by Noel Hynd
Stephen forced his new, brutal form of sex upon her again that night and the next. Then, mercifully, he announced on Wednesday morning that he was traveling again. He departed on the noon train to Trenton and Philadelphia.
Within another hour, she too was gone. She traveled first by bus, using some dollars she had put aside in her kitchen. In Newark she walked from the bus depot to the train station and found a southbound express for Washington. There, at Union Station, she deciphered a confusing city map and started her way to the British Consulate, praying that Peter Whiteside would still be there.
THIRTY-FIVE
The drive to Pennsylvania from Washington wasn't as smooth as Cochrane's previous trip. There had been traffic around Philadelphia, then a closed two-lane highway around Stroudsburg. Cochrane had to drive along the slower route that went through the mountains. Then, as was Mauer's quaint habit, there had been the meeting at the farmhouse door with the German holding a shotgun across his chest. Mauer lowered the weapon as soon as he saw Cochrane was alone.
Mauer shuffled back into the house, leading Cochrane, and went to the armchair from which he ruled his domain in exile. He stood his shotgun against a table, no more than an arm's length away. He sat down.
"You'll excuse the gun again, I hope," Mauer began in German. "Only a precaution."
The two men gazed at each other for a moment and a slow, ironic smile crept across Mauer's lips.
"So, you were saying," Mauer said. "Fired? From your Bureau?"
"Fired," Cochrane confirmed.
"Why?"
Cochrane paused. "The reason given was rudeness to a subordinate." He explained about Adam Hay. Otto Mauer enjoyed the story. Otto Mauer, for that matter, enjoyed having a visitor. He poured a brandy for each of them as Cochrane spoke. He walked the drink to Cochrane and stepped past two large crates of books.
Cochrane finished speaking.
"So you were impertinent to this gremlin, who is a file clerk, and for this J. Edgar Hoover dismisses you from his F.B.I.?"
"That's correct."
Mauer sipped his brandy as visions of his own bureaucratic nightmares flashed through his mind. "In Germany," he finally said, "it is the burden of inferiors to be polite to their superiors. Not the other way around. Prosit."
Mauer sipped and replenished his own glass. "Prosit," Cochrane answered.
Mauer set down his brandy. "Do you think this was the only reason you were dismissed from the F.B.I.?" the German asked.
"I have my doubts."
Several thoughts went through both men's minds and all were unspoken and contained by a long silence. "I see," Mauer said at length. Then he cocked his head in a peculiar manner, as if to examine Cochrane in a new light.
"So," Mauer finally asked, "why then have you come to see me again? You are no longer looking for your spy. You no longer have any authority. You cannot help me, and I cannot help you. We are both in exile, my friend, and exiles are eunuchs."
"Well," Cochrane started slowly, "my plans will move me to New York to take a private job. I wanted to reassure you that there are other good men in the F.B.I. I'm asking two friends from the Newark office to remain apprised of your case. Concerning your family, that is. If it's possible to move your wife and son here, they will expedite things for you."
"You're kind," said Mauer flatly.
Cochrane wasn't sure how much cynicism laced the remark. But he continued. "Second, there's one thing I cannot comprehend," Cochrane said.
"And what's that?"
"The code system," said Cochrane. "If the F.B.I. knew Siegfried's five-digit additive, they could break the German naval code. You must know how such systems work."
"And so?"
"Why didn't the F.B.I. ever ask you about the additive?"
"They did ask me."
"And?"
"And until my family is returned I cannot help."
"Then you know more than you told them?"
"I only know that they lied to me. I do not have my family."
There was cautious ambiguity in Mauer's reply. It was the same sort of charade that had transpired between the two men in Germany.
"Is that what you told them?" Cochrane asked.
"That's what I told them," he said, sipping again, "and that is what I now tell you." Mauer watched Cochrane. "You look puzzled," Mauer suggested airily.
"I am."
"Why?"
Thinking of Hunsicker, Cochrane answered, "They have new methods. The Bureau badly wants the code broken. I'm surprised you were not subjected to—"
"Coercion?"
"Yes."
