Baker could imagine what these doubtful legal things were. He had heard some very interesting stories about the German inability to stop the flow of privately held gold, Swiss and American currency, investment-quality precious stones, and fine art out of both occupied and Vichy France. It had been decreed that gold and foreign currency must be deposited in banks, where they were to be exchanged for French francs. The export of jewel stones and fine art was forbidden except by permit, which was rarely issued.
Short of conducting house-to-house searches of France, there was no way to make the French turn in their gold and hard currency for exchange. And many wealthy French, who hoped one day to leave German-occupied France, were trying every possible means to send their assets, which often included paintings and objets d’art, out ahead of them.
A highly placed Moroccan who could freely move in and out of France on some sort of official passport could move fortunes in his luggage if he was so inclined.
‘‘That being the case,’’ Baker said, ‘‘I suppose it’s a good thing we didn’t go after the girls.’’
‘‘A great pity,’’ Freddie Dietz said, ‘‘but it would have been ill advised.’’
Baker found the Moroccan and his American friend fascinating, even more so after he checked his List of Americans Known to Be Living in German-Occupied France and found no Fulmar on it.
Baker dispatched, that same night, a report of the encounter. Item #1 on the report was the most significant item, he knew: If Generalmajor von Handleman-Bitburg was in Paris with his wife and daughter, it was unlikely his division would be folding its tents to load on trains for movement to the eastern front. Item #2, that it was likely a German-American named Eric Fulmar was successfully smuggling valuables out of occupied France in consort with Sidi Hassan el Ferruch, elder son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, was not, obviously, of importance. But it was the sort of thing that should be on file somewhere.
The idea of recruiting Fulmar as an agent had, of course, immediately occurred to Baker. He was an American with highly placed German friends and contacts. His friendship with the Moroccan could prove valuable. The problem was that Fulmar would probably not look with favor at any attempt to recruit him. Agents often live shorter lives than other people. And Fulmar did not seem to Baker eager for a short life.
He would, of course, make the attempt to feel Fulmar out, but he was not at all optimistic. And if he went too far, Fulmar was entirely capable of telling his German friends that Baker was more than a caretaker for the empty U.S. embassy.
A few days later—not entirely by chance—he encountered Fulmar at the urinal in the men’s room off the bar in the Hôtel Crillon.
‘‘Hello, Fulmar, how are you?’’ he said, in English. The conversation in Fouquet’s restaurant had all been in German.
‘‘All right,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘How’re you?’’
He looked at Baker uneasily. But the tension almost instantly faded, and a smile as engaging as a Raphael Madonna’s spread over his face. Fulmar now had a look so unfeignedly open and warm that Baker dropped his hand on his wallet pocket.
‘‘If I’d known you were American, I would have spoken to you in English in Fouquet’s,’’ Baker said.
‘‘It didn’t matter,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘I’ve been curious about you,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Is that so?’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘I’m thrilled that so many people I don’t know well show so much curiosity about me.’’
‘‘You’re not on my list,’’ Baker said.
‘‘What list is that?’’ Fulmar asked as he washed his hands.
‘‘My list of Americans in occupied France,’’ Baker said.
‘‘I don’t live in occupied France,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘Well, that explains that, doesn’t it?’’ Baker said. He decided to push him a little. ‘‘You know, of course, that when your passport comes up for renewal, it’ll be stamped ‘Not Valid for Travel to Occupied France.’ Unless, of course, you have a reason to be here.’’
‘‘I’ll be out of France before my passport expires,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Baker asked.
‘‘What is this, anyway?’’ Fulmar asked.
‘‘Nothing. I was just curious. I don’t see many Americans in Paris these days.’’
‘‘I suppose not,’’ Fulmar agreed.
‘‘So you’ll let me buy you a drink?’’
Fulmar hesitated, then nodded.
They went into the bar and took a table against the wall.
