Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  The immense basin and its complexity of docks were full of craft of all sizes and shapes—a wonderful target for bombers, but not one showed up that morning. A new expedition was in preparation, and nobody here could have any doubt where it was going. He had seen a great flotilla arrive to take Algiers, and he knew what prolonged planning and preparation had been required. Now here was another “amphibious operation”—“Husky” it was called. This time the distance was short, one or two hundred miles across the strait to the large triangular island of Sicily. There would be enemy planes in the air, and enemy submarines in the water, and enemy guns large and small in the hills which covered the beaches. How many there would be and what forces to man them were perhaps known to those who planned the landing, but surely not to the plain “Joes” who were in near-by camps, resting before going on board the vessels.

  Only a year and a half had passed since the attack on Pearl Harbor had dragged America into this war. Miracles of production had brought an armada here, equipped with something like a quarter of a million different articles, from tiny ball bearings of the hardest steel, so small that the eye could hardly see them, to huge tanks, self-propelled tank-killing guns, and LST’s especially built to slide up on beaches and let down ramps on which the monsters could roll ashore. Most of the soldiers had but the vaguest idea of why they were in a war, but they had been told there was a job to do and they were doing it. They had seen pictures of a fellow with an ugly mug, standing on a balcony and throwing out his chest like a pouter pigeon. They called him “the Deuce,” and didn’t mean any pun, but thought that was the way his title was pronounced. A generation ago their fathers had come over and put the Kaiser “in the can”; and now there were two more, a Deuce and a Führer. A Seabee from Texas with whom Lanny got into conversation thought that the leader of the Germans was called Führer because he was in a fury all the time.

  At noon there was still no lieutenant, so Lanny got his onion soup and bread and fruit in an obscure French café, meantime studying diligently a small Italian dictionary he had picked up in a bookstore. This was a proper thing for either an American or a German to carry, and he would not merely refresh his memory on phrases he would need, but would practice saying them like a German. The land of Dante and Leonardo was swarming with Teutons both military and civilian, and no matter how much the Italians disliked them they took their money and let them alone—and that was all a secret agent needed.

  At three o’clock there was the lieutenant, saying, “The Navy reports that it would hardly be possible to set you down on the beach at Ostia. It is well fortified and patrolled. There are barbed wire, mines, searchlights, and no doubt radar; any craft approaching would pretty surely be detected and fired on. The nearest unguarded shore is more than ten miles to the south.”

  The P.A. replied, “OK, let them land me there, and I’ll find transportation.”

  Said the lieutenant, “Here is a map for you to study. You will be flown in a seaplane, and I will be in front of your hotel at twenty hundred.” Lanny replied, “I’ll be ready”; and that was all. He went back to his room and learned about the roads and villages south of Ostia, then strolled and looked at more of the spectacle of Operation Husky. He had supper in another café—never the same, lest anyone should get his features fixed in mind. He returned to his room and studied until five minutes before eight, or twenty hundred as the Armed Forces called it, when he took his bag and went down to the lobby of the hotel, paid his bill, and went for a stroll.

  It was just about dusk, and he didn’t have to return to the front of the hotel, because the officer in the jeep saw him and swung round to the curb and took him in. Hundreds of thousands of young Americans had read mystery stories, spy stories, “thrillers” of one sort or another, and now they were getting a kick out of being called to enact in real life what they had read. There wasn’t any play-acting about it, because this polyglot port had been in the hands of the enemy only a few weeks ago, and any hotel waiter, cab driver, or Arab wrapped in a dirty white bedsheet might be a spy, reporting to a technician with a sending set hidden in a barn, or a fisherman’s hut, or even a load of garden truck being brought into town.

  IX

  It was all right to talk in a moving car, for no one could get near enough to hear above the sounds of the engine. Ferguson put into Lanny’s hands a large wad of Italian money which he had got in exchange for American money Lanny had entrusted to him. Then he remarked, “The Navy is paying you a compliment in lending you a seaplane.” Perhaps that was a hint from a young officer whose curiosity had got the better of his discretion. But Lanny did not take the bait; he said politely, “I appreciate the honor.” In order not to seem uncordial he added, “Someday when this is all over, fate may bring us together again, and then I’ll tell you a story that will interest you.”

