When was the last time we were together? In her London parlor. She was holding the new gas mask I got her in her lap. Kept smiling and nodding, trying to act appreciative, not succeeding. Gas. Never stopped to think it’d be a reminder of Pop dying. And no bloody coal burning in the grate. Thoughtless, utterly thoughtless.
Haven’t written in months. Never thought of it. Always on the run. Could’ve easily mailed letters from Lisbon, or had Wilkinson, Houghton or W send word. Never mind. It’ll only be a couple of weeks anyway. Then pass through on the way back to Europe.
The brakes squealed sending everyone in the car lurching forward. A sign whizzed past the window. Yonkers? His morose, guilty rumination and the entire privileged assembly unceremoniously ground to an unscheduled stop.
Hawkins looked out and ahead. Mike Kelly. On the platform, talking to a rattled-looking stationmaster. Kelly clipped a badge to his lapel and gestured for the conductor. Then he climbed onto the train. Doors began slamming open and shut between the cars.
A sense of alert tension spread over Hawkins, mounting with each angry-sounding slam.
Christ. The bugger made them stop the Laurentian? His office is in Manhattan. What’s the show for? Only one reason, he thought. An arrest. For spying. That’s it. The only possible explanation. Director Hoover’s decided to boot me out. So much for the big dance.
Rage began building, heart accelerating, banging harder and harder against the front of his ribs. Bastards. Bloody bastards! Why can’t they simply say move along. No, have to ruin everything. Let Ludwig slip away. Blithering idiots.
Maybe it won’t be the big boot. Maybe it’ll be “American Traitor Arrested as G-Men Guard US Neutrality.” Does the Bureau know about MI6? Could they take my citizenship? How far could this go … Could they blow up W’s entire operation?
He eyed the latches on the side window.
No, jumping’s not the answer. He began rubbing his wrists, then caught himself. Stop that, he thought. Anyone else on the platform? No. Kelly’s alone. Said I looked like a slick executive type. Probably thinks I’m merely another businessman called to national service, that I’m an easy mark. Big mistake there, buddy. Oh, yes, fellow government man. Hawkins’ rage shifted to a ready, cold focus.
What will it take? Get him in a choke hold, just like training. He’ll never see it coming. Pass out in seconds. Then throw him under the wheels. Wouldn’t be hard. He’s a pudge. Look like an accident. Without a witness, no pathologist could detect it. At least buy enough time to get to Canada. But what about W, the office? Warn them? But what would they do?
That thought brought back W’s orders. “Not to harm any Americans, even if they’re Nazis.” Could I get away with it, anyway? No. Never get away. Nothing sets the police off like a dead copper.
Then another realization set in.
But … so what if they throw me out? All right, fine. I want to go back to Europe, anyway. W will not be happy, but I’ll get to go back in. Just hope they don’t blow my cover in the process.
-40-
Kelly entered the car, saw him, waved slightly. He exhaled with relief and extended his hand, self-consciously looking over his shoulder at the gaping crowd.
“Hawkins, I need to talk to you … Come on, between the cars.” Hawkins tapped his pipe in the ashtray, deliberately following Kelly out, on edge, still tense and angry, waiting. On the platform between the carriages he looked down, checking the gap between the cars. Enough room for an unconscious man. He glanced across at the station. No. Too many people on the platform. Worse than the ferry. No choice but to ride this out.
Kelly banged the door shut behind them.
“What, no newsreel cameras?” Hawkins said.
“Huh?”
“Don’t I rate cameras?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought that’s how the Bureau likes to make big arrests.”
“No—”
“What the hell, Kelly.”
“I received special instructions directly from the seat of government this morning.”
“You mean Director Hoover’s office—”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve been sent on an important mission. Now we happen to know you’re with British Intelligence, although we can’t prove that. Either that or this new MI6—”
Hawkins couldn’t stand it anymore, almost shouting, “What the bloody hell? Am I being arrested or not!”
