by Noel Hynd
How had he let his marriage get so out of hand?
He brooded suddenly. He had not heard from her since she had gone home to England. He wondered if she still loved him. He told himself that he had only one person to blame if she did not. Himself.
Reverend Fowler picked up the typewriter and moved it aside, clearing his desk. Only one unsatisfying sentence of his current article had been written. He could get back to it, he told himself.
He drew a piece of personal stationery as well as an envelope from his desk. He fished in a side drawer for a ten-cent stamp for airmail to England. Then in the methodical neat script of his own hand he addressed the envelope to Laura Worthington Fowler, care of her father's name and address in Salisbury.
He wrote Laura a short but succinct letter. He said the things that finally needed to be said. He was sorry for his inattentiveness, he wrote. Ideas had swept him away and taken his eyes off what he cherished more than anything: her. Could she come home and forgive him? He wrote that he still loved her and prayed that she loved him.
He sealed the letter. He took it from his study and placed it on the table near the front door. He would be sure to mail it the next morning even if it meant a special trip into town.
He was about to return to his study when something caught his eye through the window by the front door. He looked again. He was certain—or was he? —that he had seen a man leaving his church.
Stephen Fowler stood still and stared. The trees between St. Paul's and the parish house obscured his view, particularly when they rustled. He could obtain no clear sight lines, but he watched for several seconds.
Why would someone be at his church at this hour? Though the doors were unlocked, Reverend Fowler was the only one ever to have cause to enter the church in the evening.
He continued to watch. He caught his breath and held it. He felt a certain apprehension and he stared hard, as if intensity might help. He searched and scanned for the ghost of a tall crooked figure in a dark coat that he may or may not have seen. But the shadow, or whatever it had been, was gone.
He exhaled. The air rushed from his lungs. He breathed again as he relaxed. He was now convinced that he had probably seen a rustle of leaves, an errant configuration of branches, or a stray dog. He admitted to himself how much he had been on edge recently, particularly since his wife had left him. A man could imagine many things under the circumstances and few of them were any good.
And so what if someone had passed by the church? This was Liberty Square, New Jersey, population four thousand gentle souls, established 1759. It was not New York or Philadelphia. A parishioner might have simply wanted to offer an evening prayer or seek the comfort of the Almighty's presence.
What could be more innocent? Why else were the church's doors always open?
Reverend Fowler watched for another half minute. When no one appeared or emerged from the front doors of his church, he returned to his writing. There was no use in worrying about the unimportant things. Not with his country—and the world --- in the state it was in.
FIFTEEN
The next evening Siegfried locked the door of his clandestine radio room and pulled the curtains across the single window. He unraveled his antenna and strung it carefully across the floor, up the cream-colored walls, along the bookshelf that held no books, and parallel to the molding where the ceiling met the walls. He positioned the wire for optimum communication with Hamburg. He checked his watch. It was 10:17 on a Wednesday. He had more than enough time.
The spy plugged in his receiver. It hummed as it warmed up. Then he adjusted the tone by tuning into the dots and dashes of various amateur operators in the area. He donned a set of heavy headphones, plugged in his transmitter, and connected his telegraph key. He limbered his fingers, then cut his own power and monitored a dummy transmission of his own steady hand on the key.
Satisfied, he moved his transmitter back to an ON position, tuned the receiver to the assigned frequency for AOR-3, and raised the volume as high as possible. He listened to static on the frequency as he checked his watch again.
It was 10:48. He was ready. He smoked two Pall Mall cigarettes. His anxiety heightened as he watched the minute hand on his watch edge with painful slowness toward the twelve. Would the hour for transmission never come?
As a safeguard against his own timekeeping—which he knew to be compulsively precise—he reached to a boxy Dumont table radio that he always kept turned to 660, WRCA in New York, pilot station of the Blue Network. WRCA always had the precise time, a gong right on the hour.
He listened, keeping his headphones slightly ajar. Then it was eleven; 2300 hours on a Wednesday. Those bastards in Hamburg better be listening!
