The otherwise drab walls were papered with gigantic maps—of Europe, Africa, Asia, all the theaters of the war. Uniformed staff, both army and navy, stood before them, some on the floor and some on ladders, moving little markers here and there, though she was too far away to discern any patterns or identifications.

“Those markers show the progress of the armies?” she asked.

“Oh, much more than that. The staff tracks the movements of all the belligerents. The land armies, the convoys, ships’ day-to-day positions, sea battles and losses. It marks the whereabouts of certain people, too. You can’t see from here, but Mr. Churchill is a cigar, my marker is a cigarette holder, and Mr. Stalin is a pipe. Good thing we all smoke, eh?”

Mia let her glance sweep over the walls and the military personnel moving between them. “And that’s where the information comes from?” She nodded toward a long table where a row of men and women wearing headphones sat in front of typewriters.

“Yes. That’s our communication staff—smart, loyal people who can be trusted. They also transcribe and file all messages that pass between myself, Chiang Kai-shek, Churchill, and Stalin. They work in alternating teams, twenty-four hours a day, and I come in periodically with the war secretary to check on our progress.”

“So this is where strategy is formulated,” she murmured.

“Only to a certain degree. In fact, conferences in person are much more important. We have to coordinate with our allies.”

Hopkins spoke for the first time. “Which is why we’ve finally arranged a meeting with Stalin.”

“We’d have done it earlier, but the sonofabitch is hard to pin down,” Roosevelt grumbled, then glanced up at Hopkins. “Have you told her yet about Tehran?”

“No, sir. Not yet. I was about to when you arrived.”

“Well, then, let’s talk about it now. If you wouldn’t mind, Harry?” He tilted his head back toward the corridor.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Hopkins drew the wheelchair back from the open doorway, and the guard closed the double door.

“Tehran? That’s in Iran, isn’t it?” Mia asked as she hurried alongside the rolling wheelchair. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand Iran’s position in the war.”

The president chuckled as they entered the elevator. “Neither do we, and even my advisors have trouble keeping track of who’s in control there. They just inform me that Iran has oil fields that the whole world covets, but since the double invasion—of the Soviets from the north and the British from the west—the Allies now occupy them. So now we can move millions of tons of war materials across Iranian territory to the Russians. Since they’re close to Russia, Stalin decided it was a good place to meet.”

The elevator carried them back up to the second floor, and a moment later, they stood before the president’s office in the Yellow Oval Room. The door opened from behind as they reached it, Mia followed the wheelchair inside, discreetly perusing the office.

The president’s dark wooden desk stood at the center of three tall windows, all hung with velvet drapery and square valances bordered in gold. The American flag and the presidential flag flanked the desk and chair, America’s stately but unglamorous version of a throne.

“This is Mr. Watson, my personal secretary,” the president said, as a broad-shouldered man in a gray suit wheeled him around behind his desk. Once in place, Roosevelt took a plastic holder from his desk drawer and inserted a cigarette into it. Leaning over his shoulder, Watson lit it for him. “Please, take a seat, Miss Kramer.” The president motioned to the cushioned chairs in front of his desk.

“As I was saying, we’ve planned a conference in Tehran next month, with Mr. Churchill and Stalin. Mr. Hopkins, as always, will assist me with some of the policy statements, and you, in turn, will assist him.”

“Uh, yes, certainly. A great honor,” Mia stammered. “When will the conference take place?”

Roosevelt puffed on his cigarette holder through clenched teeth. “Date’s not certain, and it’s a matter of security to not announce it beforehand anyhow. But you should be prepared to be out of the country late in November. If you need a passport, the State Department will see to it.”

“Passport, yes, sir.” She could think of nothing to add.

A butler stepped in from a side door. “Mr. President, Secretary Stimson is here.”

Obviously it was the signal to leave. Hopkins was already standing, and Mia leapt up to join him.

Mia’s head was spinning. Her first day on the new job and she was about to be sent into the cauldron of diplomatic negotiations with Churchill and Stalin.

Tehran. Iran. The words barely held meaning for her. And the two men she was supposed to assist were physical wrecks. She felt herself bend slightly with the weight of responsibility.

