The Proxy Assassin

by John Knoerle

  He rattled off news about a bunch of private initiatives, Committees to Save This and That. I didn’t listen very closely, I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Retirement from active duty did not suit Wild Bill Donovan.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a ringing phone. I hesitated.

  “Answer it,” said Donovan.

  I did. It was Winston.

  “I took the liberty of sending up a pitcher of Manhattans and a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Mistah Hal. I wanted to let you know.”

  “Thank you, Winston, well done.” A waiter wheeled in the goodies not thirty seconds later.

  General Donovan declined a cocktail. I suppose it was rude of me to pour one for myself but Carrie Nation and her hatchet couldn’t have stopped me at that point. I was keen to tell him about my recent cockeyed mission but Donovan closed that door before I could open it.

  “We can’t discuss your trip.”

  “But sir…”

  Donovan held up his hand. “I was a civilian in ’46 as well, yes. But it’s different now. There are competent people in charge, professionals. They deserve your silence.”

  Frank Wisner worked for Wild Bill during the war. Sounded to me like this was Donovan’s laying on of hands.

  “Would you like a bite, sir?”

  I wheeled the tray over. Not a cucumber sandwich in sight. Donovan helped himself to a pickled egg and a handful of beer nuts. Apparently he and Winston had done this before.

  “Did you know that your father worked for me?”

  I was shocked to silence.

  “He was a translator on my office staff during the Great War. I barely knew him at the time but he did me a service later on.”

  I backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. Donovan crossed his legs and laced his hands behind his head.

  “I was not a popular choice for OSS Chief on the Hill. Congress wanted someone more ‘sophisticated’ to better cozy up to the British gentry of MI6. They didn’t want a dumb Mick in other words. If I wanted a serious budget from Ways and Means I had to impress the bastards going in. Your father helped me do that.”

  “Sir, my father runs a candy store in Youngstown, Ohio.”

  “Is that right? I never knew what he did for a living.” The old lion pointed to the pitcher. I poured him one. He took a sip and continued.

  “Your father had been brought along to some German Bund meetings by his brother. He didn’t take them seriously, a chance for married men to get out of the house and drink beer.

  But the meetings after Pearl Harbor turned serious. They had, your old man soon discovered, a fundraising network that stretched from Pittsburg to Chicago. And safe houses, hidden boat docks on Lake Erie.”

  Donovan leaned forward, took another nip, sat back. “Two days before my scheduled testimony I received his registered letter. And it was my distinct pleasure to reveal this network of fifth columnists to a closed session of the House Ways and Means Committee.”

  And the old man never said a word about it. I was beaming ear to ear when Wild Bill dropped the hammer.

  “Allen Dulles wants a favor.”

  I was flattered of course. The top guns of OSS teaming up to ask a favor of little ol’ me. But I’d been asked favors before and they generally led to a lowering of my life expectancy. I wasn’t going back out again. Not for Wild Bill, Allen Dulles or Abe Lincoln back from the grave.

  But it wasn’t like that.

  “Allen knows politics better than I do and it’s all politics now. He thinks Dewey is vulnerable since Truman got religion on the Red Menace. Dewey’s camp is planning a big rally in the VFW Hall on the Sunday before election day, with the hero of the Berlin airlift as the guest of honor.”

  “Captain Candybar?”

  Donovan nodded. “Dulles told Dewey’s campaign manager that you’d make a nice addition to the rally.”

  Me?

  “It would be the end of your career as a field agent of course. Do you still have ambitions in that regard?”

  “Not a one, sir.”

  Donovan grunted. “Yes, it’s different now.”

  I asked if Frank Wisner knew about this request for me to appear at a political rally.

  “No. The Chief of OPC doesn’t get involved in politics.”

  “Not in this country anyway.”

  A pause, then a bark of laughter from Wild Bill.

  “You can tell Frank I put the arm on you. And you have my word that no mention of your latest…adventure will be made.”