He leaned toward his telegraph key and concentrated. He turned off the radio and fixed the headphones perfectly around his ears. He rubbed the moisture off his palms and he tapped out his own call letters to identify himself: C...Q...D...X... V . . . W . . . 2.
He waited. When there was no response for a full minute, he tapped out his letters again. And again he waited as utter silence, confusing and forbidding, greeted him through the atmosphere.
Siegfried cursed violently. He had risked his life the previous day for these cowards safely back in the Reich. Why couldn't they be at their receiving station at the proper time?
Angrily, Siegfried repeated his call letters at ninety-second intervals. His face reddened and the moisture from his hands dripped onto the key. It was essential that all messages emanating from North America be quick and methodical. They had to comprehend that in Hamburg!
Who knew who else was listening? The Americans would eventually set up monitoring stations. Siegfried tapped out CQDXVW-2 a tenth time. Then his insides jumped. His headphones came alive with a faint but unmistakable signal. Siegfried recognized the call letters of AOR-3 in Hamburg.
Huffily, Siegfried tapped out his greeting:
IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU MORONS! HAVE BEEN SENDING FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES!
CQDXVW-2
To which Hamburg replied:
REGRET DELAY. PROCEED.
AOR-3
Siegfried drew a breath and glanced with annoyance at his watch. So much precious time had been wasted. It was essential to beat the listeners. Siegfried transmitted in German:
AMERICANS BOARDING PERHAPS AS MANY AS TEN THOUSAND MACHINE GUNS ABOARD ADRIANA. HAVE ALSO SEEN MOTORCYCLES AND SIDECARS, OBVIOUSLY BOUND FOR U.K. CARGO ALMOST COMPLETELY LOADED AND ALL SHORE LEAVE FOR ADRIANA CREW CANCELED AFTER AUGUST 27. REPEAT: AUGUST TWO-SEVEN. SUSPECT DEPARTURE SOON AFTER THAT DATE. CQDXVW-2
Siegfried reclined slightly, but a faint response flew through the atmosphere within seconds.
HAS ADRIANA BOARDED ANY ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS?
AOR-3
Siegfried responded.
HAVE SEEN NONE. WHEN WILL YOU IMPROVE YOUR BLOODY SIGNAL? EXTREMELY WEAK. HAVE YOU NO COMPETENT ENGINEERS?
CQDXVW-2
There was a pause of several seconds. Siegfried cocked his head in response. “Don't disappear now, you imbeciles!” he thought. Then he heard them again.
HAVE YOU DISCOVERED MATERIAL ON BROWNING U.S. ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS?
AOR-3
Siegfried shot back:
HAVE NO ACCESS. HAVE FOCUSED FULL EFFORTS UPON ADRIANA. PLANTED ROSES. CQDXVW-2
To which, Hamburg answered,
CLARIFY! AOR-3
Siegfried then tapped out his closing—smugly, joyfully, and egotistically:
PLANTED FLOWERS ABOARD ADRIANA. BY MY CALCULATIONS, ROSES WILL BLOOM TWO TO
THREE DAYS OUT OF RED BANK, DEPENDING ON WEATHER AND TIDES, DISABLING SHIP.
SUGGEST YOU SEND MORE FLOWERS FROM BERLIN.
SIEGFRIED
Hamburg digested the message slowly. Then they replied with obvious enthusiasm.
BRAVO, SIEGFRIED!
AOR-3
Of course, "Bravo, Siegfried," thought the spy, glancing at his watch. The communication had taken six full minutes, all of them filled with peril for hi
m, not them. The transmission was much too long, much too dangerous. Siegfried felt his insides set to explode, for the second time in two days. What kind of life was this?
Siegfried leaned back and AOR-3 evaporated into the stars. He felt his own pulse racing when he removed his hand from the transmission key. Good thing he had nothing further to do. He could just disappear into the respectable American middle class and think.
He let several minutes pass as he gradually regained his composure. He smoked two more Pall Malls. Then, as his senses returned to earth, he took down his transmission station.
It was only at that moment that he allowed himself to be satisfied with a job well done. And as he descended the long staircase from his radio room, it occurred to him that some sort of reward was in order.
