Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Edward stubbed out his cigarette butt and cleared his throat. “How about shutting that icebox door first?” Ryan obliged by closing the window. “We’ll reach Basel by ten-eighteen. Let’s grab a quick bite at the station, then you handle your Ellington business and we meet for something more substantial right after.”

  “Works for me.” Ryan filled his pipe with the Latakia blend Ed had chased down in Geneva while his brother tore the foil from a new pack of Chesterfields. He put one to his lips in time to share Ryan’s light. “I’m still wrapping my head around losing the Special War Problems cover,” Ryan admitted. “It was a nice safety net.” He found his seat again. “There’s something to be said for being with State, official, credentialed.” He felt fully exposed for the first time heading into the Reich under an alias. “You pick up anything new on this Ellington business I’m walking into?”

  “A three-way tug-of-war, as suspected. Washington bureaucracy meets dueling agencies. COI operations are spreading like wildfire, and we’ll jump into this war sooner or later, even if some in Washington don’t want it to happen.” He set aside the file. “Donovan knows his intelligence operations will be key to eventual victory, but first he must convince Congress to loosen its purse strings, and that means tighter controls over all expenditures, including covert missions. It’s like moving from freelance to corporate: you always face greater oversight and accountability. Meanwhile, State wants to keep its hands as clean as possible, while your guys sure as hell don’t want us claiming any credit for your successes.” Ed tapped ash into the armrest tray. “That’s Donovan’s bread and butter now, and your man’s hungry. So welcome to the ways of my world.”

  Ed had been with the Foreign Service for over a decade and Ryan knew his distaste for interference and carping from higher-ups. An independent streak ran deep in the Lemmon family. Their mother had done charity work in the Cherokee settlements near Lawrence, much to the bewilderment of the other well-born matrons of eastern Kansas. She had viewed it as a bit more than simply benevolence—she was also thumbing her nose at high-society snobbery. Their dental surgeon father had refused to give credence to so-called “safety concerns” when pioneering the new X-ray technology and he’d paid the price with an untimely death from cancer. And Ryan had been chewed out more than once for what he preferred to call “personal initiative” rather than “ignoring the rules.” Only Ed had been a play-by-the book guy growing up, turning him into an ideal State functionary. But now, in working behind the scenes with Ryan, even stable Ed had become more daring, more willing to rattle a cage or two.

  “I do wonder how Admiral Canaris will take to my new situation. He’s a traditionalist, from all I know. He might have preferred my official cover with State in our dealings.”

  “He’s a savvy type, your white-haired Berlin buddy, and you’ve shown what you’re capable of.” Ed chuckled at his casual reference to such a powerful figure in the Reich. “He’ll be delighted to see you again no matter what mask you’re wearing.”

  “I get the impression he’s odd man out when it comes to Himmler and his cronies, an old-school whale in the Nazi seas, and the sharks around him will draw blood at the first sign of weakness.”

  “You’re the one to know, Ryan. You’ve been through the mill with those Gestapo guys.” Ed stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and examined his fingernails, impeccably groomed but yellowed by his nicotine addiction. “Take it easy this time and stay out of trouble.” He gave his brother an appreciative glance.

  “I’ll do my best, but things will get worse before they get better. Canaris loves his country but hates its government, so he walks a fine line. His opponents surely have him in their sights.” Ryan ran a finger over the bend in his nose. Having almost lost his life to the machinations of von Kredow, he knew the value in pursuing a relationship with the enigmatic Canaris. The Abwehr chief was likely the only force in the Reich’s hierarchy capable of thwarting Himmler’s goons.

  Ed looked his brother in the eye. “Just keep your wits about you and you’ll come through fine, as always. Canaris obviously likes you.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” Ryan leaned his head against the wood-paneled wall, sensing the rhythmic pulse of the train as it barreled along. He shut his eyes and sighed. Donovan’s spy agency had offered him the opportunity to avenge wrongs done to his friends. Now he was heading back on his own, his enemies lurking in shadow, often unseen and unfelt, until perhaps they lured him down some blind alley. He shuddered, remembering that stranger’s neck wrenched in the crook of his arm. He felt again the muffled snap of bone, the limp burden eased to the stones of that fog-shrouded Berlin passageway.

