Fifth Column

by Christopher Remy

  Hagen turned off his headlights and crept closer to Viersing's car. They turned a corner and slowed. A large clapboarded colonial stood in the middle of a wide lawn, facing the water. Johanna could see two chimneys silhouetted against the sky and a white gravel driveway that shone in the moonlight.

  Viersing's car also turned off its headlights and coasted up to the low brick wall that lined the edge of the property. Hagen stayed back and stopped the car.

  Johanna saw the outlines of two men get out of the car and walk toward the house.

  Hagen pulled out his pistol and pulled back on the slide, checking that there was a round in the chamber. He let go and it snapped closed.

  He carefully opened the car door so as not to make a sound and motioned to Johanna to do the same. Hagen took Johanna by the sleeve and whispered to her to keep quiet.

  They crept along the road, coming up on the gray Chevrolet. Moonlight glinted off the long chrome strip that ran along the hood. Hagen peered inside, but the car was empty. They continued toward the house.

  A stand of pine trees afforded some cover at the end of the brick wall. Hagen kneeled down and looked around the trees to get a view of the house, waving to Johanna to crouch beside him.

  Johanna couldn't see any lights on in the house, nor could she see Viersing or his companion. It occurred to her that what she was supposed to witness might be about to happen. Her pulse quickened, but she still couldn't see anything.

  Then, a small oval of light appeared on the ground next to the house. A flashlight. Whoever held it cupped his hand over it to block the light. Johanna saw a strip of red where the light shone through his hand.

  He brought it up to a first floor window and shined the light inside. For a second, light reflected off the window pane and Johanna could just make out Viersing's face looking inside the house. She still couldn't make out the other man.

  The flashlight went out. Johanna listened and heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  The sound was coming toward them.

  Hagen jumped up and pulled Johanna with him. They hid in the stand of trees and watched the two men get back into the car. The car started and drove away, its headlights coming on at the end of the street.

  "What was that all about?" Johanna asked.

  Hagen ignored the question and put his gun back in his pocket.

  "Who lives in that house?" she insisted.

  "We'll wait until the morning and go into town and ask. I'm sure I know who it is, but you will go find out for yourself."

  34

  Wexler made his way uptown to 30 Rockefeller Plaza and rode the elevator to the 25th floor. He checked his notes and found the right office.

  A secretary took his coat and offered him a chair in the spacious waiting room. She sat behind a huge slab of a desk and busied herself with typing.

  Wexler thought that this office could pass for a high-end law firm or executive suite. Instead, it was the New York office of the Coordinator of Information. Wexler, and indeed the entire FBI up to Hoover, shared the sentiment that the COI were amateurs trespassing on the FBI's territory. They were nothing more than lawyers and eggheads playing a spy game. Wexler hadn't heard of a single one of them that had any experience in law enforcement.

  It had been bad enough that they made him waste his time with that girl over the summer. Now that she had re-appeared, he was once again frittering away his valuable time with the COI.

  The secretary picked up the phone on her desk and murmured a few words.

  "Mr. Dulles is ready to see you, sir," she said and led the way to a row of offices.

  Allen Welsh Dulles sat at his desk with a view of the EmpireStateBuilding over his shoulder. He was in the middle of lighting his pipe and he waved Wexler to a leather chair in front of the desk.

  Even across the expanse of his huge desk, Dulles was a large, intimidating presence. His white hair and clothes were unkempt, a bristling white mustache the only thing about him that seemed groomed. He waved out his match and smiled at Wexler.

  "Good morning, Special Agent," he said, puffing on his pipe. "What can I do you for?"

  Wexler had planned on giving Dulles hell, practicing his most contemptuous tone on the way over. Now that he sat in front of the man, he felt his nerve leave him.

  "I was wondering if you might tell me whatever happened to Johanna Falck?" he asked, hating how meek he sounded.

  Dulles furrowed his brow and nodded. He put his pipe in a small stand and folded his hands on the desktop.

  "Miss Falck, I'm sorry to say, has disappeared. She failed to make contact with her courier three weeks in a row. We haven't heard a word, and have no idea where she is or what might have happened to her."

  Wexler felt his nerve return. He knew something they didn't, and savored it for a moment.

  "That's interesting," he said. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with Dulles' desk lighter. "Because I saw her here in New York yesterday."

  Wexler pulled on his cigarette and fought the urge to smile at the surprised look on Dulles' face.

  Wexler let that sink in before he continued.

  "And what's more, I saw her with a known German spy. In Yorkville."

  Dulles now looked confused.

  "Which known German spy?" he asked.

  Wexler waved his hand. "His name's Otto Viersing. We're all over him. The question is, what is she doing back without your knowing about it and what's she doing with Nazi spies?"