  “I hope it may happen,” replied the younger man, who had been deeply impressed by his good-looking and friendly passenger.

  Against a badly wrecked concrete pier lay the small, fast seaplane. Lanny was introduced to the pilot, a lieutenant, and the co-pilot, an ensign. Each of these had a seat, and Lanny was invited to sit on an inverted bucket with a folded blanket on it to make it less hard. He shook hands with Ferguson and thanked him for his kindness. Two sailors pushed the plane away from the dock; its engines, already warmed up, were put into gear, and it glided out into the wide main basin of the harbor. Darkness enveloped the plane, but several small guide lights were turned on; the engines began to roar and the propellers to whirl, and the seaplane forced its way through the water. A ticklish moment, for you couldn’t see ahead, and what if some small boat, sneaking out without permission, happened to lie in the path?

  But it didn’t happen; the rocking and splashing ceased, and the ship was airborne. After that Lanny was in the hands of the two aviators, who had maps and ingenious instruments by which they could find a certain stretch of shore in darkness. Lanny might sit and recite his Italian lessons in his mind, or he might spread the blanket on the floor and have a nap. He did a little of both, and was fast asleep when he felt a jar, and started up to discover that the plane had settled down upon the water. He asked, “Did you find the right place?” The reply was, “We said our prayers.”

  One thing was sure: the weather had been kind. There was very little sea, and the P.A. didn’t have to contemplate the prospect of having to swim for it, and perhaps lose his small suitcase. The seaplane was hardly rocking at all, and the pilot had shut the engine off and was letting her drift. Lashed fast to the struts was one of those collapsible boats called a kayak, because of its shape. General Clark and his fellow officers had used several to land on the shore not far from Algiers for a conference with French officers who were secretly favoring the American invasion. That time the sea had been high, and it had been all but impossible for the Americans to get away again.

  Now the two aviators untied the package with swift fingers and spread the hinged wooden frame with the attached waterproof canvas. The three men laid the tiny craft upon the water, and first the ensign and then the passenger got in, holding tight to the seaplane so as not to upset the kayak. There was just room for two, facing each other and with their legs drawn up close. Lanny rode backward, his suitcase in his lap. The ensign paddled vigorously, and soon they came to the shore.

  A ticklish moment when they touched the shore, for it was rocky, and to get out of this craft was as hard as to get into it. Lanny had explained his desire to keep his feet dry, not because of discomfort, for that wouldn’t have amounted to anything in warm weather, but because he did not wish to betray the manner of his coming. The ensign stepped into the water and managed to keep the kayak from capsizing; he dragged it up so that his passenger might step out safely. Lanny whispered “Thank you,” shook hands, and waited while the craft was launched again. He was prepared to strip and help if necessary, but the young fellow managed it alone and disappeared into the darkness.

  X

  There was the son
of Budd-Erling with his little suitcase and a pocketful of Italian paper money of all sizes—mostly large, because the lira was even lower than the franc and going down fast. It was dark, but from the stars he could guess that it was after midnight; he couldn’t see the ground, but had to stumble along, ascending from the sea over rocks and weed patches. He had not brought a flashlight and would not have dared to use one. The success of his plans depended upon his getting to the German military authorities before he was picked up by the Italians. The Germans were the masters; but if the Italians got him first they might jail him as an ordinary spy, look up his past record, and never let the Germans know anything about him.