  An express shrieked past, the thwack-thwack-thwack of the coaches startling him from his memories. The parade of windows offered momentary glimpses into the lives of others—dozing passengers, a child’s face pressed to the glass, newspapers spread wide with the latest news of war. All fleeting, relentless, like the months just past and the years come and gone. Suddenly he felt tired, emotionally and physically. He massaged his temples and willed away the melancholy threatening to imprison him. Return to Berlin and set the wheels in motion, he told himself. Keep your wits about you, as Ed said.

  Canaris would surely help.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Basel, Switzerland

  November 1941

  Basel teemed with spies so any public meeting was out of the question. Swiss authorities turned a blind eye as long as foreign agents remained discreet, but expulsion was swift should espionage operations threaten the Helvetic Confederation’s vaunted neutrality. Consulting a city plan he’d purchased at the station, Ryan quickly located the address for the Ellington meet. Situated in the desirable St. Alban neighborhood, the elegant, somewhat stuffy flat belonged to a renowned Swiss internist. As pre-arranged, the physician had left for his practice early that brisk morning while his wife was off shopping in Zürich. Ed would occupy himself in a nearby café with the International Herald Tribune and copious cups of real coffee.

  Ryan found the front door ajar and entered quietly, setting the lock behind him. He made his way through the apartment in search of a study overlooking the river. The doctor may have married an American socialite half his age, but the flat lacked any signs of a young woman’s touch. Foyer and parlor were heavy with dark wood, thick drapes and fussy moldings. The memory of cigar smoke hung in the air, and faded wallpaper sucked any liveliness from pastoral landscapes and commendations in overwrought frames.

  The door to the study was open and his eye slipped past leather fauteuils and a heavy mahogany desk to the brilliant scene outside. A dusting of overnight snow brightened rooftops where tendrils of smoke wafted from myriad chimneys. Inside, coal briquettes glowed behind an iron fireplace screen. The room was a pleasant relief after all the gloom. His new boss stood at the cased windows, seemingly unaware of his presence.

  Ryan was intrigued by this summons, coming as it did on the heels of recent orders directing him back to Berlin and his Canaris contact. Ed had shared what little he knew about this recent high-level recruit by David Bruce, head of COI’s European operations. Dash Ellington was reputed to be a brilliant business strategist who had served under Donovan in the Great War before returning to his family enterprise providing rubber products to the world. Ellington’s gaze remained fixed on the red-tiled roofs and the wide and churning Rhine. He only turned from the window after Ryan cleared his throat to inquire: “Mr. Ellington?”

  Shorter than Ryan by an inch, the man stood with an officer’s correctness, shoulders back, chest out, chin slightly elevated. White thatch at the temples framed the steel gray of a receding hairline and his deep-set eyes held a piercing glare. A gold chain linked the waistcoat pockets of a bespoke herringbone suit. Ryan spotted the dangling Phi Beta Kappa key, kin to the one he himself had left behind in Kansas. His new boss was about ten years his senior, a Yale man.

  The voice carried no warmth, just calculating efficiency: “Ryan Lemmon, I
presume?” Ellington casually gestured toward a dossier lying open on the corner of the desk. Ryan’s photo was stapled to the cover sheet.

  “At your service, sir,” The man’s handshake was firm but perfunctory. According to Ed, Ellington was said to be difficult at times but also subject to flattery. Ryan removed his overcoat, took the offered leather armchair and crossed his legs. His new boss remained standing, dossier now in hand, as Ryan continued to speak into the uncomfortable silence: “A pleasure to meet you, sir. My brother Edward Lemmon says State speaks highly of you.”

  Ellington still said nothing, perhaps gauging the sincerity of the complement. His gaze remained steady and Ryan felt ill-disguised animosity but refused to look away. This was not to be a pleasant meeting and he had no idea why.

  Ellington removed a sheet from the file and handed it to Ryan. “Before we begin, you will sign this.”