As they arrived back at Hopkins’s office, Mia expected to learn some of the details of the upcoming conference, but he only handed her a folder of papers and asked her to translate them. Then the phone rang.

She nodded, although he already gave his full attention to the telephone call, and she passed quietly from his office into her own.

At least she finally had a task. Under the light of her gooseneck lamp, she opened the folder. The papers were dispatches from the People’s Commissariat of Arms requesting specific items, others complaining about items that had not been delivered. Midway through the pile she came upon a telegram that seemed to leap out at her. From Molotov, the Russian foreign minister.

She found herself smiling. The political name Molotov meant “hammer” and, like Stalin, was obviously chosen to be intimidating. His language was brusque as he complained about an agreement for a certain amount of foodstuffs that had been promised and that had not arrived. Since the Red Army was sacrificing its blood daily nearly alone among nations, in defense of Europe, he pointed out, a replacement shipment needed to be sent as soon as possible. She translated the letter immediately, careful to express the right amount of anger and disdain.

* * *

The sound of tapping surprised her, and Mia glanced up, confused. Only on the second rap did she realize it came from the door to the First Lady’s office. She stood up and rushed to open it.

Eleanor Roosevelt stood in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist, her severe gray skirt and high-collar blouse adding to the schoolteacher image.

“Hello,” the First Lady said. “Mr. Allen said you were installed in your new office. The maid has just brought in a pot of tea, and I thought it gave us a chance to chat. Or are you working on something critical?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

Eleanor stepped back, and Mia entered the room hesitantly. The First Lady’s office was more domestic than official. A hinged “secretary” desk provided the only writing surface. It was open at the moment and revealed stationery and a tiny vase of roses. A small round table to her right was set for three, and the porcelain teapot at its center gave off a pleasant aroma.

“I was just translating a message from Molotov, but I’m sure it can wait.”

“Molotov!” Eleanor threw back her head and laughed. “That old Bolshevik can certainly wait for his answer.” She gestured toward the table and Mia took a seat.

“He’s a real scoundrel, that one. I take pains to keep out of my husband’s business with the Soviets, but I do read the newspapers. It was Molotov who negotiated the non-aggression pact with Hitler so the Soviets could annex half of Eastern Europe. Worse, he surely had a hand in the famine in the Ukraine that killed millions of peasants.” She sighed. “And now he’s our ally. Would you like cream and sugar?” She poured the steaming tea into both cups.

“Both, please, if you don’t mind.”

Eleanor passed the cream pitcher and sugar bowl to her, and they both sipped delicately.

“He’s a peasant, and it amazes me that he’s survived so long in Stalin’s government. He was here last year for meetings with the president and the State Department, and we all had a good laugh behind his back. Oh, he puts on a good façade, but you learn a lot about a person when you unpack their bags.”

Mia set down her cup, puzzled, and Eleanor raised her hand to cover her bright, ladylike snicker. “Oh, I didn’t unpack his bags, but Mr. Allen did, while Molotov was out shaking hands. It’s standard practice for White House guests. Believe it or not, Allen found a sausage, a loaf of black bread, and a loaded pistol.”

“A loaded pistol! In the White House? And I wonder if he thought our food might poison him.”

“Who knows what the man thought? Mr. Allen placed all three objects in the same drawer as his shirts but had the good sense to remove the bullets. If Molotov was upset at that, he apparently decided not to make an issue of it.”

The tale allowed Mia to relax in the First Lady’s presence, and she spoke candidly. “Well, he’s making an issue of some of the Lend-Lease deliveries, and it will be my job to sort it out in the accounting. But I’m delighted to hear about the sausage and bread. I’ll be a little less intimidated now.”

“Oh, you must not let anybody intimidate you, my dear.”

“Who is intimidating whom?” a rich contralto voice said, and Mia glanced up, startled.

A woman in her fifties entered uninvited. She was portly, plain-faced, and wore a mannish jacket over a long skirt. She dragged a chair over to the table and sat down by the third teacup.

“So you’re Harry’s new assistant. Is Eleanor giving you the pep talk?”

Eleanor glanced up through her eyebrows. “Hicks, do try to behave.”