New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  They served thick ham and cheese sandwiches with too much mustard over the butter, although the drinks were good. One hardly noticed for the awe-inspiring procession of rooms that had once housed Hume and Gibbon and the Duke of Wellington. All in all, a heady day. Like having the stars fall out of the sky and crash on your head.

  “Oh God, yes, the Krauts were always fascinated by those damn Yank specialty valves of mine.”

  “Did you know I passed everything you told me to Churchill? You helped set all this in motion. Roy, why do you think you got into my office in the first place? We needed some parts, yes. But I wanted the information more than I needed those valves.”

  The thought that Hawkins might have naively assumed Bill had no ulterior motive was more than he wanted to deal with at the moment.

  “Bill, I can best serve in Europe. That’s where I belong.”

  “No, you’re needed here. I’ve got to have experienced staff I can rely on, people who have a feel for the Yanks, fit in. You wouldn’t believe some of the toffs they send over here. Listen, Roy, it’s not like we’re spying on the US government.”

  “No, Bill. I have to go back.”

  “You’ll die. What’s the point?”

  “I have to go back.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to.”

  “Roy.” W stepped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Without this country civilization is—” but Hawkins brushed one hand away, putting his right hand on W’s chest, pushing back. For a split second the two men were on the edge of a tussle. W let go, holding out his hands, dropping them loosely at his sides, “—finished. Everything hangs on the United States. Everything. We can’t hold on forever without her. You know that. That’s why the Nazi agents here are every bit as dangerous as the ones anywhere else.”

  “What about the FBI? It’s their Nazi problem. Let them deal with it.”

  W walked back around his desk, sitting down heavily. He contemplated Hawkins for a long moment.

  “You haven’t dealt with them. They think counterespionage is merely another form of law enforcement. To them, spies are criminals to be arrested, hauled into court and jailed. Preferably with news cameras running.”

  “They don’t try and turn them?”

  “No—NO! That’s totally alien to their thinking. They can’t see the opportunities. That if people can go one way, they can go the other. If they do find a suspicious suspect, they arrest him right off. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, very indignant. Get tough. Crack down. Knock ’em around. That’s the mentality. Then they try to build a case. Of course, by then everyone’s bolted, changed IDs, addresses, contacts, the works. So they’re perpetually starting all over from scratch.”

  Hawkins stopped pacing. They faced each other in silence for a long moment. Hawkins remembered Houghton’s intercepted message and handed it to W.

  “I was asked to give you this.”

  -22-

  W studied it for a long moment. “You see this?”

  “Yes. Might be a shipping clerk.”

  “You’re right. I know exactly who this is. Damn! Can’t believe it—”

  “Why?”

  “Only possible candidate. What’s more, I happen to know he recently bought a new car.”

  “One of our people? Working for the Nazis?” Hawkins began making his way back to the front of the desk, his pace smoother and quicker, his expression once again alive, his tone sharp. “Who?”

  “Man named Bailey. A Canadian, works for Cunard. Has access to everything because they’re constantly calling back and forth between the shipping firms trying to line up convoys.”

  “I saw a tanker get hit yesterday.”

  “We were thinking it was someone in Bermuda. But it’s Bailey who gave the sailing schedule to the Nazis.” W tossed the intercept on his desk. He tapped a pencil on the desk twice, jumped up, grabbed his coat and hat and rushed to a file cabinet. He pulled out a snub-nosed .38 Colt Detective Special and began loading it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going to go bring him in.”

  “You? The chief of station? Bill—”

  “I know.” He repeated it like a litany, “I’m the top man. Strictly against regulations. If there’s a foul-up and we get involved with the local authorities all our operations will be compromised.”

  “So?”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “You? That’s crazy. There’s no one else?”

  “No. We’ve got to act fast before he beams out today’s schedule. He’s at work. He can’t send anything out right now.”

