboard, Margarite first, attacking the bargeman’s neck with renewed passion. Bistrot pretended to fend her off, but there was a euphoria in the air which bathed the three of them in a special warmth. Margarite poured the drink while Bistrot opened another bottle.
“Got to give it time to breathe.” She sat on his knee and in her own fashion, talked furiously.
“She believes she’s free now because you’ve come back to visit us. You haven’t forgotten.”
“For the last time, my darling Margarite, you committed no crime. You saved a life. A very important life. You should get a medal.”
Three bottles later Bistrot and Mathieu sat with their legs dangling over the side of the barge as small boys would, though not carefree and innocent. Margarite was snoring in her bed below, released from the curse of her inner demons.
Bistrot looked over the edge of the barge and mused, “This mess at the Customs House, and the Americans…what does it all mean?”
“It means that powerful men were using war to make millions of dollars, pounds, and francs. I don’t know any more than you do exactly how much food, which should have gone to Belgium, ended up in Germany or on the black market. I don’t even understand why they went to so much trouble to smelt gold or silver and change the hallmarks. Whatever they were doing was a crime against the people. And now, with the apparent blessing of our government, the Americans are removing all the evidence and taking it somewhere? It’s scandalous, but what can we do? I will try to find out more and make sense of it, and all the injustices around us. I’ll try.” Captain Mathieu Bertrand yawned once, leaned back ,and fell asleep on the spot where Timon’s heart stopped beating.
41
June 1919 – Losing the Evidence
The chief’s note said, See me outside. Emergency meeting of Armed Forces, Diplomatic, and Bureau intelligence groups at 9.30. Quai d’Orsay. We were both invited to attend. And by invited they mean ordered. R.
Mathieu found the chief pacing up and down on the quayside close to the car park.
“We’ll take the Renault to the foreign ministry and you can update me on your latest exploit.
You realize that we shouldn’t tell other agencies too much, but it’s equally imperative that we don’t lie. I have been asked to ensure that we bring all of our files on certain parties and events and we will, of course. Any copy will have to be surrendered or ‘lost’ for thirty years.” He paused for reasons of his addiction. “So, what happened in Toul?”
Once in the Renault, Mathieu recounted the events at the old Custom House, the state of the building, what had been found there, and the American intervention.
“Bryson Hamilton, indeed,” Roux found that a reason to light up once more even though the smoke choked out every inch of fresh air in the car. “We need to find out if other agencies have records on him.”
“Do you have any idea what the Americans are doing with the documents they’ve already stolen?”
Roux raised his eyebrows and shook his head, “ No, but I aim to find out.”
“I would dearly like to know how Hamilton discovered that we were checking on their former premises on the canal bank?”
“Either the judge contacted their embassy here in Paris, or someone in Toul tipped them off.”
“Or someone closer to home?” The very implication left them silenced. Mathieu twisted uncomfortably before confessing his deepest concern “There is one other factor. Hamilton dropped a bombshell as he was leaving. He called me Vincent, and I don’t think he meant to. His big mouth couldn’t hold it in.”
Roux coughed deeply, his breath trapped in a clouded throat, his lungs struggling to meet the body’s need.
“Someone has been checking up on me, clearly. Someone with serious connections”
“And me,” Roux insisted. “But they don’t know what we have already uncovered. No one does. For the moment they can only suspect. But we must be even more vigilant.” They were waved through the police cordon at the Quai d’Orsay still immersed in their own concerns, already late, but evermore troubled. “These thugs and gangsters don’t live by the rules. They think themselves above the law. Suspicion alone could be deadly. Remember to take care with what you say today. There is no such beast as a watertight Intelligence meeting.”
Though Mathieu had visited the foreign ministry at Quai d’Orsay many times, he had never presumed to use the front entrance of the magnificent Second Empire Palace of Foreign Affairs. Sitting proudly on the banks of the Seine, specifically built in the mid-nineteenth century to impress royalty and diplomats from abroad, sculpted rather than constructed, its Doric order dominated the ground floor and Ionic grandeur filled the first and second levels, giving it the aura of a grand aristocratic mansion.
“Good morning, Messieurs. You are here to attend the special meeting with intelligence agencies?” You might sometimes wonder if the Revolution ever took place. The uniformed attendants looked as if he had stepped out of a picture from another century.
Roux acknowledged the question with a nod, and removed his bowler hat. Mathieu followed suit.