  Ryan glanced at the document. It was only a few paragraphs long, a work contract between the Government of the United States and the agent with $350 to be deposited monthly in an American bank on behalf of the operative. The employee was to “subscribe freely and without reservation to any oath of office prescribed by the employer,” keep forever secret his employment and all information obtained in exercising his duties, and concur that the arrangement was entered into without duress and solely voluntarily on the part of the agent. Ryan chuckled, took out his fountain pen and signed on the line. He handed the page back to Ellington. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Take a seat, Lemmon.” The new director bent over the desk, spun the sheet, and affixed his own name to the document. “I’ve spent hours reviewing your dossier and those of other operators currently working within the Reich.” Ellington finally took the chair behind the desk. Ryan was forced to look up to meet his eyes. “I must tell you from the start—things are about to change around here.”

  Ryan frowned and leaned forward. “In what way, sir?”

  “I realize you’ve grown used to your independence, an unfortunate result of laxity exercised by our superiors in the haphazard setup of German operations. But times are rapidly changing, and we need men who understand the meaning of following orders.”

  “I gather you’ve found things in my performance evaluations,” Ryan motioned to the file, “which suggest my work has been less than satisfactory?” He drew a deep breath to calm his vexation, recalling a similar conversation when fist recruited to COI.

  Ellington stroked his mustache before responding: “Here’s what I’ve gleaned from the file—you, Mr. Lemmon, are head-strong and averse to management. In essence, a renegade, and that’s a recipe for disaster in our new COI. Those traits may have sufficed back when President Roosevelt had his cronies gather intelligence, no matter how dubious its value, but times have changed.” He squared the loose papers in Ryan’s file. “And you clearly have not.”

  Ryan chuckled at the absurdity of the dressing down. “May we stick to perceived faults in the intelligence I’ve brought in, not my personal character and aptitudes?”

  Ellington did not share Ryan’s amusement. Elbows propped on the desk, he steepled his fingers and fixed Ryan with a penetrating gaze. “Granted, you gathered some strategic information in western France, but you simultaneously went off on some personal quest which might have compromised your mission…our country’s mission. And most recently, and without guidance from us, you somehow managed to link up with the head of Reich military intelligence.” He spit out the name: “Admiral Wilhelm Canaris.”

  Already fed up with the overbearing attitude of his new boss, Ryan saw his future in the COI on the line. He held his tongue. He had no wish to return to a university chalkboard so he would play along, at least for now. “As instructed by General Donovan himself, I was to make myself at home with the Germans.”

  Ellington’s gaze held steady. “Frankly, Lemmon, I don’t trust you. Word back in Washington is you played footsie with the Gestapo back in ’38. You may have even worked for those sons of bitches, or so rumor has it.”

  “That’s absurd!” His cheeks reddened as Ellington plowed on.

  “In fact, how are we to know you haven’t been turned, that you’re not some Canaris plant intent on wreaking havoc with our intelligence operations?”

  Ryan took a deep breath. He recalled a final meeting with his State Department boss back in ’38 when he’d nearly throttled the fellow for destroying vital intelligence gained at a dear price. Later he’d learned that the very same bastard had been a Gestapo mole working on behalf of von Kredow. A few months had now passed since he last encountered the man during negotiations in Paris between the Reich and the Special War Problems Division. Could Ellington himself be a double agent? For now he calmed both thoughts and voice, saying simply: “Proceed…sir.”

  Ellington was on a roll: “It strikes me as patently absurd that you suddenly find yourself holding hands with Canaris, so much so that he rewards you with some Parisian floozy who’d caught your eye.”

  Ryan refused to let the man goad him. He dug his nails into the flesh of his palms but steadied his voice. “That woman is a dear friend almost destroyed by the Nazis. And you, sir, are now well out of bounds.”

