Weapons of Peace

By Peter D. Johnston

International bestselling author Peter D. Johnston has crafted a critically acclaimed thriller wrapped in the history of a moated castle, the Holocaust, and Hitler’s rise—inspired by new accounts of how the Nazis tested a fledgling nuclear weapon in late 1944.

Recovering from gunshot wounds and confined to an ancient English castle, America's top negotiator shares the secrets of his interrupted mission and his craft with the only person he dares to trust—a young British nurse with a troubled past. When she proves to be an exceptional student of his laws of influence, he urges her to help him complete his mission: Hitler has an atom bomb, and his scientists must be persuaded to undermine their own creation.

Weapons of Peace races from a midnight ambush on a British beach and a bizarre killing in Washington, D.C., to a scorched atomic test site in Germany and hidden passages forged under Berlin by resisters plotting to murder Hitler. Johnston's expert hand blends real-world historical material with heart-pounding action, unforgettable characters, and precious insights into influence and how the Nazis negotiated their way to power and kept it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goldrook Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780980942149

Peter D. Johnston

Peter D. Johnston is a negotiator, advisor, mediator and speaker whose expertise is sought worldwide. He has worked with clients ranging from Wall Street bankers, UN officials and political leaders to battered sales teams, cheated spouses and convicted felons. His groundbreaking results have been formally recognized by the US government for their positive economic and social impact. He is a Harvard MBA, trained journalist and former corporate and investment banker. His first business book, Negotiating with Giants, was touted by CNN News as "Very valuable...What you need to know to get a good deal on just about anything." In Embassy Magazine, it was described as using "a finer brush" than Getting to Yes, and that ”Fans of best-selling 48 Laws of Power will recognize and enjoy a similarly informative and engaging storytelling style." Readers of Peter D. Johnston describe Negotiating with Giants as "insightful and entertaining," a "vibrant and informative how-to" "packed with insights" in a way that is "well-organized and highly accessible". Peter’s second book, Weapons of Peace, takes a turn into fiction, but with his trademark skills of digging into history to provide "riveting historical fiction . . . superbly researched and executed ." Author Keven Fletcher describes Weapons of Peace as "like The Da Vinci Code", and warns that readers should "buckle up for non-stop action and deceit -- with an ending that will leave you breathless." Other reviewers call it ”absolutely addictive,” "brilliantly crafted . . . with the historical realism of Alan Furst or Ken Follett," and say of the main character, “Nurse Doyle morphs into...a cross between Florence Nightingale and Dragon Tattoo's Lisbeth Salander.” Visit weaponsofpeace-book.com and watch the book trailer at https://youtu.be/CdkmDk06hoE.

Book preview

peace.

Author’s Note

This novel is inspired by the true stories of Leeds Castle and documented Nazi efforts to complete an atomic weapon before the Allies. Its pages include real people, places, events, scientific developments, influence dynamics, and facts from World War II. For those characters based on actual people, I’ve taken license to create new scenes in their lives as part of this work of fiction. You’ll find brief biographies at the back of Weapons of Peace for many of these real-life individuals.

Facts

In early 1943, the Allies attacked Nazi facilities in occupied Norway to slow Germany’s progress in developing a nuclear weapon. Despite this and other sabotage, a number of sources now indicate that the Nazis remained far more advanced in their development of an atom bomb than most suspected at the time.

Eyewitness accounts, including one from an award-winning Italian journalist, contend that the Nazis, on three occasions, tested a nuclear device in the final months of World War II—ahead of the Allies. Such accounts had long been publicly countered by American and Russian sources—many perhaps intent on hiding their own reliance on the legion of Nazi atomic and rocket scientists who came to work for each side during the Cold War.

Indeed, word circulated among Nazi officials and in the streets of Berlin that a wonder weapon had finally been developed and tested—and was ready for launch.

—

Leeds Castle, in South East England, was built more than eight centuries ago, and is considered one of the most romantic and gorgeous ancient castles in the world.

During World War II, this castle played two secret and completely unexpected roles, ultimately helping the Allied forces win in Europe.

Lady Olive Baillie, an heiress whose wealth can be traced to American oil, steel, and tobacco in the 1800s, lovingly restored Leeds Castle and led it into battle in 1939. Today, Lady Baillie’s trustees continue to oversee her remarkable contribution to English history.

Part I

The Nurse

Chapter 1

Monday, August 21, 1944

10:55

p.m.—

South East England

He edged his way down the side of the steep, sloping cliff, slipping occasionally, unable to see where he was placing his feet, shuffling through the grass and invisible rocks that poked at his legs.

Once on the beach, he looked for the hulking rock near the shoreline: the agreed-upon landmark for those meeting him. It soon came into view, a silhouette against the surf, alone—like him.

He moved through the thick salty mist, ducked low behind the rock and cupped his hands together, managing to light one of the six cigarettes he’d stashed in the pocket of his leather jacket. When he was sure the flame had taken hold, Everett Nash rose up and peered out at the water, his tall figure enveloped by the smell of smoke and rotting seaweed.

