‘The people have faith in you, Mr President,’ Welker said.
‘For the moment,’ said Roosevelt, putting down the lighter. ‘Now to our particular problems of war and peace. First we talk money.’ He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk. ‘Here’s your budget,’ he said, ‘for the year. The fiscal year, actually, which is even a bit longer.’
Welker looked down at the figure on the paper. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If this is my yearly pay, it is munificent. If it is the budget for the entire OSI, it’s …’
‘My discretionary funds,’ the President interrupted him, ‘are not very discretionary. It is an act of faith to even call them funds. If Eleanor ever finds out what budget I took this money from, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Your wife, Mr President,’ Welker said, ‘is a remarkable woman.’
‘So she is,’ Roosevelt agreed. ‘So, the OSI, is that what we’re calling it?’
‘Yes, sir. The Office of Special Intelligence.’ He pulled out the leather folder and showed the President the ID card inside. ‘Notice the State Department crest on the left. We’re ostensibly an investigative arm of State.’
Roosevelt nodded. ‘I’ll tell Hull to put you on the list – whatever list is appropriate. Should have done that last month, in case anybody asked. You’ll have to draw up a mission statement.’
‘A mission statement?’
‘For the file. What you intend to do. That is, what the Office of Special Whatsit intends to do, and what authority you exercise, and that sort of thing. And I’d just as soon it stayed as sub rosa as possible.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Welker said.
‘And make up a new ID with a space for Hull to sign them, but don’t go waving them about.’
‘I don’t expect that we’ll need to show the ID very much, sir,’ Welker said.
‘A good thing,’ Roosevelt said. He swiveled in his chair to stare out one of the tall windows behind his desk. ‘The Republicans would have a field day if they thought I was setting up my own police force.’
‘We don’t have any police powers,’ Welker reminded him. ‘Can’t arrest anyone or even detain them. We don’t even have badges.’
‘That wouldn’t matter to the Republicans,’ Roosevelt said. ‘Lodge is looking for something to batter me with and this would do fine, real fine. Better than most. I can hear him now: “The President is setting up his own Gestapo. What does he want a police force for? No man is safe in his bed.” And then J. Edgar would go to work on them.’ FDR turned around again to look at Welker. ‘You know Hoover’s got dossiers on half the members of Congress. Probably a good bit more than half. Got one on me.’
Welker didn’t need to look surprised. ‘You’re joking sir!’
‘He hinted as much last time he was in here. A couple of pointed comments – which I won’t repeat.’
Welker shook his head. ‘You have to admit, the man has balls.’
‘If I didn’t need you for other things,’ Roosevelt said, ‘I’d be tempted to put you on him, see what’s in his closet.’
‘Yes, sir. And about those other things—’
‘Ah yes.’
What was now christened the Office of Special Intelligence had begun some months before when Roosevelt became convinced by Frank Knox, his Secretary of the Navy, that Nazi infiltration of the United States could soon become a serious problem, and that Hoover and his FBI were not interested in doing anything much about it. J. Edgar was so firmly focused on ‘The Communist Menace’, when he wasn’t going out and personally capturing big-name gangsters and bank robbers, that he had no men to spare for watching Nazis or Fascists or your more quotidian criminals.
‘Someone,’ Knox said, ‘should be taking a close look at our home-grown Nazis and see what support they may be getting from the Master Race back in Germany. Remember in the last war the Kaiser’s agents succeeded in blowing up a few things before we caught them. And they did that before we were officially at war.’
‘I remember,’ Roosevelt said. ‘And I’ve listened to a couple of Hitler’s speeches on the short wave. He’s one scary son of a bitch. Who can we get?’