  “You really mean to do this, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawkins plucked the intercepted message from the desk. W watched attentively as Hawkins began studying it again, his conflicting expressions of interest and anger and God knew what else. “Hawkins. I really do need you. A couple of weeks. Just give me enough time to bring someone else over. Then if you want to go hand yourself over to the Gestapo, if you want it that badly, fine, go get yourself killed.” The paper wavered in the air. Another nudge. “A Nazi agent is … a Nazi agent.” That did it. There was a sudden burst of energy. Hawkins angrily threw the paper down.

  “A couple of weeks. But that’s it! A couple of weeks!”

  Stephenson hooked the loaded gun into the back of his pants, started for the door. Then he stopped. He stood up on his toes, stepping right into Hawkins’ face, their noses practically touching.

  “But remember—”

  “Right, what—”

  “We’re forbidden to attack, abduct or harm any Americans, even if they’re Nazis.”

  “Believe me, that’s fine here.”

  “Good. The US has got to come into the war against Hitler. Harming Americans won’t help. This man Bailey, he’s one of ours. We’ve a right to bring him home. But we have to operate within US law. We’re not vigilantes.”

  “Check. Let’s go.”

  -23-

  Hawkins held up his hand, blocking the sun slanting in across the Hudson, squinting, waiting. Where’s Bill—or rather, W? After five now. Long shadows were darkening the forest of columns under the West Side Highway, shading the truck entrance of a pier facing Fifty-Second Street. W emerged, barely glancing over, his gaze directed back inside. Then a flick with his fingers. Hawkins geared up, swinging directly in front of him. W lightly stepped into the car.

  “He’s parked inside the pier. Be coming out those big doors any second.”

  “What’s he driving?”

  “Black Cord convertible.”

  “A Cord? Expensive. Interesting.”

  A minute later a black Cord rolled out and drove south under the elevated highway. Hawkins followed at a respectable distance, weaving back and forth through the columns so that they couldn’t be spotted. Bailey turned up the ramp and onto the busy elevated highway. A few minutes later he took the exit for the Battery and the Staten Island Ferry.

  “Bloody hell,” W said.

  “No. It’s fine. He can’t outrun us if he’s taking the ferry. That car’s got a supercharger on top of a big Lycoming airplane engine. We’ll never catch him if he gets a chance to run.” Hawkins stomped on the accelerator, racing around an old Plymouth and onto the loading dock one car behind him. “I’m checking him out.”

  Hawkins slowly walked forward, past the line of waiting cars. He kept his eyes fixed on the old ferry crawling across the darkening harbor like a brightly lit snail. Paused, made a quick glance sideways at Bailey. Good, he thought. Not looking up. Pudgy man, balding, dark blond hair. Not too old. What the hell’s he fidgeting with under the seat?

  Bailey pulled out a nondescript package the size of a shoe box and plugged it into the car’s cigarette lighter. Very businesslike. Then reached under the dash and snapped a wire to the car’s radio antenna with an alligator clip. With a finger Bailey gently tipped the box sideways. Vacuum tubes lit up through a row of slots. He quietly began tap
ping Morse code on a small telegraph key bolted to the top. As blasé as one could get. Not giving a fig who saw. Just another radio bug.

  Hawkins visually swept the scene, fists clenched in his coat pockets. What have we got? he thought. A hundred, no, probably more like three hundred people are in line waiting. Make that three hundred witnesses. Back at the car he deliberately stretched up on the running board, peering forward again, watching, then slouched in the driver’s seat.

  “He’s transmitting.”

  “What? Now? God—”

  “We can’t—”

  “I know. The crowd.”

  “It’s amazingly small”—Hawkins gestured with his hands—“like this.”

  “We want that, too. Never dreamed they had anything like that.”

  Several minutes later the ferryboat finally clanged against the pier. Hawkins motored down into the ferry’s dark maw, cutting across and pulling up on Bailey’s left side. The radio sat on the seat, unplugged. The transmission had gone out.

  The last car lumbered aboard. The car passengers boiled out of their hot vehicles, mixing with the pedestrians on the fantail. Bailey absentmindedly stowed his radio under the seat, then joined the crowd for the spectacular view of the glowing Manhattan skyline. W and Hawkins followed. As they passed each car they methodically checked for passengers. No one remained in the dark tunnel through the center of the ship.