As he took a drag, he noticed the trembling in his hand. He was damp and cold, but he knew it wasn’t that. He was nervous. And he was rarely nervous. It was a feeling he hated, one that went against everything he tried to teach the diplomats, generals, and politicians who sought out his counsel in London and Washington.

The powerful leaders who hired him to do their bidding deemed most of his assignments important. But Nash knew this starless night’s undertaking was the start of something different.

A dog’s howl caught him off guard. It came from somewhere beyond the top of the cliff, where half a dozen homes had scattered themselves, but was loud and sudden enough to cause him to swing around. When a second howl confirmed that the dog wasn’t an immediate threat, he slowly turned his eyes back toward the ocean, sucking in another warm breath of courage.

They were late.

—

Emma ran the iron over her white dress one more time, tears welling up in her light-blue eyes. She stood barefoot, wearing only her brassiere and underwear. On the bed nearby lay her white stockings, garters, and small white headpiece, which would be pinned to her shoulder-length blond hair to keep it neat and in place.

Ironing her dress was the last of her preparations, and the task had proved challenging. She pressed more firmly with each pass of her hand, her knuckles clenched. Why must I be the one to do this? She needed this dress to be perfect, her suit of armor in these strange times; it made her feel strong, hopeful, confident, as if she could do anything the following day. Take it off, and she felt small, unsure of herself, and even dirty, as she did now.

Twice, Emma had reheated the iron, and still a large crease on the front of the dress—the dress she had dreamed of wearing since childhood—refused to disappear. Just like the mistakes I’ve made.

Two tears slipped down either side of her slender nose, landing on the wrinkled ridge. Emma stopped, yanked at the shimmering cloth, and launched it at the bed. She sank to the cold stone floor and began to sob, her body so racked with remorse and fatigue that she questioned whether she’d ever be able to rise again. She glanced around with guilt, concerned that she might wake the guard in the room beside hers—however unlikely that was, given the castle’s thick walls.

After several minutes, she managed a few controlled deep breaths and pushed herself up from the floor, ashamed at her weakness. So many others in her nation had suffered so much more. Yet she wondered if they suffered in the ways she did: every single day, a prisoner of this fortress, chained to her sins, forced to smile gracefully at every turn, barely making it to her room at night.

Into a huge wardrobe, Emma placed her dress and other belongings, exchanging them for a laced white nightgown, which she pulled over her slim shoulders. She moved back to the bed and climbed between linen sheets, heated earlier by a metal pan full of dying coals spirited from the fireplace, the acrid scent of the embers still hovering and somehow comforting to her.

She reached under the bed, as she did every night, locating the Bible she’d tucked away there. From inside the old book’s battered leather cover she withdrew a yellowed photograph. She stared at it, smiling, remembering the moment, then kissed it and returned the image to its sanctuary. Sleep tight, my love.

As her tears dried, Emma said a prayer, asking for sleep and salvation. She turned on her side, toward the bedside lamp, and with a flick of her finger plunged the cavernous room into darkness.

—

Nash scanned the water from behind the rock.

Still nothing.

He cursed out loud, wondering what might have gone wrong, checking his watch again. They were half an hour late. And in wartime tardiness usually didn’t end well.

He crossed his arms as a shield against the unexpectedly cold August air, a deep chill burrowing into his aging but still athletic limbs. He couldn’t panic. His training wouldn’t allow for that. But he could be concerned, and with good reason. We need to make the other side of the Channel before the skies lighten or we’ll all be as good as dead.

If they missed this black night’s veiled offering for crossing into Holland, they’d likely have to wait another month for the same logistics, lighting, and weather conditions to fall into place, or try sooner but with a much higher risk of being shot to pieces by patrolling Nazis.

While German troops continued their relentless pursuit of enemies across the European continent, Allied intelligence reports had Germany’s leader spending more time in or near Berlin, licking his nation’s wounds while his rumored blond mistress licked his. But as 1944 limped into its closing months, and a weakened Germany found itself vulnerable to mounting counterattacks, it appeared that the führer was in no mood for compromise. On the contrary, and known only to a handful of people—including Nash—Adolf Hitler was poised to be more dangerous than ever before.

According to Nash’s own highly placed source inside the Nazi regime—whose identity only he knew and whom he planned to see again soon—Hitler’s scientists had constructed a weapon that would release enormous amounts of energy by splitting billions of uranium atoms as part of a chain reaction. The Nazis called their weapon a disintegration bomb. With it, the führer could wrap Germany’s flag around the face of the globe, suffocating his remaining rivals.

Hitler’s men had beaten the U.S. in the race to develop the world’s first atomic bomb.

Just the credible threat of such a weapon might be enough to turn the tide of war back in Germany’s favor, this time irreversibly. Nash had a matter of months—six, at most, he’d been told.

He shivered.

Can I outmaneuver someone I helped create?

He doubted it. But he knew that he had to try.

A light cut through the darkness ahead.

They were here.

