The Last Goodnight

by Howard Blum

  And throughout these busy, furtive days, recon remained a constant preoccupation. Brousse, his heart racing madly, contrived a thin excuse to spend an afternoon in the embassy file room. Huntington had given him specific instructions on what to look for, but it wasn’t easy; there was little method or rationale to the way documents had been filed. His hunt required great patience, and as the minutes passed, he kept imagining that a vengeful Grandville or one of the security thugs would come bursting through the door and demand to know just what he was doing.

  Despite his fears, he kept at it until he located everything Huntington had requested: floor plans of the embassy, the precise layouts of the code room and naval attaché’s office, and the purchase invoice that revealed the make and model of the attaché’s safe. He hastily shoved the documents into his briefcase and, all the time feeling as if he were carrying a ticking bomb in his shaky hands, walked out of the embassy. He delivered them to Betty’s apartment, where, now an expert, she photographed them. Late that same afternoon Brousse was back in the file room, the documents were replaced, and his world at once looked a lot less gloomy.

  But Huntington, still trying to come up with a feasible plan, needed more intel. And so he sent Brousse on another mission. There was secret agent B.10 calling on the naval attaché in his office. Brousse had worked out a cover story to explain his rare visit, some rigmarole about French ships the Allies had interred, and to keep it convincing he kept his earnest questions going for a while. But suddenly, and with great annoyance, he interrupted the conversation to complain that the office was hot as a steam bath. Indeed, beads of sweat were rolling down his face convincingly, but they were more from his nerves than the heat. Then, before the attaché could beat him to it, Brousse jumped from his chair and strode to the window. As he raised the sash, he was filing away valuable information: there was no lock or latch on the window, and no alarm went off when it opened. Moments later he brought the conversation to a rather abrupt end, thanked the confused attaché for his time, and hurried off to tell Huntington what he’d learned.

  Betty, meanwhile, was active too. On one of her weekly trips to New York Huntington brought a visitor to her hotel room, a short, balding man with a happy smile fixed on his face. He enthusiastically pumped Betty’s hand as if they had just concluded a very profitable business arrangement, and at the same time her handler introduced his guest as “The Georgia Cracker.” He was a professional thief, Huntington explained.

  He told Betty she’d be working with the Cracker—later she’d discover he was Canadian; the only time he’d spent in Georgia was in prison, before Donovan arranged his pardon—and Huntington wanted them to get to know each other. And so they talked. Betty was, as always, charming, and the Cracker was confident. He had seen the purchase invoice for the safe, and he was certain it wouldn’t be a challenge. “It’s a Mosler with a click-click com lock, probably four wheels,” Betty would always remember him saying, his broad grin still on his face. “I reckon I can crack it in about fifty-five minutes.”

  Huntington, though, still wasn’t prepared to give the green light. The thought of both Betty and the Cracker climbing up a ladder in the middle of the night and then jimmying open a window left him uneasy. We need to find a better way into the embassy, he told them firmly. Disheartened, Betty tried to argue, but quickly realized it would do no good. The Cracker, simply glad to be out of jail, didn’t say a word. His eager smile never faded.

  Although disappointed, Betty didn’t give up. Searching for inspiration, she made a point of walking by the embassy when she was on her way to her mother’s in the evening or heading home at the end of a day. She had no notion what she was looking for, yet she’d fix her gaze on the building with the intensity of an artist staring at a blank canvas. That was how she came to meet the night watchman.

  Whenever she passed, she’d call out a friendly “Bonne nuit,” and he took to waving back at the pretty woman. One evening he approached and introduced himself; his name, Betty learned, was André Chevalier. Quickly pulling an alias from her long list, she said she was “Miss Elizabeth Thomas.”

  Now that they’d met, Betty would from time to time bring him a coffee or a container of hot soup. It was a gesture inspired by good tradecraft rather than kindness; Betty thought it might come in handy to have an ostensible reason for wandering around the embassy grounds at night. The watchman could assure any suspicious FBI agent—the G-men remained determined to lock up any foreign agents working in neutral America—or Vichy security officer that Miss Thomas was his friend.

