New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  -36-

  “Thank you, Mr. Ventnor. I am glad to confirm that we are indeed on the brink of a new era. Twenty years ago Germany lay shattered and defeated, its economy ruined, its people near rebellion. Today Germany is the greatest power on Earth. How could Germany have reversed such adversity and despair? We did it because of the will of a leader. America once had such a leader.” Ludwig gestured at the portrait of Washington behind him. “Through his will he took a raw land and made a nation. So, too, in Germany today, Adolf Hitler has made a new nation and a new Europe.”

  The crowd interrupted Ludwig for a huge round of applause. Kelly quizzically leaned into Hawkins’ ear. “I’ve never heard much of this stuff.”

  “It’s a pretty standard fascist rationale for a dictatorship,” Hawkins said. “If you want problems solved, you need a strongman, not a leader who gets people working together.” Kelly nodded.

  “What was the decisive point wherein Germany seized control of its destiny?” Ludwig demanded of the cheering crowd. “When a great man declared Germany would no longer be the victim! It was one man alone, one man with a sense of destiny, Adolf Hitler, who made that declaration, and in making it, altered the course of human history.”

  Kelly bent his chin to his chest, half laughing. Then he leaned over in Hawkins’ ear. “Aw, shit, have I heard this before.”

  “You have?”

  “Yep. Victims! Go into police work, you’ll hear all about victims.”

  “Well, who else would people go—”

  “Naw, naw, not them. The perps. Every mug in the lockup feels he’s really the victim, too. Never fails.”

  “America has nothing to fear from the new Germany,” Ludwig said. “Would we attack America? How? By walking on water?” The crowd roared with laughter.

  “Director Hoover really likes Ventnor, though,” Kelly said.

  “He does?”

  “Yep. They’re big pals, actually.”

  “The question is, will America be drawn into a war that’s not its fight?” Ludwig said.

  “NO!” the crowd roared.

  Hawkins nudged Kelly. He gestured at Ludwig. “You get an invitation to talk to him?”

  “Naw. I think they made me. Don’t know how.”

  “Might be the suit. You know, you’re a bit out of season.”

  “Hey! I gotta. We get very specific memos from the SOG.”

  “The what?”

  Kelly’s tone was almost reverential. “The seat of government!”

  “You mean the president?”

  “No! Director Hoover’s office! Director Hoover insists on appropriate attire at all times.”

  “You mean all FBI agents have to wear topcoats with dark suits in the summer?”

  “Of course! It’s a career ender.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay off my tail.”

  “Aw, shit—go ahead. But I wanna hear what you get!”

  Onstage Ludwig continued. “Seize control of your destiny as Germany did! The Führerprinzip, the leader principle, shows the way! You have such leaders of vision! Will Americans consent to be victims?”

  “No!” By now the crowd was cheering almost continuously. Ludwig paused, waiting for it to quiet down. When they settled, he softly, almost gently concluded. “America is a lucky land, separated by vast oceans from foreign shores. How I envy your splendid isolation. Would it be so easy for us. But guard your nation. Keep it strong and pure, behind your Fortress America.”

  Ventnor leapt from his seat, seizing Ludwig’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. The crowd rose for an enormous standing ovation lasting several long minutes. Hawkins rose with them, trying to blend in. Kelly impassively sat with his arms folded across his chest, chewing gum with an easy, relaxed rhythm, his face once again maddeningly opaque.

  -37-

  Hawkins reached the front of the receiving line. Ludwig finished with the last supplicant. A brief expression of surprise and recognition flicked across his face. Hawkins broadly smiled.

  “Dr. Ludwig! We meet again!”

  “Mr. Hawkins—from the plane!”

  Hawkins grabbed his hand, pumped it up and down. As he did he could feel Ludwig starting to relax.

  “I really enjoyed that speech. I had no idea! And you slipped right by those British officials. That is hilarious!”

