"Department of State, can I help you?"
Shortly before two o'clock in the afternoon, John Essex pulled up his coat collar against a frigid north breeze and began to check the trays of his raft-culture grown mollusks. Essex's sophisticated farming operation, situated on Coles Point in Virginia, planted seed oysters, tending and cultivating them in ponds beside the Potomac River.
The old man was engrossed in taking a water sample when he heard his name called. A woman bundled in the blue overcoat of a naval officer stood on the pathway between the ponds, a pretty woman, if his seventy-five-year-old eyes were focusing properly. He packed his analysis kit and approached her slowly.
"Mr. Essex?" She smiled warmly. "I phoned earlier. My name is Heidi Milligan."
"You failed to mention your rank, Commander," he said, correctly identifying the insignia on her shoulder boards. Then his lips widened in a friendly smile. "I won't hold that against you. I'm an old friend of the navy. Would you like to come up to the house for a cup of tea?"
"Sounds marvelous," she replied. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Nothing that can't wait for warmer weather. I should be indebted to you for most likely saving me from a case of pneumonia."
She turned up her nose at the odor that pervaded the air. "It smells like a fish market."
"Are you an oyster lover, Commander?"
"Of course. They form pearls, don't they?"
He laughed. "Spoken like a woman. A man would have praised their gastronomic qualities."
"Don't you mean their aphrodisiac qualities?"
"An undeserved myth."
She made a sour face. "I'm afraid I never developed a fondness for raw oysters."
"Fortunately for me, many people do. Last year the ponds around us yielded over fifteen thousand tons per acre. And that was after extraction of the shells."
Heidi tried to look fascinated as Essex went on about the spawning and cultivation of oysters while leading her up a gravel path to a colonial brick house nestled in a grove of apple trees. After settling her comfortably on a leather couch in his study, he produced a pot of tea. Heidi studied him carefully as he poured.
John Essex had twinkling blue eyes and prominent high cheekbones on the part of his face that showed; the bottom half was hidden in a luxuriant white mustache and beard. His body had no senior citizen fat.
Even when he was dressed in old coveralls, mackinaw jacket and Wellington boots, the courtly manner that once graced the American embassy in London was still apparent.
"Well, Commander, is this an official visit?" he asked, handing her a cup and saucer.
"No, sir, I'm here on a personal matter."
Essex's eyebrows raised. "Young lady, thirty years ago I might have interpreted that as a flirtatious opening. Now, I'm sad to say, you've only excited an old derelict's inquisitive nature."
"I would hardly call one of the nation's most respected diplomats an old derelict."
"Times gone by." Essex smiled. "How may I be of service?"
"In doing research for my doctorate, I ran across a letter written by President Wilson to Herbert Asquith." She paused to pull a transcript from her purse and pass it to him. "In it he refers to a treaty between England and America."
Essex donned a pair of reading spectacles and read the letter twice. Then he looked up. "How can you be sure it's genuine?"
Without answering, Heidi handed him the two photographic enlargements and waited for a reaction.
William Jennings Bryan, portly and grinning, was bending to enter a limousine. Two men stood behind him in seemingly jovial conversation. Richard Essex, dapper and refined, wore a broad smile, while Harvey Shields had his head tilted back in a belly laugh, displaying two large protruding upper teeth, or what dentists termed an over bite surrounded by a sea of gold inlays. The chauffeur who held open the car door stood stiffly unamused.
Essex's face remained impassive as he studied the enlargements. After several moments he looked up.
"What is it you're fishing for, Commander?"
"The North American Treaty," she replied. "There is no hint of it in State Department records or historical archives. I find it incredible that all trace of such an important document can be so thoroughly lost."
"And you think I can enlighten you?"
"The man in the picture with William Jennings Bryan is Richard Essex, your grandfather. I traced your family tie in the hope that he may have left you papers or correspondence that might open a door."
Essex offered a tray of cream and sugar Heidi took two lumps. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time. All of his personal papers were turned over to the Library of Congress after his death, every scrap."
"Never hurts to try," Heidi said dejectedly.
"Have you been to the library?"
"I spent four hours there this morning. A prolific man, your grandfather. The volume of his posthumous papers is overwhelming."
"Did you conduct a search of Bryan's writings also?"
"I drew a blank there too," Heidi admitted. "For all his religious integrity and inspiring oratory, Bryan was not a prodigious author of memoranda during his service as secretary of state.
Essex thoughtfully sipped his tea. "Richard Essex was a meticulous man, and Bryan leaned on him like a crutch to draft policy and prepare diplomatic correspondence. Grandfather's papers reflect an almost pathological attention to detail. Little passed through the State Department that didn't have his mark on it."
"I found him to be an obscure sort of person." The words came out before Heidi knew she had spoken them.
Essex's eyes clouded. "Why do you say that?"