  With a burst of professional pride, she told Brousse about her cultivation of the watchman. He agreed; it made sense. But even after he left Betty and returned to his own apartment in the hotel, he found that her new friendship with Chevalier remained on his mind. He wasn’t sure why; he certainly wasn’t jealous. But it kept intruding. Even as he wished it would go away and let him sleep, he lay in bed wide awake, still thinking.

  And then he had it.

  It was after midnight, but he didn’t hesitate. He tiptoed into the living room so he wouldn’t wake his sleeping wife and picked up the phone. “Tell the American,” he announced in a mysterious whisper to Betty, “we must see him right away. I have an idea.”

  IT WAS AN IDEA, HUNTINGTON would later say with both admiration and wonder, only a Frenchman could have conceived. But at first he only found himself growing annoyed as Brousse rolled it out with a showman’s flair—slow, deliberate, and archly dramatic.

  What if, Brousse began as the three of them met in Betty’s apartment, he was to confide to Chevalier that Miss Thomas was his girlfriend?

  A good cover story was built on reality, and Betty, Huntington reasoned, would have little problem passing herself off as Brousse’s paramour. Go on, he ordered, cautiously intrigued.

  And what if, Brousse continued, he was to complain to the watchman that he had no discreet place to take his lover? She lived with her parents, and he had a wife.

  Huntington wasn’t sure where this was going, but he’d heard nothing so far he could object to. Chevalier would know Brousse was married. And anyone who lived in Washington was aware that the wartime city’s hotels were overcrowded; rooms by the day were impossible to come by.

  And what if, Brousse asked, triumphantly removing the final veil, he appealed to Chevalier, one Frenchman to another, to allow him to bring Miss Thomas to his office at night so they’d have a place to be alone?

  Huntington gave it some thought, his lawyer’s mind looking at the idea from all angles and trying to find a flaw.

  But Brousse continued. What true Frenchman would not want to help l’amour along? And as further inducement, he’d offer the watchman some money for his troubles. They’d have access to the embassy at night. The rest would be easy.

  Once again, Huntington doubted anything about this op would be “easy.” And while he could find a few dozen flaws in the plan and even more uncertainties, he also knew the clock was rapidly ticking. The date for the North African invasion had not yet been set, but he suspected it would be soon. Getting the ciphers was crucial.

  “Okay,” he agreed at last. “It’s worth a try.”

  ROUTINE, WENT THE MAXIM, WAS a friend to any operation. The more things seemed to be moving along as usual, the greater the chance for any mission’s success. And so Betty and Brousse conscientiously went to work establishing a routine with the watchman.

  Early in June Brousse made his pitch to Chevalier. A handful of dollars was hastily exchanged, and the bemused watchman announced that he’d be glad to make the nighttime embassy available for their trysts.

  The two of them began arriving arm in arm every night. They would settle into Brousse’s office or, looking for variety, move to one of the two ground-floor salons, where there was a comfortable divan. And the sounds of their passion would echo through the halls of the dark, deserted embassy. The clamor reinforced their cover, and happily no acting was necessary. Chevalier began to look forward
to their visits; they lightened the monotony of his long, dreary shift.

  It was three weeks after they had begun their trysts at the embassy that Huntington called Betty and uttered the code word for a flash meeting. She arrived not knowing what to expect, but was only too glad to hear his news: the night for the burglary had been set.

  It would be in three days, on June 19, a day chosen, Huntington explained, because it coincided with Winston Churchill’s arrival in Washington. The FBI would be preoccupied, and the Vichy security force would not be expecting anything to occur that might derail the talks between the prime minister and the president. But what he didn’t share with Betty was his knowledge that one purpose of this conference would be to select a date for the invasion of North Africa. The secrets the codes would unlock were suddenly vital.