  Buildings loomed before him, outlined against the stars; he kept one hand before him as he walked, because barbed wire was to be expected. He kept waving his hand up and down in front of him, so that if he touched electrified wire it would be a quick stroke and might not be fatal. Every few steps he halted and listened for the footsteps of a sentry. It seemed most unlikely that any shore this close to Rome would be unfortified and unguarded; he knew what had been done to the beaches of Britain. But apparently hard-pressed Italy didn’t have any electrical power to spare, and not much wire; and they had an awful lot of rocky coast. Surely there should have been sentries along the shore; but although he held his breath and listened he heard nothing. Perhaps the sentry was taking a nap; anyhow, the invader, stepping softly and crouching low, came to a road, climbed onto it, and stood listening in the shadows of some sort of building.

  The entire shore was completely blacked out, and Lanny had no way to see his watch. By starlight a moving figure can be seen plainly enough for a shot, and Lanny’s heart was pounding; but he could gain nothing by staying in hiding. Apparently this was a summer cottage; it was unoccupied, the windows closed. What Lanny wanted was a taxi-cab or motorcar to take him to Rome; but how could he find a garage in the darkness? If he saw a person walking he would be afraid to speak to him, for fear it might be a policeman or a soldier; he had no papers that he could show, and his hope was to escape attention until he got away from the shore.

  What would he do if he were challenged in Italian? He had not failed to work out a course of action. He would demand to be taken to the highest police authority; there he would say that he was an American agent of Herr Hitler, desiring to be permitted to speak with the German authorities at once. He would not tell how he had got into Italy—he would say that Herr Hitler had arranged it and had forbidden him to reveal the secret. He would demand the right to telephone, at his own expense, to the Führer’s private number in Berlin. If the Führer was not there, he would call Air Marshal Göring, whose art adviser and agent he had been before the war.

  A most unlikely story, but the very boldness of it might cause its success. Great names would overwhelm any local official; and when it came to higher authorities, the son of Budd-Erling had a long record as a Fascist sympathizer to expatiate upon. He had been married to Irma Barnes, now Countess of Wickthorpe, whose home had been known before the war as a second Cliveden. In Paris he had been intimate in the home of Denis de Bruyne, wealthy industrialist who had helped to finance the Cagoulards; at the time this conspiracy had been exposed, Lanny had sought refuge in the palace of Graf Herzenberg, of the Nazi Embassy staff. The glib art expert could tell stories like that by the mile, and all the Italians would have to do was to ask their German friends about him. But suppose the Italians who got hold of him didn’t have any German friends and didn’t want any? Then indeed a double-crossing agent might wish that he had stayed on his own side of the war fence.

  XI

  The wanderer was in a settlement of some sort apparently. One shack fronting the highway had chinks of light behind black curtains; Lanny guessed it might be an all-night eating place and tapped on the door. A voice called, “Entrate.” He stepped in and closed the door quickly, as regulations in war-stricken lands required. There was a lunch counter with an elderly Italian behind it, and Lanny greeted him with his best German imitation, saying “Roma,” and then “Machina, automobile.” The proprietor, who was alone, pointed in a direction where he said there was a garage. Lanny took out a twenty-lira note and pointed to that, saying, “Come, show me.” The man, who wasn’t apt to make that much in the rest of the night, put out his light, locked his door, and escorted the stranger down the street.

  There was a garage, and apparently the proprietor slept in the rear. The café man knocked, and presently a sleepy voice called from inside, and the café man explained that a signor tedesco demanded to speak with him. So presently another old man opened the door—they were all old, because some four hundred thousand young men had been shipped to Naziland, and two or three million taken into the Army. When the man heard that a traveler wished to rent a car to take him to the capital, he threw up his hands in dismay; “Assolutamente impossibile!” he said; there was no petrolio, and besides, it was forbidden by the police; it was necessary to have a permit, and that took many days, and so on.

  Lanny invited himself into a bedroom which apparently had a large family who had awakened and were listening. He spoke large words: government, military affairs, state business, molto importante. Every time the man said “impossibile,” Lanny replied, “Quanto costa?”—how much? These, he knew, were black-market days, when anything could be done if you paid for it; but you mustn’t pay too much, because that awakens suspicion and exposes you to blackmail and even to crime. First he said “Mille lire,”—a thousand lire—and then, “Mille cinque,” which is fifteen hundred; he thought that should be sufficient for a forty-mile drive.