  Ludwig finally smiled. “Thank you. It was amusing. I can’t take much credit for the speech, though.” Ludwig lowered his voice confidentially. “The Foreign Office wrote it.”

  “Oh hell, your secret’s safe with me!”

  “Good, good—thank you.”

  “I’d certainly be interested in opportunities for American companies. I’d loved to have talked on the plane—it’s really too bad.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “Industrial valves. High pressure, high temperature ones, exotic alloy specialty stuff.” Hawkins handed him his new fake card. “Most people find it kinda boring—we turn things on and off, that’s all.”

  Ludwig’s eyes opened wide, just the way the Nazi officials’ had back in the Reich a few years earlier.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Hawkins, they’re at the heart of many of the Reich’s needs. Do you make many overseas sales?”

  “No, not really. We’ve always wanted to become more export oriented. Tariff barriers, the political situation, all that prevented it.”

  “That’s unfortunate. We’d welcome doing business with your company now.”

  “That’s great news! Are you going to be in New York long? I sure could use your help.”

  “Actually—this week I’m inviting a select group of executives to the Saratoga meet.”

  “Ah, Saratoga.”

  “Please come. Day after tomorrow.”

  Ludwig handed Hawkins one of his closely guarded invitations. Hawkins shook his hand, patted him aside the shoulder and blended back into the crowd.

  Kelly was watching a third of the way back, still trying to copy names on his little pad. “Hey! Hawkins, you got to that guy!”

  “What’s this Saratoga meet? He’s staging a conference at it the day after tomorrow.”

  Kelly scowled. He nearly threw his pencil down. “Aw, shit!”

  “What?”

  “Shit! There’s no way I can get up there—”

  “Up where?”

  “Don’t you play the ponies?”

  “I’ve been to Ascot.”

  “Saratoga Springs. Upstate New York. They race horses there in August. Richest horse-racing meet on earth!”

  “Oh? Really. Richer than the Derby?”

  “That’s only one day—Saratoga lasts a month.”

  “Not the one in Kentucky. The original one. In England.”

  “Oh. I dunno … There’s one in England?”

  “Yes. Lo-o-ng time. Anyway, it explains why he’s going there. Top executives. Millionaires. Big money.”

  “Really big money. And you don’t know the half of it. That town is dirty as they come. The mob owns the place. They put the politicians, the cops on the payroll. Gambling. Bordellos. Loansharking. They got it all. Used to be a big bootlegging center. Everybody gets their little cut. So it figures. If you’re up to no good, that’s where you go.”

  “Why can’t you go?”

  “I’m tied up in court—look, you said if you had anything. You’re going to keep me posted, right?”

  “I’ll give you a full written report if you like.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course.” Kelly’s poker face broke, suffused with guileless appreciation.

  “Great! I’ll tell my office.”

  Hawkins left. Kelly happily resumed writing down names on his little pad. He began idly whistling “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.”

  -38-

  Hawkins’ shoes loudly creaked as he hurried through the hushed hallway. A lighted doorway glowed at the end. Inside, most of W’s embryonic staff were still at thei
r desks, busily filing and sorting. A secretary shook a thumb over her shoulder at W’s door. He’d barely knocked before W snapped it open. A tense urgency filled his voice.

  “Ludwig sent another airmail this morning. Bermuda found it two hours ago.” W picked up a message and started reading. “Orator escrows, cutouts ready, all covered—”

  “Escrows—so there’s money being spent. Whatever it is.”

  “Well, perhaps there is a ‘whatever it is.’ It goes on, ‘bullet people blind. Await go-ahead.’”

  “Bullets. So there’s a shooter. Or shooters?”

  “Yes. I’d paraphrase it this way: Operation Orator is ready. Everyone involved is in place. All locations are covered. The source of the escrow accounts is hidden by a cutout so that the people with the bullets don’t know where the money is coming from.”

  “They’re hiring local muscle, then.”

  “Makes sense. You use what you have. They have money.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “They also used that odd phrase again—the girl who spotted this one must’ve been sharp—Steel Seine.”

