Katie came back. ‘He’s free, Mr Guttman. He said to go on in.’
Guttman walked through into a large room full of young men and women seated at desks, reading and typing on big Underwood machines. In one corner there was an enclosed office with its door open; inside Stephenson was standing by the window. He turned around as Guttman came in and grinned as he advanced to shake hands.
He was a trim man, not very tall, though Guttman always thought of him as a six-footer – there was an air of command about him, perhaps a hangover from his days as an ace flyer in the Royal Air Corps. Although he’d been born and raised outside Winnipeg, his military service on the Great War had cemented his allegiance to Great Britain and he had become an enormously successful businessman there. Now he had Churchill’s trust and (to Hoover’s fury) FDR’s confidence as well. As he’d come to know him, Guttman had gradually realised how efficient Stephenson was; like most self-made men he got things done, even if it meant doing them himself.
‘Harry, it’s good to see you, but you’re lucky to catch me. I’m leaving for London in a couple of hours.’
‘Which way are you travelling?’
‘The hard way.’
Guttman nodded. That would mean a train north to Montreal, then a seat (more a space really, since the chair tended to consist of a wooden crate) in a stripped-down plane from the Ferry Command. A stop in Labrador, then Scotland, then south to London.
‘Bermuda would be the softer option, but the Canada route’s quicker – Masterman wants to see me asap.’
‘Your Bermuda people have been very helpful,’ Guttman said. Bermuda was the stopover for almost any post sent from South or Central America to Europe. The British SIS had proved highly adept at surreptitiously opening these letters; just the month before they had alerted Guttman’s people in Rio de Janeiro to the recent arrival of a Nazi spymaster, who had unwisely written to his wife at home in Mannheim with news of his arrival.
Stephenson nodded. ‘Glad to hear it. I’m trying to keep Katie from joining them. I wish she had thicker ankles.’
Guttman laughed. ‘I heard about that.’ It had been become part of BSC lore that girls with thin ankles proved better at opening letters undetected than girls with thicker pins. It sounded crazy, but Guttman had been assured it was true.
Stephenson peered at Guttman. ‘Harry, have you been doing some painting?’
‘Painting? No. Why?’
‘You’ve got something yellow under your eye.’
Guttman daubed under one eye but Stephenson shook his head, so he wiped at the cheek, then looked at his fingers and sniffed. ‘Mustard,’ he declared. ‘I stopped for a hot dog on the way over.’
Stephenson looked amused. ‘I won’t offer you a sandwich then.’
‘I didn’t know you ran to a canteen here.’
‘We don’t. Believe it or not, there are only fifteen of us in this suite, and they’re mainly Canadians – you know we’re not allowed to hire American nationals any more.’
Guttman nodded; he didn’t mention that the Bureau had spotted the Help Wanted ads in the Toronto papers. He asked, ‘And how many in the rest of the country?’
Stephenson shrugged. ‘About a thousand if you must know. And twice as many in Canada and South America. All the more reason to keep this office inconspicuous. Being in New York has been a blessing: less attention from your Congress and, if I’m being honest, welcome distance from your Director. Mr Hoover wants to keep us at arm’s length and I’ve found advantages in obliging him.’
They talked for a while about developments in South America. ‘It’s not just the Nazis,’ said Guttman. ‘The Japs have been using Mexico as a base. But that’s not really part of the FBI brief – Naval Intelligence are watching that on our side.’ As far as he knew, R.B. Hood, the SAC in LA, was confining his counter-espionage efforts to making lists of Japanese-Americans who would be put behind bars if war broke out. The idea that most of them were probably loyal citizens didn’t seem to trouble Hood.
Then there was a lull in the conversation, which Stephenson broke. ‘Listen, it’s always a pleasure to see you, and God knows, there’s plenty to discuss. Yet something tells me you’re not here just to talk about Caracas.’
Guttman smiled shyly. ‘Can I speak in confidence?’
‘Always,’ Stephenson said immediately.
