The Princess Spy

by Larry Loftis

  But the Spaniards in front of Aline were not speaking on behalf of Juan Belmonte, long since retired, but of his son, Juanito.

  “The señorita must have heard of the great Belmonte,” the man said. Juanito was nationally famous, not only because of his father but because of his own feats in the ring as well.

  Aline was at a loss. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No mistake,” the man said. “Don Juan beheld the señorita last night in the Teatro de la Zarzuela.”

  Aline nodded. Not wanting to be rude, she accepted the flowers, but what were the other items?

  “The traje de luces,” one of them said, “suit of lights, that Don Juan wore in Toledo when he got two ears.”

  Aline stood there, puzzled. A pink satin suit covered with sequins? And ears?

  Before she could respond the other man thrust Juanito’s matador cape into her arms. Aline gave it back, telling them she’d accept the flowers but not the clothing and cape.

  “Señorita,” one of the men said, “do not refuse, por favor. Don Juan would never forgive us.”

  Aline held firm and the men left. She was flattered, of course, but attention was the last thing an OSS operative wanted. In Madrid less than a day and already she had an admirer.

  A celebrity, no less.

  * * *

  After breakfast Aline headed to Calle Alcalá Galiano, No. 4, office of the Oil Control Commission. She wouldn’t start work until the following Monday, but she wanted to get a feel for the city and see where the office was in relation to everything else. She saw on the map that it was about ten blocks north of the Palace Hotel so she took a trolley.

  On the ride up she noticed that a number of people on the car were staring at her. Come to think of it, a few had gawked at her in the hotel lobby as well. Was it so obvious she was an American?

  She got off at the Plaza de Colón to catch a glimpse of the statue of Christopher Columbus, and then walked up Alcalá Galiano, a tree-lined street of old, well-preserved buildings. As she passed by a parked black Packard, she noticed the driver watching her.

  “Why does such a pretty girl want to wear men’s clothes?” the man yelled.

  Aline glanced at her outfit: plaid shirt and slacks. Ah. Old-World Spain. Dresses from now on, she told herself.

  She reached building No. 4 and looked up. It was a grand three-story stone structure with little balconies at each window. It was relatively new, by Spanish standards anyway, but designed to match the centuries-old buildings around it. Now that she’d found her office, she continued on toward the center of downtown. After a few blocks the streets began to narrow and suddenly there were endless rows of shops with a dizzying array of merchandise: top hats, corsets, copper utensils, bric-a-brac of every sort.

  At the Plaza de Santa Ana, near the center of town and not far from the hotel, she sat on a bench to drink in Spanish life for a few minutes. The women passing by all seemed to wear black, she noticed, with woolen scarves protecting their faces from the wind. Men wore long capes—strange but undeniably romantic—or had their coats hung casually about their shoulders. A moment later a horse-drawn carriage went by, followed by mule-drawn carts. Gasoline was hard to come by in Spain, and the few cars she encountered often ran on charcoal.II Everything was old here, but there was a dignity to it. None of the Spaniards around her appeared financially well-off, but they seemed proud.

  And happy. Everyone smiled and men tipped their hats in greeting, often complimenting a woman on something she was wearing. Madrid was stuck in the nineteenth century, it seemed, and Aline found it charming. Though it was a large city, it seemed to have some of the same small-town charm as Pearl River.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, the same three Spaniards who had greeted her that morning were waiting in the lobby. The one from whom she had taken the carnations was now carrying a fresh bouquet. Again, Aline accepted the flowers but reiterated she couldn’t accept the cape and suit. The messengers were persistent, though, and she finally relented.

  Not long after she returned to her room, the phone rang.

  “Señorita Griffith?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Juan Belmonte, and I would like the privilege of taking you out to buy a box of chocolates.”

  Aline stifled a laugh. Not every day you get invited on a chocolate date. Between the flowers and the matador clothes, it was clear this bullfighter was accustomed to having his way.

