by Larry Loftis
Instead, von Karsthoff asked about the radioman. Popov rattled off his planned answer, saying that the man was a Croat whom he had met in a bar frequented by Yugoslavs on West 45th Street. He was excellent on the radio, Popov said, but exaggerated his skills in other areas. He worked well as long as he was paid, but once Dusko couldn’t pay him, he refused to be of further help.
Dusko offered that the wireless set was in a house in Long Island, but the Germans didn’t ask for details or an address. He also said that the Croat was unable to build the radio, but that Dusko had acquired a set from an anti-British Indian he’d met in the British Library. Von Karsthoff asked nothing about the Indian, but returned to the operator.
“Are you very sure about that radioman?”
“What do you mean?”
He might have been caught, Ludovico explained, and been working under American control.
“But Ivan would not be here,” chimed in Elisabeth.
The man didn’t know the code, either, Dusko added, and didn’t know what Popov was doing.
Seemingly mollified, Ludovico asked when Popov would be returning to the U.S.
Dusko blinked. He wouldn’t. The FBI bridge had been burned and the good riddance was mutual. Yet, from the German perspective, he had no reason to decline the re-posting. He mumbled that he wasn’t sure. Thinking fast, he argued that since the U.S. entry into the war effectively ended his usefulness with the Yugoslav Ministry of Information, he had planned on returning to London.
Von Karsthoff pressed. The Germans needed him in America because the radio was “of inestimable value.” Too late, Dusko said; he had instructed the Croat to destroy it.
The discussion continued and shortly after three o’clock the major began wrapping up. He asked where Popov would like to work next.
Dusko breathed. He’d made it.
Ludovico said that if a return to the U.S. was impossible, he’d like for Popov to proceed to any English-speaking country under British or American control. Dusko nodded but suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Too easy. He had failed to go to Hawaii, had precious little information after a year’s work, and the Abwehr had significant evidence he was a double. Yet, with a smattering of numbers and a few self-serving excuses, he was back in their good graces.
It was a trap.
18
THE ART OF THE SILENT KILL
Dusko remained coy. He said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do, and that at the moment his only concern was his financial situation, which was dire. He couldn’t do anything, he said, until he had repaid the Bailonis $8,500. They were influential bankers, and because they were in Lisbon, word of an embezzlement would travel fast. Their funds had to be returned before he would consider further work.
Kammler blanched. He begged Popov not to make difficulties over money because such trouble might result in Kammler’s being sent to the Russian front. Dusko noted the weakness. His Abwehr supervisors had a vested interest in his success; if he failed, the lack of intelligence production from Lisbon would prompt Berlin to replace them.
Throughout the war, this self-serving relationship permeated every Abwehr station; case officers routinely overestimated the value of their agents. Von Karsthoff and Kammler had reason to see Dusko’s results through rose-colored glasses, and did. In the end, it would cost Ludovico his life.
The meeting ended at quarter past three with Kammler saying he could take care of the Bailoni money. He told Dusko to meet him at four o’clock at Café Chave d’Ouro. On the hour, Dusko made it to the café and walked directly to the men’s room. Setting his briefcase next to him, he began washing his hands. A moment later Kammler appeared at the sink next to him. Without a word, he slipped an envelope into the briefcase.
Cash in hand, Dusko headed to a meeting with the charge d’affaires at the Yugoslav Embassy and then to the Bailonis’ farm—Quinta Los Grillos.
He was followed.
Café Chave d’Ouro, hotbed of spies.
Arquivo Municipal Lisboa
The next day, October 16, the Germans requested another meeting, and Elisabeth picked him up on the Rossio at half past twelve. Before he would discuss future work, Dusko told von Karsthoff and Kammler, he wanted to settle the money. He had been forced to borrow $10,000 from Simone Simon, he said, a humiliating experience and money that had to be repaid. Von Karsthoff countered that Popov’s predicament was self-inflicted since he had been “living like a prince.”