‘Okay.’ He tried to gather his thoughts and present his account coherently, beginning with the original meeting with Palmer, the man’s claim that he had been approached and then, several years later, re-approached by the Russians, and the subsequent discovery of Palmer’s corpse in Rock Creek Park. Yet it was a complicated story and Guttman found himself thinking how bizarre it must sound. As he talked, he wanted to know what Stephenson was thinking, yet Stephenson was listening in silence, which flustered Guttman. His spirits sank at the thought that, like Tolson, Stephenson might be finding the whole thing preposterous. He jumped ahead, truncating his description of his trip to Yale and the assistance he’d received from Vail, and was starting to explain that he was certain Palmer had been a spy when Stephenson suddenly interrupted.
‘Let’s go for a walk, Harry,’ he said quietly.
They took a half-full elevator down to the lobby without speaking. Stephenson led the way, striding out the Fifth Avenue entrance like a man in a hurry, passing without a glance by the statue of Atlas holding the world in his arms. Directly across the street the Gothic pinnacles of St Patrick’s resembled the bishops of a chessboard, out of place amidst the sharp box-like edges of the towers of midtown. Guttman caught up to Stephenson and they joined the sun-lit bustle of Fifth Avenue.
They were heading south when a voice called out. ‘Harry? Harry Guttman?’ Guttman turned slowly, dread swelling like phlegm in his throat. He smiled automatically, trying not to blink in the bright sun as he saw the man coming towards him, hand extended. His face was vaguely familiar.
He realised it was Powderman, the Deputy SAC in New York. They’d met two years before, when Guttman had led local agents in the arrest of a dozen German-American Bund members, caught attempting to hijack the arms stores of the Armory building on Park Avenue.
‘Hello, Chris,’ he said, swallowing hard. Stephenson had stopped, waiting to one side, but Guttman realised he should introduce him. ‘Do you know Bill Stephenson?’
‘I know of him, of course. But we’ve never met.’ They shook hands and Powderman turned back to Guttman. ‘What brings you to New York, Harry?’
What indeed? Guttman stared at Powderman and absolutely no excuse came to mind.
‘It’s my fault,’ Stephenson interjected smoothly. ‘I wanted to meet the Rockefeller people working on South America. I managed to strong-arm Harry into coming along – I thought I might get a better reception that way.’
It was done perfectly and Powderman nodded. Guttman resisted the temptation to offer further explanation. Powderman said jocularly, ‘Last time I saw you, Harry, we were chasing Nazis a lot closer to home.’
‘Couldn’t have done it without you, Chris.’ He reached out and pumped his hand again. ‘Got to run, but good to see you again.’
As they moved off he said to Stephenson, ‘You saved my bacon. I’m supposed to be visiting my mother.’
‘I had the feeling yours was an unofficial visit.’
They kept walking, moving at a fair clip and Guttman finally asked, ‘Are we headed somewhere, Bill, or did you just want some fresh air?’
Stephenson slowed down a little. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But if we stayed in the office I had a problem. I could have closed my office door and then everyone would have wanted to know who you were. Or I could have left it open and then we might have been overheard. So I thought we’d go somewhere more private.’
They’d reached 43rd Street by now and Stephenson turned west. They had walked a hundred feet or so when Stephenson stopped in front of a handsome Italianate mansion building of white stone.
‘I thought we’d talk here,’ s
aid Stephenson, leading the way up the front steps.
Inside a porter in a uniform came out of his mahogany booth and nodded as they went up a central staircase to a mezzanine floor. There they faced a large dining room, but Stephenson led him to one side and into a small, book-lined room. It was empty and Stephenson motioned to a pair of padded leather chairs. ‘Have a seat while I go rustle up some service. What’ll you have, Harry? There’s tea if you want it – I’m going to have a beer myself, the hour be damned.’
‘I’ll join you.’
While Stephenson went off for their drinks, Guttman sat wondering where he was. He’d seen the building before – three years selling jewellery on 47th Street meant he knew the neighbourhood by heart – but had always assumed it was a magnate’s private mansion.
When Stephenson returned, he was followed by a black man in a white waiter’s jacket, carrying a tray that held two large glasses of beer. He deposited the glasses carefully on a side table and withdrew.
