by Noel Hynd
Hans and Sophie enjoyed their discussion group with their friends. They decided to make meetings regular. The group was informal yet had a distinct identity. They met around first one table at the Rathskeller Kleindienst, then around several tables as the group expanded.
There was now a boy named Fritz who was on leave from the Luftwaffe. There was a girl named Marie Luise, a chemistry student, and a girl named Lilo whose husband had been killed in Russia in May 1942. Lilo began storing documents and a duplication apparatus in her flat in Neuhausen-Nymphenburg. As weeks went by, some members of the group began printing single sheets of paper with criticisms of the Nazi regime. The papers were then distributed anonymously around the university and the surrounding neighborhood where anti-Nazi sentiment ran high. A girl named Ilse was a music student at the university. She had grown up in southern Germany, just north of the border with Switzerland and became clever overnight distributor of the leaflets. The cat and mouse game intensified with the snitches.
The summer of 1942 drifted by. Sophie’s father completed his prison term. Sophie became increasingly worried about the security within the group. Her attention focused increasingly on Frieda, one of the youngest members of the group.
Freida came, listened and laughed, but rarely said anything. One evening Sophie followed Frieda after the meeting. She was shocked to see that the young girl did not return to the campus, but rather went stealthily to a tram. She wasn’t a university student at all but was coming in from somewhere unknown. Worse, when Frieda went to her tram she acted as if she was frightened of being followed. She acted as if she had a secret, a big one.
Sophie reported what she had seen to her brother. Frieda met the profile of a traitor.
Hans and Sophie didn’t like the way things were going. There was no alternative than to confront Frieda and, for that matter, Ilse, too. Ilse and Frieda seemed to be friendly, as if they knew each other from somewhere else. That in itself was not just suspicious but dangerous in Hitler’s nationalistic paradise.
Chapter 9
New York City.
November 1942
At half past two on a windy gray afternoon in November, Bill Cochrane presented himself to the offices of the OSS on the thirty-sixth floor of the art deco skyscraper known as the RCA Building in midtown Manhattan. It was four days before Thanksgiving. He entered to find himself in a small anteroom. A woman sat at a wide mahogany desk. She raised her eyes quickly as Cochrane came through the door, removing his hat. Behind the woman was a portrait of President Roosevelt. There was an American flag behind her to her right and a New York State flag to her left.
“I’m here to see General Donovan,” Cochrane said, before she could inquire.
“You’re Mr. Cochrane?” she asked.
“I am,” he said.
For good measure, he pulled his driver’s license and army identification from his wallet. He showed both. She nodded.
“Excellent. Please have a seat,” she said. “I’m Claudia Fekerte, General Donovan’s assistant. General Donovan will be with you presently.”
Cochrane chose a seat. He thumbed through a Life Magazine and then a National Geographic. Two minutes later, the intercom buzzed. Mrs. Fekerte stood and looked at Cochrane. “General Donovan will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.”
Cochrane stood. Mrs. Fekerte rose and led him a door to her right, which she opened. Saying nothing else, she led him into the room. Donovan, who sometimes wore a military uniform to his office, was today in a dark grey double-breasted suit and a navy blue necktie with small polka dots. He was standing in front of his own desk, his hair grayish white, his jaw sturdy, his body firm and his eyes sharp.
“Ah ha! Bill Cochrane!” he said, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The two men shook hands. General Donovan motioned to a chair and indicated Cochrane was to sit. Cochrane did.
“I’m flattered that you remember me, sir,” Cochrane said.
“I remember you quite well,” Donovan said, taking his place behind his own wide desk. There was a wall of books behind him. Instinctively, Cochrane gave the shelves a rapid scan. Law books, biographies and histories. Not a piece of fiction in sight. On top of the bookcase was a bust of a man’s head. To Cochrane it looked ancient, Greek or Roman. Maybe Plato or Caesar.