  Dulles picked up his pipe and a cloud of smoke grew about his head.

  "I'm afraid I don't know," he said.

  Wexler nodded. "I see. Well, in that case, I think I'll just keep my eye on her. Until I find any reason to think differently, I'm assuming this is now a case of counter-intelligence, over which the FBI has clear jurisdiction as you well know." At this remark, Dulles gave him an exasperated look. Bullseye. "And that comes from Director Hoover himself."

  Wexler stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and stood up.

  "It would seem that your girl's gone to the other side. Given that she had no idea what she was doing, I merely expected her to be shot by the Gestapo. This is quite an interesting twist. I'd say your people have managed to create new and innovative ways to screw up. No offense, of course."

  Dulles stared at him, silent.

  Wexler touched his forehead in a mock salute. "Have a good day, sir."

  He closed the door behind him and chuckled when he heard Dulles curse.

  Johanna stretched her neck, feeling the knotted muscles in her shoulders and back from sleeping in the car yet again. She and Hagen walked the sidewalk that ran down the center of the nearby village of Huntington, looking for an open shop. They came upon a pharmacy where an older woman in a long fur coat was unlocking the front door. Hagen stopped a few feet behind her and pretended to look in the window of a hobby store.

  Johanna greeted the woman and said that they were thinking about buying a home in Lloyd Neck.

  "I was wondering about that white colonial on the hill, over on the other side of town? The one with the two big chimneys?"

  The woman smiled and nodded.

  "You must be talking about the Lloyd Manor House," she replied. "That's a pretty well known place here in town. Built in the 1700s. British had a fort there during the Revolution, you know." She turned a crank to extend the shop's awning. "Don't think you'll have any luck trying to buy that one, I'm afraid."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, it's being rented right now." The woman stopped for a moment, clearly mulling something over. "I probably shouldn't tell you, they're pretty adamant about protecting their privacy and all, but…."

  "Yes?" Johanna pressed.

  "Well, I guess it's all right if you two are going to be neighbors anyway. The house is being rented by the Lindberghs."

  Johanna must have had a shocked expression, because the woman laughed and put her hand on her shoulder as if to steady her.

  "Dear, you look like you're about to faint." />
  Johanna took a moment to find her voice.

  "The Lindberghs? As in Charles Lindbergh?"

  "The very same," she replied. "They moved into the Manor House just last year."

  Johanna thanked the woman and walked away in a daze. She looked at Hagen who had a knowing look on his face.

  "You knew it was Lindbergh's house?" she asked. Hagen nodded.

  "So it really is true," she said in a quiet voice. "At first I thought his admiration for Hitler and the Nazis was naiveté or just plain ignorance. All that talk about 'Hitler has done great things for Germany' and 'they really know how to deal with Communists', I thought it was simply dumb talk. I mean, just because he's a famous pilot doesn't mean he knows anything about politics or world events, right? Then he turns into Mr. Isolationism with those idiots at America First, giving all his speeches about how we're safe behind our two oceans and that if Hitler wants to fight the Bolsheviks, we should let him. People said he was a Nazi stooge or spy, but I never believed it."

  She turned to Hagen. "That's it, right? Viersing is working with Lindbergh to spy for Germany? What is it, something to do with military secrets and planes? Is that it?"

  Hagen shook his head, no.

  Johanna's frustration was getting the better of her.

  "What do you mean, 'no'? We know Viersing is working for the SS, Lindbergh is a known Nazi sympathizer, what else could it be?"

  Hagen said nothing and opened the car door for her. She slapped his hand away.

  "God damn it, tell me what the hell is going on. Does Lindbergh have some secret that you're here to make sure gets back to Berlin? Or are you here to stop him?" She shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense – Lindbergh must be your prized possession. If you think I'm going to help you now, or be your witness, you're out of your goddamned mind. That son of a bitch is a traitor, and I'm not going to help him or you."

  "Are you finished?" Hagen asked.

  Johanna set her jaw and crossed her arms.

  "In answer to all of your questions…," he continued, "…you have jumped to the wrong conclusions entirely. Now please get in the car."

  Johanna didn't move.

  "I suppose your going to tell me, again, that I just have to wait, you'll tell me everything some day, or I'll see it with my own eyes, et cetera. Right?"

  "Yes."

  She groaned and got in the car, slumping in the seat.

  "Don't we need to get back to the city? We've lost Viersing and now he's doing God-knows-what."

  "I'm not concerned about it," Hagen replied. "Viersing will be back."

  Johanna decided against asking why Viersing would return to Lindbergh's house.

  "Who was that with Viersing last night?" she asked instead.