  A jolt. The ferry started moving away from the pier. A cool harbor breeze began sweeping through the ship. Several women clutched the ballooning skirts of their light summer dresses, holding their straw hats with one white-gloved hand. Several pairs of eyes found Hawkins. His eyes stayed locked on Bailey, an increasingly dark, tense expression on his face. The women drifted away.

  A quarter mile out Hawkins motioned to W. “I’m going to tell him I scratched his car. Draw him back.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “Right. But give me the gun.” W hesitated. “We can’t risk you.” He nodded, palming off the .38 into Hawkins’ coat pocket. Hawkins walked up behind Bailey, tapping him on the shoulder. He carefully flattened his accent. “Excuse me. You own a black Cord convertible? I think I scratched your door.”

  “Oh Christ! I’ve barely had it three months!”

  “Hey, I’m sorry! Let’s go back and take a look. Maybe we can settle it up.”

  Bailey stamped down the dark tunnel glowering at Hawkins. When they reached the Cord Bailey bent over, peering at his door.

  “Where?”

  “Here.” Hawkins pointed the snub-nosed Colt straight at Bailey’s chest. W kicked his door open, blocking Bailey’s path. “Just be a good sport and get in the car.” Hawkins flipped open the Cord’s door, the pistol low against his hip where it couldn’t be seen.

  Bailey froze, hovering in indecision. Then glimpsed the people at the end of the tunnel. A hopeful expression telegraphed it all: It’s a bluff. He won’t shoot. Or so Bailey thought. He pivoted, ducked his head and tried ramming his way back to the safety of the crowd on the stern. But the second he turned Hawkins caught him in the stomach with a quick left uppercut. Bailey doubled over, every ounce of air knocked out of what felt like a crushed chest. He desperately tried shouting for help. Nothing came but a strained wheeze. Hawkins hit him twice more as hard as he could. Bailey collapsed on the deck. Hawkins picked him up by the belt and flung him in the Cord’s trunk. W stood up on the running board, checking for witnesses. Then he jumped down to snap a pair of handcuffs on Bailey’s wrists. Hawkins slammed the trunk shut.

  “Not too hard. What now?” Hawkins said.

  “I wish I knew what was in that transmission.” The lights of Staten Island were growing large through the end of the tunnel.

  “Remember the intercept? He wants more money. That’s our in. He’s not a true believer.”

  “I hate the idea of bargaining with him.”

  “Maybe we won’t need to.”

  -24-

  Twenty miles off Sandy Hook the dirty greenish-brown waters of the New York Bight rolled steadily over a black form resting silently on the ocean floor. A barge from the New York City Department of Sanitation cruised by in the distance, ready to dump its cargo. The ocean actually fizzed slightly, like seltzer, from all the rotting garbage on the sea floor, rendering the water as opaque as pea soup, the perfect hiding place. A wispy radio mast quivered above the waves, a seeming piece of flotsam.

  Kapitänleutnant Fritz Eberling, commander of Kriegsmarine Unterseebooten 56, waited in his cabin, listening on a pair of headphones to a live broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera’s performance of Il Barbiere di Siviglia. He kept a careful eye on the clock in his diminutive cabin—would there be a transmission today? The orchestral thunderstorm had ended and Count Almaviva and Figaro were climbing a ladder to Rosina’s balcony. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the staging. Could there be any way to get the schedules in advance? he wondered. I could bring some librettos from home.

  Radioman Niesen came padding down the passageway. The porky sailor stood outside, filling the hatch, and handed in Bailey’s radio message. Enough opera for the day.

  Eberling handed him the headphones back, grabbing the paper, poking Niesen in the belly with it. “Too much sitting, hey, Willy?”

  “Aye, Aye, sir,” laughing, “too much sitting.” He saluted and took off for his station. Eberling walked out to the chart table, leaning into the light, mulling their position.

  So. Six freighters plus escorts. Busy night, tonight, he thought.

