The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart

across the Seine, then miles of twinkling lights stretching into the inky distance. Without a moon, stars shone diffident light on mist that clung to the river. Past the river, more than a hundred miles away, Joshua sat in the army prison camp. But for how much longer? Cook could feel it all getting away from him. He had to come up with something.
    Joshua had been a gentle boy, fond of every kind of animal. Even squirrels, which Cook considered mostly rat. Little Joshua would spread bread crumbs on the ground and lie down in the grass to wait for the squirrels. They would get closer, run away, get closer, then finally snatch the food and rush off. From a catalog, Aurelia ordered Joshua a book about birds. He learned their names and habits, recited their migration patterns. He never cared much for Speed’s baseball stories, but he listened as if bewitched when Aurelia told him about the time the passenger pigeons roosted for three days in her hometown. Just a few years ago, when the last one of those stupid birds died, Joshua had mourned them.
    Cook had worried that Joshua wouldn’t be tough enough, even encouraged him to go off to war. As soon as Joshua shipped out for Europe, Cook remembered the story of Abraham and Isaac. It wouldn’t let him go. At least Abraham could say that God told him he had to to sacrifice his own son. Who says no to God? What could Cook say—that vanity made him do it? That he was ready to sacrifice his son in pursuit of the mirage that his race would advance?
    He had to look it in the eye. He had been a fool, pure and simple, to push his son to fight.
    â€œHello.” Dulles had left his group, which was clustered around the elevator, stomping and snorting. “You’re an easy chap to pick out.”
    â€œAll over France.”
    Dulles stood next to him and took in the view. “Sorry for the melodramatic setting, but I’m devilishly busy. Since I was deputed to explain Monsieur Eiffel’s genius to some of the more provincial members of our delegation, I thought to save time by meeting you at this memorable yet easy-to-find spot.” He looked up at the top of the tower. “It’s quite something, you know. This tower caught Mata Hari. Yes, it’s true. Those clever French put a radio antenna way up at the top and used it to intercept her most secret messages. And then they hanged the poor woman.”
    Cook was cold and getting colder. “Why are we here?”
    â€œYes, well.” Dulles cleared his throat and resumed his study of the eastern horizon. “I arranged to review the war record of your son, Sergeant Cook. He’s been a brave soldier. The French thought the world of him.”
    Cook nodded but didn’t turn. A few boats plowed through the river in both directions. “Can you help?”
    â€œI can’t arrange Joshua’s release. The only person with the power to do that is President Wilson, and he’s not even here in France. He’s coming back in a couple weeks, but I just don’t see it as a case that would move him right now.”
    â€œYou mean, Joshua’s colored.”
    â€œNot solely, but that’s part of this picture.”
    Cook waited. Dulles had to have something on his mind.
    â€œI do have an alternative. I believe I can arrange for Sergeant Cook to be misplaced.”
    This time Cook turned his head. “Which means?”
    â€œThe army will have to move him from his current . . . location so he can be shipped home. During that process, it might happen that he would be left unsupervised. The army misplaces things constantly. During the fighting, they misplaced entire regiments.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œSergeant Cook need simply absent himself and make his way to a certain address I can provide. It’s in the Montmartre district here in Paris. That area has rather a wide variety of residents. He’s not likely to stand out there.”
    â€œSounds dangerous. He