The powerful small boat peeked out from the water. Sylvia Munroe would be on board, along with two of her colleagues, agents he hadn’t yet met. He looked forward to seeing Munroe again, though their time together would be brief, much briefer and in entirely different circumstances than the last time he met her over dinner in London. All three agents would know it was imperative that he reach Holland quickly, but nothing more. Only seven people in the world knew his mission, including Britain’s prime minister, Winston Churchill, and his own leader, President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Nash waited. The boat flashed its beacon light three times. Only then did he step out from behind the rock that sheltered him, revolver in hand. He moved sideways and slightly forward, his boots sinking into the sand as he prepared to speak from some thirty yards away.

What kind of night is this? he asked.

"It is a night worthy of The Hound of the Baskervilles," came the scripted reply from one of the deep voices on board.

Nash relaxed. And where is the hound? he asked, slipping the gun back into his jacket pocket as he quickened his pace toward the boat, whose occupants were still almost invisible to him. He thought he could decipher Munroe’s outline in the fog.

The hound is here, she called, rising to her feet.

She was off script. In disbelief, Nash spun around and took two strides back toward the safety of the rock. Someone shouted in German. A shot rang out. He braced himself. A body crashed into the oncoming waves. Oh, my God—Munroe.

A distant bark responded to the noise.

He knew the next bullet would be coming for him. He had to get back behind the rock. The wet sand sucked at his boots, making it hard to move nimbly. More shouting from the boat. More barking from beyond the cliff.

A 9-mm Parabellum bullet ripped through Nash’s skin. The force of it sent him reeling as a burning sensation tore across his lower back, the bullet missing his spine by inches, exploding into his kidney, and coming to rest inside his abdominal wall.

The dog’s barking became frantic and a light went on in one of the houses overlooking the bluff. A man started yelling through his window. In less than a minute, he would be out with a shotgun to protect his home and his nation.

A second bullet hit the side of Nash’s head, sending blood through his dark hair and toward his contorted face.

Nash’s only thought was the rock; he had to get behind it.

"Holen Sie ihn!" a voice commanded.

The splash of feet behind him. Damn. Nash swerved and lurched forward, trying not to stray too far from a direct line to his only hope of refuge. A bullet ricocheted off the rock. Thank God.

The reprieve was brief.

The next bullet was already on its way. This one tore through his side, above his right hip. He swore loudly but kept moving. His pursuer was well trained. As Nash dived for cover, another bullet penetrated his skin, this time splintering a portion of his tibia six inches below his right kneecap.

He rolled to his side and fumbled for his handgun, straining to see his assailant through the blood in his eyes. Nash fired, hitting him in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet. Take that, you bastard. His next shot missed. His pursuer rose, once more moving into Nash’s line of sight.

Nash was probably dying, but he wasn’t going to let the turncoat who killed Munroe get away. As Nash’s head began spinning, he fired one last round. The killer, at most ten yards away, collapsed on the ground. Nash smiled briefly, dropping his head onto the sand, then grimaced as he looked up at the ceiling of fog hanging over the ocean, realizing the worst: his mission was over before it had even begun. He was the only one on the Allied side with the skills and the contacts to carry it out. His death would likely result in the deaths of tens of millions—and the misery of countless others.

Everett Nash said a prayer, closed his eyes, and lost consciousness.

Seconds later, something blew up the bottom half of the cliff behind him, followed by a series of explosions to the west.

Chapter 2

Tuesday, August 22, 1944

2:30

a.m

.

Billows of mist slipped through the night and rolled over the castle’s walls, showing others the way, as they’d done for more than eight hundred years.

Few would dare to follow.

Where God had decided against placing a lake here, King Edward had chosen otherwise after Leeds Castle became Crown property in 1278. Once he had expanded the size of the original Norman fortress, adding more buildings along with every creature comfort a family could desire, Edward realized that he needed just one more thing: a moat to surround the castle’s thirty-foot walls. So he took the River Len, which ran east of the village of Leeds, and turned part of it into a lake, making enemy invasion less likely and more hazardous.

The castle, spread across two islands, was entered by a single drawbridge and gatehouse, ushering welcomed visitors through its walls into a hidden world of sumptuous lawns, manicured hedges, and royal opulence.

In 1519, King Henry VIII further renovated and refined Leeds Castle for his beloved Catherine of Aragon, who, to her chagrin, ended up not using it as much as she might have liked, since Henry divorced her for not producing a male heir. In the centuries that followed, this pastoral retreat would yield more disappointments, as well as kingly triumphs. On the odd occasion, it would be lost in battle despite its forbidding moat, serving variously as an arsenal, a courthouse, a prison, a pawn between powers, and a meeting place for stately negotiations.

But in the early-morning hours of August 22, 1944, Leeds Castle, as majestic as it was, did not serve any of these roles. Indeed, the castle’s new and hidden purpose would require all its cunning to protect the secrets within its walls—and keep out those who coveted them.

—

The sleepy nurse rushed to the waiting ambulance.

Sorry for the delay, she shouted into the night above the idling engine. We’ve already begun preparations for the patient.

"Good, because this man needs help now. We shouldn’t have had to wait so long at the gate," responded the driver curtly as he and the other medic, a much younger man, jumped from their small truck. They lifted their blanketed patient through the vehicle’s back doors and onto the gurney the nurse had brought with her. The young medic held a bag of blood, its lifeline snaking into the patient’s pasty arm.

