Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  A woman in her twenties opened it. She was pretty, in an understated way, with brown hair pinned back from her face and prominent cheekbones.

  ‘Yes?’ She regarded him with mild interest.

  ‘Hi. I’m Frank Rye.’ He paused, then added, ‘I believe I’m expected?’

  A faint smile touched the woman’s face.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, stepping back and opening the door wider. ‘Do please come in.’

  As she spoke, he noticed that she had a British accent.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and followed her inside.

  She led him into a large open room, with tall windows and several desks arranged in the middle of the polished wooden floor. Rafe was sitting at one of them, but he looked up and smiled as they entered.

  ‘Good morning, Frank.’ He set down the paper he’d been studying and got to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Just great, thanks.’ Frank glanced around at the other empty desks. ‘I’m not early, am I? You said eight…’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Rafe assured him, then turned towards the woman who was standing beside them. ‘This is Molly Pearson. Molly, this is Frank Rye.’

  Frank hurriedly extended his hand to her, feeling a little awkward for not asking her name at the door.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Pearson,’ he said.

  She looked at him, a mischievous glint in her bright eyes, then took his hand and nodded demurely. ‘And you, Mr Rye.’

  Rafe beamed at them both.

  ‘Good show,’ he said. ‘Now, there’s lots to do, but Major Swift asked me to send you in when you got here. Shall I take you through now?’

  Frank looked at him and shrugged.

  ‘Sure, I guess.’ He turned to Molly. ‘See you later.’

  Rafe took him into a narrow corridor where he knocked on a polished wooden door. A voice from within called, ‘Enter’. Opening the door, Rafe ushered Frank inside.

  This was a much smaller room, with a large single desk sitting in the middle of the dark patterned rug that covered most of the floor. Standing by the window was a broad-shouldered man in a shirt and tie, clean-shaven with tidy black hair and a strong jaw.

  ‘Major Swift,’ Rafe said. ‘This is Frank Rye.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The man turned away from the window and stepped forward, a smile creasing his face as he extended his hand. ‘Come on in, Frank.’

  He had a faint East Coast accent: New York, or Boston maybe; it was hard to place. Unsure whether to salute or not, Frank reached across the desk and shook hands with him, feeling the man’s powerful grip.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Swift seemed to sense his uncertainty.

  ‘At ease, soldier. Just think of me as James Swift rather than Major; we’re very informal here.’ He turned to Rafe. ‘Thanks. That’ll be all for now.’

  Rafe flashed Frank a quick grin of encouragement, then turned and left the room.

  As the door clicked shut, Swift indicated a chair.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, Frank.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They sat down, Swift settling back into his chair and steepling his fingers as he studied Frank.

  ‘So,’ he mused, after a long moment of uncomfortable silence, ‘I imagine you’re wondering why you’re here.’

  Frank affected a slight shrug.

  ‘They didn’t tell me much about this, so… yeah, I’m curious.’

  Swift nodded thoughtfully, frowning as he considered what he was going to say.

  ‘We’re at war, Frank,’ he began. ‘It might not look that way in a pretty little town like this, but the war is raging here, just as it is everyplace else. The only difference is that here the war is raging quietly. Very quietly.’

  He paused, reaching to retrieve a pipe and a box of matches from his desk. Frank watched as he lit up and tossed the spent match into a china ashtray.

  ‘So we listen,’ Swift continued. ‘And we listen hard. In other places, battles are won and lost by artillery, or air power, or armor. Our battles are won and lost with information. Defensively, we need to know everything we can about the enemy, and we have to determine what’s true and what’s not. Offensively, we work to baffle him, feed him false information, so we can control what he thinks.’

  Shifting in his seat, the broad man leaned forward. ‘The point is this: Bern’s an important listening post. In most places, the opposing sides can’t come within a hundred yards of each other, but here we all move around the city together, Americans, Germans, British, Italians, French, all pretending to be civil, for the benefit of our Swiss hosts. And that… proximity allows people to talk. You can’t imagine some of the information that passes through here. Which is why it’s so important that we listen.’

  Frank nodded. Now he began to understand why he’d been asked all those questions about his German language skills.

  Swift took a long draw on his pipe, then blew out a plume of pale smoke.

  ‘Officially, you’re here as a translator, informally attached to the US legation. In reality, you’ll be working for the Office of Strategic Services.’ He stopped, fixing Frank with a stern look. ‘And you’re not to mention that name, to anyone. It’s still quite a new department, so we’re getting some support from our British friends in the SOE who’ve had more experience running this kind of thing – you’ve met Molly, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just this morning.’

  ‘Well, don’t let the fact that she’s a woman fool you – she’s one of the most capable agents I ever met. Sharp as a tack and tough as nails.’

  Frank raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll remember that, sir.’

  ‘You do that. Now keep in mind, some of these people are Brits, not Americans. You can trust them, up to a point…’ He trailed off, as though wondering how to word something. ‘Just think of them as friends – good friends, actually – but I’m your family, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Swift took another draw on his pipe.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So, anything you want to ask me?’