  “Saw that in Bermuda. Sounded like a code word.”

  “The general and his people thought that, too. We’ve been making discreet phone calls in Washington.”

  “What is it?”

  “A top secret US Navy project, one of the items the PM specifically charged me to get the Yanks to sell. Standard Labs has come up with a new asdic system—what they call sonar. Familiar with it?”

  “Can’t say I am.”

  “Sonar uses reflected sound waves to help destroyers find submarines. The big problem with asdic—or sonar—is that the ship’s propellers can drown out the echoes. Apparently they’ve found a way to filter out the prop noise.”

  “Is that part of Orator?”

  “We don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Is Orator a US code name?”

  “No. They’re telling us Orator’s definitely not a US code name.”

  “Bullets—could they be planning to hijack a truck or a train, steal Steel Seine?”

  “Anything’s possible at this point.”

  “This sonar thing. They won’t sell it to us?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Submarine warfare is a sore spot with the Americans. Subs are central to the US strategy in the Pacific, if they get into a war with Japan. It’s conceivable. Japan would like to add the Philippines to their empire. But the US is about to get out of the colony business and give the Philippines their independence. It’s a dangerous situation. That’s one reason why the US Navy has more submarines than Germany—”

  “More?”

  “Yes, and they’re better ones. And bigger. Fleet class sub, 1500 tons— type Seven U-boat? Half that. The length of a football pitch. The Yanks never stopped developing them after the last war. The US has a superb navy, don’t believe this talk about American weakness, that’s only the army. They’re a continental island. They don’t need a big army to defend the country, their defensive perimeter is the middle of the ocean. That’s why the US Navy has always gotten what it needs. They’ve built a true two-ocean navy. Nothing like it in history. You can sing ‘Britannia rules the waves’ all you want, but we could never do that, fight two completely separate sea wars simultaneously. Not now, not in Nelson’s time.”

  “What’s all this talk about Fortress America, then?”

  “Complete lie. Fortress America? They already have that. Did you know Roosevelt was assistant secretary of the navy in the last war?”

  “What? No—”

  “The secretary was a political figurehead. Roosevelt actually ran the department. Trust me, he’s taken care of the navy. If Hitler had the US sub fleet instead of his own Britain would be done for. Japan is an island nation, exactly like Britain, imports half their food. A submarine blockade is an obvious strategy to beat them, starve them out the way Hitler is trying to starve us out now. The US Navy is afraid we can’t hold out and that when we go down, their submarine warfare technology—if they share it with us—will fall into the hands of the Germans. They’ll then hand it over to the Japanese. That would wreck their whole Pacific strategy.”

  “Suppose we’re too late?”

  Stephenson mulled that a second. “They wouldn’t have any excuse—”

  “Let ’em steal it. It’ll do us more good than them.”

  “No. The political consequences would be devastating if the Americans realized we were two-timing them. We can’t risk alienating them. Nothing is worth that.”

  “That’s a fine affair. We’re to stop the Germans from stealing a system the Yanks won’t sell us. Why bother. Why not give this to the FBI?”

  “We still have to find out if Ludwig got his hands on it. If we warn the Bureau now, then they find out he’s stolen it, well, the navy’ll never admit it. We need proof beforehand. Then the US Navy’ll have no excuse not to sell it to us.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “That’s a problem. There are several sites in the Department of the Navy and a number of contractors where it could leak.”

  “We have to follow Ludwig for Orator, Steel Seine, the whole show.”

  “Righto. He’s our only lead. Stick close to Ludwig. If he’s already stolen Steel Seine, get proof. Then we can convince the Yanks they’ve nothing to lose by pooling technology. We’ve got things we can trade. If he hasn’t stolen it yet, keep him away from it. At all cost, don’t get yourself into a position where it looks like we’re pinching it. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “So! That’s it! You’re off.”

  “What about backup?”

  “None to be had.”

  Fine with me, Hawkins thought. On my own, that’s the way I like it.