The driver began his briefing as the trio moved across the slate surface and down a long slope.

No name, no identification, non-military, male, forty-five to fifty years old—looks about a hundred and fifty right now. Brought into Folkestone hospital just after midnight by a resident who heard shots and found him on the beach. Four wounds, the one in his lower back is a gusher. Bad timing. Town was just bombed. Local folks a priority, besides which, the doctors focus on their best odds and this here fellow didn’t rate. So he was bandaged up and given some blood, and we was told to find us another hospital. We was turned down at Maidstone, but heard you might have a small infirmary. As he finished his summary, the driver looked around, trying not to gawk.

They moved through a large wooden door.

Vitals? she asked as they traveled down a dimly lit, cool hallway, empty patient recovery rooms on either side of them.

The driver deferred to his colleague. Yes, ma’am. BP eighty over fifty, he answered. She frowned. The patient has lost a lot of blood. Heart almost stopped once, but I kept it going. Pulse rate weak and rapid, temperature ninety-five, respirations shallow and thirty. He’s been in and out of consciousness—random words, nothing too coherent, except the poor sod did ask after his jacket. I told him there was more important things to worry about. He didn’t seem to think so. It’s a bloody mess, but it’s here, he said, patting a spot under the blanketed gurney.

They rolled the gurney up against a pair of swinging doors. Through panes on each door they could see a doctor and a nurse bathed in light as they reviewed their instruments beside the operating table.

Why, I’ll be damned, the ambulance driver said. This looks like the best place to bring the poor bastard, after all. His youthful helper nodded as he looked around.

The nurse managed a tired smile as she pushed the gurney into the adjoining room. Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll do everything we can to ensure that your good work isn’t in vain. We share Dr. Lowe with other hospitals, but tonight he is on call here—and he’s an excellent internal surgeon. One last thing, she said. Please don’t tell anyone you were here. We have far too many patients already, and we try to keep our role a secret to avoid being targeted by the enemy.

The men nodded earnestly, turning to leave as the doors closed behind her.

Dr. Paul Lowe was at her side immediately to help with the gurney while tearing away the blanket that covered his newest medical reclamation project. All right, Nurse Doyle, who in hell’s name is this? Then, with a grin, the silver-haired surgeon added, And didn’t he know we were all hoping for a little sleep tonight?

Emma Doyle managed a laugh—but only barely. Two hours earlier, the young nurse had prayed for two things as she turned out her light. Once again, she lamented, neither sleep nor salvation would be hers.

—

I’m going to need that scalpel now, Nurse Fraser, Lowe said after they’d sedated their patient, discussed his profile, and given Nash a shot of penicillin to help ward off the bacteria that would feast on his wounds.

Time was clearly not on their side.

Emma’s superior, a Scotswoman by the name of Mary Fraser, handed the instrument over. The doctor made a foot-long incision across Everett Nash’s stomach, just below his rib cage, roughly lining up with the spot on his back where the first bullet had entered. He kept cutting, through the sharp-smelling lean muscle, fat, and tissue that stood between him and what he suspected was causing most of the blood loss. It was tiring work.

Retractor, please, he said, holding out his hand. If you can help me, Nurse Doyle—that’s it—I need to keep all this matter out of my way. Minutes later, the doctor spoke again. Okay, we have our perpetrator. He held up a steel bullet and passed it to Emma, grabbing his scalpel to keep cutting his way inward, poking and prodding inside Nash. If I do this right, he should be able to get by with a single kidney filtering his blood and drawing out his urine. His damaged kidney is done for. Suction, please, Nurse Doyle.

Ten minutes later, Emma gaped at the organ in her palm. She now knew exactly how big a grown man’s kidney was—significantly larger than her fist, as it turned out.

Blood pressure down to sixty over forty, Fraser said.

Lowe looked up with concern. Clamps, please. How much blood do we have left, Nurse Fraser?

One more bag, Doctor, in addition to this full pint we’ve just started using, Fraser reported. More blood is being delivered from London later today.

Lowe swore into his mask. I still have this patient’s leg, hip, and face to treat. The hemorrhaging will slow now, but his heart will give out if we don’t increase the flow of blood. The doctor looked at his two nurses. We’ll need another pint—or we’re going to lose him.

Sir, I’m type O negative. I can donate my blood—if Nurse Fraser concurs, Emma said.

Lowe spoke first. Thank you, Nurse Doyle. How fortunate to have a universal donor in my operating room!

Fraser looked at him in disbelief. Are you serious?

I wish I weren’t, Nurse Fraser.

But, sir, Fraser began, protocol dictates that medical personnel shouldn’t give their own blood because of the contaminants we’re exposed to. It would be—

Nurse Fraser, sometimes circumstances dictate that we break from protocol. To be clear, I’m not ordering anyone to do anything, but if Nurse Doyle is volunteering, I won’t say no.

Fraser glared at Emma. Fine, Nurse Doyle. I’ll help you.

No, ma’am, I can do this on my own. I’ll be back with another bag shortly. She paused. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure our patient gets my best blood, not the tired stuff. Lowe chuckled. Fraser didn’t. As Emma left the room, the pair turned their attention back to their patient.

