Dallas looked at me. “My men can start by poking around the secondary schools. Not to state the obvious, but every one of us was a child at one point.”
“Your men?” I said.
“My men,” he said, writing again. “The next phase of your plan sounds like a job for . . . I don’t know . . . say . . . two young officials from the Central Statistical Bureau of Latvia. My men can certainly look the part. I’m sure when they knock at the door with their proper-looking badges, your targets will welcome them in for a cup of tea and a nice chat about their family. Most Latvians speak Russian. So do my men. Any covert operative worth his salt these days has to speak it.”
“Good,” I said. “And I’m assuming they can pick most locks?”
“In their sleep. But back to the idea of them dressing as Central Statistical Bureau officials. My men will simply say that they are updating the country’s census. Questions surrounding this topic never draw the target’s suspicion. This process should allow my men to specifically identify all of the players involved here, their histories, their relationships with one another, etcetera. Believe me, my men will ask the right questions.”
“How long?” I said.
“Could be two weeks. Could be two months. Hard to say. They’ll stay in a simple apartment until your targets are confirmed to exist or not exist. If they do exist . . . then . . . as you’ve suggested here in your outline, they’ll rent a two-bedroom apartment somewhere off the beaten path, a real secure one. Easy. They operate with plenty of cash on hand.”
“Speaking of cash,” said Bobby, sliding an envelope full of money across the table toward Dallas. “This is triple what I was told you might require. And there’s more to come as the job progresses, and certainly when it’s finished.”
“I’ve got one shot at this,” I said. “All I ask is that your men take that into account.”
Dallas nodded. “Look, my men are highly skilled, highly trained professionals. They’re not choirboys. They’re not hired assassins, but they’ve killed. Bobby here is an American diplomat. That’s all I need to know to trust him. It’s obvious that this isn’t some sort of damn game to you, Mr. Sweet. My men will see the job through until you and Bobby are satisfied. No one needs to die, but if it means protecting either of you, that is certainly part of their job description. They’re private contractors.”
“When your men finish their investigation, Dallas,” said Bobby, “cable me at the embassy with a standard message regarding how your wife and children are doing, etcetera. Act as if we’re long-lost friends. And, if it is indeed confirmed that the targets exist, make this one of the sentences in your cable: ‘My family is looking forward to our annual trip to London on the blank of April.’ You fill in the actual date, Dallas. That date will signal to us when Prescott is to meet your men in Riga. Where do you suggest?”
“The Riga Hotel,” said Dallas. “And they will have with them what you’ve requested.”
“Fine,” said Bobby. “They will meet Prescott in the lobby. He will likely be the only person of color staying there. If not, they can walk up to the other few and ask if their names are Prescott Sweet. The time of this meeting, no matter what, will be noon.”
“Got it,” he said, petting his dog. “You’ve got me wishing I actually had a wife and children.”
“Sorry,” said Bobby.
“Not a problem.” Dallas half smiled.
“Continuing,” said Bobby. “If, on the other hand, your men confirm that no said targets exist, or that they exist but not in the nature we need them to, make this one of your sentences in your cable message: ‘Unfortunately, my family will not be taking our annual trip to London.’ And if our plan does not bear any fruit, I’ll be cabling you thereafter about our next idea. We would convene here again in that case.”
“What if my men hit a snag?” said Dallas. “A myriad of things can cause delay or hang-ups. Targets could be traveling. If two months roll by and there’s no news either way, then what?”
“Send a friendly cable that doesn’t mention London,” said Bobby, “one that has a line in it somewhere involving your wife not feeling well lately and being in and out of the doctor’s office.”
“Good,” said Dallas. “If and when my men meet you, Prescott, what will be that day’s next order of business?”
“For your men to show me where their apartment is.”
* * *
Two weeks later Bobby and I found ourselves at the French Embassy sitting down with Robert Coulondre, France’s ambassador to Germany. He had actually invited Bobby because he wanted to share some news with him in person. We hadn’t heard from Dallas yet, but I was thinking positive and trying like hell not to dwell on it.
