by Arno Baker
The special FBI teams were suddenly tightening up on routine surveillance of diplomats and known or suspected Soviet agents in ways that would remain unobtrusive. But the die was cast and the tracking was stepped up on all Soviet missions and personnel. Soon significant results would filter through but these never managed to allay FDR‘s concerns about Nazi-Soviet peace talks. That issue lost some of its urgency after the summit at Teheran in November 1943. But the G-2 operation provided an unexpected picture of NKVD and GRU activities in the United States instead.
VIII
On Morton Street, in Greenwich Village, the neighbors rarely heard the sounds of heavy lovemaking coming from the apartment. Those trysts generally took place in the early afternoon when most apartment dwellers were off at work. A very pretty blonde twenty-something would arrive just after lunch with her overnight bag. Mrs. Finney, a nosy widow who lived down the hall and liked to keep watch on everyone’s comings and goings, was later able to give the FBI all the details of what she saw and some that she even claimed to have heard since she also would tiptoe down the hall and hold her ear to the door. The lovers played the same little game almost every time. She‘d be hiding behind the door completely nude as he went in. She would immediately fall to her knees as he would begin undressing and she would passionately make love to him. Mrs. Finney found that there was a wild degenerate quality to all the things they did together and that she would hear and also imagine from her perch in hallway. Dorothy would have to bite her tongue and hold back the overwhelming need to scream that she must have felt constantly while having sex with Al. Mrs. Finney attested to that excitement many times over saying that she overheard them as they were talking about it.
Al, the Greek-born scientist, the dedicated Communist who believed in and practiced free love had found the object of his physical desires who was enthusiastic in fulfilling his needs. He liked submissive women who would accept his imaginative ways. Sometimes Dorothy would surpass his own wild thoughts and she would surprise him with what she‘d do or say. After that happened a few times, he lost interest in all the others and concentrated exclusively on her even though she was apparently happily married to Richard.
Yes, but Richard was a pure intellectual and a party member. He accepted this kind of situation as long as Dorothy came back home for the kids on weekends. Actually she knew that Richard hated Al even though they were politically in synch. But her husband had chosen to accept the situation while never hinting that he hated her lover. Even Al had to admit to himself after some time that it couldn’t possibly last and that he should probably end it sooner rather than later.
Dorothy had slipped out of her white dress with the little blue and red flower patterns, she unhooked her bra and as usual she wore no stockings and certainly no girdle. He felt her nakedness come up against him as she rubbed herself around his thick hairy chest. He took her head in his hand and gently pulled it back:
“You drive me crazy Dorothy. You know that, don’t you!”
“I’m nuts about you Al. I’d do anything…”
“I want you again…more, more, and more, Dorothy!”
He drew her into the bedroom and she left her dress, shoes and bag on the floor by the door as she did every time. They make love passionately, almost furiously with a hunger and longing that surprised both of them with every new encounter. How long could this go on, thought Al Sarant? How long does passion like this grow and keep on burning? Those were rational questions he didn’t want to ask and instead he said something that was quite the opposite as he usually would in such situations.
“I want you. I want you here all the time, Dorothy.”
She moaned and answered,
“Yes Al, me too I want you inside me…”
Later once they were resting on top of the sheets she ventured,
“But Al, what about Richard? How can we go on like this? Meeting twice a week in secret…”
Al lit a Lucky Strike and exhaled loudly.
“Richard is open minded and he knows about us. He won’t object!”
“I’m not so sure, Al. I’m having trouble with the idea of leaving Richard. And the kids are…”
“Yeah, I know, but you of all people shouldn’t get so bottled up in all those petty bourgeois delusions. Richard is a real Communist intellectual, a true believer. He‘ll go along. I’ll talk to him when the time comes. Then you can decide.”
The phone rang unexpectedly, Dorothy was startled and for a second she thought it might be Richard calling, she was always worrying that something might have happened to the kids, an accident while she was away, she would suddenly panic…Al picked up and remained silent as he listened. All he said was:
“Yes…One hour. No problem.”
“We gotta get going pretty soon Dorothy, they need the place as usual.”
She wrapped her arms around him and drew him down to her, inside her once more with longing and as soon as he was deep in her she felt tears flowing from the orgasm mixed with the thrilling pleasure of danger and the growing excitement of wanting more. She would forget about the children for a few more minutes.
They spent another hour at a diner on Hudson Street where they discussed everything once again and Dorothy kept feeling Al who was sitting in front of her and who would have made love to her all over again had it been possible. As they went on with their seemingly endless lust, Al noticed the two men entering the building. A tall thin guy with a double breasted suit and a grey fedora went in first followed a few minutes later by a short stocky fellow who was carrying a suitcase. He thought it had to be them although he‘d never seen either one before. Until that brief instant they had only been anonymous voices on the phone or in cryptic messages.