  Looking through the window, Frank imagined he could just make out the hazy mountain peaks beyond the crowd of rooftops.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, turning his gaze on Swift again. ‘I was just wondering: why me?’

  ‘That’s a fair question.’ Swift leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, as if deciding how best to answer. ‘Let’s just say that we wanted some extra manpower for the Bern station and, for various reasons, it seemed… prudent to recruit outside of our usual channels. Of the available options, you were the most suitable candidate.’

  For a moment, it looked as though he might say more, but then his posture changed and he glanced up at Frank with a calm smile.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Er… do I get a gun?’

  ‘A gun?’ Swift stared at him for a moment, then his face broke into a grin. ‘Who are you planning to shoot?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just…’ Frank shook his head.

  Swift’s grin faded.

  ‘This is neutral territory,’ he said seriously. ‘Remember that, Frank. Because the Swiss police really don’t like anyone who threatens the status quo.’

  11

  The morning passed, and Frank began settling into his place on the Dufourstrasse team. A smart young American woman had arrived while he was in with Swift. Jean Ellesworth had blonde hair and a welcoming smile; she came from Tulsa, but Frank’s opinion of her sank when she dumped a stack of folders onto his desk and told him that he was expected to read them all. Molly and Rafe were in and out, scooting along the corridor to Swift’s room with different papers, but one door in the far wall remained shut.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Frank asked as Rafe hobbled back to his desk.

  ‘Oh, that’s Dulles’ office.’

  Frank cast his mind back to their conversation the day before.

  ‘Yo
u mean the old man?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Rafe grinned at him sheepishly. ‘He’s not here today, but I daresay you’ll bump into him soon enough.’

  Frank turned back to regard the stack of folders on his desk, then glanced at his watch.

  ‘It must be lunchtime,’ he noted. ‘Is there anywhere to get a drink around here?’

  Rafe looked at him and smiled.

  ‘There’s a decent little place around the corner,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment and I’ll show you.’

  They sat at one of the small tables outside the café. Frank raised his glass of beer.

  ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Rafe replied.

  The beer was surprisingly good, and Frank nodded his approval as he set the glass down with a contented sigh.

  ‘So,’ he began, eager to learn more about the people he was working for, ‘Swift seems like an interesting guy.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a decent enough chap.’

  Rafe spoke calmly, but his eyes flashed a quiet warning, and he inclined his head towards a grey-haired couple at a nearby table. Frank frowned and fell silent, annoyed at himself as he realized his error.

  ‘I can’t recall what part of America he said he was from,’ Rafe continued. ‘But you’re from Missouri, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m rather ashamed to say I don’t know where that actually is. Is it one of the states in the middle?’

  ‘Nearer the middle than the edges.’

  He could tell that Rafe was carrying the conversation, steering them smoothly away from sensitive subjects, and he felt a sudden gratitude towards his new friend.

  ‘Got a sweetheart waiting for you back there?’

  ‘A sweetheart?’ Something about the earnest way Rafe had asked made Frank chuckle, despite himself. He smiled, then slowly shook his head.

  ‘There was a girl I had my eye on, but she won’t be waiting for me… mostly because I never had the nerve to ask her out.’ He raised his glass again. ‘Maybe that’s something I need to work on when I get back home.’

  It was Rafe’s turn to laugh.

  ‘We’ll concoct some heroic war stories for you to tell her.’ He gave Frank a knowing wink. ‘Trust me, I’m awfully good at making things up.’

  Midway through the afternoon, Jean brought a set of German transcripts and set them down on his desk.

  ‘Hey, slow down,’ Frank protested. ‘I haven’t finished going through the other folders yet.’

  ‘Those were just reading material,’ Jean told him, with a shake of her head. ‘These are for translation. Type them up, single-sided, and make sure you number all the pages.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  The typewriter, when he finally sat down in front of it, was infuriating. Sitting up straight with his hands curled like talons reminded him of childhood piano lessons, and his efforts now were equally disappointing. Resorting to just his index fingers, he labored through the first page, then glanced up to find Molly watching him with an expression that might have been sympathy or amusement. After that, the stuttering rhythm of keystrokes seemed embarrassingly loud, announcing his slow progress to everyone. He was glad when Rafe had mercy on him and suggested that he ‘give it a rest and come at it fresh in the morning’.

  They arranged to meet later for a drink, and Frank yanked the cover over his typewriter with relief.

  As he made his way out into the stairwell, he heard the door behind him opening and looked back to see Swift coming out. The broad man hurried to catch up with him.

  ‘So, how was your first day?’ he asked as they started down the stairs.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ Frank smiled, hoping that typing wouldn’t be a big part of his job.

  ‘I take it you’ve met everyone? Settled in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think so, though…’ He lowered his voice, conscious of the way the sound echoed around the stairwell. ‘…I’m still not entirely clear on my… other duties. Besides the translation work, I mean.’