Fulmar knew several of the young German officers and spoke to them in German. There was dialect and slang. Fulmar was perfectly fluent in that language, so fluent that he could obviously be mistaken for a German. His French was impeccable, too.
‘‘I think they’re about out of American whiskey,’’ Baker said.
‘‘I drink fin de l’eau,’’ Fulmar said, in English. ‘‘I can’t stand French beer.’’
‘‘Bring us a siphon and ice,’’ Baker ordered. ‘‘And some cognac.’’
When they had mixed the drinks, Baker raised his.
‘‘Mud in your eye,’’ he said.
Fulmar chuckled. ‘‘I haven’t heard that in a while,’’ he said.
‘‘How long have you been over here?’’ Baker asked.
‘‘I came over for my last two years of high school,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘And then I stayed for college. That makes it eight years.’’
‘‘You’ve never been back?’’
Fulmar shook his head no. Then he took the cognac bottle, poured the empty coffee cup half full, and added ice and a good spritz from the siphon.
‘‘You say you don’t live in France?’’ Baker asked.
‘‘Are you just making conversation, or is that an official inquiry?’’
‘‘Forget I asked,’’ Baker said quickly. ‘‘I didn’t mean to pry.">
‘‘I know curiosity is eating you up, Mr. Baker, but maybe that’s your business, so I’ll try to satisfy it. I live in Morocco. I have been given a permanent residence permit by the Moroccan government. I would suppose the consulate general in Rabat has all the details.’’
‘‘I guess my curiosity ran away with me,’’ Baker said, making it an apology. ‘‘I didn’t mean to offend.’’
‘‘None was taken,’’ Fulmar said dryly, smiling his open, engaging smile.
‘‘I was told you were German,’’ Baker said with a smile. ‘‘That made me curious, too.’’
‘‘My father is German,’’ Fulmar said, looking directly at Baker. ‘‘So far as they’re concerned, that makes me a German. If I was in Germany, they’d put me in the army, American passport or no. I don’t want to be a German soldier. ’’
‘‘Maybe you should think about going home,’’ Baker said.
‘‘And get drafted into the American army? No, thanks.’’
‘‘You may have to go home,’’ Baker said. ‘‘What if the consulate won’t renew your passport?’’
‘‘Then I’ll become a Moroccan citizen,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘Can you? Don’t you have to be Moslem?’’
‘‘How do you know I’m not?’’ Fulmar asked. ‘‘And besides, I have friends there.’’
‘‘Friends?’’
‘‘Um.’’
‘‘That would be Sidi el Ferruch?’’ Baker asked, and Fulmar nodded.
‘‘You two are close,’’ Baker said.
‘‘My God, you are nosy!’’ Fulmar said, but he was still smiling. He liked the man, in spite of his nosiness. Baker was smoother and smarter than he looked. ‘‘We went to high school together in Switzerland. And then to the university. We’re very close. I owe him.’’
‘‘Indeed?’’
‘‘He pointed out to me that I would be a fool to go in either the German or the American army,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘And then put his money where his mouth is by fixing it so I didn’t have to. And he is i
ndulging me tonight by taking you to dinner.’’
‘‘I’m flattered,’’ Baker said. ‘‘And surprised.’’
‘‘You should be,’’ Fulmar said, and chuckled. ‘‘It isn’t often that you’ll have a chance to break bread with a direct descendant of the True Prophet. And besides, it isn’t often lately that I’ve talked to a smart American.’’
‘‘I’m even more flattered,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’d love to break bread with a descendant of the True Prophet—and to continue talking with another smart American.’’ He paused a moment and then added casually, ‘‘Oh, by the way, when you’re not breaking bread with a descendant of the True Prophet, how do you spend your time in Morocco?’’
‘‘I try very hard not to wear out my welcome,’’ Fulmar said, and laughed. ‘‘There aren’t many Europeans who speak Arabic that they trust. Within limits, they trust me.’’