Now for the first time they became real. Authentic spies arriving to photograph stacks of secret documents, weapons systems, aircraft manuals, blueprints for radar and other devices, confidential memos, some of them even bearing the initials of the President of the United States that would be delivered to Marshal Stalin‘s desk in a matter of days. He was elated and suddenly felt that what he was doing could really change the world.
“Any further comments on Al Sarant or Joel Barr that we should consider adding?” asked Irina.
“Well the problem was that besides being excellent scientists both men were obsessed sex maniacs. I think sex drove both of them so intensely that they would have joined any organization such as the Communist party that promised “free love” as it did so vocally in the United States during the ‘30s and ‘40s. I was nervous about the true loyalties of such people. There were many of them in the American party.”
Irina smiled and noticed how the look that the colonel gave her was far from innocent. She sensed then that in due course he would make a pass especially if she kept up her tough facade.
“So, you are convinced that many sympathizers were motivated by the “free love” slogan?”
“Absolutely, the men in particular, obviously, they weren‘t getting any! Look at Whittaker Chambers, a pederast, a social reject with a great talent for writing, no doubt, but a troubled, sick mind. In the USSR he’d have ended up in the Gulag and he would have been killed by the other inmates there for sure… What an irony.”
“But then Guy Burgess…”
“Oh, yes! That was different, he was useful because of his talents as a Sevgali to entice other degenerate upper class English reactionaries to join us and betray. And there were so many of them eager to rub elbows with the riff raff. We had to keep him in cigarettes and give him a decent apartment in Moscow lest anyone else ready to work with us say ‘see what happened to Burgess…he’s in a prison camp in Russia after all he did for them!’ and so on …”
IX
The conference took place on a Monday evening at the NYO (New York Office) on Foley Square. Hoover and Clyde Tolson came up in the morning and spent some time talking to various agents until everyone was ready for the main event. On an easel were enlarged photos of the Soviet consulate that
occupied a gilded age mansion at 7 East 61st Street just off Fifth Avenue. A reconstructed blueprint of the building was pinned next to the photograph showing each floor. The photographs of its known personnel were on a second board. Murphy was giving the presentation,
“These are the newest arrivals: all of them under thirty, in excellent physical shape and very well trained. They proved themselves immediately as having done their homework: they know the city very well, routinely use long and complicated itineraries and carefully avoid any American Communists and fellow travelers. This is a very important change from the way they used to operate before the war.”
Hoover was very interested and whispered a few words to Tolson who immediately left the room. Then Hoover asked:
“So far you’ve caught none of these fellows red handed, have you?”
There was an embarrassing silence then Murphy replied,
“Mr. Hoover, we tried but they are expert at handing over materials to one another. The exchanges are carefully coordinated brush passes or through innumerable dead drops serviced very quickly and without a trace. We’re very short on personnel and need to carry on much more surveillance…”
Hoover couldn’t hide his impatience,
“Of course, Murphy, we all agree on the fact that we need more of everything! But there’s a war going on. The question is what can we obtain now with the manpower we’ve got?”
“Mr. Hoover, if I may add that the personnel shortages we’re experiencing make it impossible…” injected Anderson who immediately regretted having repeated Murphy’s gripe. Hoover interrupted,
“Look, gentlemen, I know your predicament better than anyone; the entire bureau is feeling the pinch of this war. The Russians have introduced many new faces and these operatives are very active all over the country. We are recording many meetings where envelopes are changing hands in every major city and we must collect enough ammunition to start making a dent in their networks. It has to happen discreetly on the ground.”
Murphy hesitated a few seconds then went charging up the hill once again,
“In New York we have identified most of the newcomers but there are without a doubt many “sleepers” that remain underground and who quietly slipped through our sights. Those posing as diplomats are holding many meetings and we could easily pick up quite a few people as things stand.”
“Yes, I know but that’s not what we want at this stage. We have to crowd them a lot more until they fatally end up making mistakes. We are allies so the key word is to be extra cautious. They are clearly much more active than we expected so inevitably one of their people will slip up sooner or later. For the moment we can only watch them and if they stumble into our lap fine, otherwise our orders are to make no waves with the Russians…. Is that clear Murphy? Anderson?”
Both Murphy and Anderson nodded. Then Murphy added:
“Yes, Mr. Hoover. May I show you one of our latest finds? This chap has been traveling regularly and extensively throughout the city and lately around the northeast as far as Ohio. He’s held many meetings with various people previously unknown to us and we are keeping a close watch on him.”
“What does his card say.” asked Hoover impatiently as Murphy recited,
“Alexander Fomin, junior trainee, passport section, recently married to an Amtorg typist, also a Soviet national. Very quiet and active, sees many people. Suspected NKVD officer or officer trainee, not military intelligence. He appears to be a technician of some kind and has a very high level of tradecraft. At the present time we rate Fomin as one of their best street men.”