“We met most recently at a function for the President,” Donovan recalled. “Maybe a year ago. Mr. Roosevelt remains impressed with you.”
“He’s very generous.”
“He damned well should be generous. He’s alive because of you.”
Cochrane often found himself tongue-tied when accorded praise, not quite knowing how to deflect it. This was one of those times. There were a few more seconds of small talk, then Donovan moved silkily into a pitch.
“I hope you weren’t too in love with those dreary Signal Corps at Fort Monmouth. If I have my way, you won’t be going back there.”
“With all due respect, sir, you seem to be having your way most of the time these days. At least that’s what I hear.”
“Oh? What do you hear?”
“I hear you’re establishing an American spy agency. You and Mr. Dulles. Not a moment too soon in my opinion.”
“And who told you that?”
“Just about anyone who knows anything about the intelligence community.”
Donovan chuckled. “Well, okay. Good. Commendable,” the general said. “You live in New York now, I believe,” Donovan said. “You have a lovely wife.”
“Yes. We have an apartment in Manhattan. East Seventy-Second Street.”
“She’s a British citizen, if I remember. She works at the British Consulate, does she not?” Donovan asked.
“That’s right. In passport control. Your memory is excellent.”
“Children?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.”
Donovan offered a slight smile. “Probably not the wisest thing,” he said, “starting a family in wartime. The men, the husbands and fathers, are going to be away. Who knows how long? Who knows what individual fates might be?”
“Such as getting killed or surviving the conflict?”
“That’s one way to put it,” Donovan said.
There was an awkward silence. Cochrane didn’t help Donovan.
“Well, okay then, let’s talk some turkey,” Donovan said next. “This is all highly classified, as you’d imagine. When you accept the assignment that I’m going to talk you into accepting, you will be posted outside the United States ‘indefinitely.’ But we would like to think this might be a four month operation from start to finish.”
“When is the starting point?”
“It started when you left Fort Monmouth.”
“It’s that urgent?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me about it.”
A slight pause, then, “We have an opportunity that may be developing to get a treasure trove of highly classified information out of Germany. We need a man with your specific qualifications and history to go to Switzerland. Bern. The capital. You know Switzerland, right, from having been there before the war? Bern. Geneva. Zurich.”
“Yes, I do,” Cochrane answered.
“That’s the first step. You’d have to travel under a false identity, which we will arrange here in New York. Your cover is that you’re a Canadian forger. You have some counterfeit plates of American twenty dollar bills and you’re willing to sell the plates, either in Switzerland or in Germany. Again, that’s the cover that takes you to Bern.”
“I would assume that I’m the fence in this operation. I wouldn’t know how to engrave and if asked, I’d be revealed.”
“Of course. Exactly.”
Donovan opened a drawer on his desk, second row, left side. He reached in and withdrew a stack of American ten dollar bills, then he tossed some sample plates on top of the counterfeits.
Cochrane picked them up. He looked at the money. He looked at the plates.
“Quite
good,” he said. “Who printed these?”
“We did. Your tax dollars at work. At the Bureau of Printing and Engraving.”
“Over on Fourteenth and C streets In Washington?” Cochrane asked.
“One and the same. You know your Washington fairly well. I like that.”
“Well, I’ve been assigned there more than a little.”
“Of course. As I said, there’s a complete set in a bank vault in Geneva,” Donovan said. “If you’re captured and asked to provide the plates, you’ll be able to do it.”
“Okay so far,” said Cochrane.
“The identity you’ll be travelling under will be that of a Canadian counterfeiter and confidence man named Abe Stykowski. You’ll have to memorize the details of his life before you leave New York. He’s a real person. You and he look a bit alike. Face. Size.”
Donovan stopped for a moment and opened a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Cochrane, who declined.
“I should stress the following, Bill. The Gestapo can be abjectly stupid, but they’re also stubborn and mulish. They’ve been assigning people to cases who have a knowledge of North American cities and geography. Expect to be quizzed hard in that area somewhere along the line. Don’t make a slip, don’t hesitate to think.”