  Ellington appeared unfazed. He rose from his chair to address the glistening roofs of the city. “No matter—fact is, you climbed into the arms of one of the most powerful intelligence operatives in Europe, a man we’ll face on a wartime footing soon enough, and the man played you for a fool.” He turned back to Ryan. “Your romantic inclinations got the best of you with that woman. Perhaps she was herself a plant to entrap you, and who knows what compromising information you’ve already shared with her or with your Canaris.” He returned to his chair. “Either accidently…or on purpose?” His eyes burned into Ryan’s, obviously frustrated at failing to get the younger man’s goat.

  Ryan sat back and crossed his legs. Without requesting permission he took out his pipe and slowly filled the bowl. “May I remind you that I just delivered, with the aid of Canaris, damning information about American and British complicity in support of the Nazi war effort?”

  “What dilettantes you take us for, Lemmon! Complicity be damned! Coolidge got it right, so I’ll paraphrase and you should drum this lesson into that idealistic skull of yours: ‘the business of America is business, and will forever remain business.’” He picked up his fountain pen and tapped it repeatedly on the desktop, an unconscious distraction. “Had you done your homework, you’d know that President Roosevelt’s old law firm represents several of the major corporations you hoped to ‘expose’ with your little Reichsbank revelation. Do you really think the White House isn’t aware of, and doesn’t value, the political and economic advantages in keeping all sides in this conflict happy?”

  Ryan spoke without obvious rancor: “So Allied soldiers die to improve our corporate bottom lines.” He tamped the tobacco and struck a match. “What a pretty picture you paint.” He tossed the spent match into the ashtray and released a cloud of aromatic smoke, recalling Ellington’s own involvement in producing vehicle tires and other rubber products for a worldwide market. The revelations in the purloined intelligence must have struck close to home. “So now our business is promoting death for profit.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Lemmon. You work for the big boys now, so forget your Midwestern ‘ethics.’ Either you’re on board, or you’re not. Life is never straightforward, never black and white. In case you’ve yet to realize it, our enterprise, like any powerful and successful business, is founded on subterfuge and deception.”

  “So we make no moral judgements, no ethical decisions in the course of our work?” Ryan took another puff.

  “That’s exactly your problem, Lemmon. You think like an idealist in a world crafted for the manipulative. How far do you think that will get you in this business?” Ryan left the question hanging, drawing out the silence. Ellington shook his head in obvious disgust. “Either you work with the team or I bench you, but I’ll warn you upfront—with me ca
lling the plays you won’t get an opportunity to embarrass the COI.”

  He dropped Ryan’s dossier into his briefcase, marking the end of the interview. “So listen carefully: I’m allowing your return to Berlin. Go hold hands with Canaris again—kiss his ass, for all I care. Find out what you can about his intelligence operations, as you rightfully should. But I’ll be watching your every move, and don’t think for a moment you’re a lone operator.” Ryan stood and took his overcoat and hat from the back of the chair while Ellington remained behind the desk. “And as for that brother of yours, he’s off your case. No more liaising through State. He’s not handling you, I am, and believe you me, I’m not some pushover impressed by your ability to blend in with the Krauts. That’s a given for members of my team. I shall work you as hard as I can, and if I see you stumble, I’ll be the first to take you out of the game, understood?”

  “Clear as a bell.” Ryan took a deliberate draw on his pipe and knocked the remaining embers into the ashtray.

  “Then get the hell back to Berlin.” Ellington, obviously pissed at having revealed his anger, retrieved a manila envelope from his case and tossed it to Ryan. “You’ll find identity papers, coded contact instructions, and three thousand Reichsmarks.” He pushed a paper in front of Ryan. “Sign here to acknowledge receipt.” Ryan obliged. “Now go find a room close to the center of the city. No more life of luxury at the Hotel Adlon for you. Make contact with your little admiral, then sit tight for further direction from me.”

  Ryan shoved the unopened envelope into his coat pocket. “Zu Befehl…sir.” At your orders.

  Ellington grimaced at the impertinence. “And mark my words—you’ll follow those orders to the letter or be back teaching in Podunk in a New York minute. Now get out of my sight.” He stepped to the window, calling out over his shoulder as Ryan left the room: “And leave that front door ajar. You’re not the only one on my list today.”