Tolson then returned to the room and quietly sat down next to Hoover who turned sarcastic,
“That usually means that you guys must have lost him more than once.”
A general feeling of discomfort set over the room as everyone shifted in his seat.
“In all due fairness Mr. Hoover, this is a superb operator. He’s never made a mistake.”
Hoover was ready to conclude.
“Murphy, my friend, those are the proverbial famous last words. Everybody makes them! Now, let me be clear: I want bugs inside that damn consulate building and on their phone lines if we can’t sneak in. It’s incredible that with all this surveillance we can’t produce better results! At the very least I want to be piped into their conversations even though they’re probably writing everything down and using sign language. Those chaps are camping quietly right here in New York, in our own backyard, damn it, and we can’t get more than this? Come on Anderson, get going!”
“Yes Mr. Hoover.”
The director then calmed down and revealed part of his thinking,
“Someday soon, I can sense it like the grass is growing, one of their American agents will crack. The traitors always end up breaking down for one reason or another. They can’t take the pressure, they feel the strain of the double life they must lead and they slip up. At that point the whole house of cards comes crashing down. We want to be ready to sweep it all up when it happens. Understood?”
Hoover got up and looked around the room while everyone was gazing at him with a mixture of fear, admiration and curiosity. He then concluded without smiling.
“So, I see I can count on all of you to do this correctly. Let’s get the job done gentlemen, shall we?”
“It’s true, we thought the FBI was pitiful in 1942, their younger agents were barely trained and were thrown into the fray mainly because we didn’t rate very high as a priority. I thought they were army rejects! The greenhorns were handling the Soviet operations while the veterans were busy catching the few useless Axis spies ahead of anything else. So it was a sudden relief when we found out that after June 22, 1941 and Hitler’s attack on Russia, that we were no longer on top of the ‘most wanted’ list.”
“Still, you did remain under surveillance.” Said Irina as she paused briefly.
“Absolutely, only it was never consistent. Once a top FBI officer would follow Yatskov for an entire afternoon and sit in the back row in a movie house near Times Square where they showed western triple features to see that he wasn’t holding a secret meeting. But then that same agent would suddenly get pulled off the surveillance so there was no follow up and whatever they thought they were onto was lost.”
“So the lessened pressure did help you?”
“Yes, without a doubt!”
X
J. Edgar Hoover called the White House early that Friday morning only to be told that the President had already left for Hyde Park the night before with his usual entourage on one of his “blackout” trips. The information was important enough for the director to request an urgent meeting with FDR since the wires or even a dispatch rider were too risky. After wrestling over the phone with Grace Tully for a few minutes she finally agreed to connect him to Bill Hassett, one of the president‘s private secretaries, known to be a very protective and fastidious man. True to form, Hassett sounded genuinely annoyed to have to take the FBI director‘s call. Within minutes though Hoover’s visit to Hyde Park was authorized and FDR expressed some impatience at the faithful guardians of his privacy and relaxation who would go so far as to shield him from the Director of the FBI, one of the most important men in the United States government. After all, the entourage should know better since Hoover was the one man who really knew where all the skeletons were buried.
After a two hour flight from Washington to Newburgh on a military plane, the director was finally ushered into FDR‘s study in the main house at Springwood. Hoover unlocked the attaché case that was handcuffed to his left wrist and produced the report.
“This had better be good, as they say Edgar, after such an expensive trip at taxpayer’s expense. The Republicans will raise hell on me next year!”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
But Hoover wasn‘t feeling at all embarrassed, he knew how important the information he was hand carrying could be.
As Roosevelt began reading Hoover could see that he was immediately engrossed in the
tightly printed thirty page translation of the document. The original copy was attached, still in its opened ministerial envelope where the red wax seal had been cracked and the highest grade of linen and cotton paper revealed the unmistakable watermarks of the Italian Foreign Ministry.
FDR stopped reading for a few minutes and looked out the window at the Hudson River as it flowed peacefully below, half hidden among the majestic trees and the deep green grass that sloped gently down to the banks of the mighty waterway…all of this could disappear, he thought, it can all be taken away by a few simple moves such as this one. He turned to Hoover,
“What’s the history of this find? I think I should know that before I go any further and… are you satisfied as to its authenticity?”
Hoover explained how the document had been purchased in Montevideo, Uruguay, a few days before.
“One of our men in Rio de Janeiro has been following a few Italian diplomats for last six months and noticed how one of them was making frequent visits to Montevideo to hold confidential meetings with Mussolini’s old Jewish girlfriend Margherita Sarfatti. We have been shadowing that lady since she left Italy in 1938 and requested to immigrate to this country. As the fortunes of her former lover appear to be increasingly in jeopardy he may be asking her to play some kind of role. In any case she‘s had many meetings with this Italian vice consul. At the same time she was also seeing one of her relatives, a cousin who is also a refugee, a famous art dealer from Venice named Errera.”
