by Lee Jackson
Stephenson chuckled. “If you say so. I don’t suppose you can shed that level of modesty, but I’ll tell you that not only do I think my estimate of your contributions is accurate, but so does the air chief marshal, the prime minister, and His Majesty.”
For the first time in weeks, Paul felt a surge of elation. He fought to contain it. “Seriously, sir? The king?”
“He stays abreast of high-level intelligence matters and those involved in them. And he’s informed of your contributions in the Balkans as well.”
Paul started to protest.
Stephenson cut him off by lifting a hand. “Granted, most of the responsibility for the actions rested on Wild Bill, but he needed someone there able to direct attention toward him or deflect it away. You did that perfectly, and indications are that events will transpire the way we want them to. Your contribution was crucial, and you braved dangerous places to pull it off. Give yourself a little credit.”
“Thank you, sir.” Paul leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interlocked between his legs. “Do you mind if I ask you something? This woman, Cynthia—who is she? How does she move about so blithely, and how did she pull off changing the senator’s mind when no one else could?”
Stephenson took his time to respond, his enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “She’s an international socialite, Paul, the energetic wife of a boring diplomat who began his career in Poland. Her real name is Elizabeth Thorpe. You can probably find her photo in the social pages of the newspapers. She’s helped bring about positive results in a number of places around the world, including in acquiring the Enigma machine at the heart of Bletchley’s decoding operations.” Chuckling, he added, “She makes a point of never knowing our own secrets so that she can never divulge any.” He sighed. “Another unsung soul, but I never ask about her methods.” He closed his eyes and leaned back. “She is beautiful, though, isn’t she? Pure magic.”
The plane began its descent. Stephenson re-opened his eyes. “Before we land, I want to tell you about what we’re doing with General Donovan.”
“Don’t be so formal,” Donovan broke in gruffly, waking from deep sleep. “You call me ‘Wild Bill,’ and so do all my friends. This is a small team. Paul and I have been through the muck together. He can call me that too.” He turned to Paul. “Go ahead. Try it on for size.”
Somewhat flummoxed, Paul said, “I’ll try, sir, I mean, W-Wild Bill, but it won’t come naturally. My training—well, you’re a general and I’m a captain.”
Donovan dismissed the comment. “You’ll get used to it.” He shifted his attention to Stephenson. “Now, what were you saying, Little Bill?”
Stephenson laughed and turned to Paul. “I was telling Paul that this facility we’re going to is top secret. We call it Camp X. There’s nothing there now, but we expect it to be built out and operational by early December. It’s to be a training facility, where we’ll teach ordinary people to break tyranny—a spy school, much like the ones we’ve established in England and Scotland to train our covert agents. It’s a joint project between Great Britain and Canada, through the latter’s Foreign Office. The school will be operated by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Canadian army under the command of our offices in Manhattan.”
“Which means you, Little Bill,” Donovan intoned.
“I suppose it does,” Stephenson sniffed. “Wild Bill is building an organization like our SOE. It doesn’t have an official name yet, but he’s been calling it the Office of Strategic Services—the OSS. When the school opens, US military intelligence and the FBI will send people to this camp for training.”
Paul’s eyes bored deep into Stephenson’s. For a moment, he did not speak, absorbing the implications of what he had just heard. “That leads me to think that the notion of US entry into the war allied with Britain is accepted among officials as more highly probable than is generally believed.”
“That’s a reasonable conclusion, but the public is not yet there, which is why we have to nudge things along.”
They arrived late in the afternoon under an overcast sky in a Canadian army sedan at the place where Camp X was proposed to be built. It was in a green but deserted part of Ontario along the lake by the same name, near the town of Whitby. The Canadian colonel who drove them, Josh Lawrence, parked near the water’s edge and emerged from the car. “This is the place,” he said as the rest of the group clambered out and milled about looking across the empty land. “There’s not much to see. But I brought the plans to show you.”
“It’s perfect,” Donovan said. “Far from civilization. Few chances for prying eyes. No structures to tear down. Just build, and there’s plenty of water.”
Lawrence removed a roll of blueprints from the trunk of the car and flattened it on the hood. “The layout is quite simple. Two sets of barracks, an administrative building, a dining facility, a gymnasium, and then firing ranges, obstacle courses, classrooms, exercise fields… The normal things you’d see at a military training base.”
“Show me where the Hydra will be located,” Stephenson said.
While Lawrence looked it up on the drawing, Paul asked, “What’s the Hydra?”
“I guess I hadn’t mentioned it,” Stephenson replied.
“It’ll go in over there on top of that rise,” Lawrence said, pointing.
“Let’s walk over, and I’ll explain it,” Stephenson told Paul, and headed toward the area. “We’re quietly procuring the latest short-wave radio equipment from local enthusiasts, and we have an expert electronic broadcast theorist and engineer working on a technical advance. The idea is to set up a secure telecommunications relay station capable of sending and receiving messages from Great Britain and Western Europe as well as the United States and even down into South America. That’s the capability we think it will have.” He stopped and looked around. “The topography here lends to sending and receiving transmissions, and we can code messages safely.”