  “When would you like to buy these chocolates, Señor Belmonte?”

  Aline wearing Juanito Belmonte’s vest from his “suit of lights.”

  “As soon as possible, señorita. This afternoon would be perfect. I could pick you up around five.”

  Aline agreed, and said she’d meet him in the lobby. “But how will I know you?”

  Juanito paused, and then said, “It is not a problem, señorita, I will know you.”

  Promptly at five, Aline headed down. The usually quiet and sedate lobby was abuzz. A crowd was gathered around someone signing autographs, but she couldn’t make out who it was. Looking around, she didn’t see anyone waiting for her and suspected that her date had not yet arrived.

  After a few minutes the crowd started moving her way. Scanning the group, she saw that the center of attention—the Spaniard leading the entourage—was a man. Then it dawned on her: this was her bullfighter.

  The celebrity.

  He didn’t look like a slayer of beasts. He was short and thin, with dark skin and a jaw that jutted forward like a barracuda’s.

  “Señorita Griffith,” Juanito said, raising her hand to his lips. “May I call you by your first name?”

  “Aline.”

  Juanito took her arm and a doorman shooed away the crowd. Outside, Aline’s eyes widened when she saw what Señor Belmonte was driving: a cream-colored Bugatti Royale convertible. She suspected that bullfighters were well paid, but who could afford a Bugatti roadster when few Spaniards even owned a car?

  Though young, Juanito was indeed wealthy. At the time, matadors made between $2,000 and $7,500 for an afternoon’s work. For the most popular bullfighters, a season would entail eighty to one hundred performances. Adjusting for inflation, top matadors like Juanito were earning several million dollars a year.III

  They drove to a small village called Villanueva de la Cañada, some twenty miles west of Madrid, and Aline wondered why Juanito had not selected a chocolatier in town. A romantic drive through the countryside, perhaps?

  He turned on Calle Peligros and stopped in front of a store called La Mahonesa. Inside, the owner, Don José, greeted Juanito with several bows and then turned to Aline.

  “Señorita, it is an honor to have you visit this shop. For one hundred and sixty-six years, my ancestors and I have made Spain’s best chocolates. We have served the royal family and the country’s most illustrious citizens. The señorita shall have a box just like the ones we used to prepare for Queen Victoria Eugenia.”

  Aline watched as Don José began moving down his display, selecting various chocolates and placing them in a box lined with pink silk. When he was almost finished, Juanito said, “Don José, we will be in the car.”

  Aline looked back. “But what about the chocolates? Shouldn’t we wait?”

  “Certainly not. In Spain gentlemen do not carry packages.”

  Juanito opened her door, and moments later Don José came out carrying a silver tray, upon which rested the box of La Mahonesa’s finest confections. It was a treat Juanito would often share with Aline in the months ahead.

  * * *

  On Monday, Aline went to the office on Calle Alcalá Galiano and spent most of the day learning the lay of the land. To begin, the American embassy and the Oil Control Commission were located in separate buildings.IV The embassy, about twelve blocks away on Calle Miguel Angel, housed only American diplomats and the OSS’s X-2 staff.

  That morning she met Walter Smith, a career oilman who headed the Oil Commission—a legitimate entity with an import
ant function. In July 1941, as punishment for Franco’s appeasement of Germany, the United States had stopped shipments of petroleum to Spain, infuriating the British. Spain needed gasoline so desperately, they had argued, that the lack of it would send the country into civil disorder, thus providing Hitler with an excuse to invade. The US countered that any petroleum shipments to Spain could be resold to Germany, Italy, or Japan.

  In early 1942 the parties resolved the issue, but with two contingencies. First, the US would provide Spain with only enough oil to meet its minimum domestic needs, thus negating the possibility of resale. Second, American authorities would be placed in Spain to assure that all shipments would be tracked, and that no oil would find its way to German submarines visiting Spanish ports. To accomplish this, US officials would have to act as internal customs, inspecting incoming shipments and supervising distribution.