The middle-aged, mustached, dark-haired Mr. Coulondre sat down with us in his library—a fire ablaze in the corner. Bobby and I parked ourselves on a velvet-covered maroon couch in the middle of the room, and Coulondre made himself comfortable in a thick, leather chair just on the other side of a coffee table.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Ambassador,” said Bobby after we had already shaken hands and introduced ourselves.
I translated. “Vous remercie de votre hospitalité, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.”
“De rien, Bobby,” said the ambassador. “S’il vous plaît appelez-moi Robert.”
I translated. “He says you’re welcome, Bobby. And he says to please call him Robert.”
Bobby nodded and smiled.
“I don’t want to waste any of your precious time,” said Ambassador Coulondre in French. “I just want to look you in the eye and tell you that not a day goes by when our country takes for granted its special relationship with America.”
I translated.
“The feeling is certainly mutual,” said Bobby.
I translated.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Coulondre, “I have changed my mind. I was expecting heavy snow today, but it is clear out. I shall have my chauffer drive us to the Tiergarten and the three of us can enjoy some cold, fresh air. I would much prefer a walk through the beautiful, tree-lined garden today, even if we have to see and listen to the Nazi soldiers marching all over the damn place.”
I translated and Bobby agreed.
Minutes later we found ourselves strolling along the eastern portion of the massive park, myself in the middle, the ambassador to my left, snow having been recently shoveled off of the sidewalks.
“I feel,” said Coulondre, “it must be made clear, once again, that we intend to back Poland if Germany attacks her. Prime Minister Chamberlain agrees with us on the matter. We understand that President Roosevelt will not be joining us in this pact, but, nevertheless, want to reiterate how welcome he is to change his mind. The French, British, and American friendship is everything to us. And speaking of attacks, we both know it is only a matter of days before Hitler moves on Czechoslovakia. He was certainly shameless in violating the Treaty of Versailles last year by annexing Austria.”
I translated.
“President Roosevelt,” said Bobby, “respects yours and Britain’s position here. For God’s sake, if it were Mexico and Canada being threatened today, we’d be forced, like you, to consider force, based on their simple proximity to us. We understand how you and Britain feel squeezed. But, as you are fully aware, Congress has already spoken. America’s Neutrality Act remains in place. Besides, our economic situation all but demands that we not get embroiled in a second world war unless the sovereignty of our nation is under direct threat.”
I translated, and I also thought about what Bobby had told me privately, that Roosevelt actually wanted like hell to get Congress to repeal the Neutrality Act passed in 1937. He wanted at least to send military aid to European countries that were likely to be attacked in the near future by the Nazis. With each step we took, I couldn’t help but see the desperate look in the French ambassador’s eyes. All of us here in Berlin could feel the strength of Hitler growing daily. And if I wasn’t walking around scared to d
eath about what might be happening to my family back in Stalin’s hell, I’d certainly be more worried about walking the streets of Berlin.
“What’s happening here is insane,” said Coulondre. “The walls of Berlin are closing in on us all. I will be leaving for France sooner than later. I assume all of the embassies will be closing within months. Acts of aggression by the various players have already occurred. But a global war is inevitable. And we may soon find ourselves trapped in Hitler’s inferno.”
I translated.
“I would like to think,” said Bobby, “that we are here to try to stop that kind of war from breaking out.”
“We can’t stop it,” said Coulondre, responding to my French. “And here, our families are no longer safe. Is your wife here, Mr. Ellington?”
Bobby waited for me and answered, “Yes . . . and my children.”
I translated and Coulondre said, “You can’t feel that they are safe. If you don’t leave soon, there will be no way to get out. Think about it. Communicate this to President Roosevelt.”