  The small convoy didn’t match the glamour of a big fish like an ocean liner or a battleship that most skippers were always keen for. But to Eberling it didn’t matter. After all, whether large or small, when he’d fired their last nine torpedoes—he’d already fired one off Bermuda—he was free to sail home.

  Studying the chart and the sailing times, he marked out a general area where he planned to lurk and wait, about seven kilometers off Rockaway Point, a bit outside the United States’ three-mile territorial limit. The convoy was heading northeast to the British Isles. It’d exit the harbor and bear hard to port, hugging the coast, close to US waters but still necessarily outside.

  He waved to the exec. “Time to wake the crew.” No more than a minute later the chiefs started quickly moving down the boat, gently shaking awake the sleepy crewmen in their claustrophobic berths over the torpedoes. Within five minutes they had the entire crew milling about in their felt boots, either lining up for breakfast or checking the long banks of batteries that powered the boat across the ocean floor like a silent shadow.

  -25-

  Hawkins drove the Cord off first, gunning it, speeding past the little houses of St. George. In the middle of a dingy commercial strip he swerved over in front of a small deli. W drove in behind and waited. A minute later Hawkins jumped back in the Cord carrying a small brown bag. He sped off again. A couple of fast turns, a long street up a hill. He veered into a cemetery and slowly drove down into a wooded section behind a large mausoleum.

  No haste now, the brisk, businesslike manner gone. Hawkins got out slowly, almost leisurely walking around the car, taking his time. He stopped, eyes searching a point off by the side of the road. As he stared his shoulders noticeably sagged, his expressionless, mute face followed, a numb look. Looking down at the ground, slightly shaking his head, chin almost on his chest. Then he abruptly turned, snapping up the trunk lip, jabbing Bailey with the barrel of the .38.

  “Get out,” in a flat voice. “Get out of there,” an emotionless monotone. Then something happened. A switch thrown. Or the lightning from a hidden storm front found its rod, firing all its pent-up energy down to earth. His face blank, Hawkins’ voice began rising, “Get—out. Out! Fucking bastards. All of you! Sons of bitches. Now. Get! Out! Now you bloody fucker!”

  Hawkins didn’t merely drag Bailey from the trunk. He ripped him out, banging Bailey’s head into the latch. Hawkins ran him hard a few paces and flung him face-first into the gravel in front of the ot
her car’s headlights. W moved a step forward, an uncertain look on his face.

  “Roy …?”

  A split-second delay. Hawkins picked Bailey halfway up. Threw him as hard as he could face-first into gravel again. Stood over him a second. Stepped away. Swung back. Kicked Bailey as hard as he could.

  W ran forward, shouting, “Roy! No! Christ almighty! Stop it! That’s enough—” He reached them just as Hawkins lifted Bailey by the jacket collar, hurling him back toward the lip of the Cord’s trunk. W crashed into them, knocking them forward, uneasily half tackling Hawkins. He tightly grasped his arm and elbow, holding on, unsure whether to pull him away or not.

  Disoriented, blinking from the headlights, Bailey’s face shone white with fear. The bluster shown on the ferry had vanished. Now the clerk’s voice quavered when he spoke, like a child’s.

  “Please—please don’t kill me—you want money? I’ve got money—in my wallet—you can have it! There’s a lot there, please! For gawd’s sakes, whatta you want?”

  The hand on the elbow checked something in Hawkins. He took a deep breath. Took a step back. A second passed. He loosely shook off W’s hand, his face completely expressionless. Stared down at Bailey. Then gazed at W.

  Hawkins nodded at W, reassuring him. Hawkins stepped back to Bailey, ready for what came next.

  -26-

  “We’re not interested in money. We know who you are, Bailey. What you’re doing. Who you’re doing it for.”

  Harold Bailey had carelessness at the center of his character. In all the time he’d spent practicing the business of selling secrets he’d never once paused to consider the risks his chosen profession posed. His only concern, easy money. Now he knew better. Not the sure thing he’d anticipated. Overwhelmed by this sudden reality, his chin began quivering.