“Where is the real Stykowski? There’s no chance that we’ll going to turn up in the same ball room in Geneva, is there?”
“None. He’s in prison. Leavenworth. If you accept this assignment, we move him to Dannemora and place him in solitary. The cover story will be that he escaped. We’ll put some fake stories in the newspapers for the Bund traitors who lurk among us. The escape will be part of your cover story if you need it.”
“How long will I be in Switzerland?”
“Not long. A few days, we hope. Again, speed is essential in this operation. Your real destination is Germany, Bill. Berlin. Possibly Munich.”
“Good Lord. That’s the belly of the beast, isn’t it? To accomplish what?”
“You are to retrieve something very important and of the highest priority from an intelligence point of view and bring it back to Switzerland. Deliver it safely to Mr. Dulles, then practically before you change your underwear, escort this asset to the United States.”
“What can you tell me about this ‘asset’?”
“Nothing,” Donovan said. “You find out when you get to Berlin.”
“Will Allen Dulles tell me in Switzerland?”
“No. Too risky for you to even have a notion until you arrive in Berlin.”
“And you know what it is, my target?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t tell me.”
“Not ‘can’t.’ Won’t. You will have to pass through Vichy France to get to Switzerland. Gestapo is everywhere. If you are arrested and tortured, there is always a chance you would talk and reveal your assignment. If you don’t know it, you can’t reveal.”
“So then I get executed and you send someone else.”
“I suppose that’s what would happen. Yes.”
The silence between them turned uncomfortable. Donovan made it more so. “We wouldn’t want you running into anyone in Berlin who knew you previously. Do you still have friends there? Contacts?”
“All of my friends fled. Or disappeared.”
“I assume the Gestapo would still like to kill you. For what you did on your exit path in 1938.”
“That’s a safe assumption,” Cochrane answered.
“Well, that’s what we have to work with,” Donovan said. “I won’t bore you with a further reiteration of how important this could be. We consider this high risk but worth it.”
Cochrane thought it over for several seconds. “May I tell my wife where I’m going or what I’m doing?”
“We would say ‘no’ to that.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“’We’ is me,” Donovan said. “But ‘we’ are also realistic. I know a man can’t help but talk to his wife, especially a woman as fine and intelligent as yours. Plus she has a security clearance, I’m told. What can I say? Be judicious.”
“Thank you,” Cochrane said.
“If you’re in bed with the woman you love, I’m sure you don’t tell spy stories, anyway,” he said with a wink.
“You never know,” Cochrane answered, trying to keep it light.
“Ha! Too true.” More silence, which Donovan broke. “Look, I’ll mince no words, Bill. You’re a married man. If you are captured, you will be considered a spy. You will not be bartered. Your wife will be a widow.” Donovan finished his smoke and snuffed it out in a marble ashtray. “I notice you haven’t said, ‘yes,’ yet, Bill.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“I didn’t make the job attractive enough?”
“Nope.”
There was a long pause between the two men. Beyond the pulled-down curtain in the office, the sun made a meager attempt to brighten the Manhattan skyline, then gave up.
Donovan leaned back. “Look,” he said. “I know this is happening quickly. Take a day to relax. How’s your marriage? Good?”
“Excellent.”
“Then take a day with your wife. Maybe two days. Talk things over. Today’s Monday. Could you give me an answer Thursday or late Wednesday?”
“I can do that,” Cochrane said. “Does that mean I can phone my wife now and let her know I’m in town,” Cochrane asked.
“Didn’t you stay at home last night?” Donovan asked with a furrowed brow.
“No. Colonel Sawyer at Fort Monmouth told me to remain quiet until I spoke to you. I stayed at a hotel in Murray Hill.”