“Why, no.” Kelly seemed genuinely puzzled and put off. “The Bureau is very interested in the fact you’re an American citizen. As you’re aware, the US has no real intelligence or counterintelligence service. With the changing situation in Europe the director feels that’s now his responsibility.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“This isn’t a formal thing, mind you—obviously, the director needs to know in advance—but, if you’re interested, the director would be willing to consider your appointment, as an American citizen, of course, to an executive level position in the new intelligence division he intends to organize.”
“What?”
“I’m talking GS-16 or -18 most likely, assistant or deputy director. Senior civil service, sub-cabinet level. That’d probably only quadruple your present pay but additional considerations could be worked out.”
“Additional considerations?”
“Oh, car—personal assistants, you know, at home. We know this places you in an awkward position. We don’t expect an answer until your present assignment is over. But the director’d like to know your inclinations as soon as possible.”
“You mean you stopped the Laurentian—the Laurentian—to make me a job offer?”
“They called at home. I live in the Bronx.”
“Suppose someone sees us!”
“Aw, you can imagine all kinds of things.”
“Imagining what can go wrong is what we do!”
“Oh, Jesus—”
“And did you see who’s on this bloody thing?” Hawkins pointed back at the car. Kelly shrugged. “Millionaires, movie stars, rich, powerful people—”
That really annoyed Kelly. “Hey, they don’t rate any—”
“No! Not the point! They’re people who are used to getting their way and know how to complain. That’s drawing attention. You don’t do that. If you did this in Britain the minister’d have your guts for garters! You’d wind up colonial police in some mud-brick shit hole in the Sudan! This is the kind of thing they do in the Reich.”
“Hey! Excuse me! I’m only making you an offer way over my head! You think I’ll ever see a job like this? Fuck you, pal—”
“No, bugger you—”
Kelly pushed Hawkins, hard. Hawkins pushed back. They grabbed each other by the coat sleeves—not enough room to swing—and slammed around in a circle in the confined space between the cars. Hawkins pushed Kelly away. They stood apart, glaring at each other. Then they began to cool. Hats flown off, Hawkins realized. He reached down, picked both up and handed Kelly his. Kelly snapped it away and flipped it back on his balding head.
The proposal began sinking in. It was a struggle to mentally switch from the anticipation of being handcuffed to the broad vistas such an astounding offer presented. Or grasp that Hoover could act so swiftly and with such breezy but ruthless pragmatism: Let’s just hire him away. It didn’t help that Kelly hadn’t chosen the best of all possible moments.
“It’s not that I’m not appreciative. I’m sorry—I am—intrigued.”
“Good. That’s a relief.”
“But—wait, the federal criminal police are taking this on themselves?”
“You’ve lost me here.”
“In Britain we keep Scotland Yard, MI6 and the Security Service strictly separate.”
“Why?”
“Too much power in one pot. That’s how the Soviets do it! Besides, intelligence isn’t law enforcement. What you and I do is completely different—”
“What? How?”
“You react, investigate
crimes, not people, after they do something. We act, follow people, gather information—go on the offensive before they can. We keep secrets. Your job is to expose secrets—to judges, juries.”
“Aw—well, shit, now that helps a lot, doesn’t it?”
“And does Congress or the president get to say anything?”
“Hey, I never signed up for this kind of stuff. I wanted to be a G-man, fight crime. That’s all any of us ever wanted to do. At least the director’s trying to do sumpthin’ here. Give ’im some credit!”
“But does he have any legal mandate?”
“I don’t know—but let me tell ya, getting you on his team would go a l-o-o-ng ways to staking his claim.”
“I’m not sure I want to be a pawn in his power play.”
“He’s going ahead whether you’re along for the ride or not. Wouldn’t you rather see it done right? Come on, you could make the difference—”
“How do I know he doesn’t want to break off one of the Service’s wheels?”
“I’ll be really honest with you—Oh! Now you’re admitting it, huh?”
“Don’t bullshit—”
“Okay, okay, yeah, that did occur to me. But we don’t know much about this stuff. You sort of just proved that. I’ll bet my badge the offer is real. Hey, listen, Hawkins! I stuck my neck out on this. I told them I thought it was a good idea. You don’t know what that means at the Bureau. At least give it a decent chance. I mean, come on! We’re the Yankees! It’s like you’re with some crap team like the Phillies.”