Bobby listened to me and responded with, “Perhaps if Hitler attacks Poland we will be recalled. But with each day that passes, I grow more concerned, more fearful. It is much worse than any of us could have imagined. Everyone is walking around in total fear. And my God, to be Jewish! The Night of Broken Glass was likely just the tip of the iceberg.”
Coulondre watched my lips and then nodded. “If I may, Mr. Ellington, I must ask our interpreter friend here if he knows what Hitler is doing to the local blacks, most of them of mixed race. He calls them ‘Rhineland Bastards.’ They are mainly the children of white German women and African soldiers who fought alongside the French when they controlled the Rhineland area during the Great War. These black children are being subjected to Hitler’s mandatory sterilization process. They’ll never be able to have children of their own. Adolf Hitler doesn’t want them mixing with the Aryans. Sick, sick man!”
24
Riga, Latvia
April 9, 1939
On a Sunday, some two months after I’d met Dallas in Belgium, I found myself sitting in a two-bedroom Riga apartment accompanied by two of Dallas’s men. The train ride from Berlin had taken me two days.
Dallas had finally sent his positive cable to Bobby on Friday, March 24, but I hadn’t been able to leave straightaway because my next briefcase exchange had been just ten days away on April 3. But now that I was here on the 9th, I had at least two and a half weeks to accomplish what I needed to before heading back to Berlin in time to make my fourth exchange on Monday, May 1.
The second exchange had gone smoothly, the briefcase filled with false information about U.S. submarine technology. I had typed up several reports using strictly physics and mathematics terminology—reports that partially detailed new types of S-boats called X-boats that America was on the cusp of introducing. Of course there were no renderings included, no actual math equations or physics specifics. It was strictly conceptual, my best attempt at theorizing. What I’d articulated could only describe a submarine that might be able to exist in the distant future, not 1940.
The size, speed, range, and depth of these futuristic sounding war machines would leave the Soviets scratching their heads and wanting to know more details. But in the end, I was certain Stalin could only worry at best, for he knew my access was limited and that I was merely relaying a small piece of a much larger and more complex mechanical breakthrough. That’s what he’d think at least.
I’d explained to the Kremlin that I’d accessed portions of a broader set of documents from the suitcase of a visiting Department of War official named Bob Wilmoth. Of course, there was no Bob Wilmoth. Still, it had been fun using my engineering skills to dream up something that didn’t exist.
The briefcase Dieter had given me during the second exchange included confirmation that the Kremlin was going to make sure Lovett was transferred from Magadan to MR4. They had confirmed that he was alive but said he wouldn’t be transferred until May, when a large group of free hires were set to ship home. I was just happy he wasn’t dead.
The third briefcase I’d delivered had information in it involving the same X-boats, but focused on who was involved. I’d reported that two men were responsible for aiding the U.S. in this engineering breakthrough, both with code names. I’d reported that the code names were probably being used so that various U.S. officials could comfortably correspond with one another about their two well-compensated, secret geniuses. One was a fictitious Australian mathematician being referred to as Warren Press Lord. The other was an engineer from Singapore I’d codenamed Lee Rodgers Lincoln.
I’d told the Kremlin that a team of scientists from America would be having their next meeting with the two geniuses in Honolulu, Hawaii, on August 30 at 8:00 p.m. It would be held in Fountain Lecture Hall at the University of Hawaii. I was guessing some Soviet spies would be dispatched to Hawaii in order to try to place recording devices throughout the lecture hall. I was sending the Soviets on a wild goose chase, all the while knowing I’d need to be long gone before this August 30 date. And I had to keep telling myself that this entire escape plan wasn’t some ill-conceived fantasy.
Regardless, now that I’d arrived in Riga, I needed to deal strictly in reality. The apartment I found myself in was bare, old, and drab—several mattresses and blankets having been placed in the bedrooms and living room. The unit was on the first floor of a brown five-story Gothic-style complex. There were four apartments on each floor. I had met Dallas’s men as planned at the Riga Hotel and the introduction had gone smoothly.