"His record as undersecretary for political Affairs is well documented. But there's no accounting for Richard Essex the man. Of course I found the usual condensed Who's Who type of biography, listing his birthplace, parents and schools, all in neat chronological order. But nowhere did I see a definitive description of his personality or character, his likes and dislikes. Even his papers are written in the third person. He's like the subject of a portrait the artist forgot to flesh out."
"Are you suggesting he did not exist?" Essex asked sarcastically.
"Why, no," Heidi said sheepishly. "Quite obviously you're the living proof."
Essex stared into his teacup as though seeing a vague picture on the bottom. "It's true," he said finally.
"Besides his day-today observations of State Department procedure and a few photos in the family album, little remains of my grandfather's memory."
"Can you recall him from your childhood?"
Essex solemnly shook his head. "No, he died a young man of forty-two, the same year I was born."
"Nineteen fourteen."
"May twenty-eighth, to be exact."
Heidi shot him a stunned look. "Eight days after the treaty signing at the White House."
"Think what you will, Commander," Essex said patiently. "There was no treaty."
"Surely you can't discount the evidence?"
"Bryan and my grandfather paid innumerable visits to the White House. The scribbling on the back of the photograph is undoubtedly an error. As to the letter, you've merely misconstrued its meaning."
"The facts check out," Heidi persisted. "The Sir Edward that Wilson writes of was Sir Edward Grey, Britain's foreign secretary. And a loan to Britain one week prior to the date on the letter for one hundred and fifty million dollars is a matter of record."
"Granted that was a,large sum at the time," Essex said knowledgeably. "But prior to World War One, Great Britain was grappling with a program of social reform while purchasing armaments for the approaching conflict. Simply put, she needed a few bucks to tide her over until laws for higher taxation could be passed. The loan can hardly be called irregular. By today's international standards it would be considered a rather routine negotiation.
Heidi stood up. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Essex. I won't take up any more of your afternoon."
The twinkle returned in his
eyes. "You can trouble me anytime."
At the door Heidi turned. "One other thing. The library has a complete set of your grandfather's monthly desk diaries except the final one for May. It appears to be missing."
Essex shrugged. "No great mystery. He died before he completed it. Probably lost in the shuffle when they cleaned out his office.
Essex stood at the window until Heidi's car disappeared into the trees. His shoulders drooped. He felt very tired and very old. He walked over to an ornately carved antique credenza and twisted the head of one of the four vacant-eyed cherubs adorning the corners. A small, flat drawer swung out from the bottom edge, a bare inch above the carpet. Inside rested a thin leather bound book, its engraved cover cracked with age.
He sank into an overstuffed chair, adjusted his spectacles and began reading. It was a ritual, performed at varied intervals over the years. His eyes no longer saw the words on the pages; he had memorized them long ago.
He was still sitting there when the sun was gone and the shadows had stretched and melted into blackness. He clutched the book to his breast, his soul agonized by dread, his mind torn by indecision.
The past had caught up with a lonely old man in a darkened room.
Lieutenant Ewen Burton-Angus slipped his car into a parking stall at the Glen Echo Racquet Club, hoisted his tote bag from the passenger seat and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He hurried past the empty swimming pool and snow-coated tennis courts toward the warmth of the clubhouse.
He found the club manager seated at a table beneath a glass case stacked with rows of trophies. "Can I help you?" asked the manager.
"Yes, my name's Burton-Angus. I'm a guest of Henry Argus."
The manager scrutinized a clipboard. "Right, Lieutenant Burton-Angus. Sorry, sir, but Mr. Argus called and said he couldn't make it. He told me to tell you he tried to catch you at the embassy, but you'd already left."
"A pity," said Burton-Angus. "As long as I'm here, do you have a racquetball court available where I can practice?"
"I had to reshuffle the reservations when Mr. Argus canceled. However, there is another gentleman who is playing alone. Perhaps you can pair up."
"Where can I find him?"
"He's seated in the bar. His court won't be free for another half hour. His name is Jack Murphy."
Burton-Angus found Murphy nursing a drink by a picture window overlooking the Chesapeake Canal.
He introduced himself. "Do you mind awfully having an opponent?"
"Not at all," said Murphy with an infectious smile. "Beats playing alone, providing you don't smear the court with me."
"Small chance of that."
"You play much racquetball?"
"Actually, squash is more my game."
"I'd guess that from your British accent." Murphy gestured to a chair. "Have a drink. Plenty of time before our court is free."
Burton-Angus welcomed the opportunity to relax and ordered a gin. "Beautiful countryside. The canal reminds me of one that runs near my home in Devon."
"Travels through Georgetown and into the Potomac River," Murphy said in his best tour-guide fashion.
"When the water freezes in winter the local residents use it for skating and ice fishing."
"Do you work in Washington?" asked Burton-Angus.
"Yes, I'm the Senate historian. And you?"
"Aide to the naval attachd for the British embassy."
A detached expression crossed Murphy's face and it seemed to Burton-Angus that the American was staring right through him.
"Is something wrong?"