Knox had talked to his friend Bill Donovan, and Donovan came in to talk to Roosevelt and recommended Jacob Welker for the job. As a newly commissioned second lieutenant when the US entered the World War, Welker had gone to France with the 17th Balloon Company of the AEF, and had spent a few months in the wicker basket of an observation balloon before somehow finding himself seconded to the Army Intelligence Coordination Bureau, working with the British Secret Intelligence Service and the Italian Servizio Informazioni Militare, both organizations, he found, much more sophisticated and capable than anything the Americans had. At the Bureau he perfected the delicate art of passing actionable intelligence on to American field commanders along with carefully worded descriptions of just how the said commanders could best use the information. He soon developed the perhaps a bit unreasonable opinion that most senior officers seemed incapable of grasping anything more complex than ‘You here – enemy there’.
When the war ended he came back to the States with a captain’s bars, a disgust for the military, and no marketable skills. He got his bachelor’s in Political Science from Columbia University, briefly contemplated becoming a lawyer, and then went to work as an operative for the Continental Detective Agency – Discreet Professional Service – Offices in All Major Cities and Overseas. He spent time in the Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and Berlin offices, with a three-month side trip to Istanbul and Cairo to help break up an art-smuggling ring. And then Donovan had called him, and now he was sitting opposite the President of the United States for the second time.
‘I think we have made a start,’ Welker said. ‘Something is going on. We don’t yet know exactly what it is, but we may have a handle on it. A tenuous handle perhaps, but still …’
‘With the Nazis?’
‘Yes, sir, with the Nazis.’
Roosevelt nodded and leaned back in his chair, looking interested.
‘There was this murder in New York a few weeks ago,’ Welker went on. ‘A German national just off the boat was tortured and killed. It wasn’t pretty.’
‘Tortured? I’ll be damned!’ Roosevelt shook his head. ‘Who was he?’
‘He seems to have been a man the FBI were looking for, supposedly a Soviet agent sent to coordinate something-or-other with whoever, the details are not clear.’
‘A Soviet agent? That’s Hoover’s specialty.’
‘The Bureau lost track of him when he landed, and didn’t connect the man they were looking for with the dead man, who was left naked and with nothing to identify him. But I saw a police report of the murder and followed up. It turns out that there was a witness. The victim was almost certainly killed by German, that is Nazi, agents. The question is, why?’
‘Tortured!’ Roosevelt slowly made a fist and held it in the air in front of him for a moment before lowering his closed hand gently to the table, a gesture that seemed to Welker to be barely controlled anger. ‘This – this virus – is spreading. We must do what we can to pull it out at the root before it is established over here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Welker said.
‘Well,’ the President said, ‘get to it! Keep me informed. I have given instructions that any calls from you are to be put through. If I’m not here Miss LeHand, my private secretary, can be given any message. But if you have to give it to anyone else, be vague. At least until I set up an actual liaison for you here in the Executive Office.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Welker said. Roosevelt thrust out his hand and Welker shook it. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ Roosevelt said. ‘Hell of a time we’ve picked to be living through, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Welker agreed. ‘It sure is.’
SEVENTEEN
Some ladle out the blarney
In the mitt camp of a carney
And some lecture on the Cosmic Oversoul
But
their names would be mud
Like a chump playing stud
If they lost that old ace in the hole
– William Lindsay Gresham, ‘Nightmare Alley’
The long-range Savola-Marchetti SM 75 carrying Count Ciano landed at Washington-Hoover Airport at 3:30 Friday afternoon, having completed the Rome to Washington flight in four days, nine hours; stopping briefly in Morocco, Dakar, Fortaleza, Caracas, and Havana, for a total distance of a little over 9,000 miles. After shaking hands with the pilot, the copilot, the navigator, and the radio man, Count Ciano and his assistant, the bellissima Arianna, climbed aboard the waiting Embassy Lancia and were driven into Washington.
Gian Galeazzo Ciano, conti di Cortellazzo e Buccari, Foreign Minister of Italy, son of WWI war hero Admiral Constanzo Ciano, son-in-law of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini; handsome, clever, multo importante, commander of La Disperata bomber squadron during the invasion of Ethiopia, trusted liaison between Mussolini and Hitler, holder of ten thousand secrets from two dozen capitals of Europe and Asia, was by his own estimation a charming man and a skilled negotiator. And it would require both charm and skill to accomplish his present goal.