He had been living like a prince, Dusko knew, and the German return on investment was paltry. Out of excuses, he pushed all in. Given the way he had been treated, he told the major, he was unwilling to continue as a German agent.
Ludovico called the bluff. Once anyone got involved in this type of work, he said, there was no leaving off. Dusko would continue his work, and it had to be better. Reaching for a telegram, he read aloud Berlin’s assessment of agent IVAN’s reports: very good in England, excellent in America up to the South America trip, medium for three months, and then terribly bad.
“Now you know what Berlin thinks of you.”
Dusko replied simply: He needed money to work.
Again the pendulum swung—von Karsthoff concurred. Since Dusko’s funds had been cut off in June, he said, it was perfectly normal for Popov to refuse further assignments. Kammler agreed: “Berlin are stupid fellows. They are sitting at desks making statistics and can’t put themselves into your or my position and do not realize the difficulties of being without money. Therefore please work hard,” he said, “or we shall all have trouble here.”
Von Karsthoff acquiesced to Popov’s financial demands and moved on to military information. “What about invasion?”
Dusko said he didn’t think anyone really knew. His contacts had suggested that there wouldn’t be one, which probably meant there would.
“Where will it be?”
Before Popov could answer, the major instructed that Dusko should press his contacts about the kind of training the army was receiving, if they were learning any languages, what exercises were being conducted, what fortifications were being simulated, and on what kind of beaches they were practicing. “You will see from the questionnaire,” he went on, “you have some naval and military questions. Berlin wants information of direct use for military purposes.”
At three o’clock they finished up and Dusko went to the British Embassy, where the air attaché gave him a letter with emergency numbers and additional chicken feed. Popov memorized the information and then destroyed the paper. That evening at six he met Kammler again at the Vivenda Pilar, an Estoril residential estate. With him was a Mr. Meyer, a middle-aged microdot and secret ink expert, and Kammler’s secretary, an attractive twenty-four-year-old with dark shining eyes.
Popov’s future instructions would come in the form of dots, Meyer said, but Dusko would continue to reply in letters. Meyer showed him five matches, explaining that Popov would communicate secretly with them. Each would write in invisible ink, he claimed, up to two hundred letters. Dusko was to convey his work on airmail paper; if that was unavailable, he would take ordinary stationery and rub it with wool cotton for several minutes until smooth. He would then affix one of the matches to a pencil and write very lightly in block letters.
At Dusko’s next meeting, on October 19, Kammler’s secretary sewed the matches into the shoulder of his coat. The following day he met again with Kammler in von Karsthoff’s apartment to finalize instructions and money. After some debate over currencies—and amid Dusko’s conviction that the lieutenant was skimming from what Berlin had sent—Kammler gave him $25,000 and 6,000 escudos for incidentals. He also produced an envelope containing microdots for Popov’s future assignments.
Dusko held it to the light and shook his head. It was no good, he said; the points were clearly visible. He handed it back, and Kammler promised to send new ones to him in London.
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Before leaving, Dusko met with Johnny, who had just arrived in Lisbon. They were returning from a meeting with von Karsthoff when Johnny suddenly pulled the car over. He had an idea, a scheme more or less, that he had conjured up with Ivo. It was dangerous, he said, but the windfall would be worth it. The critical point—that both sides would have to be in on it—was laughable. Brilliant as Jebsen was, the plan was outlandish. A joint Allied-Axis espionage effort? Approved by the British and Germans, working together?
Only Johnny could have envisioned such connivance.
And only one man had the gall to sell it.
»
On October 22 Dusko returned to England. The stakes were mounting with the Germans, and between the invasion deception and Johnny’s dealings, he needed to be in top form. He wasn’t, and he knew why—he missed Simone. At the end of the month he sent her a telegram at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where she occupied rooms 323 and 324: “Missing you darling much more than I thought. With love, Dusko Popov.”