“Seriously?” Paul said. “We’ve broken their codes. Why would we believe they haven’t broken ours?”
Stephenson chuckled. “Remind me to explain that to you on the flight back to New York. Now regarding the short wave, our engineer, Benjamin deForest Bayly, is an electronics wizard. He says that theoretically we can do it. He’s working on the technology. He expects it to be ready by next spring.”
“And you think he can do it?”
Stephenson nodded patiently. “You don’t know much about my business enterprises, Paul. They’re far-flung and diversified. One of them participated in early concepts of television. The technology has been developing since late in the last century, but it's moving from mechanical to electronic imaging. It would be ready for commercialization but for this war. I’d like to see a unit in every house. The value of the technology is immense.”
Listening with rapt if not challenged attention, Paul rubbed his chin. “I’m officially going to stop being amazed at anything,” he said. “The idea of this relay station blew my mind, and now you’re telling me leaps in television technology?”
“That’s still down the road,” Stephenson said, “but there’s much more to come. There’s an element I’ll tell you about when we’re on the plane.”
A few hours later, as they flew back to New York, he told Paul, “There are some things that are top secret to the US and Great Britain, so I couldn’t discuss them in front of Colonel Lawrence.
“When we made our bargain with President Roosevelt for support inside the Unites States, in addition to intelligence, part of what we offered was to give the US our full and complete radar technology, including our most advanced research. England is now able to put radar on some of its fighters to see and engage enemy aircraft at night. We’re using it already against the Luftwaffe quite successfully. Our hope is that by pairing British research facilities with those of the US, we’ll develop more advanced capabilities faster and sooner. Radar kept us in the fight over Britain.”
Paul listened in amazement
. “Technology and intelligence,” he murmured. “That’s our edge.”
“It’s not the whole package,” Stephenson said. “Production capacity, levels of manpower, training, morale, communications—”
“You said you’d explain why we’re confident the Germans can’t break our codes.”
“‘Can’t’ might be too strong a term. We’re confident that they haven’t done it yet and doubt that they will, but they’re still trying.”
“How do we know they haven’t yet?”
“Because the Germans are not very good at spy craft. We rounded up all the agents they sent to infiltrate Great Britain within weeks of their arrivals, but instead of arresting them, we turned them. They work for us now.”
Seeing the astonishment on Paul’s face, Stephenson remarked quietly, “I guess there is a lot to learn at this level.”
45
March 24, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
“May I ask what your speech is intended to accomplish?” Paul asked.
“Good question,” Donovan replied.
Stephenson listened to the exchange from behind his desk.
“Hitler is an emotional man,” the general began. “He listens to his high command until someone crosses him on a level that he takes personally, and then he goes into tirades, and often fires the offender—or worse.” He shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “Right now, we’re in a bit of a lull strategically, but all the pieces are in place. Germany is poised to pounce in Greece. Yugoslavian partisans, led by their air force, are ready to break with the fascists, and we’re about to enrage Hitler.
“That’s the objective of my speech. The führer is still in a consultative mode with his generals. He’ll be infuriated by what I say to the American people tomorrow, and he’ll react emotionally. That will trigger German operations in Greece and limit his forces for Barbarossa. Then, he’ll receive his surprise from Yugoslavia—and five months down the road, the Russian winter will hit him. I expect the Wehrmacht to be devastated by what happens there.”
He stood. “Time for me to fly. If you’d like to see my speech, I’ve left a copy of it on Bill’s desk.” He grinned. “I’m wide open for critique.” Shaking Paul’s hand, he added, “I’ll see you at the White House in the morning.” Then he bade Stephenson farewell and departed.
Paul walked over, took the draft of Donovan’s speech from Stephenson’s desk, and read it, four short paragraphs. “I’m just struck by all the things that go on to fight this war that hardly anyone knows about,” he told Stephenson. “I’m willing to bet that most Americans have never heard of General Donovan, and yet tomorrow he’ll be elevated to national stature and address America about things we expect to affect the movement of armies across the globe. It’s mind-boggling, but I wonder if history will record it or even take notice.
“What you and the general do is amazing. If anyone had told me about it, I wouldn’t have believed it, and the only reason I do now is because I’ve been there in the meetings with Churchill. I traveled to Greece and saw the battlelines. I went to Yugoslavia and witnessed what happened there. And I still wonder if I’ve dreamt it.
“Here I am in New York City, living in a penthouse, and seeing things like—” He grasped at thoughts. “Like Camp X in Canada with its Hydra. It’s all the stuff of spy and science fiction novels, except that I’m living it and seeing it. And I ask myself constantly, is this really going to win the war?”
The sides of Stephenson’s mouth turned up and he regarded Paul with benevolence. “Have a seat, and let’s talk through this. Maybe I can broaden your viewpoint.” When they were both sitting, he continued, “We plucked you out of a traditional intelligence role in London and plopped you down here in America, and then took you to Canada, sent you to the Balkans—and as I recall, I even took you out on a local sortie with the FBI having to do with that sailor who was selling our convoys’ courses and directions.”
