by Tricia Goyer
The angular Allen Dulles, his graying hair topped with a Baldwin fedora and an unlit pipe stuck in his mouth, stepped off the first-class rail car, gripping a faded leather briefcase in his right hand and a compact travel suitcase in his left. He lowered his head and joined the stream of departing passengers. Jean-Pierre, dressed in a tweed business suit with his hands in his pants pockets, barely glanced at Mr. Dulles as he swept by. When the American spymaster had advanced fifty meters past his reconnoiter point, Jean-Pierre swung into the rear of the horde, marching toward the massive barrel-like roof above the train station entrance.
As he followed, Jean-Pierre occasionally stopped and concentrated on the masses headed for Schützengraben, the boulevard fronting the Basel SBB train station, to see if Mr. Dulles was being tailed. Satisfied that no one but himself was following the Big Cheese, he closed the gap, maintaining a respectable distance. Dulles quickly turned left onto Elisabethan Strasse. After two blocks, Mr. Dulles ducked into their meeting point—the Drei Könige, or Three Kings, restaurant.
Jean-Pierre pushed against the restaurant’s heavy wooden door and stepped inside what had been a guildhall in medieval times. The restaurant foyer received natural light from a half-dozen stained glass windows that rivaled those found in the Münster’s Romanesque vaults. Ancient beams accentuated the ceiling trusses, and pewter plates and mugs adorned the ocher-colored walls.
As Jean-Pierre’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, a waiter in a white shirt and black pinstripe tie hoisted an oversized tray covered with several entrées to his shoulder. The restaurant employee strode by, and Jean-Pierre’s eyes—and nose—identified the saddle of venison accompanying a bed of dumplings and juniper berry sauce. Once again, his stomach expressed an audible complaint from hunger.
The maître d’ escorted Jean-Pierre to a red-leather booth in the rear of the main salon, where Allen Dulles perused a boarded menu. The American stood to shake Jean-Pierre’s hand as he offered him a seat.
“Thank you for coming on short notice,” Dulles said. “Nobody followed us?”
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
“Excellent.” Dulles handed Jean-Pierre another menu. “Feel free to order anything you want. Eat hearty. It’s one small way my country can show its appreciation for what courageous folks like you are doing. Oh, which reminds me of something . . .”
Dulles reached underneath the table for his briefcase and set it on his lap. A side pocket held a padded envelope wrapped with a rubber band. “I normally handle this part with Pascal, but since you’re here, you can pass this along to him. You’ll find 5,000 Swiss francs and a thousand U.S. dollars—all cash. We know you have bills to pay, which is why we take care of our own.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jean-Pierre slid the envelope discreetly into his interior suit pocket. “I’ll see that Pascal receives this right away.”
Dulles resumed studying his menu. “I’m famished. I haven’t had a bite to eat since Miss Taylor delivered tea and petits fours this afternoon. What’s the house specialty?”
“The Drei Könige is known for its venison this time of year.”
“That sounds like an outstanding choice.” Dulles closed his leather-bound menu and set it aside.
Jean-Pierre took that as his cue. “If it’s okay, I’ll have the venison too.”
The waiter returned, poised with a white pad and a pencil. “Ich hätte gerne zwei Teller Wild, bitte,” the American said in High German. Two orders of venison with all the trimmings.
“Und zum Trinken?”
The American ordered a liter of Henniez mineral water for the table.
Jean-Pierre unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “I’m impressed with your German, Herr Dulles.” Actually, there was nothing remarkable about the exchange, but Jean-Pierre wanted to put the American VIP—who was said to have the ear of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt—at ease.
Dulles deflected the compliment. “Just a little menu German, that’s all. I’d like to learn your Baseldeutsch, but that will have to be another war, I’m afraid. Plus, all the intercepts are in High German, so I’m not sure what good learning Swiss-German would do for me anyway.”
Jean-Pierre had heard from Pascal that Mr. Dulles didn’t devote much time to exchanging pleasantries, and he expected the transition to happen at any moment.