While he waited to hear back, he settled into London, signing a six-month lease for the Clock House, an upscale cottage in Rutland Gate, adjacent to Hyde Park. Tar Robertson notified the postmaster that if any mail came for Popov from neutral countries, such letters should be extracted so that MI5 could see them first. Days later a letter came for Dusko at the Yugoslav Legation. It was from Dusko’s father. Inexplicably, Mr. Popov was in Zurich—alone—in a refugee camp. He wrote:
My dear Dusko,
Your nice letter from Estoril has given me the greatest pleasure. . . . Your news that it has finally been decided that you stay where you are has given me a special pleasure because I am very much frightened by all of the journeys you make in aeroplanes which can be dangerous both for one’s life and one’s health. . . . Unfortunately, I have not seen him [Ivo] for fifteen months, nor have I seen his wife, nor Iva, your mother, or Vlada. I am all right and living quietly. The food question is difficult here but we manage. . . .
Write to me often. . . . God grant the war will soon be over, which would be marvelous and that all our family meets together. . . .
With best wishes,
from Tata [Dad]
Hearing that his father had not heard from Ivo in fifteen months was distressing. Assuming that Ivo also would be double-crossing, Dusko had inquired with MI5 in late October about his activities and whereabouts. Ian Wilson confirmed that Ivo was working in the underground, but knew few details or his location. Worse, Dusko learned that his younger brother, Vladan, had also now disappeared.
Were his brothers dead?
»
Meanwhile, Dusko struggled with how to help his father. The money he had brought from Lisbon was in the safekeeping of his British handlers and would soon be allocated elsewhere. On November 29 Colonel Robertson did just that, forwarding $13,000 to MI6—$10,000 for repayment of SIS loans, $3,000 to cover FBI loans.
The following day Ian asked Dusko to sign a memorandum of agreement regarding finances. It noted that the Germans had forwarded—for reasons unknown to Dusko or Ian—$10,000 to a woman in Boston named Fanny Mason. Dusko was somehow supposed to collect it, and Ian assured him that MI5 would try to do so. Wilson added that they would also “take every step in our power” to prevent the FBI from confiscating the money. If the Bureau did, Ian assumed, they would bungle the pickup and endanger Dusko’s cover.
The British would bear any of Popov’s out-of-pocket expenses not borne by the Germans, the agreement stated, but MI5 would monitor and restrict his spending habits. Two-thirds of any sum received by the Germans would be deposited for Popov in a bank of MI5’s choosing, but he could withdraw funds for actual living expenses or “capital investment purposes.”
Popov must have smiled at the terms; “living expenses” went undefined and left plenty of room for his many devices.
He wasted no time in putting those devices to work. On December 5, 1942, he gave Ian a letter for transmission to Colonel Wren in New York. Addressed to “Mr. Thomas,” the correspondence asked Wren if he would kindly forward Popov’s belongings left in the storage closet of his New York penthouse. Since he had taken minimal luggage, he was now the “shabbiest and coldest man in London.” That was not all; “You know that my heart is in very bad condition,” stated the thirty-year-old agent. “My doctor who is my biggest fiend thinks that it is far too much alcohol, tobacco and sin.” The only remedy, he wrote, was milk and chocolates, and would the good major also send along $100 worth of chocolate?
Continuing tongue-in-cheek, Dusko wrote: “There is something else I want you to do again to save my life. Xmas is getting very close. Everyone who arrives here from the States is looked upon by lady friends with an eye on stockings. So if I don’t have them somebody will try a murder.” To avert the heinous crime, Popov asked Wren to also send $100 worth of nylons, a scarce item during the war.
Two days later Wilson passed the message on to Tar, offering that he thought the request for chocolates and stockings was excessive. What Ian didn’t realize was that the items were Popov’s way of ingratiating himself with von Karsthoff’s assistant, Elisabeth. Dusko was always thinking ahead, particularly when it involved women.
Tar sent Dusko’s letter to MI6’s Frank Foley for transmittal to Colonel Wren in New York, suggesting that a reasonable amount of chocolates and nylons would be appreciated. Robertson added: “TRICYCLE would like included in his luggage his camera, which I last saw in the possession of the New York office of the F.B.I.” Why the FBI had Popov’s camera, or how it was obtained, was not disclosed.