“How could I forget?” Paul said, feeling a mental tug from the moral struggles he had worked through over how he believed Stephenson had handled the matter.
“What you might not see clearly is the organization that supports us,” Stephenson went on. “The sign on our door indicates that we’re the British passport office, and we occupy two floors here in Rockefeller Center. That’s a lot of people, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg. We have at our disposal the assets of the formal sections of British intelligence, to include Bletchley and the newly forming SOE.
“Prime Minister Churchill asked me to take this job because I have large business interests in various parts of the world. I know intelligence, I know people, and I also employ my business assets when needed to further our cause. So, while it might seem that we have this small coterie that you readily see and includes Wild Bill because of his liaison role between us and the president, our undertakings often involve large numbers of people—most of whom you’ll never meet or know how they’re involved unless or until there’s a reason.”
Paul nodded and took a deep breath. “Operational security.”
“Exactly. Does that add to your understanding?”
“It does, and the whole enterprise becomes even more amazing, but—” Paul hesitated.
“Spit it out,” Stephenson said. “You’ve not been shy before.”
Paul nodded. “I read the general’s speech.” He took a deep breath. “I have to say, it was underwhelming, which causes me to ask, is that it? That’s the speech to move armies?”
Stephenson laughed gently. “You’ll get better at understanding subtleties. That’s not anyone making that speech. That’s a US Army general who reports directly to the president. His venue is national radio, and he’ll speak to the American people after the president’s introduction, so in effect, he’ll speak for the president.
“Just two weeks ago, lend-lease was passed, and already American warships are under British command and control. And with Donovan’s speech, the president will inform the führer that America is inching toward joining the fight while Hitler dithers over what to do in the Balkans and the Soviet Union.
“Herr Adolf will throw a fit, I promise you, and unleash his panzers into Greece, and when the coup is complete in Yugoslavia, he’ll invade there too. He has no clue about the forces growing around him.” He smiled up at Paul. “I can see on your face that you’re uncertain how this will all play out. Obviously, I guarantee nothing, but I’m confident that within a few days, you’ll start to see the results going the way we intend.”
Paul grunted. “And if they do, Greeks and Yugoslavians will die in place of Soviets. That’s a bitter pill.” He caught Stephenson’s steady gaze. “I get it. The pill is not as bitter as losing the war to a tyrant and having many more people slaughtered.”
46
March 25, 1941
White House, Washington, DC
“The plan is working, Mr. President,” Donovan said.
President Franklin Roosevelt peered through his spectacles across the breakfast table at Stephenson and Donovan in his private dining room next to the Oval Office. Then he glanced at Paul and gestured his way. “Good idea, bringing him along. He works for you, eh, Little Bill?”
Although he addressed his query to Stephenson, Donovan responded. “Captain Littlefield is solid, sir. I took him with me through the Balkans.” He added with a wry smile, “He’s quirky at times, but he can handle himself.”
Roosevelt grunted. “Quirky is good. Look at where it got my distant cousin, Ted. Anyway, I like Little Bill’s idea of a walking archive. Maybe you should get one.” He turned to Paul. “It’s good that a young person is seeing how things happen from the inside. After the war, when it’s safe and documents have been declassified, you should let the public know of your experiences.” His face suddenly turned solemn. “We don’t want another war like this one.”
He turned back to Donovan. “Go on with what you were saying about the plan.”
“Yes, sir. Germany pl
aced twelve panzer divisions on Bulgaria’s southern border with Greece and warned Turkey not to interfere. With the British landing Force W on the east coast of Greece, and its drive across the country to support the war against Italy in Albania, Germany will invade soon. That will pin down Wehrmacht troops there.
“And we’re only days away from a coup in Yugoslavia. What we say here today could prod it along, and I think this one will succeed. It’ll create another ally for Great Britain, and that will surprise Hitler. He’ll be forced to commit more troops to secure that flank. Mussolini’s days must already be numbered, at least in the führer’s mind. Benito is obviously no Julius Caesar.”
Looking amused, Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “We’re hearing through Bletchley that the chief of staff of the German supreme command, Field Marshal Keitel, is complaining of having to postpone Barbarossa by four weeks. He’ll be frustrated further when he realizes that the invasion into Soviet territory will probably be delayed another two weeks.” He chuckled. “And we were hoping for at least a day’s delay.”
The president laughed and then looked around for his aide. Spotting him, he called, “Where is this filming happening today?”
“In the Blue Room, sir.”
Roosevelt nodded vigorously. “Good. Tell me again the rest of the preparations.”
“Yes, sir. Your comments and the general’s speech will be recorded on film and will go out immediately to all press outlets. In addition, it will be delivered to movie distributors to be released as newsreels for the beginning of each movie showing across the US and Britain, as we do regularly.”
While he spoke, the president lit up a cigar and took a puff. “Good, good. Thank you,” he told the aide, and turned back to Stephenson and Donovan. “These are my favorite,” he declared, waving his cigar in the air. “I’ve got a box set aside for the prime minister. Be sure to pick it up on your way out.”