  Donovan wasn’t as out of the loop as he let on. And could be Wild Bill wasn’t completely sold on Wisner’s professionalism. It wasn’t a ‘mission’ or an ‘operation.’ It was an ‘adventure.’

  I didn’t ask about my end. There’s always a payoff in politics, provided the front-runner stayed that way. I told the General I would give it a go.

  Donovan’s request answered a nagging question. Why had Frank Wisner gone to all the trouble and expense of my frantic six-legged plane trip when a train to Naples and a leisurely ocean crossing would have done just as well?

  Bill Donovan nibbled his drink and stared out the window. I couldn’t imagine what else he might have to say.

  “You father traveled to D.C. in November of ’44, waited in my office all day,” said the General after a time. “He demanded to know if you were still alive and when you were coming home, insisted your tour of duty had expired. I said you were still alive to the best of my knowledge. And I told him why we hadn’t brought you home on schedule.”

  “Why was that, sir?”

  “We were too close to victory. And you were too damn effective.”

  And with that Wild Bill Donovan got up, shook my hand and walked out the door.

  I poured myself a second Manhattan and mulled it over. Hard to believe that jolly-jolly Uncle Jorg was a fifth columnist, though I did recall long silences around the dinner table in those days. Mom wiping a tear for no reason, Uncle Jorg no longer a weekend visitor. Then a brick through the front window late one night. Dad was already sweeping up when I got there. ‘Some drunk,’ was all he said.

  I eyed the telephone on the desk. I owed my parents a phone call. I’ve been putting it off because Mom had been pestering me. ‘Even your crazy kid sister settled down and got married.’

  I would call them after the rally. It was time to cash in my chips – intel analyst or field agent instructor. A grown-up job. Then I’d call ‘em.

  I wasn’t a total shit. I picked up the phone and dictated a telegram, telling Ma and Pa Schroeder I had returned to D.C. in one piece and would call soon.

  Chapter Thirty

  My suite at the Mayflower had a dressing area off the bathroom with a full-length mirror. I had checked my dress-up duds with the bell captain before my trip. They were hanging in my closet when I returned, cleaned and pressed.

  I stood in front of the mirror for a longer time than I’d care to admit, trying to decide whether to wear my black suit with the narrow lapels that made me look like a small town mortician. Or my double-breasted navy blue blazer with fake brass buttons that made me look like an insurance salesman out for a big night.

  Captain Candybar would doubtless be turned out in his dress blues, a silver oak leaf cluster gleaming on his chest.

  I chose the black suit with a white shirt and blue tie with red polka dots.

  The Dewey rally started at seven. I went down to the Towne and Country Lounge about five-thirty but Winston was not in residence. Just as well. Much as I craved strong drink I had a beer and a quick bite instead, then walked the six extra-long blocks to the VFW Hall on Vermont Ave.

  I was still the ‘Hero of Mahlendamm Bridge.’ No reports of my disastrous trip to Romania had made the press. Goings-on in Transylvania were well down the list of pressing concerns for Americans in November of 1948.

  The hall was cavernous. Men were already trickling in, mostly Great War vets with enameled corp and regiment pins on their caps. The curtain was down, the proscenium hung w
ith red, white and blue bunting and a big Dewey-Warren banner. To the left of the stage stood three newsreel cameras flanked by floodlights.

  A tall man who looked as if he’d lived the last fifty years on nothing but cigs and black coffee hurried up to me.

  “You Schroeder?” he said, his breath strong as a train trestle. I nodded. “I’m Al, been a change of plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “You and the Captain were s’posed to grin, wave and go. But the newsies wanna talk to da heroes. So we agreed to a brief Q&A. General interest, where you’re from and whatnot.”

  “They’re going to want to know why I’m supporting Dewey. And I don’t know diddly about his foreign policy.”

  “Here’s all you need to know: Governor Dewey loves America, Governor Dewey hates Communism. And you think that a Dewey Administration – a President Dewey, is the best choice to preserve America’s freedom and liberty.”

  “What the difference?”

  “Heh?”

  “Between freedom and liberty.”

  Al shut his eyes and opened them again. “Don’t be a smartass.”