"I'm surprised, also," said Mauer. "Perhaps they are not as anxious to break the code as they maintain."
"I can't believe that," Cochrane said instinctively. It dawned on him also that he couldn't believe he had been dismissed merely for the contretemps with Adam Hay.
"My friend," Mauer said, finishing his second shot of brandy, "we are entering an age in which much happens that we cannot believe. Look at Germany again," he said with a sigh. "Who can believe that Hitler is the chosen leader? But he didn't seize power. His party was elected to a majority. Hindenburg asked him to form a government. The world is an insane place. May I pour you another drink? Cognac makes reality less harsh."
"Thank you, I'm fine," demurred Cochrane, who wasn't fine at all.
Mauer poured himself another drink. "We live in an age of unreality," the German expanded philosophically. "Why was Germany allowed to rearm? Who financed Hitler? Why does the capitalistic West align itself with the Soviets? Will America allow Germany to conquer all of Western Europe? Who else will stop the Wehrmacht? Will America risk joining a much greater war than the one a generation ago? I ask you, young man, does any of this flirt with reality? Yet it happens."
Mauer rambled on for half an hour, then tossed down his third cognac with one enthusiastic gulp. Cochrane knew it was time to think about departure.
"I'll pass along the details about your family," he said again. "That's all I can do. Good luck."
Mauer answered with a complacent, resolute shrug and raised an eyebrow as if to wish Cochrane good fortune, also.
"Need anything to read?" Mauer asked as he switched into English. He motioned to two cartons of books and explained that this seemed to be part of an F.B.I. program to keep him amused and, presumably, out of trouble. "Duplicate copies from the library of the U.S. Congress," said Mauer, picking through the top copies of two corrugated cartons of books. "Foreign copies, originals, and in translation,” Mauer said. “I once complained to your Bureau that I couldn't find anything to read. Now they send me five dozen books every four weeks."
Cochrane could see the grim humor of some bureaucrat somewhere in the headquarters building.
"Honest. Take anything you like," said Mauer. Mauer stood and weaved slightly from the cognac.
Graciously, Cochrane stood and leaned over to see what Mauer offered. Most were translations of technical manuals. Others dealt with butterfly collecting in Bohemia or beekeeping in Austria.
One large volume caught Cochrane's eyes immediately, The Fighting Liners of the Great War. Published in London five years earlier, it recounted in text and pictures the re-outfitting of the luxury cruise ships of the mid-teens as troop transports. Cochrane flicked it open.
"Take it," insisted Mauer. It was a fresh copy.
"You're serious?" Cochrane asked.
"Just bring me my family in return," Mauer said, switching back to German. "Before I turn the shotgun on myself."
Cochrane reiterated: no promises, but he had to see what he could do.
The parking spaces were filled in front of the ramshackle house on Twenty-Sixth Street, so Cochrane parked down the block. He was halfway to his house when he saw two visitors on his front porch. At first, he thought someone had to be mistaken. Who would visit him? He was a professional leper this afternoon, received only by brooding expatriates.
He was several steps closer when he recognize
d Reverend Fowler's wife. Laura saw him at the same time. She stood, and so did the tall man who was with her. Cochrane stopped on the sidewalk before them. As he looked up, she gazed down at him. Bill Cochrane sensed trouble.
"I didn't think I'd see you again so quickly," he said.
"Nor I, you," Laura answered. Then after an awkward moment: "Oh, sorry," she said. "This is Peter Whiteside. He's been a friend of my family all my life."
Cochrane offered a hand, reaching upward. Whiteside took it and shook.
Then Cochrane turned back to Laura. "Look," he said, "I should tell you something."
"I know," she said. "The F.B.I. dismissed you."
A pause for a second. "Oh. I get it. You tried me there first?"
She nodded. "I made a pest of myself," Laura said. "Pretended that my interest was romantic. Finally a young man gave me your home address. On the sly, of course."
"I'm leaving Washington," Cochrane said.
"What a shame."
"Not really. I look forward to living quietly."
"But if you'll excuse the suggestion," Peter Whiteside interrupted, "you're leaving with business unfinished."
