He pulled his watch from its pocket and again checked the time. Almost 1:30. In about twenty minutes he would walk leisurely across the street and present himself. Then, for the first time in his life, he would meet a president of the United States.
For about the hundredth time, he questioned himself as to why he had been summoned. No use speculating, he finally decided; he would find out soon enough.
“Patrick Mahan.”
He turned quickly and looked up, blinking in the sunlight that caused the man standing to his left to be a silhouette. “Excuse me?” he responded confusedly.
“Patrick, don’t you recall me?”
The voice was British, educated, and very familiar. Recognition finally came. Patrick jumped to his feet and grabbed the other man’s hand and pumped vigorously.
“Ian! Ian Gordon! What on earth are you doing here?”
Ian Gordon, a smallish, wiry Scot with thick black hair and a neatly cropped and equally black beard, grinned. “Goodness, Patrick, is there a law against my being here?”
“Of course not, but you have to admit it is quite a coincidence.” Then another memory intruded. “Ian, it is a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Gordon smiled gently. “Good, so you do remember. Why don’t we both be seated and chat.”
Patrick quickly tried to recall as much as he could about Gordon, whom he had met in Europe the year he was to observe the Germans. Prior to reaching Germany, however, Patrick was directed by the War Department to meet with certain people in the British army, and Ian Gordon, then a major himself, was high on the list.
It didn’t take long for Patrick to find that Major Gordon, for all his affability and good humor, was not an ordinary military officer. Gordon’s admitted specialty was military intelligence, and his particular focus was the military might of Germany. Although not a spy himself, Patrick was certain that the pleasant Scot controlled a number of spies and received much information from them.
Their assignment had not been all work; their mutuality of interests resulted in a number of social nights at plays, pubs, and private gambling clubs. As a minor member of the aristocracy, Gordon was welcomed virtually everywhere, and Patrick tagged along for the very pleasant ride. There had also been a standing invitation to visit the Gordon castle, which Ian assured a disbelieving Patrick stood atop a bleak, rocky crag that jutted into the North Sea.
Patrick again pulled out his watch as a means of both gathering his thoughts and actually checking the time.
“Don’t worry,” Gordon said. “Your secret meeting isn’t for another half an hour.”
Bastard, Patrick thought. “Actually I make it twenty-five minutes. That assumes there actually is a secret meeting, which, if there were, I wouldn’t admit to anyhow.”
Gordon chuckled. “Wonderful. Nothing’s changed you. How’s your malaria?”
“Fine, thanks. I think I am now completely cured, although I am going to do my damnedest to avoid the Tropics from here on in.” Good lord, he thought again, he knows about my malaria. Does he know whether my bowels move regularly?
“Ian, can I assume your being here with me this lovely summer day is no coincidence at all?”
“Of course, although the fact that I am assigned to the embassy here is a coincidence. When it was decided to arrange a meeting with you prior to your meeting with McKinley, I thought it logical that I be the one to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“Do you know the purpose of the meeting with the president?” When Patrick shook his head, Ian continued. “Then I will also presume you know nothing about the problems with Kaiser Wilhelm. Don’t feel left out, very few people have any inkling that the situation between the United States and Germany is so very critical—perhaps even more critical than your government realizes.” He took out a thin, dark cigar and lit it, oblivious to the angry stares of a mother who promptly yanked her young son away from the offending object.
Well, Patrick thought, that means the subject of the president’s meeting is doubtless going to be Germany. “Good lord, I am hardly the ranking expert on Imperial Germany. I admit I know a good deal, but there have to be others who know more.”
“Don’t belittle yourself. You probably know as much about the kaiser and his incredible army as anyone in Washington at this time. And timing is most critical.
“Let me clarify the crises for you. Germany is outraged that the United States has an overseas empire, whereas she has none. In short, Germany wants your newly acquired overseas possessions.”
Patrick was angry. “The hell you say! We paid for them in blood. She cannot have them.”
“That is precisely, but more politely, what the Germans were told. They then responded, all through unofficial channels, that they were willing to purchase them. When that offer was also rejected, they informed your president, just a few days ago, that failure to turn over those lands was a grievous insult and Germany would consider taking those lands by force.”
Gordon expertly blew a smoke ring and watched it drift slowly skyward. “Over the past few months, the Germans have managed to gather both a sizable fleet and a portion of their immense army without anyone knowing that it was for anything other than routine maneuvers or internal purposes. Patrick, that force numbers perhaps thirty thousand soldiers and it sailed in our direction almost two weeks ago. We believe it will land tonight.”
Patrick was stunned. “Thirty thousand! How astonishing, and how like them. My God, Ian, our garrison on Cuba is so small. It’ll be slaughtered. And the one on Puerto Rico is smaller yet. What a disaster!”
“Why do you think they would land on Cuba or Puerto Rico?” Ian asked softly.
The question puzzled him. “Why, because those are the places Germany wants. Why on earth would they go elsewhere?” As Patrick said this he saw the expression on Ian’s face and knew there was something even more dreadfully wrong than he had first surmised.
“Patrick,” Ian continued in that same soft, whispering voice. “My government wants you to know about this, and we would like to keep you supplied with additional information as we receive it. All of this has to be unofficial and deniable, of course, which is why I am sitting here with you like this. By the way, don’t worry too much about your comrades in Cuba, or anywhere else, for that matter. They’re safe. Cuba isn’t the target. Germany will attack where you have virtually no effective defenses to hinder them.”
In shock, Patrick could only whisper as well. “Where?”
“New York City, Patrick. New York City.” Ian put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Now go and meet your president.”
Ian Gordon rose and quickly strode away, almost immediately losing himself in the crowd. Patrick also stood and wondered if the startling information he’d just been given was written on his face and readable to all around him. As he walked across the street toward the side entrance of the White House, his shock waned. Was Gordon telling the truth? If not, why on earth would he lie? What should he do with the information? Obviously, he was supposed to tell McKinley, but would he be believed? He couldn’t just walk up to McKinley and say that a man he hadn’t seen for some years just met him on a bench in front of the White House and informed him that the city of New York was going to be attacked tonight by Germany.
And again, why him? Was this whole thing a dream? If so, he thought wryly, he would like to wake up as soon as possible.
Inside the slightly cooler White House, Patrick handed his pass to a black porter who directed another black servant to take him to the cabinet room on the second level. All of this took place under the watchful eyes of the Secret Service detachment that protected the president during the day. Uniformed city police watched him at night.
When they reached the second-floor cabinet room, the servant knocked, announced Patrick, and gestured for him to enter. Inside, President McKinley sat behind a large dark wooden desk; Theodore Roosevelt stood beside him. McKinley rose and extended a hand.
“Ah, Major Mahan, thank you for coming.”
The grip was firm. Although he appeared tired and strained, the clean-shaven president looked very much like his pictures and radiated warmth. McKinley, reelected only the fall before, was extremely popular and obviously easy to like. It did not strike Patrick as odd that while the profile was the same as the campaign art, the body was somewhat different, softer, even overweight. In addition, McKinley did not dress with an eye to fashion. His suit was old and there were fray marks on the cuff.
“I’m honored by your invitation, sir.”
Roosevelt laughed. “Invitation? Patrick, the malaria’s affected your mind and you’re deluding yourself. It was an order and you damn well know it.”