“What? I’m just here to meet the new recruit.” She held out her hand. “Lorena Hickok at your service.”

Mia took it, found it meaty, warm, her grip firm. “I’m… uh… pleased to meet you.” Who was this drab, avuncular woman who could enter the First Lady’s office without knocking?

As if hearing her thoughts, Eleanor explained. “Lorena is head of the women’s division of the Democratic National Committee. In fact, she has rooms upstairs not far from you.”

“I see.” Mia smiled, though she didn’t see. Hickok’s job title explained little about either her residency at the White House or her familiarity.

Lorena reached past her and poured herself a cup of tea. “So, what’s this I hear about intimidation?”

“Miss Kramer was just saying that she was a bit alarmed by Molotov’s tone in his telegraphs. You know what he’s like.”

Hickok snorted. “He’s a bully. They all are.” She leaned toward Mia. “Don’t ever let them cow you. If I’d let big-shot politicos, domestic or foreign, browbeat me, I’d never have made it as a journalist. And Eleanor would never have stood up to the Daughters of the American Revolution.” She glanced toward Mia. “You must know what she did for Marian Anderson when the DAR refused to let her sing in Constitution Hall.”

“I know that she arranged an outdoor concert for her at the Lincoln Memorial. I heard it on the radio.”

Eleanor was more conciliatory. “The Daughters of the American Revolution has always been an all-white patriotic association. And then, of course, Washington was still very segregated in 1939. I’d hoped that Anderson’s fame—and pressure from the press, other artists, and politicians—would create an exception for her, but the DAR stood fast in their refusal.”

“But you did create a scandal, didn’t you?” Lorena beamed with wicked pleasure over the top of her cup.

“You mean by resigning? Yes, I suppose I did. But my real ally was the Secretary of the Interior, who helped me arrange the concert at the Lincoln Memorial. On Easter Sunday, no less. And the park estimated that seventy-five thousand people showed up.”

“I remember being thrilled by it, for her, for you, and for a government that had crossed the color line. And it has to cross that line. We can’t claim to be the bastion of freedom when we discriminate against our own citizens.”

Hickok tilted her head admiringly. “Oh, looks like we have a live wire here, Eleanor. We’re going to have to keep an eye on this one.” She bumped elbows with Mia.

Mia smiled weakly at the compliment. She would never have used the term “live wire” for herself.

The teapot was empty now and Eleanor was folding her napkin, a polite but unmistakable gesture. “It was lovely chatting with you, my dear,” Eleanor said.

Mia pushed back her chair. “A pleasure for me, too, and now I have Russian complaints to translate. Thank you so much for the tea, Mrs. Roosevelt.”

She edged toward the door leading to her own tiny space.

“Quite all right. Do let us know if the boys make too many demands on you.”

Mia smiled at the word “boys” and stepped through into her cubicle.

She sat down at her desk, no larger than that of the First Lady, and stared at the dispatches. Two realities seemed to run in parallel at the White House, the political and the personal. The men were dealing with armaments, international diplomatic confrontations, posturing, and the clash of armies, while the women worked with polite letters and pots of tea for democracy at home. Two forms of politics, the global and the intimate.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter Five

On the way to Tehran, November 1943


Mia was slightly disoriented by the rapidly changing locations, time zones, and events.

The voyage on the Battleship Iowa on the surging Atlantic had already been a test of endurance, and the days in Cairo, where they’d picked up Prime Minister Churchill, had brought little rest. She’d been on duty eighteen hours every day, taking notes and the occasional dictation from Hopkins. To her great regret, the schedule had left no time for her to make the trip to Giza to see the pyramids.

But against all odds—polluted water, strange food, sleepless nights—she was in good physical shape, and it took only the most casual glance to see that both Hopkins and the president were not. Hopkins, who sat in the aisle seat beside her so as to stretch out his long legs, had been plagued with stomach problems for the entire trip.

The president, spread out over two seats a few rows behind them in discussion with Churchill, was also subdued. The prime minister’s brusque voice dominated the discussion, as the smell of his cigar dominated the air of the plane.