“The meeting will begin shortly. If you would go directly to the Rotunda Drawing Room upstairs, Chief Superintendent, the prime minister wishes to speak to you before the first session. Captain Bertrand, if you would please follow Alphonse here,” he directed Mathieu to a lackey who looked like a cross between a waiter at the Ritz and a general’s aide de camp, “you will be called to participate in due time.”
Tiger Clemenceau chaired the intelligence meeting. That raised its importance considerably, Mathieu thought, as he was led to an anteroom which looked out to the gardens. Every corridor was designed to impress, from the bas reliefs over the formal entrance doors depicting the spirits of war and peace under an Imperial Crown to the tapestries and wall paintings of former French glory. Roux had taken some of the files upstairs, so Mathieu had time to remind himself about their suspicion of American wrongdoings from previous files. There were questions about Briey that he would have liked to examine in more minute detail, but it was neither the time nor place. He was summoned to the Rotunda just after eleven o’clock and stood to attention until Clemenceau, who had taken the chair, beckoned him to sit beside the chief.
“Good. Captain Bertrand, welcome.”
He addressed the others. “Let me tell you gentlemen that this young man has displayed immense courage over the last five years in many policing and protection roles. Like Chief Superintendent Roux, I hold him in high esteem, and there are several of you around the table who can confirm that.” A wave of approval washed over the company as Mathieu took his place.
“I will take this opportunity to reinforce the secrecy and security which attends every aspect of our discussions today.” Mathieu wordlessly acknowledged the statement.
“No one outside this room will be briefed or advised on what is discussed. I turn now to item four, the Americans. They have been our allies in many ways since war began, but where do we stand with them right now? Jean-Jules, would you update your previous statement.”
The French Ambassador at Washington Jean-Jules Jusserand, began to speak without any reference to notes, demonstrating his complete command of the topic. He had been appointed Ambassador sixteen years ago and was highly regarded by President Wilson. His bright eyes held his authority to the fore and his high receding forehead descended into a well- trimmed beard dominated by a thick handle-bar moustache. Jean-Jules looked every part a well-groomed aristocrat. His immaculate black jacket with velvet lapel, butterfly collar and dark blue tie, sharply creased striped trousers and highly polished shoes were not mere dressing. Jean-Jules possessed an accomplished mind. He understood best what was going on.
“Prime Minister, gentlemen, you will be aware that I traveled here from New York with President Wilson to be part of the signing ceremony for the Versailles Treaty. He is not well. I believe that several factors are currently undermining him. His health, of course, his declining influence and power in the USA, and his recent decision to sideline Colonel House, his administration’s contact with the banking fraternity. He may think that he is the most influential man in America, but he is not. Both we and the English pay lip service to his fourteen points, but the English have no intention of giving up their dominance on the high seas, and we are not about to give in to German demands until they pay for the destruction in France. In full.”
A high-pitched voice to Mathieu’s right added, “Exactly.” He turned to find Benoit Durfort glaring at him from a seat set behind the main table, but the obsequious diplomat’s reaction marked a sea change in attitude. Durfort raised his pretentious head and studiously turned away from Mathieu in an act of visible rejection. He wondered fleetingly how he had offended the self-important toady, but there was little time for such irrelevance.
Clemenceau drummed his fingers on the glazed table and nodded Jusserand to continue. “There is a new breed of Americans whom we have to watch carefully. Bankers and industrialists. There are more Wall Street financiers travelling in President Wilson’s entourage than can be imagined. They are here to make or collect money. I believe that there is a further tranche of Americans who want to undermine us and the English. This group has as its target the division of the former Ottoman Empire. On this topic no one can be trusted. Whatever the promises made to our foreign ministry during the war, the English do not share empires. They acquire them. And they have betrayed agreements with us, with the Arabs, and with the former Russian empire to have their chosen way in the middle and far east. Do not trust the English. We suspect that they have made a deal with the Americans to set up a mandate in the Arab State of Palestine, which the Zionists, this new and growing breed of politically driven Jewish nationalists, want as a homeland. If that is so, then they have made an agreement behind our backs.”
“But the Zionists constitute a very small group, insignificant, in fact.”
Mathieu could not see who made the observation, but other voices disputed the claim.
“Insignificant in number, perhaps, but significant in influence, believe me,” the Ambassador continued. “Behind the scenes, here in Paris, influential groups are scheming to change the world to their own advantage.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. Any questions or comments?” Clemenceau turned towards Mathieu. “Captain, I understand you also have concerns about the Americans.”
That was Mathieu’s cue.