  He ended the briefing with a frank, lawyerly warning. “You must know the rules. If anything goes wrong, don’t involve us. You and the Georgia Cracker may be picked up and even go to jail for a while, but that’s all in the game. From now on, you’re on your own.”

  “Good luck,” he concluded gallantly, but the words seemed discouragingly hollow to Betty’s ears.

  Chapter 50

  WHEN THE CAB LEFT THE Wardman Park on that June night, the sky was already ominously dark, and in the course of the short ride to the embassy a hard rain had begun to fall. The Georgia Cracker was at the wheel, and Betty and Brousse sat in the back. Two bottles of champagne were cradled in the Frenchman’s arms. Betty had two doses of Nembutal in her purse—one for the watchman, and another for his Alsatian dog.

  “Wait for us,” Brousse instructed the driver when the taxi pulled to a stop on Wyoming Avenue. He spoke loudly, hoping that anyone lurking in the shadows would hear. Then, hand in hand, the two lovers ran through the rain and up the embassy steps. Brousse rang the bell.

  “As soon as Chevalier opens the door,” Huntington had told them in his usual anxious way, “show him the champagne. Let him know you’re celebrating, and you want him to join in. Everything depends on that.”

  Brousse greeted the watchman as if he were an old friend and delivered the lines from Huntington’s carefully written script: It’s the anniversary of the day Miss Thomas and I met, and we hope, André, that you’ll be kind enough to join us in a celebratory toast. Out of habit rather than for any covert reason, Brousse had selected the vintage with some consideration. He’d normally have treated the champagne with more respect, but tonight he raised the two bottles high and shook them like billy clubs to get the watchman’s attention.

  Chevalier said he would be delighted. He suggested they share a toast in the privacy of his basement office—precisely what the spies had hoped he’d say. A good deal depended on the watchman not wanting to get caught with a drink in his hand while on duty.

  Downstairs in the small, stuffy room, Brousse twisted the cork from one bottle, gaily making a production out of the effort. At the same time, Betty went down the hall to the water cooler to find three paper cups. She passed the big Alsatian lying stretched by his water bowl, and the dog jumped to his feet and began barking menacingly. Chevalier quieted him with a brusque command, but that didn’t give her much comfort. The dog was a terror.

  Betty returned and arranged the paper cups in a row on a table across the room. She took the open bottle from Brousse and began to fill them, one at a time.

  It’s important, Huntington had said, to establish the etiquette early on. Let the watchman see that Betty’s the one pouring the wine. When she’d first heard the instructions, that had seemed reasonable enough. Only now her hand was shaking as if she suffered from palsy. She feared she’d splash more on the table than in the cups.

  She managed to fill the cups, and brought them over to the two men.

  Brousse made his toast. Though Betty smiled brightly at her lover as he spoke, she didn’t hear a word. Her mind was focused on what she’d have to do next. This had been the dry run. Everything that followed would be what really mattered.

  As soon as the cups were drained, Betty announced that it was her turn to make a toast. She wanted to thank M. Chevalier for all his kindness.

  Even if the watchman was reluctant to have another drink, Huntington had correctly predicted, he couldn’t turn down a toast in his honor.

  Betty returned to the table. She checked to make sure Brousse had positioned himself in front of the watchman. He had; it wasn’t much of a screen, but it would have to do.

  “Don’t hesitate,” Huntington had warned. “Make your move and keep on going.” Which Betty now decided was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. How would she be able to do anything if her hands were paralyzed? It wasn’t her fault that she’d been suddenly stricken by some immobilizing disease. Certainly Huntington would understand.

  But all at once she’d recovered, and to her own amazement, she was opening her purse. She reached in and grabbed one of the tiny vials filled with Nembutal. Then she stopped. The champagne first, she remembered Huntington saying. She filled the cup; checked once again to see that Charles had Chevalier locked in conversation; and then she emptied the powder into the wine.

  There might be a few grains of undissolved powder in the liquid, Huntington had explained. But no one would notice unless he was looking for something. And if the watchman was on the alert, then it would already be too late. At the briefing Betty had not found her handler’s candor very reassuring, but now this memory left her at a complete loss. She was shaking. Never had she had it this bad.