“There are two things on my agenda tonight, but first, let’s start with Dieter Baumann. I asked you to start surveillance on him just twenty-four hours ago. Anything happen today?”
Jean-Pierre considered his words. “The team will need more time to establish his routine, but this morning I watched him shop for breakfast before work. Normal for a bachelor, except that it took him twenty minutes to pick out a Brötli. Something even more unusual happened at lunchtime. He left the office shortly before 12:30. I followed him from a safe distance. A few blocks away, he walked into the Globus department store, which has a penthouse restaurant popular with the lunch crowd.”
“And what was unusual about that?” Dulles struck a wooden match and held it horizontally as he drew several puffs from his pipe. A white ring of fragrant smoke lifted into the air.
“I noticed that forty-five minutes later, a young woman named Gabi Mueller—who works in the translation pool— exited the Globus a minute or two before Baumann. If I had to take a guess, they shared a meal together.”
The waiter poured two glasses of fizzy water and set the bottle of Henniez in the center of the table. When the discreet waiter was out of earshot, Allen Dulles resumed the conversation. “You mentioned Gabi Mueller’s name. I’ve been keeping my eye on her. She’s been most impressive since she joined us last year. But what leads you to believe that Fräulein Mueller had lunch with Herr Baumann? And if so, what is there to make of it? Perhaps her entry into the Globus was coincidental, or maybe she was doing some shopping over the noon hour. I take it you didn’t venture inside the department store.”
“No, I stayed across the street, next to a kiosk. I think they ate together because they left at the same time, and both looked to see if anyone was following them. They walked different routes back to the office.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. I didn’t want them to discover my surveillance. But watching Herr Baumann, I definitely believed he was hiding something. I have this feeling about it.”
Dulles took another draw of smoke from the pipe. “Why is that?”
“Because of what happened five minutes later. A German operative, code name Ludwig, stepped out of the Globus and looked warily in both directions before proceeding in the other direction.”
“So Ludwig could be up to some mischief?” Dulles looked up as the waiter, with a white napkin over his left wrist, arrived with their venison entrées. The American waited a long moment before continuing. “If the two of them had a meeting at the Globus, this confirms some aspects about Mr. Baumann that aren’t—shall we say—Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Jean-Pierre drew a blank.
“Just another idiom. Listen, I want you and your team to increase your surveillance of his activities. He could be up to something.”
Jean-Pierre nodded and smiled. Of that he had no doubt.
When the dining pair had set their knives and forks on their plates, signaling they were done with their meals, the Swiss waiter stopped by their table. “Anyone care for a dessert this evening?” The waiter set both dinner plates on his left forearm and picked up the bread basket with his right hand.
Both men shook their heads no. “Just the check, please,” Jean-Pierre said in Swiss-German. “My colleague has a train to catch—”
“No, I’m staying at the Hotel Euler tonight,” Dulles interrupted in English.
“So your Swiss-German is not so bad.” Jean-Pierre flashed a grin. “I guess we must be careful in the future.”
“No, no.” Dulles waved him off. “I heard the words miin Kolleeg and Zug, and I know those words mean ‘my colleague’ and ‘train.’ A good guess,
that’s all.”
After the waiter’s departure, Dulles cleared his throat. “I said I had two items on my agenda, so here’s the other situation I want to discuss. Any input that you and Pascal can give me will be greatly appreciated.” For the next ten minutes, the American spymaster held Jean-Pierre’s rapt attention as he spoke of a man named Joseph Engel who needed their help.
The conversation lulled as they both noticed their waiter approaching with his black leather purse that bulged with coins and paper money.
“You go, Jean-Pierre,” Dulles whispered as he reached for a wallet in his briefcase. “Ask Pascal if he has any ideas on the best way to smuggle Joseph Engel into Switzerland. You can reach me at the Hotel Euler.”
“Very good.” Jean-Pierre set his napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.”