—

The operation to save Nash’s life lasted six hours, requiring every ounce of blood available, including what Emma managed to coax out of her left arm. By the end of the medical procedures, the American had lost a kidney, gained a metal plate in his right leg, and received roughly three hundred stitches.

The exhausted medical team stumbled out of the operating room with their patient still asleep, the two nurses immediately stripping off the blood-splattered blue aprons that covered their once crisp white nursing dresses.

They all assumed the worst—that he would die, most likely in the next twenty-four hours, possibly in a matter of days or weeks at most. But they had done their best, as they’d learned to do in such challenging conditions. The four bullets that had punctured Nash’s skin caused considerable damage. The blood loss was extraordinary. The remaining kidney would struggle to cope with its additional workload. The risk of severe infection was high. Nor was there any way to know if the lack of oxygenated blood had impaired the patient’s mental faculties.

Drawing a pint of her own blood had left Emma even more fatigued than she’d already been. Before returning to her chamber for some sleep, she took a moment to look down at her heavily bandaged patient. His dark complexion contrasted sharply with the white gauze covering the left side of his face. He was handsome, despite his injuries.

Almost all her patients came in with some form of identification, usually a license or a simple citizen card for civilians, often a bracelet, a neck chain, or a tattoo for military personnel. If this patient were to die, with her own blood now very much a part of his, Emma hoped that, at the very least, they would be able to find out his name first so that it could be inscribed on his tombstone.

And if by God’s grace this unknown patient managed to live and speak, perhaps Emma would learn what had led to his injuries. Regardless of who had tried to take his life, or why, he was safe now. There were few places more secure than this makeshift hospital at Leeds Castle. And, in particular, the hospital’s operating room, with its six-foot-thick walls and ceiling, stashed away in the castle’s dungeon along with a fine array of ancient wines, was undoubtedly the best-protected surgical theater in Europe.

—

For three days, Emma’s patient remained in a semiconscious state. Just when she began to doubt that he would ever fully awaken, Everett Nash’s eyes fluttered open. He called hoarsely from one of the two dozen beds spread out in the castle’s regal banquet hall, where Henry VIII had once hosted meals for foreign dignitaries.

I need my jacket, Nash whispered to Emma, who had placed his bed closest to her nursing station—a simple oak desk and chair from the sixteenth century.

I need your name, she said firmly.

He hesitated, apparently confused, as he tried to take in the meticulously carved ceilings and the brilliant portraits of royalty above and around him. He answered her cautiously, Brian J. Hargrove.

All right, Brian J. Hargrove. I’ll retrieve your jacket for you, but I can tell you this: your beloved jacket fared worse than you, so don’t get your hopes up. As she walked away, somewhat bewildered at his request, she tried to surmise which part of the country he hailed from. Her own accent had a mild lilt, characteristic of her hometown on Britain’s southern coast. His upper-crust English accent was harder to place.

Chapter 3

Monday, August 28, 1944

4:00

p.m

.

The seaside town of Folkestone was proud of its little paper, The Recorder , because despite every conceivable excuse, including two wars and a depression, the weekly newspaper hadn’t once missed being published in the previous six decades.

The bombing on the night of August 21, 1944, would test this standard of reliability.

The paper’s offices, which earlier in the day had produced and distributed the Monday edition, were shattered by a German bomb, disabling the weekly’s twenty-year-old press. But Ben Harper, whose great-grandfather founded The Recorder, decided that he wasn’t going to let Hitler’s boys upset his institution’s long and distinguished record.

Benny, as the townsfolk called him, phoned every surrounding town, finally locating a printer down the coast, Jack Rawlings, who had enough scarce paper and ink to share and agreed to produce Benny’s local paper as a favor. As a favor? Benny clarified. Yes, the man confirmed. Three years later, after the war, Benny would pick up his phone and hear a familiar voice: it was Rawlings, calling in his favor. He needed a thousand pounds because his wife had left him and returned to America, absconding with all their money. Benny felt that he couldn’t say no, so he lent Rawlings half of his own savings. He never saw Rawlings or his money again.

So, technically, the one thousand copies of The Recorder that rolled off Jack Rawlings’s dilapidated press early on August 28, 1944, set Benny back about a pound per copy, an exorbitant cost for a paper that sold for one-hundredth of that amount, or a penny each. But at this particular time, years before he would learn the true cost of his own resilience, Benny beamed as he scanned the paper’s freshly printed front page.

On the lower right side, below a large photo of The Recorder’s devastated offices, was an article that would catch the attention of many, including a pair of well-dressed professionals who had been directed to verify Everett Nash’s death or, if necessary, to find the American and finish him off.

The article, written by Benny himself, described how two unidentified individuals, one male, the other female, had been found dead from gunshot wounds suffered on the beach on the night of the bombing. A heroic resident, Dr. Derek Brammel, saw a boat flee the scene as he rushed down to help. The lone survivor of the gunfight was promptly transported to Folkestone’s hospital, which was overflowing with casualties and in such chaos that the victim, a man, was taken elsewhere by an unidentified driver. It wasn’t immediately clear which of the dozen nearby military and civilian hospitals had taken the patient in, but it was doubtful that he survived the night, according to Dr. Brammel. The gun-toting retired veterinarian had quickly bandaged the victim after finding him, but the wounds were bleeding profusely, Brammel said.