The civil war in Spain looked to be winding down – of course Generalissimo Franco had been promising victory for the past year, but this time it looked like progress was actually being made. And it was essential that the United States be friendly to the new Fascist government when it was proclaimed. The US had not taken sides during the past three years of fighting. Neither Fascism nor Communism were particularly popular in the United States, and as long as the two were at loggerheads in the continuing war it was natural for the US to stay out. But the side that won would come into sharp focus, as questions of recognition and trade and business relationships slid into view.
So here he was; Count Ciano the negotiator, Count Ciano the charmer, ready to perform for assorted members of Congress and the President’s staff. A meeting with President Roosevelt had not been yet arranged, but no doubt it would come to pass. But first, that very evening, a gala reception for the assorted diplomats on Embassy Row and many of those same Congressmen and officials. And before that a nap. He thought briefly of asking Arianna to share his bed, but decided he was too tired.
At six that evening the limousines began pulling up one by one in front of the Italian Embassy at 16th Street and Fuller, to disgorge their passengers and then float off to that secret land where limousine drivers go to smoke and drink strong coffee and eat Gruyère sandwiches on baguettes or liverwurst on rye, depending, and await the appointed hour of their return. It was quarter to seven when the Rolls carrying Lady Patricia Saboy pulled up and Garrett, Lord Geoffrey’s aide, who was playing the role of chauffeur for the evening, lumbered around to open the passenger door for Lady Patricia and her escort.
‘My uncle, Professor Isaac Luthier,’ Patricia explained as she went along the reception line. ‘My husband is not yet back from England.’
Isaac looked amazingly resplendent in white tie. The cut of his bespoke jacket and trousers had a vaguely un-British look to the discerning eye, but the drape and the stitching were those of a master tailor.
When some days before Patricia had expressed concern about Isaac’s ability to, ah, ‘belong’, he had reassured her. ‘All clothing is but a costume, designed to create an illusion,’ he told her, ‘and creating a believable illusion is my stock in trade, as it were. Besides, my father was a count, so dressing like a penguin is part of my heritage.’
‘A count?’ she had asked. ‘Really?’
Isaac nodded. ‘Count Feodor Petrov Androvitch Schenk Lubonowski. The fourth Count Lubonowski. I would have been the fifth.’
‘But he was and you’re not?’
Isaac shrugged. ‘Sometime prior to the World War my father got into a dispute with the King over who could do what and with what and to whom. I believe it involved a Coryphée – a lead dancer of the corps de ballet. I was too young to understand or care much about the details. As a consequence of the contretemps, the King in a prolonged moment of pique – the process took something over four years – had my father stricken off the rolls. In the next edition of the Almanach de Gotha there was a white space where my father’s name had been. And I believe, to emphasize his majesty’s point, there was a black line through the white space. Our lands reverted to the crown and my father moved to Paris, taking with him most of the family and what little money he had salvaged. I spent six years at Taunton, an unusually sadistic British public school, where I learned maths, Latin, Rugby, how to speak proper English, and revenge. By the time I graduated Papa had gone through the remaining money, so I was left to live by my, fortunately considerable, wits. I was, for a brief while, the male ingenue in a theatre company in Poland, fencing master at an academy in Berlin, croupier at a chemin de fer table in Monte Carlo, a smuggler of antiquities from various Middle Eastern countries, and a gigolo on a transatlantic ocean liner.’
‘A gigolo?’ Patricia asked. ‘You don’t seem the, ah, physical type.’
Another shrug. ‘I was young, I was not unattractive, I dressed well, I spoke well, and I was reasonably priced.’
‘Really?’ Patricia asked. ‘Is all that true?’
‘Perhaps,’ Isaac said. ‘Incidentally, I have been giving some thought to our evening’s activities, and I have a plan. And a new camera I want to try out.’