Siegfried grinned. He already knew what he wanted.
Charlotte wore her most seductive black dress, the one that plunged low in the front, and her finest jewels. She used less makeup than usual. Her hair was washed, brushed, and styled in a less flamboyant manner than usual. She wanted her Mr. Bolton to, well, she wanted him to know that she was more than just a good prostitute. She was a woman, too. And she deserved to have what other women had, if only the right man would notice.
The buzzer rang. She felt a flash of anxiety. She was acting like a schoolgirl. She tried to settle herself. Imagine, she thought to herself. Me! Charlotte Benton of Hoboken, New Jersey, nervous with a man! How many men have I known? She did not like to think about it in those terms. She only knew that her clock manufacturer, Mr. Bolton, was special to her. And she wanted to be special to him.
She opened the door. "Hello, sugar," she said when she saw Siegfried. "Missed you."
He accepted the kiss. But he did not reciprocate. She locked her arm seductively with his and led him into her living room. She let him sit in his favorite chair and she went to the bar to pour him a scotch. She gave him plenty of opportunity to admire her from the back. Sure, she was thirty-one, she told herself. But she had the figure of a woman ten years younger.
She brought him a drink and noticed that he hadn't said anything. She handed it to him and he accepted it. "Something bothering you, tonight, lover?" she asked.
Siegfried sipped his drink. "Business," he said. "Rough week."
He even managed a slight laugh. "That's why I'm here," he said. "I could use some relaxation. Need to unwind, I suppose."
He was always so considerate, she thought. Not like the doctors and lawyers who came to her: cheap and always in a rush. Not like the policemen whom she paid off with sex to keep out of courtrooms: they were rough and inconsiderate.
She studied Mr. Bolton. Indeed, she noticed, he did look as if he had been under a great deal of stress.
"Well," Charlotte cooed softly, "I know how to make a nice man happy."
She knew many ways, she told herself. And they included rooms of the house other than the bedroom. The kitchen, for example. The den. The family room . . .
She pictured herself with a little girl or a little boy.
"You always make me happy, Charlotte," Mr. Bolton said to her. "Very."
She sat on the arm of his chair. He reached for her with the hand that did not hold the drink. He pulled her head down to him and he kissed her, a slightly scotch flavor to his kiss. But she gave him a long and impassioned kiss. He deserved it.
She noticed that there was a slight tremor to his touch tonight. Obviously, something major had happened this week for Mr. Bolton. But she knew better than to ask a customer about his personal business.
Plus, it was time. His head had slipped down from her lips and he was kissing her throat. She reached to the zipper behind her back and loosened her dress. Her breasts were freed from their confinement and Mr. Bolton kissed further downward. He unzipped her.
Then she stood, removed her dress, and returned to the arm of the chair. And her sensual, handsome Mr. Bolton was kissing her on the nipples now, making them hard and taut, exciting her in the ways that she had fantasized in the hours she had spent thinking about him.
He reached between her legs, which surprised her. Normally the next move was for her to kneel before the chair and satisfy him. He was different this week. She found his new mood exciting.
"What would you like tonight, sweetie?" she asked. "The loving you always want?
He motioned with his head. "The bedroom," he said. She was surprised. But she took him by the hand. She led him and then undressed him.
She had been naked before him many times, but this was the first time he stood fully unclothed before her. He was surprisingly muscular. His body was not one that impressed when covered with the square clothes that he wore. But obviously Mr. Bolton took care of himself. He was in good shape. Almost like an athlete, she marveled.
Astonishing for a businessman, she pondered as she reclined on the sheets of her bed. So unusual. Usually businessmen were so repulsively flabby. But then he was climbing onto her and suddenly her clock manufacturer astonished her once again. He pinned her fiercely to the bed, entered her, and moved rigidly and methodically between her legs. Charlotte yelped with both the surprise and the pleasure. Unlike with most of her customers, she was not faking. And she kissed him hard on the lips right before he had his explosion inside her.