“Jesus—I—right. I’m sure you did. Thanks, Mike. I appreciate that. I’ll think about it. Really.”
“Great. Say, I gotta get off, somebody’s holding up the train.” Kelly jumped off and waved to the trainmen. “Which one is it, by the way?”
“What—”
“The Secret Intelligence Service or this new MI6?”
“They’re the same.”
“They are? No shit. That’s news.”
“Code names. Military Intelligence Bureau Six. The Security Service is MI5. They handle domestic internal security inside Britain. Scotland Yard is still Scotland Yard. Strictly criminal police. Like you are. Or were.”
With an impatient surge, the train pulled out of the station, throwing Hawkins. He grabbed a handle, catching himself, his head vibrating like a string on a guitar that’d been plucked too hard. Kelly waved, smiling a bit.
“That’ll make a nice report. Oh, by the way—he’s on board.”
-41-
The smooth blue locomotive thundered into Saratoga trailing smoke and steam. A swarm of children darted out of the station and tore along the platform, racing it to a halt.
Inside, Roy Hawkins edgily perched on his seat, waiting to spring. Kelly’s offer, all the reflections, gone for now.
Ludwig’s on the train, Hawkins thought. Damn. Got to find him and fast—who knows who’s meeting him?
It slowed. He flung himself down the aisle. The conductor turned. “Hey, will you—” as Hawkins leapt off into the milling, noisy crowd. He quickly bounded down the platform, checking the entrances. It took three sweaty minutes. Then he spotted Ludwig claiming his baggage. He edged up, backward, and gently bumped him.
“Why, Dr. Ludwig! What luck. We can share a cab to the hotel—”
“Ah, Mr. Hawkins, no need. I sent my car and chauffeur ahead last night.” Ludwig graciously gestured over his shoulder toward a large black Mercedes. “Do join me, please.”
A tall, muscular man in a chauffeur’s uniform leaned against the car, arms folded, his leather cap pulled down over his eyes. When he saw them he waited, defiantly tarrying until the last possible second before stiffly hurrying over. A thick, muscular neck pushed a thin roll of youthful fat over the top of his tight collar. Tension seemed to crackle under his smooth, slightly beefy face.
Hawkins uneasily took the stare in. It keeps getting better and better. A former Hitlerjungen? This one’s half a head taller than I am. Probably has fifty pounds on me. Had to give the Hi-Power to Wilkinson, didn’t I? And now Ludwig has a car. How jolly.
“Thank you, Doctor! I’d enjoy a lift in this heat. Where are you staying?”
“The United States Hotel. Couldn’t get a reservation anywhere else on short notice.”
“Same here.”
“Very good, then. Dieter!” Ludwig imperiously snapped his fingers in the air, obviously enjoying the sensation. He headed for the car without a glance. The brim of Dieter’s cap lowered over eyes scintillating with a sizzling anger barely held in check, jaw working back and forth, pausing for another long second. Then he began truculently ordering about a pair of hapless red caps. Every word and gesture called up images of blows and kicks. They scooped up the bags and began loading them in the Mercedes’ boxy trunk.
Behind them the Laurentian blew a thunderous whistle. It accelerated north out of the station with a powerful low rumble, the last car a blur before it passed the end of the platform.
“Splendid car, Doctor. Why didn’t you drive?” Hawkins said.
“Train takes half the time. And you can’t get a lobster on the highway.”
Dieter quickly steered around the corner and drove down the quarter-mile length of the United States Hotel to Broadway and the entrance. Hawkins watched, curious.
A high mansard roof. Hundreds of cupolas and gables. Twelve hundred rooms adorned by fantastic Victorian curlicues. The States Hotel, as it was known, had a nearby and slightly larger sister, the Grand Union, the largest wood frame building in the world. Together they towered over the town, dwarfing it the way French villages clustered at the feet of medieval cathedrals.