Guttman asked, ‘Is this another British veterans’ club?’ He was referring to a townhouse in Georgetown where Stephenson had established the BSC’s first informal American headquarters, under the cover of a club for ex-British-servicemen.
Stephenson grinned. ‘We haven’t got that big for our boots. This is a real club. I don’t know why they let me in, unless they thought I was English. You know, “I say old chap, weren’t you at Oxford with my cousin Cuthbert?”’ He sounded like a Limey out of central casting and Guttman laughed. Stephenson went on, ‘If they’d known I was a hick from Manitoba we’d be sitting in the coffee shop down the street. But it’s bloody useful when I need to have a private conversation.’ He looked around the empty room. ‘So you were saying … ?’
‘I was about to tell you that I’m sure Palmer did spy for the Russians. The problem I’m having is that nobody else seems to think so – or at least, nobody else seems to care.’
‘I suppose there must seem higher priorities right now. I mean, in three weeks’ time there may not be a Russia any more.’
‘Maybe, but that doesn’t explain why they’d be spying here.’
‘Of course not. And I’ve heard rumours in our neck of the woods too.’
This was reassuring, but also alarming. Guttman continued: ‘And I can’t understand why the Russians sent money to a Japanese bank in LA.’
‘Have you got any way of finding out?’
‘Maybe. Do you remember Nessheim?’ Guttman asked.
‘How could I forget him? If it were up to me I’d give him a knighthood. I hope he’s still working for you.’
‘He is, in a manner of speaking.’ He explained Nessheim’s odd movie duties on the Coast.
‘Lucky boy,’ said Stephenson.
‘Actually, he doesn’t want to be there. I don’t think he even wants to be in the Bureau.’
‘That’s entirely commendable,’ said Stephenson with a grin.
‘Anyway, I’m going to have him try and trace the money. He’s got a Jap connection out in California.’ He didn’t mention that this Jap connection had gone missing.
‘I don’t know if I can help you there – the Japanese are pretty low on the British list. But informally at least, we might have some info on any Russian activity in California. Let me check, we have a few people there.’
‘Agents?’
‘Nothing that formal. But a lot of ex-pats, with access to the international community that’s gathering in LA – Stravinsky, Chaplin, Thomas Mann, our own Christopher Isherwood.’
Guttman tried not to look blank, but Stephenson spotted this and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Harry, I’d never heard of most of them either, until I read the reports. But the point is, most of these people are left-leaning and chummy with the Russians. Russia is Britain’s ally now.’
‘How do you investigate your own ally? I can’t believe you’d get the okay for that.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So let’s keep that between us too. But tell me, are you sure Palmer wasn’t a suicide?’
‘Well, let’s just say I’ve never heard of anybody standing knee deep in running water in order to shoot themselves. And Palmer didn’t put the gun against his heart or his head.’ He put two fingers on his own nose. ‘The bullet was fired right here.’
Stephenson grimaced. ‘Awfully brutal. But why go so far as to murder him?’
‘Maybe what he told me was true – he said he wouldn’t work for them any more.’
‘But the murder only served to call more attention to Palmer. It seems pointless.’
‘Unless he knew something the Russians didn’t want us to know.’
‘What about?’
‘Maybe this Japanese connection in California. Sedgwick told me that Palmer had recently been put on the Japan desk. Of course, that could be a coincidence—’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence, unless it’s a happy one,’ Stephenson said with a frown. ‘The only Japanese connections I’m aware of are with the Nazis. We’ve tried to disrupt those, but it’s all a bit late.’ He looked slightly guilty about this, then brightened. ‘But we do have a new source, someone Masterman wants Hoover to see. His name’s Popov – ever heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘My people have given him the code name “Tricycle”.’
‘Tricycle?’ Guttman said. He wondered why Stephenson was smiling. ‘How did you come up with that?’
‘It seems Popov is bit of a Lothario – with rather peculiar tastes in the boudoir. He likes two women at a time.’
‘The more the merrier, I guess,’ said Guttman. ‘Though I’m not sure the Director would approve.’