Afterward, he lay beside her for several minutes, saying nothing. She did not spring to her feet and dress quickly as she would have with other men.
Finally, she spoke.
"For all the time you've been coming to me," she said, "there's something I've wanted to ask you."
“What?" he asked.
"Your first name."
Siegfried thought for a moment. "It's Fred," he finally said. "From Frederick."
She hesitated. "May I call you that?" she asked.
Again, he thought for a moment, wondering where this might be leading. Siegfried had noticed that she was acting differently. Now he was certain.
"Of course," he said. "Why not? Fred."
Siegfried rose and went into the bathroom, where he carefully washed himself. Then he returned. Acting more deliberate now as she remained in the bed, he dressed himself. Then she stood, pulling a red print silk robe around her. He reached to his wallet and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, plus a five, which was her usual tip.
"Fred?" she asked.
He looked at her, his hand folding the two bank notes.
"I don't want money from you anymore," she said nervously. "You can come visit me anytime you want. But I don't want money."
She felt like saying more, like telling him how she really felt and what she would really—eventually--like to have with Mr. Bolton. But there was confusion discernible on his face. The hand with the money had stopped dead still, and he was staring at her.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
She had rushed things a little, she felt. But then again, he was a gentleman. She had made him happy— she was certain about that—so this was the time to be honest with him.
"Maybe, if you like what I do for you, if you even like me a little," she edged with a nervous laugh, "we could go out to dinner instead of you paying me. Or maybe we could go to a Broadway show together."
His eyes changed again and the confusion on his face was gone. A smile drifted in from somewhere and he started to laugh lightly. He understood. So she laughed, too.
Charlotte was in the midpoint of a laugh when the hand that held the money switched into a firm open palm, reached backward, and then exploded forward like an express train; smacking her from right to left across the face. The impact was so hard and sudden that it sent her reeling backward. She was holding her stinging, stunned cheek and pressing her own hand against the rattled teeth of her upper jaw. And she was fighting back tears.
Siegfried replied with measured tones. "You're a whore, Charlotte," he said, dropping the money on her dresser. "Don't ever forget that. And don't ever overstep yourself again. It could cost you your life."
The spy found his coat in
the next room and was gone a few seconds later.
SIXTEEN
On Saturday morning, a Bureau driver—a neat young man who said his name was Thomas Jenks—met Cochrane at Union Station. Jenks drove him to a green clapboard house on Twenty-Sixth Street in Georgetown. The Bureau had owned it for Special Operations—this quite illegally—since 1934. The house was faded, small and accommodating. It had a front porch that squeaked at the first footfall. “And he leaves it this way to curtail unexpected company,” Cochrane mused.
Past the entrance foyer was a sitting room, equipped with some blue upholstered chairs, a sofa that matched the chairs in both pattern and wear, two matching oversized pink lamps that more than bracketed the sofa, and—the prize of the room—a large Philco console radio, presumably for tuning in Roosevelt or the Washington Senators, not necessarily in that order. Adjacent to the living room was a small dining room, furnished functionally with an oval mahogany table supported by thick, overdone legs and surrounded by five matching chairs and—Cochrane lamented immediately—one mismatching one. Cochrane sighed. The interior of the house appeared to have been decorated by the Racketeering Division of the Grand Rapids F.B.I. office. Why couldn't they have hired a vivacious young woman, Cochrane wondered.
"Anything wrong, sir?" young Jenks asked.
"Everything's just fine," Cochrane answered, whereupon Jenks led him to a small kitchen, which Cochrane found to be freshly stocked.
"Tell me, Jenks," Cochrane asked indulgently, "do you know why I'm in Washington?"
"No, sir," said the younger man, breathing heavily through his mouth. "We're under instructions not to have such discussions, sir."
"Whose instructions?"
"Mr. Lerrick's, sir."
Cochrane wandered from the kitchen through the dining room, toward a flight of stairs. Jenks followed. Cochrane answered, after too long a pause. "Maybe you can tell me more about this house, then."
Jenks stammered slightly and as Cochrane listened, he noted the heavy cloth curtains, blocking any view of the interior from the outside.