  Hagen gave her a funny look, but said nothing. He got in the car and drove them to nearby Glen Cove, pulling into the beach parking lot. The cold October wind blew sand across the beach, piling drifts against the legs of the lifeguard chairs. Johanna watched Hagen set up his dashboard shortwave radio and transmit a message to Berlin stating that Viersing was indeed their man.

  Charlie and Eve Daly both stared at William Donovan in disbelief. They had received an urgent call to meet the head of COI at his Washington headquarters regarding Johanna.

  "Oh, thank God," Eve exclaimed and wiped away tears.

  Charlie put his hand on his wife's arm, relief on his face.

  "You mean she's alright?" he asked.

  Donovan nodded.

  "She's alive and appears to be well," he replied. He waited a moment and told them that she had been sighted with men who were believed to be German spies.

  "The FBI has assumed that she is now working for the Germans," he added.

  Eve's head snapped up.

  "What? That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. Of course she's not."

  "Are you one hundred percent confident of that?" he asked, looking at one and then the other.

  "Absolutely," Charlie answered. Donovan nodded.

  "I'm sure you're correct, but you can understand that right now it is the only plausible explanation. At the very least, we need to proceed under that assumption. Guarding against the worst case scenario, you see. I'm sure the FBI is going to try to use this as a stick with which to beat us, something we need to make sure doesn't happen. Since we are barred from encroaching on the FBI's sacred territory where domestic counter-intelligence is concerned, we are going to bend the rules a bit.

  "Our hands may be tied, but the British don't have that problem. I'll contact William Stephenson at British Security Coordination up in New York. We'll have his BSC boys bring her in and we'll get to the bottom of this."

  Hagen and Johanna sat in the car, parked a good distance from the Lindbergh house. If Viersing came back tonight, they would see him. They had spent the entire day in Lloyd Neck, walking to stretch their legs, visiting a diner for food and the use of their restrooms. Now, they sat and waited.

  Johanna had given up asking Hagen any questions about Viersing and Lindbergh. She thought the espionage angle was the only thing that made sense. When Hagen said that she had come to the wrong conclusion, she tried to find an alternate explanation and couldn't. She felt like she had come up against a brick wall and now she was tired of thinking about it. Instead, she tried to see what she could find out about Hagen.

  Hagen blew on a paper cup of coffee and watched the Lindbergh house.

  "Where did you grow up in Germany?" Johanna asked.

  Hagen seemed surprised at the personal question.

  "Karlsruhe. It's about seventy-five kilometers from Stuttgart, on the Rhine."

  "I know it," she replied. "I'm from Durlach. That's practically next door. My father ran a delicatessen there. Right by the city hall there in the town center. I don't remember it, but I've seen lots of pictures."

  Hagen nodded. "Mm hmm, I've been to Durlach many times."

  Johanna tried to draw him out. "So, what made you interested in joining the army? That's where you started, right? I mean, before military intelligence and the Abwehr."

  "That's right. I entered the army because my father was in the army and his father and so on going back two hundred years."

  Johanna was genuinely taken aback. "Two hundred years?"

  "Yes. Our family story has always been that a Hagen fought with Frederick the Great. We have no proof of it, but it's the story just the same. It was made very clear to me, without anyone having to say the words, that the family tradition of serving in the army was one that must not be broken."

  "So you never had a choice?"

  "Perhaps, but it's more than that. It was such a part of our family that I never considered whether I had a choice. I never wanted a choice. And then on the tenth anniversary of the day I received my commission, Hitler became Chancellor. The army of my father and grandfather was no more."

  Johanna puzzled at this last remark. "Do you regret it?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "My brother went into the priesthood, and I thought that I might like to do the same, but I think I've had an easier time of it than he has. Life has been difficult for men like my brother. So, here I am."

  He took a sip of his coffee and fell silent. It was yet another strange comment and Johanna turned it over in her mind. Perhaps he felt free to speak, being away from Germany and the police state. Could it be that other Germans harbored similar thoughts? Hagen was the first German she had heard say anything negative about the Nazis. She decided that, like people everywhere, Germans supported their government while still finding things to complain about.

  Hagen looked at Johanna out of the corner of his eye. "Explain to me how it is that you are not married," he said.

  She glared at him and said nothing.

  Hagen laughed.

  "You have scared all the men away, I suppose?"

  Johanna hesitated.

  "Let's just say I haven't met the right one, and leave it at that," she replied.

  "And what would the right one
be?"

  "None of your business. Can we please talk about something else?"

  "No," Hagen replied. "I find this conversation to be very interesting. I find you very interesting. Most pretty girls do everything they can to accentuate their looks. You, however, dress like my grandmother in loose, bland clothes, do nothing with your hair and wear no makeup. At first, I thought you were one of those intellectual types who have no use for fashion, but now I think that was wrong."