“Thank you, Prime Minister. May I ask about the many roles which the US Food Controller, Herbert Hoover, currently plays inside and out with France?” The table twitched. Mathieu felt discomfort emanate from several sides of the room as if he had conjured an autumn wind to destroy the fragile mounds of fallen leaves so carefully swept to cover broken cracks and dangerous pot-holes.
“This man Hoover asserts his right to do what he likes without fear of contradiction. His power to direct food to whole nations appears to be unlimited. Governments fear him, and I don’t believe that we know for sure what his intentions are.”
Several pairs of eyes went into lock-down as if to disassociate themselves from the question.
Ambassador Jusserand did not flinch. “We must be alert to Hoover’s activities, but do nothing about them for the moment,” he advised.
“Really?” Clemenceau sat back amazed. “Why should we do nothing, Ambassador?”
“Hoover is the coming man. In ten years’ time I expect him to be president of the United States. He is a cunning operator, favored by the establishment on both sides of the Atlantic. His agency was feeding the occupied territories, Belgium, and Germany during the war, blowing an enormous hole in the blockade against our enemy. If the full details of his Belgian Relief scandal are ever discovered, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. He has complete control of all foods coming into Europe today from the Americas. Big business has grown fat on his relief administration, but their devious game cannot be proved. And we should not be found trying to prove it.”
Bernard Roux understood. Had this been a game of poker it was the moment when the stakes were doubled. But it was no bluff.
“Is that why his men are clearing every depot, office, custom’s post, and dock-side warehouse of all records as we speak?”
“No doubt,” Ambassador Jusserand said calmly. He was a master of his brief. “And it is worse than that. He has permission to take all of the official war records from every one of the defeated nations, and certain allies, believe me, to be stored in America at a university in California…for safety. For posterity, so he claims.”
Roux gave vent to an exaggerated sigh fueled by either his disgust or his need for nicotine.
“Chief Superintendent, you have an observation to add?”
Roux nodded and pulled his chair closer to the table in order to keep eye contact with the assembled intelligence officers. “I can tell you that on the eleventh of this month, a Professor Ephraim Adams from Stanford University arrived in Paris and began to collect an unspecified amount of war-related material to be sent for safety to America. He was invited here by Herbert Hoover to complete this task on his behalf.”
A couple of gasps and single word expletives escaped into the air.
“Our intelligence reports that Adams intended to keep a diary of whom he met and where, but after a visit from Bryson Hamilton, he gave up on the idea. Hamilton is one of Hoover’s closest acolytes. He spent most of the war here in Paris at the American Embassy,” the Ambassador added.
“When they first hoisted the American flag over the old Custom House we were taken aback that they could use the canal to get through, somehow, to the Rhine. But they could. They had special permits. They were the American Relief Agency, which made them popular at first. But very little was actually destined for Toul. A few scraps of tinned fruit or fish, a handful of rice, some old clothing. Nothing regular. We followed their lorries to find out where their cargo was heading, but the best we could establish was that they went towards Paris, which could mean anywhere.”
The stoutest of them, Gregor, had worked in Toul all his life, and accepted over time that the “American” basin and Custom House were off limits, even to the police.
“What we couldn’t work out was what their barges carried, or how far they were allowed to travel through German lines. We knew that a few locks were damaged but were the tunnels open? They wouldn’t say. Cut themselves off from the town. Didn’t drink with locals.”
Henri added his concern. “What did they carry in the other direction? We hadn’t a clue. It wasn’t food. When I realized that the metal container could have been a crucible or mold something fell into place. The Custom House chimneys frequently belched black smoke over the canal, but I never imagined that they might be dealing in metals.”
“Can I see your drawings, Henri?” Mathieu considered the outline of what appeared to be a brick-like mold but it meant little. “And what about the smashed centerpiece, the hallmarks you thought you could see?”
The young gendarme shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t make it out, but if they could generate enough power to smelt small amounts of gold into the mold, the hallmark would indicate where the gold ingot was made, or allegedly made, in this case. That way the police wouldn’t know where the gold came from.”
“Truth is, we don’t know if it was coming into the country or going out. And that’s the point. They never wanted us to know. Ever. These Americans have a special agenda. With the unspoken approval of our president and his allies, they are stealing all the evidence of how the war was run from the earliest days of the fighting. They don’t want anyone to know what was actually going on. Or who was making vast profits.” Mathieu sat back solemnly. “If this is happening elsewhere in Europe, it’s world class theft on an international scale.”