  Swift smiled and clapped a powerful hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We listen, we follow orders, and we keep our mouths shut,’ he explained. ‘It’s not a regular war here, so we never know what to expect. We simply know that it’ll be necessary, and that we’ll do what needs to be done. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’

  They reached the ground floor and walked across the tiled floor to the front door. Swift paused on the steps.

  ‘Frank?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a small brown envelope, neatly folded in half. ‘As it happens, there is something you could do for me. Nothing too tough, just a routine errand to start you out.’

  ‘Of course.’ Frank nodded eagerly, pleased at the thought of being useful after his afternoon in front of the typewriter. ‘Whatever you need.’

  Swift regarded him carefully, then spoke in a hushed voice.

  ‘I want you to take this to Brunngasse, number 25, over in the old town.’

  ‘Brunngasse 25,’ Frank repeated. ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘You know where Casinoplatz is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just walk north from there, and you’ll see that big Zytglogge clock tower on your left. The street becomes Brunngasse after a couple of blocks.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Swift hesitated, the envelope still in his hand.

  ‘The place you want has a green door, and there’s a big stone plant pot right by the front step. If there’s a matchstick propped up in that plant pot, then you pause to tie your shoelace, and push this envelope all the way behind the pot. If you don’t see the matchstick you hold onto the envelope and just keep on walking.’ He held out the envelope, his face stern. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow… and not a word to anyone else about this. Not Rafe, not anyone, is that clear?’

  Frank took the envelope and slipped it into his pocket, his eyes never leaving Swift.

  ‘Perfectly clear,’ he said.

  Swift smiled, and the serious manner evaporated.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, his voice returning to normal. ‘Well then, have a good evening.’

  The sun was getting low. Frank made his way along Thunstrasse and followed the main thoroughfare as it swept up and right onto the exposed heights of the Kirchenfeld bridge. A cold wind teased at his jacket and ruffled his hair as he walked out towards the middle of the span, but he still slowed for a moment, gazing down at the river far below and listening to the steady rush of water as it spilled white over the weir. Ahead of him, the old town was set out along the crest of the hill like a sprawling fortress, with mighty stone buildings standing proud as battlements against the evening sky. His hand strayed to his pocket, brushing the corner of the envelope, until the clanking of a passing streetcar jarred him back to his senses, and he hurried on, following it over the bridge.

  Brunngasse was a narrow, cobbled street of tall old buildings, which curved steeply away to the right in front of him. He moved over to walk on the left, so he could see as far ahead as possible, noting the street numbers as he went. 68... 66... 64... The place would be on his right. Many of the buildings were fronted by the same vaulted arches he'd seen near the station, with covered arcades running underneath - useful in the snows of winter, he guessed, particularly as the road seemed to slope steadily downhill. He slowed his pace and tried to walk casually, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but there was nobody around. Before long, the street straightened out and, counting ahead, he saw a building with a green door and a large stone plant pot outside it. Slowing a little more, his eyes scanned the pot, searching for the match. It was difficult to see, still too far away but, as he came a little closer…

  Yes, there it was! A single match with a red top, sticking up out of the dirt.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, then immediately scolded himself for doing something so shifty. Calm down, Frank. It’s a routine drop; just do wh
at you’ve been told.

  Approaching number 25, he reached into his pocket and calmly withdrew the folded envelope, holding it flat inside his palm. Then, he calmly scuffed his shoe on the cobbles and glanced down.

  Don’t think about the envelope, just concentrate on your shoe, and imagine the lace really is loose.

  He halted, level with the plant pot, frowning as he dropped to one knee. Miming the action of tying his lace, he tightened the knot, then put a hand on the large plant pot for balance. Bracing himself, he rose to his feet, as his fingers eased the envelope down and behind the pot. He took a moment, brushing imaginary dust from the knee of his pants, while glancing across to make sure the envelope was completely out of sight. Then, he straightened up and walked on, carefully measuring his pace to keep it the same as before, fighting down the elation he felt at completing his first assignment.

  Yes!

  It was such an ordinary action, but he felt a thrill of excitement in his chest. He’d stepped into a secret world, a world that most people didn’t know existed, though it was right there in plain sight. And he’d done his job well.

  Brunngasse curved on like a deep ravine, slanting down through the towering stone buildings of the old town. The evening was drawing in now, and the first subdued lights were appearing in the windows as he raised his face to look at the dusky sky. Rafe had suggested they meet at a place near the river and Frank was working out the most direct way of getting there when something on the edge of his vision made him glance round.

  There, on the left… standing in the shadows behind one of the arcade pillars, somebody smoking… dark suit and a fedora. The man was looking his way and stepped out into the street behind him as he passed, tossing the half-finished cigarette onto the cobbles.

  ‘A word with you, please?’ He had a gruff voice, heavily accented.

  Frank stopped and turned around, immediately on his guard.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. The fact that he’d been addressed in English worried him.

  The man took a single step towards him, then halted. He was in his forties, six feet tall, with a solemn expression and dark eyes.