  He gave me a quick once over. “We’ll get you a decent tie. Makeup’s in the green room,” he said, shoving me down the aisle toward the stage.

  Makeup?

  I wandered around backstage until a stagehand pointed me toward a small room in the corner. The door was open. Captain Candybar sat on a stool, his back to the dressing mirror. He had a paper bib around his neck as a frizzy-haired girl patted his chiseled mug with pancake makeup.

  It was a difficult situation in which to radiate manly self-assurance but the Captain managed it. He looked like a hero – wavy blond hair and a dimpled chin you could park a twenty-five cent piece in.

  “Pull up a stool, Schroeder,” he said. “You’re next.”

  I was surprised he knew my name. The makeup gal went to work on me while Captain Candybar lit a Camel and put me in the know.

  “The cameras are below stage, so look down, not up. Work the mike from an angle so you don’t pop. Keep your answers short and sweet, and no jokes. Heroes don’t crack wise.”

  I’d been gee’d up to dislike this guy but I found I had the opposite reaction.

  “And one more thing. When you get sweaty under those klieg lights pat your forehead with your hankie, don’t wipe it. Smears the makeup.”

  “Very good, Captain,” said the makeup gal.

  Al the press flack darted in about then, handed me a red silk tie and matching handkerchief, then turned and left without a word. A brass band started up a Sousa march. The Captain clapped me on the shoulder and made for the door.

  “Those cameras out there,” I said, “they don’t look right.”

  The Captain turned at the doorway. “How’s that?”

  “They don’t look like newsreel cameras.”

  The Captain unzipped a hundred watt smile. “We’re working without a net tonight, Schroeder.”

  It took me a minute to decode his comment. Oh shit, oh dear. That wasn’t a newsreel crew out there. We were going to be on television. Live television.

  I donned my red tie and handkerchief and told my hands to quit shaking. I went over the lines Al had given me. I looked in the mirror and checked my teeth for spinach. The makeup made me look like I’d been embalmed.

  I told the face in the mirror to grow some gonads. Told him he’d faced down murderous foes and grim death. It didn’t help. I had butterflies the size of barn owls.

  The speechifying commenced. A VFW bigwig was introducing the candidate. I left the green room. It was dark behind the curtain, lit only by a solo spot with a blue gel. An odd juxtaposition to the bright lights and glory on the other side.

  Captain Candybar was watching from the wings but the candidate was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t mind endorsing Dewey for President, I didn’t have much use for Truman. But it would have been nice to meet the guy.

  I went and stood behind Captain Candybar to peek a look. The rousing introduction of Governor Dewey produced only a polite round of applause. The grizzled vets looked to be a tough crowd.

  Dewey started out low key, said his thank you’s and poked fun at his reputation as a cold fish. He had a powerful baritone that filled the hall. Then he launched into an hour-long stem-winder that was interrupted several times by applause.

  Well, ‘interrupted’ may be the wrong word. Dewey would come to the end of a stirring call to action, pause and wait till the audience supplied the expected ovation. He was hitting all the patriotic high notes but the vets were cool to him.

  Could be it was because Dewey was in that awkward, in-between generation – too young to serve in the Great War, too old for action in WWII. He wasn’t one of them. Which was why Captain Candybar and I and were here.

  Al the press flack scuttled over to me. He was chewing an unlit cigarette and muttering to himself, unhappy that his boy was laying an egg. “Get ready,” he said, putting a hand in the small of my back. A fat bead of sweat ran down my spine.

  “And now, my friends,” said Governor Dewey, “I have a little surprise for you, some last minute guests who would like to make your acquaintance. The Hero of Muhlendamm Bridge, OSS agent extraordinaire Hal Schroeder!”

  Al shoved me, blinking, into the blazing light. The vets seemed to know who I was, the applause was solid. I grinned and waved. I walked over and stood next to Dewey and waved some more.

  “And the man they call Captain Candybar,” said Dewey. “The hero of the Berlin Airlift, Captain James Jenkins!”