They sat quietly as the evening sun cooled its ardor in the growing shade. Black languid shadow spread through the streets with a stealth which matched the darkness of their mood. Gregor stood and took two immense breaths, filling his lungs with the clear air that promised to return next day. He just couldn’t comprehend what had been said.
“If we can’t stop them, Captain, and the president and all his men encourage them, who governs France?”
“Who indeed? Tomorrow, I’ll take all these notes and ideas back to Paris. The Deuxième Bureau may not be able to do much to stop this, but politicians change. Sometimes the only way to win is to outlive the buggers.”
The gendarmes parted with a handshake and nod. Further words were unnecessary.
In all that had happened to him in Toul, the person whom Mathieu most appreciated was Margarite. Voiceless but priceless, she had saved his life with that expert stroke from her sharpened coal shovel. The blow which all but decapitated Timon, servant to the Lords of Darkness, one of whom was Basil Zaharoff, had imprinted itself on Mathieu’s memory. He would have been dead. Instead, he was given another chance. Yet she lived in fear. Petrified that she would be charged with murder.
“It wasn’t murder,” he had told her a hundred times and more in his dreams and daydreams. He had to tell her once more. Reassure her. Hopefully. Bistrot had opened a bottle of local red and set in on the upper deck table. It looked like an offering to the gods, sitting on an old threadbare table cloth, a shard from the rising moon catching the ruby draught as if from a rose-window in a grand Basilica. He saw Mathieu from a distance and hailed him with a great yell.
“Welcome back, my policeman friend. Take care, the mare is loose!” He slowed his pace to a cautious stride but Margarite caught him unexpectedly from his right and they almost tumbled into the canal. She kissed his cheeks with frantic enthusiasm while Bistrot laughed his approval from the deck.
“Hurry up, you young lovers, or I’ll drink this bottle myself.” He certainly would have, for Bistrot was well practiced in the art of scoffing wine. They climbed aboard, Margarite first, attacking the bargeman’s neck with renewed passion. Bistrot pretended to fend her off, but there was a euphoria in the air which bathed the three of them in a special warmth. Margarite poured the drink while Bistrot opened another bottle.
“Got to give it time to breathe.” She sat on his knee and in her own fashion, talked furiously.
“She believes she’s free now because you’ve come back to visit us. You haven’t forgotten.”
“For the last time, my darling Margarite, you committed no crime. You saved a life. A very important life. You should get a medal.”
Three bottles later Bistrot and Mathieu sat with their legs dangling over the side of the barge as small boys would, though not carefree and innocent. Margarite was snoring in her bed below, released from the curse of her inner demons.
Bistrot looked over the edge of the barge and mused, “This mess at the Customs House, and the Americans…what does it all mean?”
“It means that powerful men were using war to make millions of dollars, pounds, and francs. I don’t know any more than you do exactly how much food, which should have gone to Belgium, ended up in Germany or on the black market. I don’t even understand why they went to so much trouble to smelt gold or silver and change the hallmarks. Whatever they were doing was a crime against the people. And now, with the apparent blessing of our government, the Americans are removing all the evidence and taking it somewhere? It’s scandalous, but what can we do? I will try to find out more and make sense of it, and all the injustices around us. I’ll try.” Captain Mathieu Bertrand yawned once, leaned back ,and fell asleep on the spot where Timon’s heart stopped beating.
41
June 1919 – Losing the Evidence
The chief’s note said, See me outside. Emergency meeting of Armed Forces, Diplomatic, and Bureau intelligence groups at 9.30. Quai d’Orsay. We were both invited to attend. And by invited they mean ordered. R.
Mathieu found the chief pacing up and down on the quayside close to the car park.
“We’ll take the Renault to the foreign ministry and you can update me on your latest exploit.
You realize that we shouldn’t tell other agencies too much, but it’s equally imperative that we don’t lie. I have been asked to ensure that we bring all of our files on certain parties and events and we will, of course. Any copy will have to be surrendered or ‘lost’ for thirty years.” He paused for reasons of his addiction. “So, what happened in Toul?”
Once in the Renault, Mathieu recounted the events at the old Custom House, the state of the building, what had been found there, and the American intervention.
“Bryson Hamilton, indeed,” Roux found that a reason to light up once more even though the smoke choked out every inch of fresh air in the car. “We need to find out if other agencies have records on him.”
“Do you have any idea what the Americans are doing with the documents they’ve already stolen?”
Roux raised his eyebrows and shook his head, “ No, but I aim to find out.”