Benny’s article concluded: "Calls to several hospitals by yours truly failed to determine the man’s fate. Nor do we know if the victim was truly a victim—or a criminal himself."

So he might still be alive, said the shorter of Nash’s two pursuers.

If he is, God willing, we’ll find him, said the other, squinting to escape the glare from his accomplice’s bald head gleaming in the late-afternoon light. This Nash character couldn’t have gone far, and with those injuries he won’t be going anywhere for a long time. Besides which, he added with a smile, Americans over here stick out like nails. Fortunately, we happen to be experts with our hammers.

—

The morphine Nash’s body now depended on for sleep lit up his dreams and nightmares.

Before waking this time, he’d moved from images of making love to Sylvia Munroe to gunshots, her death, and dogs chasing him. Suddenly he was sitting beside King Henry VIII, whom he apparently thought was a friend, because the two sat holding hands. The king turned to him, grinned, and ordered that he be sent to the gallows for fraternizing with the enemy. Henry’s wife, Catherine of Aragon, was to die with him. He’d awakened when Catherine screamed at him to run.

The morphine also made Nash groggy while he was awake. He couldn’t think clearly during the few hours that he was able to keep his eyes open, when he would inevitably be jabbed by another needle brimming with penicillin or morphine.

Through the haze, he saw her coming. She moved gracefully past the beds toward him. Though they’d spoken, he couldn’t remember much of what they’d said. He hoped his training would hold despite the drugs in him. He was sure he’d managed to retain his British accent and profile throughout every interaction with Nurse Emma Doyle. The blond nurse with the lofty cheekbones had asked him many questions about his background. He had assumed that it was out of genuine interest, but had begun to suspect that she had other motives.

With his brain fog beginning to clear, aided by the harsh antiseptic from the floor rising into his nostrils, he heard her ask quietly, Did you sleep well? as she pulled the chair from her desk up to his bedside, where no other patient could hear her.

Very well, thank you, he answered, quite coherently, he thought.

For someone who doesn’t speak German, that was pretty good, she said mischievously.

What? he asked, blinking at her.

Mr. Hargrove, she said, now speaking English, "I asked you in German whether you’d slept well, and you responded ‘Sehr gut, danke.’ It would seem that you’re learning a language in your sleep. Two days ago, you told me emphatically that you couldn’t speak or understand a word of German, and now you’ve managed both."

He looked at her calmly, his mind struggling to work faster. This morphine is like a bloody truth serum. He’d have to use his weakness to advantage, not fight it. Nurse Doyle, I do speak some German, but it’s very limited. The morphine must make a liar of me. He chuckled, employing his meticulously practiced English accent.

She laughed gently in return. On the contrary, Mr. Hargrove, the morphine isn’t making you lie; it’s making you tell the truth. So kind, so pretty, and so devious. Frustrating—but impressive, he couldn’t help thinking. My nursing station is right beside your bed, so I have an unfair advantage in this little game of ours. I hear everything you say in your sleep, and much of it is whispered in German, with a precision and accent that my own mother, a Berliner by birth, would have been proud of.

As you know personally, then, he countered quickly, speaking German isn’t something to brag about in this war. I am sorry to have misled you, but I must protect myself. My mother also had German roots. From Magdeburg, he added.

You’re right about being careful. I do the same, she said, keeping her voice low. He relaxed slightly. Still, it’s the other things that lead me to wonder who you really are. Her tone was not challenging or rude but matter-of-fact.

He was fully awake now. And what, exactly, are you referring to? He was not entirely sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

Mr. Hargrove, I have twin cousins, Alina and Maria, both twenty-eight years old like me. We’re all blond and blue-eyed, and grew up almost as triplets once they moved here from Germany after the Great War. The morphine clogging his brain made any connection between her words and himself hard to fathom. He couldn’t stop his eyes from losing focus. Stay with me, she said, laughing. As children, we loved spy and detective games, and because my father was a clever engineer we had real homemade radios and telegraphic equipment. We were better with electronic gadgets than most trained adults. And their father, my mother’s brother, had been a police officer. He taught us how to investigate, track people down and—

He interrupted, pain seeping through the morphine into his midsection and his casted right leg. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not sure I’m up to this right now.

She ignored his interruption. Alina is a research assistant at Oxford University’s Bodleian Library. I contacted her a few days ago and told her what you told me—about being born in Oxford, that your parents are in the Holywell graveyard, that they died from influenza.

He stared at her. And?

And, Mr. Hargrove, Alina reported back this morning that she found your parents. The only two Hargroves interred in the yard. Fanny and Paul, correct?

Yes. He nodded, relieved.

She paused and looked at him closely. Strangely, Fanny and Paul Hargrove both died around 1840, more than a hundred years ago. Now, either you do a very good job of hiding your age or something is amiss. Alina can’t find any trace of you in the birth records, at least not for the past two centuries. The corners of her mouth turned slightly upward. Should we be going back further?