There was accusation in Cochrane's voice. "Now how would you know that, sir?" Cochrane asked.
To which Laura lowered her voice, though there was not another human being in sight. "Peter is with Britain's SIS," Laura said calmly. "Secret Intelligence Service. I work for them also. I think if we go inside and put our heads together," she suggested, "we'll all be able to help each other."
Cochrane looked at them quizzically, from beautiful Laura to the lean, dapper Whiteside, then back again. And suddenly the whole kaleidoscope—Hoover, Siegfried, Roosevelt; Fowler, Laura, and Mauer—took on new shapes, shades, and hues.
"Unless I'm mistaken," Whiteside added as a teaser, "you're looking for a man named Siegfried. Well, we are too."
Cochrane pulled his house keys from his pocket. "Let's go," he said, motioning to the door.
THIRTY- SIX
"You wouldn't have any tea, would you?" Whiteside asked. "Bloody cold out there all day. Last time I was in Washington was a July, I think. Nearly broiled."
"We've hit a cold streak for the last week," Cochrane said. He led Laura and Peter Whiteside into the kitchen and prowled through jars and cans that had been there since young Jenks had first assigned a housekeeper to the premises. He found a small square carton of Twining’s. It was unopened.
"How's this?" Cochrane asked.
"Perfect."
Laura took over. She found a teapot, and soon had water boiling as Whiteside and Bill Cochrane sat down in the dining room. Laura kept an ear to the conversation.
Whiteside marked time at first, rambling pleasantly along about inconsequential topics, and Cochrane studied him carefully. Top of the line British intelligence officer; Cochrane could tell by the alertness and the eyes, as well as the accent and way he carried himself. As if on cue, when Laura appeared with three teacups, Whiteside began talking about the city of Birmingham in 1935. Not until Whiteside focused in on the topic of labor unrest and Communist marchers did Cochrane fully understand where the conversation was leading. By that time he was watching Laura more and more, wondering why he was thinking the thoughts he was about another man's wife, and fondly appreciating the way she crossed her slender legs beneath her skirt.
“…and it was when the marchers reached St. Chad's Circus," Whiteside continued, "that the first of two anti-personnel explosives detonated." The sentence jolted Cochrane's attention back to where it belonged.
Explosives. Of course. That was what it was all about. Bombs. Sabotaged ships. A threat to the life of President Roosevelt.
Now Cochrane hung on every word that passed Whiteside's lips, and gradually the missing pieces of Siegfried came into view. The story took an hour, with several refills of tea, and if there were any details lost, Cochrane did not miss them.
The grand design was before him. The footnotes, such as why a man like Stephen Fowler would embark on a career as Hitler's disciple in America, could wait.
Which leaves me with Otto Mauer, Bill Cochrane thought. There has to be a way to tie it all together. How, for example, did a pipe bomb in a sock arrive under my bed?
Cochrane recalled a detail from Mauer's story in the Pennsylvania farmhouse: "Tell me about B.A. 1," Cochrane said out of the blue.
Whiteside looked considerably surprised. "Pardon me?"
"B.A. 1," Cochrane said confidently. "And a Major Richards, if I remember correctly. Based in London, charged with double-crossing of German and Italian agents."
Whiteside was silent.
"It's not enough just to talk," Cochrane insisted. "You have to answer questions, too."
"What about B.A. 1? It's part of M.I. 5, as I'm certain you know."
"I have a defector named Otto Mauer," Cochrane said. "He passed through the hands of Major Richards in London. Surely you know all about it."
Another pause. "Surely, I do," Whiteside said at length.
"If my guess is any good," Cochrane said, "you can tell me about Mauer's wife and child, also."
"Your guess is good," Whiteside answered. "Why is it so good?"
"Because I know Bureau tactics," Cochrane said. "They flashed the man a photograph of his wife and son in Spain. But they couldn't deliver the goods. If they could have, they would have brought them here and shown them around. So someone else is holding them. If the Nazis grabbed them in Spain, then Mauer's been feeding us bad information from the time he arrived here. But I don't think he is. So the only other possibility is M.I. 5."