“I would dearly like to know how Hamilton discovered that we were checking on their former premises on the canal bank?”
“Either the judge contacted their embassy here in Paris, or someone in Toul tipped them off.”
“Or someone closer to home?” The very implication left them silenced. Mathieu twisted uncomfortably before confessing his deepest concern “There is one other factor. Hamilton dropped a bombshell as he was leaving. He called me Vincent, and I don’t think he meant to. His big mouth couldn’t hold it in.”
Roux coughed deeply, his breath trapped in a clouded throat, his lungs struggling to meet the body’s need.
“Someone has been checking up on me, clearly. Someone with serious connections”
“And me,” Roux insisted. “But they don’t know what we have already uncovered. No one does. For the moment they can only suspect. But we must be even more vigilant.” They were waved through the police cordon at the Quai d’Orsay still immersed in their own concerns, already late, but evermore troubled. “These thugs and gangsters don’t live by the rules. They think themselves above the law. Suspicion alone could be deadly. Remember to take care with what you say today. There is no such beast as a watertight Intelligence meeting.”
Though Mathieu had visited the foreign ministry at Quai d’Orsay many times, he had never presumed to use the front entrance of the magnificent Second Empire Palace of Foreign Affairs. Sitting proudly on the banks of the Seine, specifically built in the mid-nineteenth century to impress royalty and diplomats from abroad, sculpted rather than constructed, its Doric order dominated the ground floor and Ionic grandeur filled the first and second levels, giving it the aura of a grand aristocratic mansion.
“Good morning, Messieurs. You are here to attend the special meeting with intelligence agencies?” You might sometimes wonder if the Revolution ever took place. The uniformed attendants looked as if he had stepped out of a picture from another century.
Roux acknowledged the question with a nod, and removed his bowler hat. Mathieu followed suit.
“The meeting will begin shortly. If you would go directly to the Rotunda Drawing Room upstairs, Chief Superintendent, the prime minister wishes to speak to you before the first session. Captain Bertrand, if you would please follow Alphonse here,” he directed Mathieu to a lackey who looked like a cross between a waiter at the Ritz and a general’s aide de camp, “you will be called to participate in due time.”
Tiger Clemenceau chaired the intelligence meeting. That raised its importance considerably, Mathieu thought, as he was led to an anteroom which looked out to the gardens. Every corridor was designed to impress, from the bas reliefs over the formal entrance doors depicting the spirits of war and peace under an Imperial Crown to the tapestries and wall paintings of former French glory. Roux had taken some of the files upstairs, so Mathieu had time to remind himself about their suspicion of American wrongdoings from previous files. There were questions about Briey that he would have liked to examine in more minute detail, but it was neither the time nor place. He was summoned to the Rotunda just after eleven o’clock and stood to attention until Clemenceau, who had taken the chair, beckoned him to sit beside the chief.
“Good. Captain Bertrand, welcome.”
He addressed the others. “Let me tell you gentlemen that this young man has displayed immense courage over the last five years in many policing and protection roles. Like Chief Superintendent Roux, I hold him in high esteem, and there are several of you around the table who can confirm that.” A wave of approval washed over the company as Mathieu took his place.
“I will take this opportunity to reinforce the secrecy and security which attends every aspect of our discussions today.” Mathieu wordlessly acknowledged the statement.
“No one outside this room will be briefed or advised on what is discussed. I turn now to item four, the Americans. They have been our allies in many ways since war began, but where do we stand with them right now? Jean-Jules, would you update your previous statement.”
The French Ambassador at Washington Jean-Jules Jusserand, began to speak without any reference to notes, demonstrating his complete command of the topic. He had been appointed Ambassador sixteen years ago and was highly regarded by President Wilson. His bright eyes held his authority to the fore and his high receding forehead descended into a well- trimmed beard dominated by a thick handle-bar moustache. Jean-Jules looked every part a well-groomed aristocrat. His immaculate black jacket with velvet lapel, butterfly collar and dark blue tie, sharply creased striped trousers and highly polished shoes were not mere dressing. Jean-Jules possessed an accomplished mind. He understood best what was going on.
“Prime Minister, gentlemen, you will be aware that I traveled here from New York with President Wilson to be part of the signing ceremony for the Versailles Treaty. He is not well. I believe that several factors are currently undermining him. His health, of course, his declining influence and power in the USA, and his recent decision to sideline Colonel House, his administration’s contact with the banking fraternity. He may think that he is the most influential man in America, but he is not. Both we and the English pay lip service to his fourteen points, but the English have no intention of giving up their dominance on the high seas, and we are not about to give in to German demands until they pay for the destruction in France. In full.”