  Trying not to stare at the faint traces of the drug floating in the champagne, she handed the cup to Chevalier.

  She’d prepared a short toast, but the words she’d rehearsed had vanished. Still she managed something, and then the cups were again raised.

  Betty watched as Chevalier gulped it all down. Had he tasted the drug? Was he suspicious? She imagined him reaching for the revolver in his shoulder holster. She could hear him shouting the command for the Alsatian to attack. But Chevalier merely continued beaming at the couple with a paternal affection. Betty at last gratefully drained her cup too. Never, she told herself, had she needed a drink so badly.

  Then they waited. It was a celebration, and naturalness was the foundation of good cover. “Act like you’re having fun,” Huntington had said, and Betty now realized that act was the operative word.

  As instructed, Betty was the first to leave. With a demure tactfulness, she explained that she wanted to go upstairs to freshen up. As she walked out to the hall, she paused to pet the Alsatian. But instead, making sure to keep her back to the watchman, she dropped the powder into the dog’s water bowl.

  Dogs have a different metabolism than humans, Huntington had explained. A much larger dose will be required. So Betty had prepared herself: it would take a few moments to empty all the drug into the Alsatian’s bowl. But she had not anticipated the noise it would make. The powder pelted the water like a driving rainstorm. She was certain Chevalier would rush over to investigate. But when she was done, she looked back and saw that Charles and the watchman were laughing heartily at some small joke.

  Upstairs, Betty once again waited. She tried not to, but she could not help checking her watch. What was taking so long? Had Donovan’s medical team miscalculated the dosages? Or maybe Nembutal was not even the correct drug. Dozens of unsettling thoughts ran through her mind. And it kept growing later.

  Charles finally appeared and announced that Chevalier was asleep.

  And the dog? Betty feared the big Alsatian more than the armed watchman.

  Charles assured her that he was dozing like a puppy.

  STANDING AT THE EMBASSY DOOR, Betty clicked the flashlight on and quickly off again. She waited a moment, and then repeated the signal.

  The Cracker left the taxi and hurried up the embassy steps.

  Betty led him to the door protecting the code room. Brousse waited in the front salon; he was the babysitter. His job was to keep the watchman occupied if he awoke earlier than expecte
d, or, if someone else showed up, to sound the alarm. If he couldn’t keep anyone from heading to the code room and discovering what Betty was up to, he had his fallback prepared. He’d be the shocked lover, the man who’d been played for a fool by his mistress, the secret agent.

  The lock on the code room door seemed formidable, a big steel device. But the Cracker impressed Betty by dealing with it handily. He unscrewed the bolts holding the lock in place, and then gently extracted it from the door. When he turned the handle, the door opened.

  The way to the naval attaché’s office was a complicated maze in the darkness, but Betty had studied the floor plans. She guided them forward without delay. Minutes later the Cracker was seated on the floor in front of the attaché’s safe.

  The Cracker studied the safe and then complained that it was older than he’d been led to believe. It could take a while to open.

  Taking command, Betty urged him to get started. This was not the time for misgivings, and anyway they’d know soon enough if there was a problem.

  In the pitch-dark room, she aimed her flashlight at the dial. Suddenly a cone of light illuminated the circle of numbers.

  “Write this down,” the Cracker ordered. He read off the number where the dial had been set; he would need to return to that position before they left. Then he went to work.

  With a stethoscope dangling from his neck, the instrument’s bell pressed against the steel safe, the rubber earpieces in his ears, he patiently turned the dial, listening for the sound of the tumblers falling into place. What he heard confirmed his initial instinct; this could take some time. The tumblers of old safes glide rather than click sharply, and these were quite worn.

  Betty watched in complete silence; she knew better than to disturb him. She did her best to hold the flashlight steady, but it soon felt like a dead weight in her hand.

  “Four left five,” the Cracker called out after a while.