“Apologies,” Donovan said. “That’s inhumane. Of course. Phone her and stay at home. God knows, a lot of the people who work for me would welcome their wives not knowing they’re loose in the same city.” He paused. Then, “Bill, it’s your choice whether to work on your own on an independent mission as the one I’m offering or maybe end up as a battlefield communications officer after Europe is invaded. Flip a coin for your chances of survival. It’s probably fifty fifty either way.”
“I’ll phone you tomorrow,” Cochrane said.
Donovan looked at a calendar. “Give me an answer when you have it. I’ll draw up whatever files you need, both to prime you on your new identity and your background. No point of your seeing anything till you accept, of course. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
“Very good. Oh! By the way,” said Donovan, leaning back from his desk, and recalling something he might have otherwise neglected. “Do you know a chap named Irv Goff?”
Surprised, Cochrane knew the name. “Sure,” he said. “He was in Spain with the Lincoln Brigade. Then he was back in New York.”
“He’s a friend of yours, right?”
“Correct.”
“Seen him recently?”
“Maybe eighteen months ago.”
“How is he doing? Do you know where he is now?”
Cochrane thought for a moment. “No. Should I? Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Know where he is?”
“I’d heard that Irv was in North Africa,” Donovan said. “Another story had it that he had contacts with some French Maquis fighters in the Strasbourg region. You’re familiar with those chaps, I assume?”
“French resistance?” Cochrane countered. “Never met any but I know they’re there.”
“They’re invisible until they’re not,” Donovan said. “Just like Irv.”
Donovan spread his hands. “Ah, who the hell knows with a guy like Irv? “ he said. “Seems as if he’d be a useful sort for us. If you ever cross paths, don’t duck him. Tell him I was asking. Him and his Commie pals.”
“I’ll do that,” Cochrane promised.
As if on cue, Mrs. Fekerte buzzed again. Donovan picked up the phone and acknowledged his next visitor. Cochrane took the hint and stood. Mrs. Fekete appeared at the door by herself and led Cochrane to a private exit. The private exit led him to the othe
r side of the thirty-sixth floor which led to a separate elevator bank with a private attendant. That in turn returned him to the lobby of the RCA Building without additional witnesses.
*
There was a public communications room for AT&T and Western Union on the first of the two lower levels, commonly referred to “the telephone room under Thirty Rock.” Cochrane went to it, grabbed some coins from his pocket and secured a quiet booth. He dialed his home number. Two rings and a familiar female voice answered.
“Laura?”
“Bill!”
“Who else?”
“Are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m in the basement of Thirty Rock,” he said. “I have a new assignment. I’ll be home for a few days. I’ll tell you what I can about it when I see you.”
“Oh, my Lord!” She thought, then asked. “This assignment? How dangerous is it?”
“Dinner and a show tonight?” he asked. “No need to waste a free evening.”
“You’re on! Even though you didn’t answer my question.”
“Any requests?
“You know what I like,” she answered.
He rang off. Cochrane consulted the theater directory in the New York Times. His wife, being English, was a sucker for Noel Coward. He walked to West Forty-Fifth Street where Coward’s new comedy, Blithe Spirit, was playing at the Morosco Theater. He bought two fifth row tickets in the orchestra level. Curtain time was 8:30.
He left the theater and walked to Forty-Seventh Street and Seventh Avenue where he made a dinner reservation at the big sprawling Brass Rail restaurant, one of the less formal places in the Broadway area. Bill and Laura had frequently gone there before or after a show on Broadway before Pearl Harbor. They always enjoyed it.
Cochrane might have walked home to East Seventy-Second Street, but there was still the issue of his two duffel bags remaining at the hotel in Murray Hill. He hailed a Checker taxi on Seventh Avenue. The cabbie took him to the hotel. He asked the driver to wait, which he did. Cochrane fetched his bags and returned. From there the cab had an easy drive up Third Avenue to Seventy-Second Street where Cochrane lived in a comfortable brick apartment building.
Cochrane was home by three PM.