In front a pair of elderly black doormen in worn Victorian jackets and caps emerged and took their bags. They led them up the flowing marble steps, across a porch the width of a basketball court and through a set of double doors high enough for a pair of mounted cavalrymen. The United States Hotel was a stupendous construction, but frayed carpets and worn furnishings showed it had fallen badly behind the times. The new age threatened doom.
“Is the meeting here at the hotel?”
“No, we’ve rented the Van Schenck estate.” Ludwig took one of his business cards and wrote the address on the back for Hawkins. “Ten a.m. tomorrow so everyone can make post time.”
“Splendid.”
Hawkins held back as Ludwig registered, discreetly listening for the room numbers. Only when the bellhops led his quarry safely out of earshot did Hawkins ease down the ornate marble counter. With a flourish he took out Ludwig’s business card, carefully concealing the back.
“I’m with Dr. Ludwig. Is it possible to get an adjoining room?”
“Yes, it’s still open.” In truth, the old hotel rarely filled up halfway, even at the height of the season.
“Good. Reserve that for …” Hawkins winked broadly. “Hmmm—let’s reserve that for a … friend who’s coming. Here’s her—er, I mean—his name. And a separate one under my name on another floor.”
The clerk broadly winked. “I understand perfectly, sir! That will be Room 307 for Mr. Churchill”—he winked again—“and room 455 for you.”
-42-
The vast hotel dining room stretched off monotonously. When the hotel was built gluttonous, twelve-course meals taking over two hours were routine. Since multiple seatings were impossible, the era’s hoteliers built gigantic noisy dining rooms serving over a thousand patrons. It held only a fraction of that now, all clustered at one end.
Ludwig and his chauffeur sat a dozen tables back. Hawkins carefully watched a moment. Curious, Ludwig and his chauffeur eating together, he thought. What’s that about? An ostentatious show of National Socialist solidarity? Probably the only other German around. Given the size of the room, they’re in for a long wait.
Hawkins double-timed it up the stairs to the third floor and circuited the hallway, checking. All clear. He got his thin leather case of locksmith tools from his bag. In seconds he picked the lock on Ludwig’s doo
r. In the silence it spun with a thunderous grind. He nervously checked the hall again. Still clear. With one smooth motion he swiftly marched inside and unlocked a connecting door on the side. Peeking out into the hall first, he quickly relocked the main door to Ludwig’s room.
Hawkins started entering the room next door that he intended to use as a blind, then paused a moment. Softly calling hello, he knocked on the door of the next room down the hall. No one there. He started picking the lock, then realized it was open. He peeked in. Unoccupied. Relaxing, he unlocked that room’s connecting door, too. Then he exited and used his hotel key to enter his “duck blind.”
He threw his hat and kit on the bed and looked the room over. A big mess of Victorian gewgaw, slummy and repulsive. Like the once-upon-a-time white marble sink. Imagine a single cold water tap in this day and age. All the toilets and baths must be down the hall in one of those communal washrooms. And a knotted rope bolted to a hook under the window for a fire escape, there’s a nice touch. The colorful Bakelite radio the only modern, likable thing.
Still—three rooms. He unlocked both connecting doors from inside 307, throwing them wide open—305, 307 and 309, looking back and forth. Not bad at all. Then he relocked the inside door to the empty room, 309, and sauntered into 305, Ludwig’s room.
A nondescript collection of German and American toiletries littered the dresser. Nothing interesting there. At that he stopped a moment. Need to clear the mind, he thought, and concentrate.
Searching a room undetected was one of the most difficult feats to pull off. The real effort was almost all mental. Hawkins had to remember every move he made, everything he touched. That way he could meticulously reverse himself out when finished. It was vital not to disturb too much at a time. He had to be able to get out fast. Too many pieces moved escalated the risk. Much safer to have lookouts, of course.
With great care he opened the drawer and carefully memorized the exact position of everything. Then he slowly began lifting and searching Ludwig’s clothes. Move and replace a small section at a time, exactly like training. At the end everything was back in exactly the same position. Unfortunately, it could’ve been a tourist’s dresser. Who cared if Ludwig had expensive clothes and cheap underwear?
New York Station Page 12