Murphy shook his head. "No, not at all. You being navy and British reminded me of a woman, a commander in the U.S. Navy who came to me searching for data concerning a treaty between our two countries."
"No doubt a trade treaty."
"I can't say. The strange part is that except for an old photograph, there is no record of it in Senate archives."
"A photograph?"
"Yes, with a notation about a North American Treaty."
"I'd be happy to have someone probe the embassy files for you."
"Please don't bother. It's not that important."
"No bother at all," insisted Burton-Angus. "Do you have a date?"
"On or about May twentieth, nineteen fourteen."
"Ancient history."
"Probably only a proposed treaty that was rejected."
"Nonetheless, I'll have a look," said Burton-Angus as his drink arrived. He held up the glass. "Cheers."
Sitting at his desk in the British embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, Alexander Moffat looked and acted like the archetype of a government official. With his hair trimmed short with an immaculately creased left-hand part, a ramrod spine and precise correctness in speech and mannerism, he and thousands of counterparts throughout the foreign service could have been stamped from the same cookie cutter. His desk was barren of all clutter; the only objects resting on its polished surface were his folded hands.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Lieutenant, but I find nothing in the records department mentioning an Anglo-American treaty in early nineteen fourteen."
"Most peculiar," said Burton-Angus. "The American chap who gave me the information seemed reasonably certain such a treaty either existed or at least had been in the talk stage."
"Probably has his year wrong."
"I don't think so. He's the Senate historian. Not the type to muck up his facts and dates."
"Do you wish to pursue the matter?" asked Moffat in an official tone.
Burton-Angus clasped his hands thoughtfully. "Might be worth a check with the Foreign Office in London to clear the fog.
Moffat shrugged indifferently. "A vague clue to an unlikely event three-quarters of a century ago would hardly have a significant bearing on the present."
"Perhaps not. Still, I promised the fellow I'd see what I could find. Shall I make a formal request for an inquiry, in writing?"
"Not necessary. I'll phone an old school chum who heads up the signals department and ask him to have a run at the old records. He owes me a favor. Should have an answer this time tomorrow. Don't be disappointed if he fails to turn up anything."
"I won't," said Burton-Angus. "On the other hand, you never can tell what might be buried in Foreign Service archives."
Peter Beaseley knew more about the Foreign Office than any other man in London. As chief librarian in charge of records for over thirty years, he considered the entire history of British international affairs his private domain. He made a specialty of ferreting out policy blunders and scandalous intrigues, by diplomats past and present, that had been swept under the carpet of secrecy.
Beaseley ran a hand through a few strands of white hair and reached for one of several pipes littering a large circular tray. He sniffed at the official-looking paper on his desk as a cat might sniff at an uninviting meal.
"North American Treaty," he said aloud to the empty room. "Never heard of it."
In the minds of his staff it would have been a pronouncement from God. If Peter Beaseley had never heard of a treaty, it obviously did not exist.
He tit the pipe and idly watched the smoke. The year 1914 signaled the end of vintage diplomacy, he mused. After World War I the aristocratic elegance of international negotiation was replaced by mechanical maneuvers. It had become a shallow world indeed.
His secretary knocked and poked her head around the door. "Mr. Beaseley."
He looked up without really seeing her. "Yes, Miss Gosset."
"I'm going to lunch now."
"Lunch?" He took his watch from a vest pocket and gazed at it. "Oh yes, I'd lost all track of time. Where are you going to eat? Do you have a date?"
The two unexpected questions in sudden succession caught Miss Gosset by surprise. "Why, no, I'm eating quite alone. I thought I would try that new Indian restaurant on Glendower Place."
"Good, that settles it," Beaseley grandly announced. "You're lunching with me."
The invitation was a rare honor and
Miss Gosset was surprised.
Beaseley caught her blank expression and smiled. "I have an ulterior motive, Miss Gosset. You may consider it a bribe. I need you to assist me in searching for an old treaty. Four eyes are faster than two. I don't want to waste too much time on this one."
She barely had time to slip on her coat before he hustled her outside and waved down a taxi with his umbrella.
"Sanctuary Building, Great Smith Street," Beaseley instructed the driver.
"With five buildings scattered about London crammed with old Foreign Office records," she said, adjusting a scarf, "it's a mystery to me how you know where to look."
"Correspondence dealing with the Americas during the year nineteen fourteen are shelved on the second floor of the east wing in the Sanctuary Building," he stated flatly.
Properly impressed, Miss Gosset remained silent until they reached their destination. Beaseley paid the driver, and they entered the lobby, showing their official credentials and signing in with the commissionaire. They took a rickety old elevator to the second floor. He walked unerringly to the correct section. "You check April. I'll take May."
"You haven't told me what we're looking for," she said inquiringly.
"Any reference to a North American Treaty."
She felt there was more she needed to know, but Beaseley had already turned his back and was poring through a huge leather binder that held reams of yellowed official documents and department memoranda. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tackled the first volume of April 1914, wrinkling her nose at the musty odor.