Gabi Mueller climbed a set of stone steps into the Hotel Euler, situated around the corner from Basel’s SBB train station. With its Corinthian columns and black-and-white-checked marble flooring, the Hotel Euler exuded Old World ambiance. She regarded the life-sized statue of the hotel’s namesake, Leonhard Paul Euler—a pioneering Swiss mathematician and physicist who lived from 1707–1783—dominating the expansive lobby. She had read in the Basler Nachrichten that the century-old establishment had recently lost its fifth star due to wartime austerity measures—an oversight the owners promised to rectify.
Precisely at 10 p.m., Allen Dulles stepped through the revolving door and immediately doffed his felt hat. “Miss Mueller, thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I apologize for the dreadful hour.”
Gabi extended her hand, which Dulles took into his. “Nice to see you again. I know this has to be something important. I hope everything’s okay.”
“Yes, that’s what I want to talk to you about.” Dulles led her to the lobby fireplace, where several crackling fir logs created a warm glow. “Please have a seat.”
Gabi settled into a dark brown leather chair trimmed with brass nail heads. She noticed that Dulles scooted his chair in her direction—an act conducive to good conversation. This relaxed her, but she still felt nervous about why he had asked her to meet with him at this unusual hour. Thankfully, he got right to the point.
“It has recently come to my attention that you’re crossing the border tomorrow morning with Dieter Baumann. Something to do with you breaking into a safe for him?”
Gabi’s face flushed. “Are you saying you didn’t know about this?”
“I’m afraid I just heard of this caper quite recently.”
Caper? That didn’t sound good. “Who told you?”
“I have my sources. Please understand I am not cross with you. But I do need to be informed about these things.”
Gabi’s mind scrambled to keep up with this blindside. “When Mr. Baumann asked me not to mention anything to my supervisor, Frau Schaffner, or anyone else in the translation pool, I thought that was because the mission came from your office. During our lunch at the Globus, Dieter . . . Mr. Baumann . . . said you and only you knew about the mission.” Gabi watched Dulles consider this information.
Dulles leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. “Tell me about the assignment Mr. Baumann proposed to you.”
“Well, he said it was a mission of vital interest to the Allied war effort, and that he needed my help breaking into a safe.” Gabi stopped. “Wait—am I right in assuming you didn’t authorize it?”
Dulles nodded. “Listen, not to worry. What I need to know is what Mr. Baumann is up to. I will be quite frank with you. We’ve been suspicious about Mr. Baumann’s activities for the last week or so. He could be playing both sides against the middle. These things happen in our world. Remember, when I arrived in Bern eighteen months ago, I started from scratch. I had to develop a network based on hunches. The stray contact. The odd recommendation. A year ago, Mr. Baumann was working on a freelance basis for Section Five— Swiss Intelligence. He caught my attention when he helped break up the Rote Kapelle spy ring—”
Gabi inclined closer.
“Pardon me.” Dulles held up a hand. “I’m about to make you privy to more information than I normally share, but now you’re on a need-to-know basis. What you’ve accomplished in the last three months has been remarkable, absolutely remarkable.”
Gabi beamed. The long hours and willingness to take on any job were paying off. “That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Dulles, but wasn’t the Rote Kapelle—the ‘Red Orchestra’—a Soviet spy ring operating in Switzerland?”
“You’ve had your ear to the ground, I see. The Rote Kapelle scored great successes—until Mr. Baumann helped smash their cells in Geneva and Basel. That’s what interested us in him. His anti-Communism, his contacts throughout Switzerland, and his excellent English skills fit the parameters of someone to join our Basel office. While he has performed well, I’ve operated on a trust-but-verify basis with him. He’s Swiss, not American like yourself.”
Gabi blushed again. “I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Dulles, but—”
“You’re not like him at all. You’d never ask me nosy questions about the Allied advances on the Western Front, but when Mr. Baumann did recently, my antennae shot up. Then came information about this cock-and-bull break-in tomorrow morning in Germany. Listen, I think Mr. Baumann is cozying up to the Germans while staying in our good graces. We don’t know what he’s up to, but I want you to be my eyes and ears. If he is a double agent, we can use that information to our advantage.”
Gabi was beginning to see the big picture more clearly. “So you want me to go tomorrow?”