I don’t know what to say. He kept his face clear, trying to stay composed.

How about the truth? she said softly. I don’t want to alarm anyone by calling the castle guards to your bedside. But the facts are that you speak fluent German, your true identity remains unknown, and you arrived here amid peculiar circumstances in the dead of night. While my gut may tell me that you’re not a threat, my invisible detective badge from my youth tells me that I need to be wary and act accordingly on behalf of my other patients, she said, glancing at the row of beds behind him on the other side of a stone fireplace.

He needed allies, not more enemies. Events had transpired against him, first landing him in this castle hospital and then giving him the poor luck to draw an amateur sleuth as his nurse. Yet he found her likable. He needed someone to trust, to help him get out of this bed and back on track. He’d been sidelined while Hitler’s final, desperate scheme marched forward. Maybe this white-uniformed wunderkind presented him with an opportunity.

Nurse Doyle, I’m a negotiator, he said, dropping the English accent and reverting to his Washington, D.C., roots and the looser-lipped, lower tonality that accompanied those roots. Her eyebrows betrayed her surprise. He chuckled. Not perhaps your average negotiator. You can think of it as an influence expert for hire. In special circumstances, where no other means of intervention is possible—or there is danger involved, he said, smiling ruefully as he looked down at the bandages that encased most of his body, I get the call.

And just what ‘special circumstances’ led to your lying in this bed? she asked.

He hesitated, considering each word. I was hired by senior Allied officials for a very sensitive mission . . . one that could help end this war. A German mole must have infiltrated the highest ranks of either the American or the British government, blowing my cover and my mission—and aiming to kill me.

He didn’t tell her what he feared—that whoever had turned on him may somehow have convinced Roosevelt and Churchill that he was the enemy and needed to be terminated. There was no one inside either government that he could trust now.

Nurse Doyle, my real name is Everett Nash. I swear to you, this is the truth. And I apologize for not being more forthcoming before now. I would only ask that you not breathe a word of this to anyone. If the wrong people were to discover I’m here, I assure you both our lives would be at risk, along with the lives of many more. Whoever upset my mission will be looking for me—and hoping it’s a corpse they find.

Emma Doyle stared at him as he uttered these last words. She looked around the room—at her patients, at the priceless portraits on the wall.

And just why should I believe that you are actually who you say are? she asked coolly, looking again directly into her battered patient’s green eyes.

Don’t believe me, he responded. Go ask your cousins.

—

She received the package marked to her attention within a matter of days. A boy on a bicycle dropped it at the gatehouse, disappearing before the guards could find out who had sent him.

That night, Emma jumped onto her bed, tore open the large, well-sealed envelope, and started reading. As usual, Alina had been thorough.

There was a brief introductory note, followed by more than a dozen newspaper clippings, photographs, an in-depth magazine profile, and a telegraph from Washington that captured details from Everett Reginald Nash’s birth certificate. Nash was born on July 25, 1891. Emma did the math. That meant he was fifty-three. Really? Even with his injuries, I’d have guessed ten years younger.

Photos from across time showed a gangly teenager maturing into a dashing young man in a tuxedo at a presidential inauguration event, to more recent pictures of her debonair middle-aged patient before his life-threatening injuries.

Nash had been born a lone child into wealth and diplomacy. His mother, Gertrude, was a gorgeous Austrian-German clothing heiress, his father, Donald, a brilliant diplomat who’d argued passionately in favor of the U.S. joining the League of Nations to deter future wars—only to be undermined by the Republican Henry Cabot Lodge. A family friend told one interviewer how Donald had taught his son his craft from the youngest age, at times raising eyebrows by bringing the youngster to sensitive meetings.

As one of America’s most savvy and well-known ambassadors, Donald Nash was constantly sent abroad, to more than a dozen nations in Africa, Asia, and Europe, usually taking his family with him. While he was posted in Moscow in 1907, Gertrude fell for a senior Russian official in the czarist regime, igniting the beginnings of a high-profile, ugly divorce. The outcome was described in a faded report from England’s Daily Mail:

With lawyers lined up on either side of the Atlantic, and mud-slinging headlines on the rise in papers from New York to Saint Petersburg, the embarrassing divorce proceedings involving United States ambassador Mr. Donald Nash and his wife, Gertrude, have suddenly, most unexpectedly, come to a halt. The sparring pair announced yesterday to journalists gathered outside their home in the Russian capital that they had reached an agreement—not to separate but, rather, to renew their vows. The couple, among America’s most glamorous and well known abroad, agreed that there was just one person who managed to get them talking again and make them realize what they truly wanted. He stood silently between them as they addressed the press: Everett Nash, their sixteen-year-old son.

Emma shook her head with a laugh. When I was sixteen, I was sneaking around, doing naughty things with boys, and creating so much havoc that I almost caused my parents to divorce!

After studying anthropology in his undergraduate years, Nash added an MBA from the newly founded business school at Harvard, where he excelled at boxing and rowing. Just twenty-two, he wrote an acclaimed thesis in which he made the case that a failed negotiation during the ship’s building—not an iceberg—ultimately led to the tragic sinking of the Titanic the year before, in April 1912.