"That's correct."
"Then you have them?"
Another pause and Laura eyed Peter Whiteside with considerable suspicion.
"That's correct," Whiteside said again.
"Where?"
"Is it relevant to Siegfried?"
"It's relevant if you want any cooperation out of me."
"The precise location is classified," Whiteside said. "But we moved them from Spain. They're safe. And nearby."
"How far away? In days?"
"Two. Maybe three, depending on transport."
"So your people took their picture in Madrid and turned it over to the Americans, right?"
Whiteside nodded.
"Why?"
“We didn't know what to do with them, obviously," Whiteside said, as if it were self-evident. "We had them in inventory, so to speak, but there was no way to cash them in. So we offered them to the Americans. Free. Had to move them from Spain, anyway. Franco's national police run the country and are like this" — briefly Whiteside's hands clasped each other— "with the Gestapo."
Whiteside sipped some tea, which was now cool in his cup. Cochrane noticed through the window that the afternoon had faded and already the darkness of evening was upon Washington. He heard a car go by.
Whiteside continued. "We wanted to give them to the Americans. A favor for the future when we needed a favor in return. It was as simple as that. So we notified State Department. Got a man who used to sell cars in Colorado but is now a career diplomat. Said he had pass the picture on to F.B.I., but that was all he could do. We never heard anything more."
Cochrane now sat leaning back, his arms folded across his stomach, his head forward and his clear eyes upon the Englishman. He had a sense of constantly being shown a moving picture—Mauer's story—with frames missing or out of order.
"Wait a minute," he finally interjected. "You've forgotten an entire step."
"Have I?"
"How did you know to intercept Natalie and Rudy to begin with?"
"We knew," Whiteside said cryptically. "We knew a major defection was under way. Double guards of Gestapo, SS, and SD at all the rail and air terminals. We knew something was afoot. So we kept our eyes also on Major Aseña in Gibraltar."
Cochrane nodded.
"Major Aseña is capable and able. Both sides play ball with him, we all know that. Not a major in anybody's army except his own. A merce
nary, follow? Our sources in Gibraltar told us he was waiting for a woman and a boy. Germans, the sources said. At the same time, Norwegian intelligence shared with us the fact that one Otto Mauer, traveling alone, had passed through. So we watched the obvious route for the family of a German aristocrat and that meant Madrid."
Whiteside's eyes clouded. Cochrane saw a cunning that had previously escaped his notice.
"Now," Whiteside said, reckoning with the past, "figure, one: Major Aseña is a mercenary. Sells to the highest bidder. Figure, two: if Mauer of the Abwehr knows him, other Abwehr officers know him, also. Conclusion?"
"Natalie and Rudy could have been up for grabs. The Abwehr could have bought them back and forced Mauer to 're-defect.' He would have been in a position to serve massive disinformation to the F.B.I. just in the hope of seeing his family alive again."
Now Whiteside leaned back. "You understand quite well," he said.
"I'm learning," Cochrane answered.
"Well, that's exactly what was going to happen. As soon as Mauer hit Helsinki and defected, he was safe. He was in British and American hands every step of the way. But the Abwehr had already contacted Major Aseña. They had reached an agreement to pay the major ten thousand American dollars to hold Mauer's wife and children if they crossed to Gibraltar."
Seeing Cochrane's intrigue, Whiteside purred soothingly. "Our source on that is excellent," Whiteside said. "That's all I can tell you, of course."
Your own infiltrator in the Abwehr, mused Cochrane. Good for the Brits. "Congratulations," Cochrane said.
Whiteside went ahead. "So we picked up the missus and the boy in Madrid. I'd dare guess that we had every street man in town looking for them. It wasn't difficult," Whiteside smirked. "The bell captain at the Ritz was ours for several years. He's in London now so I can tell you that."
From there it was simple. Whiteside's people in Spain assigned a photographer within hours, took some nice touristy photographs of the mother and child in the Plaza Mayor to prove they had arrived there and were all right, then went back up to the hotel room and took some photographs for passports. The Mauers were moved to a British safe house the next morning and British passports were drawn by noon.