Dulles hitched his trousers as he gathered his thoughts. “Listen, you’re involved in a dangerous mission, but it’s one that could help us know what Baumann has cooked up. In the end, though, it’s your decision. There’s little, if anything, the United States can do once you step on German soil.”
Gabi drew a deep breath. “Let me reaffirm my commitment to you and the United States. I’m going tomorrow. This mission is bigger than me. Much bigger.”
24
Davos, Switzerland
9:01 p.m.
As the house lights dimmed at the Davos Kino cinema, Captain Bill Palmer clutched an Army Air Corps–issue leather jacket in the crook of his arm and plopped into his usual red velvet seat—eighth row, middle section, fourth seat from the left aisle. He chose the empty row in the half-filled movie theater because the last thing he wanted was to strike up a conversation with other pilots, especially if the banter veered toward the topic of escape. One never knew whom he could trust or who would slip some information to the Swiss guards for a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
At that moment, Bill would have given anything to light up, but smokes were hard to come by and extremely expensive. Even munching popcorn would have sufficed, but the Swiss hadn’t adopted the American custom of crunching buttery kernels of popped corn in red-and-white-striped bags while engrossed by the action on the silver screen. Eating in a theater just wasn’t done because the Swiss wouldn’t dream of littering the carpeted floor with trash. They left the Kino just as tidy as when they entered.
Everyone in Davos knew that the Kino—the only movie theater within a seventy-five-kilometer radius—served two clienteles: the local Swiss and the Allied internees. German-language films were shown at 6 p.m., and English-language films screened at 9 p.m. The latest Hollywood films arrived in the Red Cross shipments—usually nine months after release in the States.
The nine o’clock show commenced with a newsreel from Germany, which immediately summoned Bill’s interest and caused him to sit up in his seat. With sweeping martial music setting the tone, and a near-hysterical German narrator describing the action, the opening frames of the black-and-white newsreel showed Adolf Hitler—nursing an immobile right arm—escorting the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini through the rubble of Wolf’s Lair, where the Führer had narrowly escaped death two weeks previously.
Bill remembered his keen disappointm
ent after news swept through Davos that Hitler had survived an assassination attempt. The newsreel then cut to Hitler visiting a hospital ward, where German officers swathed head to toe in bandages received the Führer’s best wishes for a speedy recovery. At least that’s what Bill imagined the narrator—now sounding reverential—was describing.
How history could have changed, Bill thought. Maybe the German generals would have sued for peace after Herr Swastika had been successfully dispatched to the gates of hell. Bill winced at how close this awful war had been to a cessation of hostilities. His disappointment turned to revulsion, however, when the newsreel shifted to grainy footage of several uniformed men swaying from a wooden gallows. The next scene showed a blindfolded officer slumped against a wooden post, hands bound behind him. He caught the narrator pronouncing the name “Claus von Stauffenberg”—the mastermind of the plot. Poor chap. God rest his soul.
Bill glanced at his watch and tension rose in his throat. In a couple of hours, J.J. and his buddy Sam would be waiting for him behind the Heiz Bäckerei. Bill’s hand involuntarily reached for the billfold in his back pocket. He had 115 Swiss francs and fifty U.S. dollars, more than enough for a train ride to Geneva and beyond.
Should he join their hastily planned escape attempt? He certainly wanted to make a getaway, but a flashing caution light burned brightly in his mind. What if an itchy-fingered, inexperienced Swiss private took a shot at him? What if he and his buddies successfully escaped and met up with partisans outside Geneva, only to be turned over to the Germans for a case of Bordeaux?
Despite Bill’s mental objections, J.J. had made a good point. Sometimes you had to go for it when the guards least expected it. He’d opined that the Swiss had probably anticipated that a pilot or two—fortified by liquid courage— would make a dash during the First of August celebration, when a third of the guard detail had received thirty-six-hour furloughs to visit their families or girlfriends. But the 128 Allied internees stayed put and raised a toast to the Swiss Confederation instead. Now that a couple of days had passed, their guard had to be lowered.