Nash had tracked down the manager who oversaw production of the millions of rivets intended to keep the boat and its keel intact and waterproof. After many drinks, the man told him that with two other major liners being built at the same time in Ireland, the iron and the craftsmen needed to insert the Titanic’s rivets were in short supply, resulting in inflated prices. He asked his boss for more money but was refused. Without the necessary funds, he moved forward with lower-grade iron and less experienced workers. When the Titanic hit the iceberg, he admitted to Nash through tears, better rivets wouldn’t have popped under pressure. His worst fear had been realized. But he’d never even broached the subject of the safety concerns involved in using cheaper rivets with his volatile boss; he hadn’t wanted to risk incurring his wrath. If he’d explained his concerns and stood firm on principle, he said, the Titanic might have been unscathed or, at least, stayed afloat long enough for everyone to be saved. This revelation led to widespread anger and new shipbuilding standards in America and Europe.

Emma had always been fascinated by the story of the Titanic, but she had never heard of the faulty rivets. She was beginning to feel guilty about having questioned Nash’s story.

After the controversy settled down over his Titanic work, Nash all but disappeared from public view, according to Time magazine. But a copy of a U.S. government memo that Alina had somehow uncovered, confirmed Nash’s high-level security clearance during this period, along with some of the details of his training by both the U.S. State and Defense Departments.

The negotiator resurfaced in 1924, grabbing the public’s attention when the two-year-old son of a senator was kidnapped in the middle of the day from a park. Nash led the negotiations for a million-dollar ransom, which he was authorized to pay. Instead, he hunted down the perpetrator and his gang and freed the boy—and without paying a cent. Reports could not surmise how he’d done it, and Nash politely declined any interviews.

Emma glanced at a few more articles, and learned that various observers believed that, behind the scenes, Nash had gone on to negotiate everything from financial reform after Wall Street’s collapse in 1929 and Roosevelt’s New Deal in the 1930s to gathering vast resources for America’s wartime efforts. He’d been a lecturer at both Harvard University and Georgetown University.

An anonymous aide to Roosevelt was quoted by the Washington Post as saying, The American president and Winston Churchill respect each other but disagree on almost everything, including the best scotch, the best-looking starlet in Hollywood, and the best time to invade France. The one thing they agree on is Nash’s being the best at getting things done when it really matters.

Her eyes moved to one final piece from the New York Times, written the month before, July 1944. It was different from all the other clippings—raising serious questions about Nash’s track record, specifically in relation to Germany. He had many connections there. His father had even held a diplomatic post in Berlin. The article noted:

Mr. Nash has traveled to Germany nine times over the past fifteen years without any known purpose. According to one of our newspaper’s senior government sources, he has been too close to those surrounding Hitler. Another credible source said, Nash is undoubtedly the world’s greatest negotiator—but he has worked for himself as a ‘hired gun’ for some time now, and therefore might well be tempted to put his own interests before those of his nation.

Emma finished reading and surveyed the pile of papers spread around her. She didn’t know what to make of such damning speculation. But she did know that she had more in common with her patient than she’d realized—and that someone had indeed been listening to her prayers.

Chapter 4

Friday, September 1, 1944

3:00

p.m

.

Dr. Paul Lowe was angry.

The senior surgeon hadn’t been warned that representatives from the War Ministry would be inspecting his ancient medical facility, including all the patient quarters. This wasn’t the first unexpected government visit amid the chaos of war, but it didn’t lessen the inconvenience.

He softened when he learned that the purpose of this particular inspection was to assess his needs. If there were too many patients or too few resources to take care of them, the inspectors said they would recommend an immediate boost in funding. Hearing this, Lowe vowed to show them every inch of his buildings so that they could see for themselves the poor conditions under which he and his staff were forced to work. It helped that as a first impression the doctor found the two men in lab coats conducting the inspection to be more engaging than the uptight bureaucrats who usually performed these reviews and who were quick to blame staff rather than limited resources.

Lowe started toward the operating theater, the men from London in tow, freshly purchased clipboards in hand.

—

I trust that everything I told you has been confirmed by Alina, Nash whispered, catching Emma off guard as she changed his dressings. She’d read through her cousin’s materials just the day before. The next closest patient was several beds away, and on the other side of the large fireplace, but the pair kept their voices down.

Blimey, how did you know that? she asked, her hands stilling.

Just a guess. In truth, it had been long enough for

Reviews for Weapons of Peace

[vintage1series1lisa · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow, what an amazing book! It was a long book, but, kept my interest the whole time. It has quite a bit of action. Although, it is listed as a "thriller", I would not list it as such. I loved the characters of Emma and Nash and I would have liked to see the ending go a little different, but, still an absolutely wonderful book in the genre of historical fiction about WW2 and Hitler and one of the world's top negotiators.I received this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. I appreciate the opportunity to read and review it.

[jypsylynn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The premise of Weapons of Peace is something I have actually thought about before. It's a huge and terrifying what if scenario. If Hitler had won the race to create a nuclear bomb, would the world be the same at all? Certainly thought provoking. I love speculative fiction, and this story does not disappoint. Thanks to NetGalley for an arc in exchange for an honest review.