Baker nodded, and then Fulmar went on. ‘‘They don’t all sleep in tents on the desert, you know, tending camels. They’re in business. And just because the French lost the war doesn’t mean that the French have stopped trying to screw them.’’
‘‘It must be interesting,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Sometimes,’’ Fulmar said.
When Sidi Hassan el Ferruch appeared at the door of the bar, with his enormous Senegalese bodyguard, N’Jibba, Fulmar and Baker joined him. There was a Delahaye waiting for them at the door of the Crillon, with a Peugeot sedan in line behind it.
The restaurant was small, the lobsters were delightfully fresh, and Sidi el Ferruch told Eldon C. Baker more than he really cared to know about the deplorable state of French racing stables under the German occupation—and absolutely nothing else of interest.
When Baker had undergone his formal training as an intelligence officer, he had been told that the error most often committed by men in the field was their failure to transmit what seemed to be unimportant information because they could see no use for it. Odd facts from various sources often could be put together to form valuable data.
Thus, with that in mind, after he had returned to the Crillon he put together another report on Fulmar, Eric, in which he stated that he had come to suspect that there was more to Fulmar than was immediately apparent. In other words, under the cover of his lounge-lizard image sponging on the son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, he was up to something— something that very likely could be put to use by ‘‘our team’’ when the time came.
Hyde Park, New York August 21, 1941
The President of the United States, Colonel William B. Donovan could tell from the glint in his eyes, was about to be witty. But he was in the process of chewing a cracker smeared with Liederkranz cheese, so the remark had to wait until he finished.
‘‘With Eleanor off spreading the pollen of goodwill,’’ Franklin D. Roosevelt said, ‘‘it will not be necessary for us to play bridge before we can move on to the serious drinking. May I suggest we all go in the library?’’
There were appreciative chuckles from the three other men at the table. None of Roosevelt’s political cronies were present. That and the presence of William B. Donovan and a Navy commander named Douglass convinced J. Edgar Hoover that Roosevelt wanted more from him than the pleasure of his company at dinner.
Roosevelt’s valet, a large black man in a white jacket, moved to the President to push his wheelchair.
‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And that will be all, thank you. We are now going to tell bawdy stories in private.’’
He got another appreciative chuckle.
They followed him down a corridor to the library, where decanters of whiskey, a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac, and a silver ice bucket had been laid out on a table so Roosevelt could play the host and make the drinks.
‘‘As your Commander in Chief, I grant you immunity from the regulation which proscribes drinking on duty, Commander Douglass,’’ Roosevelt said.
‘‘The commander is on duty?’’ Hoover asked.
‘‘Yes,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And I really think he needs a little liquid courage before he tells you what he has to say.’’
‘‘I always thought Edgar was unshockable, like a clergyman, ’’ Donovan said.
Hoover ignored that.
‘‘You’re ONI1, aren’t you, Commander?’’ he asked.
Hoover took some pride in knowing who was involved in intelligence, and he was not reluctant to let the President, and for that matter Donovan, see again that there was very little that escaped his professional attention.
‘‘No, sir,’’ Commander Douglass said. ‘‘I’m now with COI."
Hoover could not conceal his surprise.
Commander Peter Stuart Douglass, USN, was a sandy-haired, freckle-faced, pleasant-looking man of forty-two who had spent his Navy career moving between deep water (his last assignment had been as commanding officer of a destroyer squadron) and intelligence.
‘‘Take a stiff belt, Commander,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘Give it a moment to warm you, and then get going.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Douglass said.
‘‘Let me lay the groundwork,’’ Roosevelt said, changing his mind. ‘‘Some months ago, Alex Sachs came to me bearing a letter from Albert Einstein and some other eggheads at that level. They believe it is possible to split the atom.’’
Hoover looked at Roosevelt, not understanding.
‘‘What does that mean, Mr. President?’’ Hoover asked.
Roosevelt motioned for Douglass to speak.
