see a column of smoke rising, the only mark upon a cloudless sky. The circus tent must have seemed like a military bivouac from the air.
As Don and the others began to emerge from their hiding places, they became aware of the sounds of a commotion. Screams. Shouts of dismay. Hooves clattering on the metalled road. Drawing ever nearer. Suddenly two white horses, their eyes red with fear, flew past. They were dragging something behind them, tangled in the reins, bouncing off the tarmac. Don ducked behind a tree and was sick.
In Joe Kennedy's view, it had been a splendid evening. Dinner at the Italian embassy, theatre, a new flirtation, then back to Beaverbrook's for a drink. Beaverbrook's door just along from the Ritz Hotel was always open and awash with good company and gossip. The two men were excellent companions and Kennedy was a frequent house guest at Beaverbrook's country home at Cherkley, where he had fallen into the most pleasurable habit of sleeping with one of Beaverbrook's research assistants. All in the line of business, of course; she would whisper in his ear all through the night, then write him a weekly letter full of her own endearments and the press man's private news. Keeping abreast, as the ambassador put it.
What he couldn't know was that the research assistant sent her letters through the Express office, where the manager would steam them open and copy the contents before posting them on. So everything got back to Beaverbrook keeping the American ambassador on his back, where he belonged, as His Lordship put it. No hard feelings. They were both businessmen, and information was a commodity from which they both made a handsome profit.
It was around midnight. Kennedy was just tucking into a fresh bottle of the Beaverbrook bourbon when the telephone rang. A summons. The Prime Minister wanted to see him. He made a point of asking for another drink before he left.
He found Churchill in his Admiralty workrooms. He had transformed the ground-floor dining room into an office, where he was pacing up and down, waving a glass, dictating to a female typist who was tapping out the words on a special silent machine. Churchill seemed not to notice his visitor, lost in concentration, and Colville scurried forward to guide the ambassador into the next room.
"It's a message to- the President," Colville whispered, pouring Kennedy a drink and settling him into an armchair crafted in the form of two hideously ugly dolphins.
Kennedy smirked. "Let you into a secret, Jock," he replied, assuming that any friend of Rab Butler's could be entrusted with a little gossip. "The President doesn't like him. Ever since they met, back in '18, right here in London. Says Churchill treated him like an unpleasant smell, then forgot they'd ever met." Kennedy shook his head dismissively. "But Roosevelt hasn't."
Colville started. Could it be true? There had been rumours, but Churchill placed such faith in the American connection. Could he be so appallingly wrong?
Of course he could.
And now he was at their side, dragging Kennedy into his inner sanctum, checking the draft of the message as he continued to stride up and down. Then he thrust it at Kennedy. Through eyes that had grown bleary, the American tried to take it in.
As you are no doubt aware, the scene has darkened swiftly. The enemy have a marked preponderance in the air .. . Hitler is working with specialized units in tanks and air. The small countries are simply smashed up, one by one, like matchwood .. . We expect to be attacked here ourselves, both from the air and by parachute and airborne troops, in the near future .. .
Kennedy wiped his brow, trying to clear his mind.
But I trust you realize, Mr. President, that the voice and force of the United States may count for nothing if they are withheld too long. You may have a completely subjugated, Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear.
Kennedy smiled to himself. He'd
As Don and the others began to emerge from their hiding places, they became aware of the sounds of a commotion. Screams. Shouts of dismay. Hooves clattering on the metalled road. Drawing ever nearer. Suddenly two white horses, their eyes red with fear, flew past. They were dragging something behind them, tangled in the reins, bouncing off the tarmac. Don ducked behind a tree and was sick.
In Joe Kennedy's view, it had been a splendid evening. Dinner at the Italian embassy, theatre, a new flirtation, then back to Beaverbrook's for a drink. Beaverbrook's door just along from the Ritz Hotel was always open and awash with good company and gossip. The two men were excellent companions and Kennedy was a frequent house guest at Beaverbrook's country home at Cherkley, where he had fallen into the most pleasurable habit of sleeping with one of Beaverbrook's research assistants. All in the line of business, of course; she would whisper in his ear all through the night, then write him a weekly letter full of her own endearments and the press man's private news. Keeping abreast, as the ambassador put it.
What he couldn't know was that the research assistant sent her letters through the Express office, where the manager would steam them open and copy the contents before posting them on. So everything got back to Beaverbrook keeping the American ambassador on his back, where he belonged, as His Lordship put it. No hard feelings. They were both businessmen, and information was a commodity from which they both made a handsome profit.
It was around midnight. Kennedy was just tucking into a fresh bottle of the Beaverbrook bourbon when the telephone rang. A summons. The Prime Minister wanted to see him. He made a point of asking for another drink before he left.
He found Churchill in his Admiralty workrooms. He had transformed the ground-floor dining room into an office, where he was pacing up and down, waving a glass, dictating to a female typist who was tapping out the words on a special silent machine. Churchill seemed not to notice his visitor, lost in concentration, and Colville scurried forward to guide the ambassador into the next room.
"It's a message to- the President," Colville whispered, pouring Kennedy a drink and settling him into an armchair crafted in the form of two hideously ugly dolphins.
Kennedy smirked. "Let you into a secret, Jock," he replied, assuming that any friend of Rab Butler's could be entrusted with a little gossip. "The President doesn't like him. Ever since they met, back in '18, right here in London. Says Churchill treated him like an unpleasant smell, then forgot they'd ever met." Kennedy shook his head dismissively. "But Roosevelt hasn't."
Colville started. Could it be true? There had been rumours, but Churchill placed such faith in the American connection. Could he be so appallingly wrong?
Of course he could.
And now he was at their side, dragging Kennedy into his inner sanctum, checking the draft of the message as he continued to stride up and down. Then he thrust it at Kennedy. Through eyes that had grown bleary, the American tried to take it in.
As you are no doubt aware, the scene has darkened swiftly. The enemy have a marked preponderance in the air .. . Hitler is working with specialized units in tanks and air. The small countries are simply smashed up, one by one, like matchwood .. . We expect to be attacked here ourselves, both from the air and by parachute and airborne troops, in the near future .. .
Kennedy wiped his brow, trying to clear his mind.
But I trust you realize, Mr. President, that the voice and force of the United States may count for nothing if they are withheld too long. You may have a completely subjugated, Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear.
Kennedy smiled to himself. He'd
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