  “One other thing. Who do I see about my expenses?”

  That provoked a vaguely pained expression. “Keep track of everything, get receipts. You’ll be reimbursed later on.”

  “Later? How much later?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe much later. Maybe after the war. I’m not drawing any pay at all. In fact, I’m covering most of the overhead here out of my own pocket. One of the reasons we chose you was because we knew you have assets here in the US you can draw on. The Crown can’t pay you right now, not here in America. Britain’s entirely run out of foreign exchange. Not a shilling’s left. Everyone will be reimbursed eventually.”

  “No money?” Hawkins glanced around the office. “How in hell do you pay for this place?”

  “Nelson Rockefeller’s forgiving the rent. He manages the center for his family.”

  Hawkins assented with a knowing shrug and left.

  In the outer office, phoning his train reservation, it sank in. No money. Incredible, he thought. Like a bloody tale out of Don Quixote. The Nazis have been invincible so far. And we’re being asked to fight with no money against enemies with room service at the Waldorf.

  The fog lifted a bit more. General Houghton. Of course. The Imperial Posts and Telegraph Censorship Station. They’ve been reading my bank statements. Reporting back to London. They probably know what I have right to the last nickel. Moonlighting in antiques trading. The checks from dealers sent back and forth. Sales letters. Invoices.

  Too late to be embarrassed. What a sucker. Damn fool to get involved in this business. Had to volunteer, didn’t I? Just had to. A bloody, buggered fool. Britain damn well better win.

  -39-

  At the height of the summer season there were few runs anywhere with the quietly aristocratic overtones of the Delaware and Hudson Railroad’s Laurentian. The line of people who’d queued at the gate in Grand Central represented a virtual who’s who of what might be called track society: The wealthy descendants of the original New York Four Hundred, dressed for the country. Southern planters and horsemen in loud jackets. The haute couture remains of café society. And the new elite: industrial managers and financiers in expensive business suits. Flashy
movie stars accompanied by producers in riding pants. Exotic European aristos fleeing the disruption of war. Liberally salted among them were the raffish human spectrum lovingly chronicled in the newspaper columns of Damon Runyon—bookies and handicappers tricked out in blanket plaid suits and straw boaters, seedy gamblers, overdressed gangsters and their ostentatiously underdressed dolls.

  As the streamlined stainless steel solarium car disappeared north out of Grand Central, Hawkins leaned back and unlimbered his pipe. Ordinarily, the company and this kind of busman’s holiday would put him in a splendid mood. But he’d been idly skimming the Times. Headlines leapt out: “Massive Air Battle Over Britain”; “Roosevelt Attacked Over Deal to Trade Fifty Surplus WWI Destroyers for Bases in British Possessions in Caribbean”; “Food and Fuel Shortages Predicted for Winter in Europe Due to Rail Shortages.” Then the kicker: “FBI Investigates Reds in Hollywood.” He threw the paper on the floor in disgust.

  Jesus, one day’s news, he thought. And what a sense of priorities. Ludwig’s running a spy network, God knows how large, while tapping into the US Navy’s top secrets. And what are Kelly’s colleagues doing? Chasing bohemians who stay up too late and talk too much.

  But the reports of fuel and food shortages prompted his darkest reflections. That means my mother. Sister, Jill. Aunt Bernice and Uncle George. My cousins. Faces would be thinner, belts shorter by spring. No one would probably see another orange before the end of the war. Pop had such American expectations about things like oranges. But Mum certainly came around. She’ll miss that.

  And here I am in the land of the second helping being conveyed in the epitome of rolling luxury to the summer pageantry and hilarity of an elite resort in season. Like taking advantage. Shameful. The whole world’s out of kilter.

  What’s happening to them? Can W help get them out? But the answer would be no, of course. What if everyone did that? Besides, Mum’s probably employed by now. Most likely an office, maybe a government ministry. She’d calmly refuse to leave. Easy to hear her voice: “Why, Roy, what an idea.”