  The Oil Control Commission was this supervising agency, and it was the perfect cover for Aline and the OSS staff. She would keep normal office hours as an OCC clerk, but behind closed doors she would code and decode incoming and outgoing OSS cables.

  The Oil Commission was located on the first floor of the building, Smith explained, with the Secret Intelligence offices on the second floor. He escorted her up a stairway and introduced her to H. Gregory Thomas, the Madrid station chief.

  “Miss Griffith,” Thomas said, shaking her hand, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Smith excused himself and Aline took a seat. If ever a boss could be intimidating, this was the man. He had a stiff, formal demeanor and his booming voice matched his gigantic, angular physique.

  But Aline had no idea just how impressive Thomas really was. He had graduated with first-class honors from Cambridge University, earned a doctorate in law at the University of Paris, and passed the entrance exam for admission to the English Bar. He then went to Spain and studied at the universities of Oviedo, Madrid, and Salamanca, where he earned a second doctorate. When General Donovan became director of the Office of the Coordinator of Information in 1942, he recruited Thomas for his staff in New York. Not long thereafter, since Thomas was fluent in Spanish and French, Donovan sent him to Madrid with oversight of Spain and Portugal. But Thomas was building his organization almost from scratch.

  “We’ve barely twelve US-trained agents in all of Spain,” he said by way of introduction. “The Germans have literally hundreds.” Everyone in the office had code names, he explained; his was ARGUS, and hers was BUTCH. Jim MacMillan, whom she’d met on the trip over, was the deputy director and the station financial officer. He’d be her immediate supervisor, he said, and Jim’s code name was QUERES. Larry Mellon, whom she had also met, was their Basque expert; he would focus primarily on the French-Spanish escape lines and chains. In that capacity, he would spend much of his time in Barcelona and London but would be based initially in Madrid. His code name was LEGION.

  The remaining Madrid staff consisted of two secretaries, an administrator, a radioman, and three coders, including Aline. The radio operator, whose name was Robert Turpin, code-named KODAK, would arrive next month. The chief cipher clerk, with whom Aline would work closely, was Robert Dunev, code-named WILLIAMS.

  With cover as an Oil Commission clerk, Thomas went on, Aline would be expected to keep normal office hours. But what was considered normal in Madrid was unlike what any American was used to. Business hours were universally recognized as ten or eleven in the morning to one or two in the afternoon, and then six to ten in the evening. The afternoon break was for lunch and a siesta at home with family. The Oil Commission, however, Americanized the Spanish schedule: work began at nine and the lunch-siesta break started at one. Staffers were expected to be back at four and work until eight, sometimes later.

  A Spaniard’s evening was adjusted accordingly. Dinner reservations were rarely made before ten in Madrid, and drinks and appetizers typically began at half past. The main course followed, sometimes arriving as late as midnight, and conversation continued until the party left for the next stage of the evening. Groups might head to a bar at this point, or visit a theater or opera house, which were open from eleven until two in the morning. After that came flamenco parties, which often lasted until six in the morning. As Hemingway observed, “Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night.”

  One reason for the strange hours was that homes did not have air conditioning, and much of the year it would be too hot to sleep until the early morning hours. The other reason was that the Spanish simply loved to live.

  And since Aline might overhear valuable intelligence at dinners, receptions, clubs, and parties, Thomas encouraged her to adapt to the local scene and keep her eyes and ears open. He pointed out that Dunev, the chief cypher clerk, had a second identity as a local. His Spanish was so flawless that OSS had created a fake persona for him as “Joaquin Goicoechea,” a Madrileño who lived in a studio apartment in a working-class neighborhood. Robert kept a separate wardrobe there, in keeping with Joaquin’s status, and would sleep there at least once a week. Aline would have no connection to Dunev’s alias, but it was best that she knew he’d often be away from his regular apartment. Aline’s role, he said, was less complicated. First and foremost, her priority was the code room, and she would be on call at any hour, day or night, in case an urgent cable arrived. That said, there was one thing he particularly wanted her to keep in the back of her mind when she was out and about.