»
Around this time Popov’s cover was again threatened. MI5 received a letter, dated December 8, 1942, sent to Dusko from the Keystone Collection Bureau in New York. The agency was writing to collect $215.85 for horticultural supplies delivered to Popov’s retreat in Locust Valley, Long Island, just before he left for London. What shocked Dusko and everyone at MI5 was the address to which Keystone had sent the letter: “c/o British Ministry of War Information.” If a New York collection agency found this information, how hard would it be for the Germans?
MI5 quietly paid the bill and hoped for the best.
For the next two months Dusko remained in England and worked on German questionnaires, carefully splicing in MI5 misinformation with his Abwehr matches and sending correspondence to one of four cover addresses. By late winter he was writing at least one letter every three days, each with two or three pages of secret text. While he was keeping an active social calendar, his new scrivener role was more than he could bear. With no travel or excitement or danger, he was going mad. He asked Wilson to find more stimulating work, and Ian advised Tar of Dusko’s restlessness: “TRICYCLE stressed his desire to do something more active in the way of outwitting the Germans than merely writing letters at our direction. I told him that we were as anxious as he was to bring about some more agressive [sic] action.”
Robertson had the perfect remedy.
»
In February and March 1943, MI5 records of Popov’s activities are mysteriously silent for three- and four-week gaps. The dead weeks are odd since from November 1940 to the end of the war, Dusko’s whereabouts and activities were recorded almost daily. Dusko’s disappearance, however, coincides with the two stages of the highly secret SOE (Special Operations Executive) commando schools. It appears that Dusko attended the Stage 1 training the last three weeks in February, and the Stage 2 training from mid-March to mid-April. On February 24 a Captain D. Doran of S.I.M.E. (Security Intelligence, Middle East) sent a memo to MI5’s Dick White, suggesting that Dusko be attached to SOE operations in Cairo. It was from this station that British operatives infiltrated the Balkans, Yugoslavia in particular. On March 17 Tar sent a letter to Masterman and White, explaining that he was working on finding a suitable cover for Popov’s Middle East SOE station. Two days later Ian met Dusko—apparently after Stage 1 of his training�
�to discuss Popov’s new assignment. Dusko’s files are quiet again until April 16, when Wilson found him at home in bed with influenza.
His immune system was weakened for good reason.
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In the spring of 1940 Britain’s Directorate of Military Training had authorized the development of a small, fast-action guerilla force under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Colin Gubbins. Fashioned for sabotage and raids behind enemy lines, the commando group was originally intended to be small—no more than five hundred. In July the Special Operations Executive was secretly established. The name was somewhat misleading, however, as the commandos created by SOE were hardly executives; the Germans would later call them terrorists.
Gubbins desired the best, toughest operatives and training was established in two stages. Stage 1, which was a three- or four-week course at one of several English country homes, focused on physical fitness and small arms training. Cross-country runs and other exercises were included, with practice in various pistols and submachine guns. The homes also included well-stocked bars, since SOE needed to know how recruits would behave after a few drinks.
If a candidate passed Stage 1, he would progress to Stage 2—an intense three-week course at a secret school in the forsaken town of Arisaig, near Lochailort, Scotland. One Dutch agent described the place as “a wretched, barren countryside, thinly populated; rain fell from a heavy sky that never cleared completely. . . . a most depressing place.”
Here, Gubbins set up facilities for every aspect of guerilla warfare. In one area the agents would practice with every type of pistol and machine gun found on the battlefield; in another, they would learn map reading and demolitions. In yet another, they would learn how to kill—gun, knife, or with their hands.
Gubbins brought in as instructors perhaps the two best streetfighters in the world. Major William Ewart Fairbairn and Captain Eric Anthony Sykes, former Royal British Marines who had established long careers with the Shanghai Municipal Police, would teach all aspects of shooting, knife-fighting, and hand-to-hand combat. Fairbairn was particularly suited for the task.
