Black Cross. Greg Iles
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wish to God you would.”
“Duff Smith and I have a theory. We think Hitler hasn’t used Sarin yet for one simple reason. He is afraid of gas. He was temporarily blinded by mustard gas in the Great War, you know. Made quite a thing of it in Mein Kampf. He may well have an exaggerated fear of our chemical abilities. We believe the real danger isn’t Hitler at all, but Heinrich Himmler. Sarin and Soman are being tested at camps run by Himmler’s SS. The sample of Sarin came from a remote SS camp built solely for the purpose of manufacturing and testing nerve gases. Himmler also controls much of the Nazi intelligence apparatus. Therefore, he is the man most likely to know we possess no nerve gases of our own. Duff and I think Himmler’s plan is to perfect his nerve gases and protective clothing, then present the whole show to Hitler at the moment he most needs it—to stave off our invasion. At a single stroke Himmler could save the Reich and raise himself to an unassailable position as successor to the Nazi throne.”
Eisenhower pointed a fresh cigarette at Churchill. “Now that, Mr. Prime Minister, is a motive that makes sense. Do you have proof of this?”
“Duff’s Polish friends have a contact very close to the commandant of one of these camps. This agent believes a tactical demonstration of Soman—a demonstration for the Führer—may be scheduled in a matter of weeks, possibly even days.”
“I see. Mr. Prime Minister, let me digress a moment. Professor Lindemann said your people are working around the clock to copy Sarin. I assume that is strictly for retalia-tory purposes?”
Churchill took a deep breath. “Not if you agree with me, General. I believe there is an option more desirable than bombing the German stockpiles. I’m speaking of a demonstration raid. If our scientists succeed in copying Sarin, I believe we should launch a limited attack with our gas as soon as possible. Only by doing this will we leave no doubt whatever in Himmler’s mind that he is wrong in his estimation of our capabilities and our resolve.”
Eisenhower looked at Churchill with unveiled amazement. The cold-bloodedness of the British continually stunned him. He cleared his throat. “But so far your scientists’ efforts to copy Sarin have been unsuccessful, correct?”
Churchill turned up his palms. “They’re dabbling with something called fluorophosphates, but progress is slow.”
Eisenhower turned to the window and stared out over the snowswept English landscape. In the dark it looked as quiet as a cemetery. “Mr. Prime Minister,” he said at length, “I’m afraid I can’t support you on this. Neither the bombing nor the … the demonstration raid.” Hearing Churchill’s soft groan, Eisenhower turned. “Wait—please hear me out. I deeply respect your judgment. You have been right many times when everyone else was wrong. But things aren’t so clear cut as you’re trying to make them seem. If we bomb the German stockpiles and nerve gas plants, we tip our hand to Hitler. We show him what we fear most. Also, by bombing the stockpiles we indirectly use nerve gas on the German people. That’s practically the same as first use. What would then stop Hitler from using Soman against our troops?”
Churchill hung on every word, searching for a chink in the American’s logic.
“No,” Eisenhower said firmly, “it’s absolutely out of the question. President Roosevelt would never authorize a gas attack, and the American people wouldn’t stand for it. There are still thousands of veterans walking American streets who were terrorized by gas in the first war, some scarred horribly. We will retaliate if attacked ourselves. The president has made that clear. But first use? Never.”
Eisenhower steeled himself for the familiar roar of the British lion. But rather than rise to his feet for a spirited argument, Churchill seemed to withdraw into himself.
“What I will do,” Eisenhower said quickly, “is push for full American cooperation in developing our own version of Sarin. That way, if Hitler does cross the line we can show our people that we’re giving as good as we get. I’ll press Eaker and Harris for aerial surveys of the gas plants and stockpiles. If Hitler uses Sarin, we’ll be ready to start bombing immediately. How does that sound?”
“Like we’re planning to shut the stable door after the horse has run away,” Churchill mumbled.
Eisenhower felt his notorious temper reaching the flashpoint, but he managed to check it. He would have to endure countless hours of negotiations very much like this one in the coming months, and he had to keep relations civil. “Mr. Prime Minister, I’ve heard tales of doomsday weapons on both sides since 1942. In the end, this war will be won or lost with planes, tanks, and men.”
Sitting there in the great wing chair in his dragon dressing gown, hands folded across his round belly, Winston Churchill resembled nothing so much as a pale Buddha resting on a velvet pillow. His watery eyes peered out from beneath heavy lids. “General,” he said gravely, “you and I hold the fate of Christendom in our hands. I beg you to reconsider.”
In that moment Eisenhower felt the full weight of Churchill’s indomitable will projected against him. But his resolve held firm. “I’ll keep all this in mind,” he said. “But for now I must stand by what I said tonight.”
The Supreme Commander rose and moved toward the study door. As he reached for the knob, something stopped him. A brief intimation that perhaps he had won too easily? He turned and fixed Churchill in his gaze. “As I’m sure you will, Mr. Prime Minister.”
Churchill smiled in resignation. “Of course, General. Of course.”
When Eisenhower’s party had gone, Brigadier Duff Smith joined Churchill in his private study. A single lamp burned at the prime minister’s desk. The one-armed SOE chief leaned forward.
“The air seemed a bit chilly when Ike collected his men,” he observed.
Churchill laid both pudgy hands on his desk and sighed. “He refused, Duff. No bombing of the stockpiles, no demonstration raid if we develop our own gas.”
“Bloody hell. Doesn’t he realize what Soman would do to his sodding invasion?”
“I don’t think he does. It’s the same old American song, the same schoolboy naivete.”
“That naivete could still cost us the war!”
“Eisenhower has never seen combat, Duff, remember that. I don’t hold it against him, but a man who’s never been shot at—much less gassed—lacks a certain perspective.”
“Bloody Yanks,” Smith fumed. “They either want to fight this war from six miles up in the air or by the Marquess of Queensbury rules.”
“Steady, old man. They’ve acquitted themselves quite handily in Italy.”
“Aye,” Smith conceded. “But you’ve said it yourself a hundred times, Winston, ‘Action This Day!’”
Churchill stuck out his lower lip and fixed the brigadier with a penetrating stare. “You never thought Eisenhower would agree to the bombing, did you?”
The SOE chief’s poker face slipped ever so slightly. “That’s a fact, Winston. I never did.”
“And of course you have a plan.”
“I’ve had thoughts.”
“No matter how desperate a pass we’ve come to, I’ve never gone against the wishes of the Americans. The risks are enormous.”
“The threat is greater, Winston.”
“I believe that.” Churchill paused. “You couldn’t use any British personnel.”
“Give me some credit, old man.”
Churchill tapped his thick fingers on the desk. “What if it failed? Could you cover your tracks?”
Smith smiled. “Bombers go off course all the time. Drop their loads in the strangest of places.”
“What would you need?”
“To