  Heinrich Himmler, Germany’s Reichsführer and Hitler’s second in command, had a top agent in Madrid and the OSS needed to find out who it was. At the moment they had four suspects, all of whom had skeleton files in the X-2 office. First, there was Franco’s brother-in-law, Ramón Serrano-Suñer. He was not only the former head of the Falange, Spain’s fascist party, but known to be very close to Himmler. He had served in Franco’s cabinet as minister of the interior and then as foreign minister, but the general had removed him from his cabinet altogether in September 1942.V

  Second, there was Prince Maximilian Egon von Hohenlohe. A fabulously wealthy Austrian, he had married a member of the Spanish royal family and now lived in Madrid. He had at least one castle in Germany, perhaps more, and stood to lose quite a bit of his fortune if Germany wasn’t victorious in the war. He had numerous Nazi connections, OSS reports indicated, including Himmler and Hermann Göring, Germany’s Reichsmarschall.VI He was also a confidant of Walter Schellenberg, Himmler’s foreign intelligence chief, and it was possible that he was rendering political services to the Gestapo.

  But Prince Max was an enigma, Thomas said. He had a history of representing Hitler, Himmler, and Göring in secret peace talks, but as early as 1939 Max had presented himself to the Allies as being anti-Nazi. Throughout the war he had maintained close ties with Göring, the Gestapo, and the Nazi minister of the interior, yet also enjoyed good relations with the British. The fourth week of October 1939, he had a highly secret meeting with Richard Austen Butler, Britain’s undersecretary of state for foreign affairs, in Lausanne, Switzerland. Prince Max’s proposal, made on behalf of Hermann Göring, was for the assassination of Hitler and the substitution of Göring in his place.

  Then in mid-July 1940, Prince Max met with Sir David Kelly, British ambassador to the Vatican, in Bern, Switzerland. The meeting had been set up by Spain’s minister to Switzerland, and Prince Max quoted Hitler as saying he was “prepared to accept Einigkeit [a concord]” with the British Empire, but that time was very short and England must choose “in the next few weeks.”

  In March 1941 Prince Max approached Sir Samuel Hoare, British ambassador to Spain, requesting a meeting in Madrid. Hoare agreed and in the meeting Max stressed that Germany could never be defeated, but that if peace were made now, Hitler would be reasonable in his terms.

  Finally, in early 1943 Prince Max had his most serious discussions with an old friend, Allen Dulles, OSS station chief in Bern. Max had met Dulles while working as a junior attaché in Vienna in 1916, and had visited him at his home on Long Island several t
imes after World War I. Given their prior relationship, Max was able to orchestrate a secret meeting with Dulles in a car parked on the Liechtenstein-Switzerland border. Working this time on behalf of Himmler, Max asked that if Hitler were deposed, would the Allies recognize Himmler as the legitimate head of the German state and negotiate peace terms with him? Second, what would be the status of Germany and other states in a post-war Europe?

  The talks continued for three months, but Dulles never committed to any terms.

  All of this wouldn’t come out until after the war was over, but even so, Thomas did know that Prince Max was slippery. In Lisbon Max declared himself anti-Nazi, yet he seemed to have cozy relationships with many important members of the party. Exactly whose side was he on? No one really knew, but one thing was clear: Prince Max floated in the highest social circles in Berlin, Bern, London, New York, and Madrid, and it was likely that Aline would eventually meet him.

  The third name on Thomas’s list was Countess Gloria von Fürstenberg. She had recently arrived in Madrid from Berlin and was also staying at the Palace Hotel. She, too, was in contact with Schellenberg, Himmler’s foreign intelligence chief, and was rumored to be a favorite of Himmler himself. It was a mystery, though, how she supported herself since she had no job and no visible means of income, unless the Gestapo was secretly paying her.