Both men, Luc and Xavier, were in their thirties, from Paris, and spoke fluent English. They were clean-shaven, fit, and tall, and one could easily imagine either playing the role of a businessman or soldier. How they’d ended up working for Dallas was of no concern to me. I needed them. They had driven me to 105 Stabu Street in a green Ford Deluxe Tudor, and though my body was tired, my mind was fresh.
“Listen to me very carefully, you two,” I said, the three of us sitting on the wooded floor in the living room with our backs against the wall, all of us dressed in suits. “Change of plans. I know what I told you in the car, but I want to move on this tonight.”
Xavier and Luc nodded, suggesting that was absolutely fine with them. Images of my son lying in a hospital bed ran through my head. All I’d received in Zorin’s last briefcase, besides a letter telling me how pleased the Kremlin was with my work so far, had been a brief note informing me that James was doing much better. I knew it wasn’t true.
“Before I forget, Xavier,” I said, reaching for my leather bag and taking out one of two envelopes full of cash, the other being for my own upcoming expenses. “This is for you to give to Dallas when you see him next, which may be a while. I’m assuming he’ll give you your share at that point.”
“We will be here until you tell us to leave,” said Xavier, placing the envelope in his small suitcase.
“We brought what you asked for,” said Luc, taking a pistol from his briefcase and handing it to me.
“Do you have the camera?” I said.
Xavier nodded. “And the flashlights, and the paper, and the pen.”
“Did you have a telephone installed?”
“Yes,” said Xavier.
“We’ll wait until 3:00 a.m. to head out,” I said. “One of you can go grab food for us.” I pulled down my black fedora a bit and fiddled with the pistol. “I see you’re both wearing brown suits.”
“We know,” said Xavier. “We are all to wear black suits tonight. Clear, Mr. Sweet.”
“Do you have their names written down, a list of who’s who?”
Xavier took a paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
“What is the address?” I said, reading the names.
“3 Maza Pils Street,” said Luc. “It’s a three-story apartment building. There are five units on each floor. Our targets are in a second-story unit at the end of the hall, number six. The place is approximately one an
d half miles from here. The door has a typical brass set; typical keyhole below the knob, easy to manipulate the inner cylinder, easy to pick.”
“There can be no screaming,” I said. “We have to execute with precision.”
The narrow, cobblestone streets were completely bare when the three of us pulled up some twelve hours later, the dark morning leaving us practically invisible. We exited the car and entered the main door of the building. Inside was a small, well-lit lobby with mailboxes to the right, a stone stairwell to the left.
Luc led the way and the three of us climbed to the second floor, quietly making our way to the end of the dimly lit hallway. Stopping at the apartment door, Luc sat a large leather bag down. I nodded at him and he calmly jiggled the handle. It was locked, so Luc took a tiny tool from the backpack Xavier was wearing. Then he began doing what Dallas had claimed he could do in his sleep, pick the lock.
A few minutes passed and then a click. Luc returned the tool to Xavier’s backpack and proceeded to remove three flashlights, Xavier and I each taking one. All three of us removed our holstered pistols. Then Luc slowly pushed the door open, darkness awaiting us inside.
As the two moved forward, I picked up the leather bag, set it just inside, and closed the door behind us. With our flashlights dotting the living room floor and walls, Luc led the way deeper inside. We knew that the apartment had three bedrooms. I was to head to the one at the rear of the hallway on the left. Xavier and Luc were to split the other two.
Each of us positioned ourselves near the respective bedroom doors and I held the flashlight up to my face. All of the bedroom doors were open. We were to enter the rooms slowly as soon as I dropped the light from my face. So with my heart pounding and our targets presumably sound asleep, I did just that.
Pointing my light straight ahead into the room now, I could see a man and a woman lying in a large bed. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. When I flipped on the light, both of them wrestled about, affected by the sudden brightness. It was as if they hadn’t been sound asleep. They both sat up and squinted.
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