  When the proprietor said he didn’t have the gas, Lanny guessed that he was bidding for the passenger to buy it. When the man said two thousand lire, Lanny said, “E troppo,”—too much—and after arguing back and forth for a while he started to leave. The man, weakening, objected that it was forbidden to enter the city between the hours of ten at night and sunrise. To that Lanny replied that he didn’t want to enter the city, his destination was in the suburbs. He had studied a map and could specify the locality; the man said if that was the case he would take a chance, but it was molto, molto illegale and might get him a heavy fine. He wanted Lanny to agree to pay the police; but Lanny took his turn saying “impossible,” and stood by his fifteen hundred lire. At last the man said, “Bene, signor,” and proceeded to get into his pants and shirt.

  He unlocked his garage, and there was a battered yellow Renault which some tourist must have left behind ten years ago. It sputtered and spat, but it started, and the old man put it out on the street, locked the garage again, and invited the passenger and his suitcase inside. He drove through the deserted streets without lights, slowly but accurately, as if he had the eyes of an owl. Once out of the town, he turned on only the parking lights, and these were carefully hooded. He did not make any pretense of getting gasoline—that had been just a bargaining point. They drove at ten miles an hour, and that was all right, because Lanny could do nothing more until daylight. The road was a modern speedway, one of the gifts Il Duce had made to the Italian people out of their own money—this in the early days when he had been trying to please them. He had drained the swamps, killed the mosquitoes, built model houses, and caused the trains to run on time; so the tourists had spread his fame and his wonderful new ideas among the money-spending classes of all lands.

  Arriving at the suburb, Lanny picked out a dwelling at random and told the driver to stop there. He spoke his German-Italian thanks, paid his debt, and went up the steps of the building and pretended to ring the bell; he stood and waited, and the driver waited to see if anyone came to the door. Lanny’s patience was the greater, and finally the man drove away. Lanny was sure he would not report the strange episode to the police no matter how suspicious he might be; by his own admission he had broken several regulations and in all probability the Fascist police would bleed him white.

  XII

  The P.A. strolled and found a park with a bench, and there he sat. Dawn
was coming, and soon people would be about, and then it would be all right for one more to join them. There was nothing suspicious about this traveler’s appearance; he looked like a gentleman, but not too elegant, his English-made tropical worsted suit was considerably rumpled and he would be needing a shave. He might have been an agent taking orders for sewing machines, had any such thing been available in war-tormented Roma Immortalis. More probably, he was a bill collector, or possibly a doctor. In a city of a million and a half inhabitants the police cannot question everybody on the street every day.

  Nor can they block all the roads and lanes and alleys that lead into such a city. It was the P.A.’s idea to stroll on obscure streets among plain people on the way to their jobs. He would keep watch ahead, and if he saw any signs of a roadblock or even a policeman, he would turn off to another street. So, with as many windings as the Tiber River, he would make his way among the Seven Hills and arrive at his destination, the Hotel de Russie—surely an odd name for the headquarters of the German High Command. He had to find it without delay, for he couldn’t stop at any hotel without being reported to the police, and he couldn’t buy food or even eat in a café without having a ration book. He might have asked the people at the OSS “post office” to hide him—but he didn’t want to be hidden, he wanted to get a legal pass and travel about.

  It all worked out according to his careful plan. He came to the wide Piazza del Popolo, where he saw the gray gun-metal cars of the German staff parked. The familiar SS men stood on guard at the door of the hotel, and Lanny knew how to deal with them. His hand shot up in the Nazi salute and he snapped out, “Heil Hitler!” The response was obligatory, and the effect semi-hypnotic; the dummies found it difficult to distrust anyone who had put them through the ritual. Lanny said, “I have business with Marshal Kesselring”; and the commander of the guard replied, “Ja, mein Herr,” and signed one of the others to accompany the visitor inside.