‘‘It means the potential release of energy from matter at a rate a thousand times that possible from present energy-release methods,’’ Douglass said.
‘‘I don’t think I understand that either,’’ Hoover confessed.
‘‘I don’t want to insult your intelligence, sir, by—’’ Douglass said.
‘‘You go right ahead and insult my intelligence, Commander, ’’ Hoover said.
‘‘Sir, you understand that explosives really don’t explode? An explosion is really a process of combustion? The ‘explosive’ material burns?’’
Hoover nodded.
‘‘If the atom can be split,’’ Douglass said, ‘‘it might be possible to extract a thousand times more energy than from combustion.’’
‘‘A super bomb?’’ Hoover said.
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Douglass said.
‘‘We don’t know that yet,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘After my first visit with Commander Douglass, I had Jim Conant for dinner and discussed it with him.’’
It did not surprise Hoover that Roosevelt had gone to James B. Conant, president of Harvard, for advice. The Roosevelt administration was heavily larded—far too heavily larded, in Hoover’s opinion—with members of the Harvard faculty. Roosevelt was a Harvard graduate.
‘‘And what did he say?’’ Hoover asked.
‘‘ ‘Yes,’ ’’ Roosevelt said, ‘‘and ‘no.’ ’’
He waited for a laugh that did not come.
‘‘Yes, it is possible,’’ the President said. ‘‘No, not now. Maybe fifty, a hundred years from now.’’
‘‘And you think he’s wrong?’’ Hoover asked.
‘‘I think he underestimates both his own academic community and American industry,’’ Donovan said.
‘‘In other words, you think a super bomb like this is possible? ’’ Hoover asked. ‘‘It sounds like Buck Rogers in the twenty-fifth century.’’
‘‘I think so too,’’ the President said. ‘‘But I at least believe it’s worth the gamble to try and find out. If such a weapon were possible, it would considerably change the odds of our losing a war should war come to us—as I believe it must.’’
‘‘They’ve already split the atom,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘What they have to do is learn to make it a continuous process, what the scientists call a chain reaction.’’
‘‘An Italian physicist named Fermi is doing some work at the University of Chicago,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘He hopes for so
me positive results by the first of the year.’’
‘‘Who knows about this?’’ Hoover said.
He just thought of that, Donovan thought, somewhat unkindly.
‘‘A handful of scientists; the chief of naval intelligence; Bill; Commander Douglass; an Army colonel named Leslie Groves; and now you,’’ Roosevelt said.
‘‘What will be required from the Bureau?’’ Hoover asked formally.
‘‘Secrecy,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘Secrecy. Absolute secrecy. This thing, if it works, could decide the war. We have to build a wall of silence around it.’’
‘‘The FBI can handle it, Mr. President,’’ Hoover said, making it a proclamation.
‘‘I’m sure the FBI, as ever,’’ Roosevelt said solemnly, ‘‘will deliver to the country whatever it is asked to deliver.’’
‘‘It will, Mr. President,’’ Hoover said, equally solemnly.
Donovan suspected the President was playing Hoover for his, Donovan’s, amusement, but there was no question that Hoover was oblivious to it.
‘‘The FBI will of course have a major and continuing role in this project,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘But that will be somewhere down the pike. What I’m concerned about right now, and the reason I have asked you here, Edgar, is something that’s going to happen almost immediately.’’
‘‘Yes, sir, Mr. President?’’ Hoover asked. If he were a soldier, Donovan thought, Hoover would be standing at attention.
‘‘The British and the Germans have also been working on splitting the atom,’’ Roosevelt said.
‘‘The Germans?’’ Hoover asked. Roosevelt nodded.
‘‘Dr. Conant has arranged to send two of his associates, chaps named Urey and Pegram, to England to see how far the English have gotten,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And to see what they can find out about the German effort. They’ll be leaving very shortly.’’
The Last Heroes Page 15