She respected Churchill, even admired him for his ability to bolster the British during catastrophic times, but she couldn’t say she liked him. He was dismissive of her, a bit seedy in dress and manner, prone to outbursts, and he smelled of tobacco.

Hopkins suddenly leaned past her and peered through the porthole of the plane.

“Look down there. See that long row of what looks like ants? That truck convoy is us. Along with the Trans-Iranian Railroad, they’re transporting our Lend-Lease supplies to Basra and on to the USSR.”

It was a revelation. “Oh, my. What a difference between reading the lists on a ledger sheet and seeing the actual supply convoys making their way to Russia. Makes me proud.”

Half an hour later, as the plane began to lose altitude, Hopkins peered out the window again.

“Looks like we’re almost at Qaleh Morgi.” He snickered, and when he surrendered the window, she glanced down to see why. An enormous red star was painted across the runway.

“I guess Stalin wants to make sure everyone knows who’s in charge, eh?” she remarked.

“Yes, and that’s going to be half the battle here,” Hopkins said.

“Do you think Mr. Roosevelt can handle Stalin?”

Hopkins straightened his tie. “That’s why we’re here. To make sure he can.”

* * *

A cold wind hit them as they made their way down the stairs from the plane at Qaleh Morgi airport. Though some two dozen Soviet soldiers were lined up to form a corridor leading to the terminal, only one man walked out onto the field to meet them.

The Russian bowed in a hint of a military salute. “Dmitri Arkadiev,” he said with a slight nod, first to her, then to Hopkins. “Marshal Stalin arrived yesterday evening and has arranged for you to have Soviet security.” His English was heavily accented but clear and correct.

“That’s very kind of Marshal Stalin,” Hopkins said. “But the president has his own security staff, headed by Mr. Reilly.”

Arkadiev ignored the remark and simply moved aside as others came down the stairway. In fact, Michael Reilly was the next person to step off the metal steps, and he offered his hand, in turn, to the Russian security man. Their handshake was stiff, perfunctory, and Mia smiled inwardly at the image of the two security forces in competition. More of the delegation poured out of the aircraft: the president’s doctor, US ambassador to Russia Averell Harriman, the chief of staff, and finally, two burly men carrying the president carefully down the stairs in a chair.

Arkadiev was stone-faced, and Mia was certain that he and everyone else waiting at the airfield was stunned to see the president of the United States carried across the tarmac and lifted into an American car.

After the unmarked presidential car took off, carrying only Roosevelt and his bodyguard, Hopkins, Mia, and Reilly followed in one of the other vehicles. As they rode through the city, she glanced through the window at the land called Persia, disappointed.

The main streets were paved, but the sidewalks were not, and the dust stirred up by people walking seemed to cover the house fronts. Most of the street traffic seemed to consist of horse-drawn wagons and carriages, and she caught sight of only one bus, a wretched, rickety thing, full to bursting and without a door. Through the closed windows, she could still detect the smell of sewage.

At the American Embassy, an escort led them into a reception room where the US ambassador to Iran was already sitting with the president. When the entire delegation had arrived, the ambassador gave a brief welcoming speech. While porters led the other guests in order of rank and importance to their respective accommodations, the ambassador drew Hopkins, Harriman, and Roosevelt to one side.

“Mr. President, the Soviets have some very disquieting news.”

As if on cue, the door to the anteroom opened, and a bland little man with a mustache strode in. He was slightly pudgy, and his wide head swelled above a receding hairline. Rimless glasses, similar to those the president wore, gave him a benign headmaster look, but Mia recognized him from newspaper photos. Molotov, the thug Eleanor Roosevelt had described. Had he brought his private pistol to Tehran?

The man stopped before Roosevelt and offered his hand. “Welcome, Mr. President. Forgive me for this intrusion, but our head of security informs us that German agents are plotting to capture or kill any of the three leaders of the conference. They’ve already parachute-dropped automatic rifles and grenades at locations around the city.”

Molotov had addressed the president, but Reilly responded. “Have any of these agents been captured?”

“Yes, most. But it appears that perhaps half a dozen are still at large, and they have radio transmitters. The Soviet and British embassies are across from one another in the city and can be cordoned off together, but your embassy is far outside of Tehran.”