  Dewey and I looked left, the direction from which I’d entered and the wing where the Captain had been standing. A few titters from the crowd caused us to look in the other direction. When we did the vets let loose with hoots of raucous laughter.

  The Captain had entered stage right while we were looking left and, by putting his finger to his mouth and tiptoeing across the stage, had the crowd in the palm of his hand before he ever spoke a word.

  Dewey clasped both our hands, held them up and shouted, “These are the kind of men who will serve in a Dewey White House!”

  The veterans gave us a thunderous ovation.

  I hate the entire ridiculous hero rigmarole. But I loved every second of that ovation.

  Governor Dewey thanked the crowd, shook our hands and left the stage on a high note. Press flack Al stayed behind to birddog the newsies. They wanted to talk to Captain Jenkins.

  Jenkins fed them a couple well-chewed anecdotes in between praising the Governor’s unimpeachable strength of character and his lifelong dedication to the cause of constitutional democracy.

  All they trusted me to say was that Dewey hates Commies.

  I did get to answer a question eventually, the one that the Dewey campaign wanted asked. Did I really think the United States was losing the Cold War?

  I said that I did, but that a President Dewey could turn the tide of history and preserve our God-given right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

  Not sure where that last bit of cornpone came from but Captain Candybar gave me a wink and Al immediately thanked the members of the press and started to usher us offstage. We had hauled Thomas Dewey’s ashes out of the fire.

  “Mr. Schroeder! Excuse me, Mr. Schroeder!”

  What was this now? My eyes searched out the location of the familiar voice. She was at the back of the pack, Miss Julia, my fetching tormentor.

  Al tugged at my sleeve but I was flush with victory. I brushed his hand away and called on the intrepid girl reporter.

  “Are you the same Harold Schroeder who worked as an undercover operative for the FBI in December of 1945? The man hired to infiltrate the Fulton Road Mob?” she shouted for all to hear.

  I hemmed, I hawed, I jacked my jaws.

  “The mob that successfully robbed the Federal Reserve Bank with the help of three Irish hoodlums? Hoodlums who have never been apprehended?”

  How in the name of J. Edgar Hoover did she know about the Mooney Brothers? The
y never made the press reports.

  Captain Candybar interceded. “Young lady, I don’t know who sent you but I can assure you that my friend Hal Schroeder is a straight shooter and a patriot. His service behind German lines made our successful wartime bombing runs possible. His courage at Muhlendamm Bridge paved the way for our victorious airlift over Berlin.”

  I was Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote in other words. Fine, he gave me cover to slink offstage. I peeked through the curtain to see if the baying newshounds were coming after me but they were still clustered around the Captain, who was signing autographs.

  Press flack Al appeared and jabbed a bony yellow finger at me behind the curtain. “What the hell was that?” he hissed. “You’re s’posed to be an authentic American hero!”

  “Sorry.”

  Al wandered off, muttering obscenities. I stood there in a daze, prize porker to canned ham in record time.

  I thought I’d gone round the bend for sure when I saw Miss Julia come marching backstage, reporter’s notebook in hand. Didn’t she know I was duty bound to kill her?

  “I wanted to give you a chance to answer my questions, set the record straight,” she said, pencil poised.

  “How ‘bout you answer me a question? In our first interview you got me to endorse Dewey, now you’re pitching rude questions at a Dewey rally. Who the hell are you working for?”

  “Myself. I’m trying to make it in a business that thinks I should be covering baby christenings and flower shows.”

  I cast about for villains. Harvey and I had parted on bad terms.

  “Did Bill Harvey put you up to this?”

  “A good reporter doesn’t reveal his sources.”

  “Don’t quote me scripture, missy, answer the damn question!”

  “Bill Harvey was not my source.”

  “Was it Hoover?”

  Julia laughed at me. “And you don’t get a third question.”

  Shit. This raised two very unpleasant possibilities.

  “Tell me where I was wrong,” said Julia.

  I should have read her the riot act but I couldn’t muster it. She was just doing her job. And she smelled good.