‘The thought’s occurred to me. I haven’t met Popov myself, but I know he’s got information Masterman thinks Hoover would like to hear. Popov’s going to Washington in ten days – right now he’s in Canada. It might be useful if you were there when he saw Hoover.’
Guttman knew this was unlikely; Tamm would be there instead, doubtless backing Hoover, who would be sceptical of any source of information that came from the British.
Stephenson seemed to read his thoughts, for he said gently, ‘Is it that bad, Harry? Hoover just won’t forgive you for being right, will he? Christ, he’d be out on his can if you hadn’t done what you did.’ When Guttman shrugged, Stephenson said with cheerful cynicism, ‘You know what they say: No good deed goes unpunished.’
Guttman laughed. ‘I tell you what. If you think it will help if I saw this Popov character, have Masterman give him some titbit about South America to send ahead to Hoover. That should get me into the meeting.’
Stephenson nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do – there’s always the failed putsch in Colombia, I guess. In the meantime, I’ll also find out what I can about the Russians in LA.’ Stephenson finished his beer. ‘I better be getting back, Harry. I’ve got a plane to catch in Montreal tomorrow morning.’
‘One more thing before you go,’ said Guttman. ‘Are you on good terms with the Bureau here?’
‘Surprisingly good, actually. It’s Washington that’s the problem. Why do you ask?’
Guttman pushed a creased slip of paper across the table. He had kept it in his wallet since the evening in Rock Creek Park. ‘Could you run this by them and see what turns up? The car was parked near mine the night I met Palmer.’
If Stephenson was surprised he didn’t show it. Maybe he was sparing Guttman the embarrassment of having to admit he couldn’t use the FBI – his own organisation – in even this most pedestrian way. But Guttman didn’t want to take the risk of having his own request for a plate trace get back to the Director’s office in D.C.
‘It’s a local number plate?’ asked Stephenson.
‘That’s right.’
Stephenson looked at him appreciatively. ‘You are out on a limb, aren’t you Harry?’
Guttman laughed at the starkness of this depiction. ‘And I’ve just handed the pruning saw over to you.’
12
GUTTMAN WAS L
ATE getting back to Washington; someone had jumped in front of a train outside Philadelphia. By the time he parked in Arlington it was almost midnight and he was dreading Mrs Davis’s reaction. He let himself in quietly, expecting to find her sitting angrily in the living room. Instead he found Annie Ryerson, quietly reading a book.
‘What—?’ he started to ask, but she put two fingers to her lips. She had changed from work and wore olive-green trousers and a white blouse. No make-up, as if she’d decided not to bother prettifying herself. A pity, he thought, for though she was striking rather than outright pretty (but with wonderful green-blue eyes), she was too young to stop caring how she looked.
‘She’s only just gone to sleep,’ she said, gesturing towards the bedroom. ‘I think she wanted to be awake when you got back.’
‘What happened to Mrs Davis?’
‘I sent her home. When I dropped by to see Isabel earlier on, Mrs Davis said she was worried about her mother.’
‘She’s always worried about her mother. Sometimes I wonder if her mother even exists.’
Annie smiled. ‘Anyway, I sent her home. It seemed the easiest thing to do.’
Mrs Davis hadn’t been worried, Guttman thought. She’d been complaining – to Isabel, no doubt, and to Annie.
‘What about Jeff?’
‘He’s fine, Harry. I told him I’d be popping in here once he fell asleep. And he sleeps like a log – all little boys do. Mrs Jupiter is in the house if there’s any problem.’
He gave a small snort. ‘She’s even older than Mrs Davis’s mother. Is Isabel okay?’
‘She’s fine. Just a little restless tonight. She’ll be glad you’re back.’
‘She never likes it when I’m away.’
‘Neither do you, Harry,’ said Annie. ‘You can call on me any time, especially if Mrs Davis kicks up again. We’ll be gone at Christmas for a week, but otherwise we’re here.’
‘Just a week? I thought you were going to California.’
‘No.’ She didn’t offer any explanation and the silence was awkward. Finally she spoke: ‘I’ll say goodnight now.’ Before he could thank her properly or offer to pay her for looking after Isabel, she had closed the front door behind her.
The Little Tokyo Informant Page 12
