The Titanic Plan (10 page)

“
Hello, Captain,” Finch said crisply as Archie entered the office. When they shook hands, Archie was reminded of Finch’s cold, bony grip.

“
A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Finch,” Archie said.

“
My new title is Director. Director of the Bureau of Investigation”

“
Congratulations are in order then, Director.”

“
Have a seat, Captain. I have a few questions I must ask you.”

Archie sat. “So, how can I help you, sir?”

Finch remained silent. The fingers on his right hand tapped his desktop in a rhythmic roll, his fingernails clicking
rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat
. “You might start by coming clean with me.”

Archie was taken aback by Finch’s abruptness. “Of course, Mr. Finch.”

“
Director Finch. If I refer to you by your rank, Captain, I would like the respect of being referred to by my rank. ” Finch crossed his office to a large wooden filing cabinet that stood against the far wall. He pulled an outsized key ring from his pocket and began exhaustively shuffling through the keys until he found the one he was after. Archie noticed Finch’s meticulousness as he placed the key into the third drawer from the top, unlocked it with a precise snap of his wrist and then pulled it open. Finch leafed through the drawer in the same exacting manner, and when he found the file he was looking for, he plucked it up and carried it to his desk. Thumbing through the file’s contents, Finch snapped out a single sheet and tossed it on his desk. Archie had seen it before – it was the picture of him and Mick taken in the Philippines. “We asked you to let us know if you had any contact with this man,” Finch snarled like a prosecutor cornering a killer in the docket.

Archie sat serenely still, not being drawn into Finch’s rising dramatics. “That you did, sir,” Archie said calmly. “That you did.”

“
Well?”

“
I’m a very busy man serving the President, Mr.…or rather,
Director
Finch. Your request must have slipped my mind. My sincere apologies.”

“
You met with Mr. Shaughnessy on one occasion and he contacted you within the month. Have these occurrences also slipped your mind?”

Archie was astonished by what Finch knew. The insolent little upstart was obviously very good at his job. “Shall I share with you what Mr. Shaughnessy was contacting me about?” Archie said.

“
We already know that too, Captain.”

“
Then what was your purpose of me reporting these things to you?”

“
To see if we could depend on you. And while your actions have cast doubt on your dependability…” Finch was now pacing the room like a bantam rooster, “…I am willing to forego my better judgment and take a chance on you.”

“
Take a chance on me for what?!”

“
A very crucial assignment.”

“
Sir, I do not work for your agency. I take orders from one man and one man only – the President of the United States. And I believe, as your agency is part of the executive branch, he is your boss too.”

“
I am well aware of that. And the President has been informed of this agency’s request for your service.”

Archie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you want of me?”

“
Simply, to do what Mick Shaughnessy wishes you to do. We want you to contact him, find out what his plans are, what he’s saying, what he’s doing, where he lives, and then we want you to report everything you’ve found back to us.”

“
You want me to become a spy for you? That is not what I do.”

“
You’ve taken an oath to be loyal to the United States of America. Not to your anarchist friends.”

“
I do not think I’d be very good a spy, Mr. Finch. I’m a lousy liar and I believe it is one of the job requirements.”

“
You were unscrupulous enough not to have informed this agency of your contacts with Mick Shaughnessy.”

“
That was wrong.”

“
Then goddam rectify your mistake, Captain!”

“
Mick Shaughnessy is not stupid. He’ll know what I’m up to.”

“
Then we’ll teach you to become a better liar. Would that ease your mind about this assignment?” Finch snapped in frustration.

“
My choice would be not to do this.”

“
Honestly,” Finch spat, “you do not have that choice. You will continue on in your role as Military Aide to the President. You will have minimal contact with our agency. You must, of course, be protective of your identity when you are with Mr. Shaughnessy, but you must be conscious to gather any and all information about him and his activities and then report it back to us. Is that clear, Captain?”

“
And the President has approved this?”

“
Do you want the official or unofficial answer?”

“
Both.”

“
Unofficially, the Executive office has approved this. Officially, the Executive office has no idea of this meeting or that your assignment has ever taken place. And it must remain that way.”

CHAPTER 10

"W
hat shall we call you, Captain?” Mick said. “How about Archibald Davis? A distant cousin of your South’s beloved Jeff Davis.”

Archie grunted. He didn’t think it was funny. He didn’t think any of this was funny. He was sitting in the same back seat he was shoved into when kidnapped at Central Park. This time Mick was beside him and young Henry was at the wheel. Mick had cleaned himself up. His hair still flowed long, but it was trimmed and brushed back, giving him the look of a romantic poet rather than an emaciated radical.

Archie looked different too. Out of uniform, in a dark suit and vest, Archie looked like a bank clerk or insurance salesman. He pulled his black bowler low to further obscure his identity.

“
You’re going to have to get rid of that hat, Captain. It would draw attention to you in this crowd. And you can’t walk in as the military aide to Taft, that’s for sure. How about becoming a champion of the Working Man? A laborer from the peanut farms of Georgia who fought for a twelve-hour day. Hey, don’t look so gloomy. This evening is going to be a helluva lot more interesting than those awful society parties you have to attend.”

“
At least those people are not trying to bring down our country,” Archie answered.

