Read Online The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart - Free Book Online

dissipated when the young prince had to pause for translation. An earnest interpreter rendered Feisal’s remarks into French, then a second interpreter restated them in clotted English. When Feisal began again, his Arabic had degraded from spellbinding to incomprehensible. Impatience and boredom built in the hot, high-ceilinged room.
    Allen Dulles, feeling trapped, sat in his usual place behind the principal delegates arrayed on one side of a vast table. Near each delegate was at least one interpreter, leaning forward vigilantly, ready to mutter clarifications into a master’s ear lest an offhand remark be lost in the soup of unfamiliar tongues. Behind Dulles’ row came the secretaries, striving to suppress the signs of their near-terminal boredom.
    Heavy curtains blanketed the tall windows, closing off twilight on the Seine. The conference’s familiar smells, tangy ink and heavy central heating, lingered in the air with a hint of violet hair wash from the French delegation. The principal delegates favored heavy black suits with brilliant white cuffs. Military advisers in blue and khaki and olive broke the visual monotony, as did the crimson drapes and green baize blotting pads before each delegate. An approaching messenger’s progress could be tracked through hushed footfalls on carpet and staccato bursts on parquet flooring. The cane seat of Dulles’ chair felt brittle. His mind strayed to the vixen he had met the previous night at El Sphinx, an establishment offering the sort of sensual Xanadu that could be found nowhere in North America. He wondered for a moment about tonight’s minx, Lady Florence. Inevitably, she would be more conventional. Unlike last night’s companion, though, she offered the enchantments of an estate in Surrey and properties on the Italian Riviera.
    Of the few spectators present for the prince’s appearance, one group stood out. Colonel Lawrence, green-tasseled headdress in place, burning blue eyes contrasting with a vague and insincere smile, watched his robed protégé from the second row of gilt chairs. Next to Lawrence were the heavy-featured American rabbi, Wise, and that hard-charging British Jew, Weizmann. Conference staff joked about Weizmann’s resemblance to Lenin, the Russian Bolshevik, but in truth the two men could have been twins.
    Clemenceau decreed a break between the prince’s talk and questioning by the delegates. To rally his spirits, Dulles moved directly to the tea table in the adjoining room.
    The large Colonel Boucher, never far from Clemenceau, approached with a plate stacked high with brioche and macaroons. “Monsieur Dulles. You must assist me with these.”
    â€œSolely in the interest of amity among allies.” He selected a brioche and bit through its crisp shell into its buttery center. He heard a low moan, realized that it came from him.
    â€œYou have the brioche in America?”
    Dulles swallowed quickly. “Pale imitations, Colonel. Wicked ones, to be honest, which should be illegal.”
    â€œI am glad we can save you from such sins.” Boucher made short work of a macaroon and held a brioche at the ready while he swallowed.
    Dulles, toying with the idea of a second brioche, nodded toward the prince and his knot of colleagues. “Tell me, Colonel, what do you make of that rather motley collection?”
    Boucher looked troubled. “Motley?”
    â€œYou have a Jewish chemist who invented explosives for the British, an American cleric of the Old Testament, and a glory-mad English soldier and archaeologist, all sponsoring a descendant of the prophet Mohammed.”
    â€œThat is what motley means?”
    â€œPerhaps I should simply say unusual . But what do you make of them?”
    Boucher licked his fingers and again offered his plate of treats. Dulles decided on a macaroon. In Paris, he had concluded, the only crime was saying no.
    â€œI think,” the Frenchman said, “we