Page 12 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
“Good. That was my plan all along.”
The phone rang. He picked up the speaker and leaned into the microphone. “Isaac Bell.”
“Mr. Bell, this is the doorman. Your car is here.”
“We will be right down.” He held out his elbow for Marion to slip her arm into his. “In town for twenty-four hours and we’re already going to a royal party.”
“You are many things, Isaac Bell. A procrastinator isn’t one of them.”
Their trip to England had grown ever stranger since the chase and subsequent capture of the gold shipment thieves. They did get a room at the Adelphi and Marion did relish their famous turtle soup, but they’d also run into the minor royal whose car she’d stolen and subsequently sank in the Mersey River. His anger was an all-consuming pyre that looked about to give him a heart attack as he raged in the hotel’s lobby when he first saw Marion come through the door. In the end, he did not accept her apology, which had been rather insincere in truth, but he did accept a guaranteed check for twice the car’s value.
A cable was waiting for Isaac when they reached London that the man was a day late in receiving, leaving Bell only a couple of minutes to rush to the small office the Van Dorn Agency maintained in the city. He then had a thirty-minute transatlantic conversation with the secretary of the Navy, Josephus Daniels, and his assistant secretary, Franklin Roosevelt. Bell immediately accepted the opportunityto give the secretary an unvarnished assessment of what American troops could expect on what even the Allies calleddie Westfront, the Western Front.
Daniels and Roosevelt had already set up a liaison meeting with a previous Admiralty Lord, who’d assured them that the whole expedition would take a week at most. To mollify Marion that he was leaving her alone in London while he went to play scout in France, the meeting would be preceded by an invitation to a gala at a Chelsea mansion that very night.
Marion had spent the day with the hotel’s stylist while Bell made lists of the things he’d need and was just now seeing what they’d put together for the evening.
“Because of the war, no one is going full-out with all the regalia of a real ball,” she explained as they waited for the lift. “That’s why you can get away with just a tuxedo rather than white tie and frock coat and I’m in a dinner gown.”
“The aristocrats doing their part,” Bell said sarcastically.
“Don’t be snotty,” she said as they crossed the lobby for the hotel’s famous forecourt.
The car was a Rolls-Royce with handcrafted coachwork painted in a deep blue with gold accents. It was one of the loveliest cars Bell had ever seen and he had to resist the urge to ask the driver about its mechanical specifications. Instead he sat back with Marion’s gloved hand in his and enjoyed the ride across the city to their destination.
Lit up like a movie premiere, the main mansion stood three stories tall and had two newer extensions that took up almost the entire block. The façade was brick with granite accents and a forest of chimneys rose from the slate roof. It offered an impressive view of a tree-studded park across the road and looked like it had well over a hundred rooms. New York society was stratified by new and oldmoney, those who’d gotten wealthy in the industrial age versus those whose wealth had been built generations earlier. This place made Bell realize that the oldest old money in New York was nothing compared to what the Europeans had been amassing since the Renaissance.
A procession of luxury cars was disgorging well-heeled guests in a steady stream. Once it was their turn, a footman in white hose opened the door and held out a hand for Marion. She flowed out of the Rolls in a stream of shimmering silk. Bell followed after and pulled a card from a case that he kept in an inside jacket. The reception hall was an octagonal room so tall that it should echo painfully, but was so well designed that it didn’t. The floor was pink marble and the double wings of the staircase in the back of the room were intricately carved mahogany.
They took their spot in a reception line, and when it was time, Bell handed his card to an attendant, who then whispered his and Marion’s names to their hosts, Lord and Lady Shirling.
“So nice of you to come all the way from America, Mr. and Mrs. Bell,” His Lordship said.
Bell held back a quip and replied, “We are honored by the invitation into your lovely home.”
And just like that they were past. Arm in arm, they drifted into an adjoining room, where waiters were carrying platters of champagne and canapés. Marion was enraptured by the elegant clothes and the size of some of the jewels the women wore at their throats or around their wrists and fingers. They had been to some impressive parties back in the States, but this put them all to shame in terms of opulence and decorum. She told him that the beadwork on one of the gowns she pointed out likely took two years to stitch.
The champagne was perfectly chilled and the right balancebetween sweet and dry, while each bite of the food was a sensation unto itself. Once someone overheard them talking and asked if they were American, they became the center of attention. Bell gave vague answers about what he did, but one of the ladies in the growing circle recognized Marion’s name and had seen several of the films she’d directed.
Gossip was the lifeblood of all levels of society and once she started in on stories of actors whose fame had crossed the Atlantic, Marion became the darling of the affair. Knowing she could hold court for hours, Bell ambled away in search of his contact. While Bell knew the man’s name, he wanted to test his detective skills by trying to find his target using just the brief physical description he’d been given.
He needn’t have bothered. A moment after leaving Marion’s side someone tapped him on the elbow. He turned and knew this was his man. He was a couple of years older than Bell with a pugnaciousness about him that made him seem older still. He was barely five and a half feet tall, but he had the presence of a giant. His eyes were a cutting blue, but also playful.
“Daniels told me to look for a strapping blond fellow with the most beautiful woman at the party on his arm,” he said in a cigar-roughed voice. “I’m Winston Churchill.”
“Isaac Bell.” They shook hands. “The secretary gave me your biography and I admit to being very impressed. Member of Parliament at twenty-six. Admiralty Lord just ten years later.”
Churchill made a demurring gesture. “If I’m not engaging in something new, I find myself growing bored. They’ve just made me minister of munitions. Any chance you can delay your trip to France by a month or so? You can accompany me on my first inspection with my new posting.”
“I would have enjoyed that,” Bell replied. “Unfortunately, the President wants my report as soon as possible.”
“You Americans are going to come in on our side.” Churchill said this as a statement, but it was more a question.
Bell took a second to reply. “Wilson’s reluctant. His entire campaign last year was based on the fact that we hadn’t entered the war. A good part of him is unwilling to turn his back on that legacy. On the other hand, if the Germans kill enough American sailors and ships’ passengers, he’s going to have no choice but to respond by asking Congress for a declaration of war.”
“The Kaiser’s no fool,” Churchill responded. “He knows that, but he also believes that if his U-boats can strangle our little island for a bit longer, America won’t have time to mobilize significant forces before we sue for peace.”
“It’s a gamble.”