“
These people are not trying to bring down the country either. Just its government.” Mick leaned forward toward the front seat. “Why don’t you let us out here, Henry. Some fresh air will do us good.”

Archie felt wary walking through Washington Square. He had passed Sanford White’s victory arch that honored George Washington many times in the Presidential coach. But he had never walked through it, never crossed the wide expanse that led into Greenwich Village. A thick fog had enveloped the square. He and Mick seemed alone, joined only by a symphony of disembodied noises and voices that floated through the mist: a lover’s quarrel, the clanging of a street car, a violinist playing a Bach partita, a dog barking. By the time they reached Thompson Street, Archie felt as if he had crossed the river Styx and was now entering some sort of American Hades.

“
This way,” Mick said, guiding Archie through a tangle of narrow streets and alleyways to a row of ramshackle brownstones on MacDougal Street. He stopped in front of number 137. There was a noisy restaurant on the first floor the likes of which Archie had never seen. Men were screaming and waving their arms at their meal companions; women smoked cigarettes and yelled and waved their arms as wildly as the men. A whiskered waiter dropped a plate of pork chops before one diner and screamed, “Cooked pig for a bourgeois pig.”

Mick paid it no notice, ushering Archie into the building where they climbed a dark stairway to the second floor. There was a small hand-lettered sign at the entrance of their destination: “
The Liberal Club – The Meeting Place for Those Interested in New Ideas.
” Archie surmised he was the only card carrying Republican in the building.

Stepping into the large meeting room, Archie’s first thought was of the Tower of Babel, with its thousands of builders all squawking in different languages. This did seem like Babylon. The room was crowded with exotics – Negroes, Orientals, dark skinned South Americans, heavily bearded Russians, Indian women in saris, and Americans, some wearing well-pressed suits, some in dirty trousers and heavy work boots. The women were neither as fashionable nor refined as the women Archie was used to. Most wore loose cotton dresses that clung sensually to their bodies. They all smoked cigarettes and their manners were as aggressive as the men.

“
Mick, sweetheart!” a woman’s voice called out. Archie and Mick turned to see a stunning young woman in a slinky green dress cut low in back walking toward them. Mick grinned; Archie froze. He couldn’t believe who he was seeing. Though he had met her only once, he knew her face, every feature of it. In idle moments at the White House he would dream about seeing her again. He fantasized being with her at some great diplomatic event where he was in full splendor beside the President. He never imagined their paths would cross in a dingy meeting room at an anarchists’ gathering in Greenwich Village.

“
You look ravishing as always, Belle,” Mick said, suavely kissing both her cheeks. “Though your dress might be a bit provocative for the proletariat tonight.”

Seeing Archie, Belle became awkward. She took a step back, trying to distance herself from Mick’s attentions.

“
Archie, this is the most enchanting woman you will encounter this evening, Belle da Costa Greene. Belle, this is Archie Davis, an old Army buddy of mine.”

“
A pleasure to meet you, Miss Greene,” Archie said stiffly.

“
Yes. A pleasure. Mr. Davis is it?” Belle replied.

Archie nodded weakly. “Mr. Davis.”

“
What are you doing after the meeting, Belle?” Mick asked. “I was thinking about taking Archie to the Brevoort for a drink. Show him how we have fun in Greenwich Village.”

“
If that’s an invitation, thank you, but I’m busy,” Belle answered coolly.

There was an uncomfortable quiet between the three, then Belle spoke up, “Is this the first meeting you’ve been to, Mr. Davis?”

“
Yes,” said Archie. “It’s a very interesting group of people. It seems to be a place of many surprises.”

“
It never ceases to surprise me,” Belle added.

At the front of the room a short, squat woman began calling for people to take their seats. Unlike the pretty women who were flitting around the room, this woman wore a cheap, dowdy dress that only accentuated her heavy, almost masculine features. “Friends, please, sit down, will you? We have one of the most enthralling men in America today who is going to stir you with his knowledge and passion. Come on, take your seats now.”

The crowd was like a pack of wild animals not wanting to be herded. “Come on now!” the woman pleaded. “The revolution can’t start until you take your seats.”

“
We’re anarchists, Emma,” a man shouted. “The revolution will start only when we’re good and ready.”

“
When you’re good and ready, Mr. Eastman, the revolution will have long passed by.” The crowd laughed and began filing into the rows of wooden chairs.

“
I best get to my seat,” Belle said quickly. “Mick, always a pleasure. And nice meeting you, Mr. Davis.”

“
And you too, Miss Greene.” Archie bowed slightly.

Both watched Belle cross the room to join a handsome Negro with a regal bearing. The black man sported a carefully trimmed, salt and pepper beard and mustache, and wore expensive gold-rim glasses. Archie kept his eyes glued to Belle, noticing the Negro’s familiarly with her; how he stepped close until his body touched hers, how he placed his hand on the bare skin of her back and led her to a seat.

The woman at the front of the hall kept urging everyone to find seats. Hearing her speech tinged with a Russian accent, Archie realized that this small, motherly, bespectacled woman they called Emma was, in fact, the most notorious anarchist in America, Emma Goldman. Mick pulled Archie to a seat on the aisle near the back.