A high-pitched voice to Mathieu’s right added, “Exactly.” He turned to find Benoit Durfort glaring at him from a seat set behind the main table, but the obsequious diplomat’s reaction marked a sea change in attitude. Durfort raised his pretentious head and studiously turned away from Mathieu in an act of visible rejection. He wondered fleetingly how he had offended the self-important toady, but there was little time for such irrelevance.
Clemenceau drummed his fingers on the glazed table and nodded Jusserand to continue. “There is a new breed of Americans whom we have to watch carefully. Bankers and industrialists. There are more Wall Street financiers travelling in President Wilson’s entourage than can be imagined. They are here to make or collect money. I believe that there is a further tranche of Americans who want to undermine us and the English. This group has as its target the division of the former Ottoman Empire. On this topic no one can be trusted. Whatever the promises made to our foreign ministry during the war, the English do not share empires. They acquire them. And they have betrayed agreements with us, with the Arabs, and with the former Russian empire to have their chosen way in the middle and far east. Do not trust the English. We suspect that they have made a deal with the Americans to set up a mandate in the Arab State of Palestine, which the Zionists, this new and growing breed of politically driven Jewish nationalists, want as a homeland. If that is so, then they have made an agreement behind our backs.”
“But the Zionists constitute a very small group, insignificant, in fact.”
Mathieu could not see who made the observation, but other voices disputed the claim.
“Insignificant in number, perhaps, but significant in influence, believe me,” the Ambassador continued. “Behind the scenes, here in Paris, influential groups are scheming to change the world to their own advantage.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. Any questions or comments?” Clemenceau turned towards Mathieu. “Captain, I understand you also have concerns about the Americans.”
That was Mathieu’s cue.
“Thank you, Prime Minister. May I ask about the many roles which the US Food Controller, Herbert Hoover, currently plays inside and out with France?” The table twitched. Mathieu felt discomfort emanate from several sides of the room as if he had conjured an autumn wind to destroy the fragile mounds of fallen leaves so carefully swept to cover broken cracks and dangerous pot-holes.
“This man Hoover asserts his right to do what he likes without fear of contradiction. His power to direct food to whole nations appears to be unlimited. Governments fear him, and I don’t believe that we know for sure what his intentions are.”
Several pairs of eyes went into lock-down as if to disassociate themselves from the question.
Ambassador Jusserand did not flinch. “We must be alert to Hoover’s activities, but do nothing about them for the moment,” he advised.
“Really?” Clemenceau sat back amazed. “Why should we do nothing, Ambassador?”
“Hoover is the coming man. In ten years’ time I expect him to be president of the United States. He is a cunning operator, favored by the establishment on both sides of the Atlantic. His agency was feeding the occupied territories, Belgium, and Germany during the war, blowing an enormous hole in the blockade against our enemy. If the full details of his Belgian Relief scandal are ever discovered, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. He has complete control of all foods coming into Europe today from the Americas. Big business has grown fat on his relief administration, but their devious game cannot be proved. And we should not be found trying to prove it.”
Bernard Roux understood. Had this been a game of poker it was the moment when the stakes were doubled. But it was no bluff.
“Is that why his men are clearing every depot, office, custom’s post, and dock-side warehouse of all records as we speak?”
“No doubt,” Ambassador Jusserand said calmly. He was a master of his brief. “And it is worse than that. He has permission to take all of the official war records from every one of the defeated nations, and certain allies, believe me, to be stored in America at a university in California…for safety. For posterity, so he claims.”
Roux gave vent to an exaggerated sigh fueled by either his disgust or his need for nicotine.
“Chief Superintendent, you have an observation to add?”
Roux nodded and pulled his chair closer to the table in order to keep eye contact with the assembled intelligence officers. “I can tell you that on the eleventh of this month, a Professor Ephraim Adams from Stanford University arrived in Paris and began to collect an unspecified amount of war-related material to be sent for safety to America. He was invited here by Herbert Hoover to complete this task on his behalf.”
A couple of gasps and single word expletives escaped into the air.
“Our intelligence reports that Adams intended to keep a diary of whom he met and where, but after a visit from Bryson Hamilton, he gave up on the idea. Hamilton is one of Hoover’s closest acolytes. He spent most of the war here in Paris at the American Embassy,” the Ambassador added.