‘You’re going to go to the reception with a camera? Patricia asked. ‘People will talk. Or are you going to be taking pictures for the society page?’
‘No one will know,’ Isaac said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a silver object about the size of a bundle of four cigarettes.
‘That’s a camera?’ Patricia asked.
‘And a very good one. It’s a Minox, the latest in spy technology.’
‘German?’
‘Surprisingly it’s Latvian. Perfect for photographing documents. See this chain on the end? That little bead gives you the exact distance to get a document in perfect focus. Uses special tiny rolls of film. All you need is a strong reading lamp to get quite readable pictures.’
‘Well,’ Patricia said. ‘I’m pleased to be able to give you a chance to play with your new toy. The question is, how am I going to get you into the ambassador’s office?’
‘I have a plan,’ he told her. ‘Back when you were assisting The Great Mavini, did you do any mind-reading or mentalism?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Mostly birds and escapes, and showing off my body to an admiring crowd while Mavini did something clever.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ he asked.
‘I did. Max Mavini and his wife were both lovely people. And it is something of a rush to be applauded six days a week.’ She looked at him. ‘Does this help?’
‘Your stage presence may. Also your practice with misdirection. Did you know you were a psychic?’
‘A what?’
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Madam Sosostris and you are as sisters. Or soon will be. I have a monograph by Phillip Gold, a noted practitioner of the arcane arts, on what we call “cold readings” for you to study, and a deck of tarot cards for you to practice with. It’s a new deck, and the desired aura will surround you better if it looks to be a bit used. So throw the cards on the floor and walk on them a bit – but not in your heels. We want them dusty and used, not punctured.’
‘It shall be as you say, O wise master,’ Patricia said, bowing.
‘Harrumph,’ said Isaac.
At the end of the reception line stood Marcello with a tall, elegant woman whom he introduced as his wife. For some reason Patricia had pictured her as being short and dumpy, and it took a moment to fit this woman into her preconceived image. Her English was excellent – better than Marcello’s. ‘My dear, let me introduce you to Lady Patricia Saboy,’ Marcello said. ‘It is she that I’ve been telling you about. Lady Patricia, this is my wife, Livia.’
Livia took Patricia’s hand and for a moment Patricia’s mind went blank. ‘The lady I’v
e been telling you about?’ Why yes, I have been bonking your husband. He’s quite good in bed, don’t you agree? But her wits returned in time to hear Livia say, ‘It’s so nice of you to help Marcello with his English, he is so stubbornly resistant to learning a new language.’
‘Ah,’ Patricia said, ‘if I spoke the language of Dante and Machiavelli, perhaps I would not see the importance of learning another.’
Livia smiled sweetly. ‘And Boccaccio,’ she said. ‘Let us not forget Boccaccio.’
She knows, Patricia thought. ‘But then we have Shakespeare,’ she said, with a polite smile, ‘and Dickens and Jane Austen.’
‘Yes.’ Livia’s smile was, if anything, a bit larger than Patricia’s. ‘We have a lot to teach each other.’
‘Come, dear,’ Marcello said in a blandly innocent voice, taking Livia’s arm. ‘Let me introduce you to the French Ambassador.’
‘Of course, caro mio,’ Livia said, patting him on the hand and allowing him to lead her away. ‘Your English is improving already.’
Isaac looked after the retreating couple. ‘Something?’
‘No, not really,’ Patricia said.
‘I think perhaps something,’ Isaac said. ‘No matter. Let us wander about meeting people so that I may become your bland and uninteresting uncle and fade into the overly polished woodwork.’
Patricia almost fell into an unladylike fit of giggling, but stopped herself in time. ‘Bland and uninteresting, are you? And I am Marie of Rumania.’
‘Could be,’ Isaac agreed, lifting two glasses of prosecco from a passing tray. ‘There is a resemblance.’ He handed her a glass and lifted his in toast. ‘Are you ready for the night’s adventure?’
‘Shouldn’t we wait until people are more settled down?’ she asked.
‘We should commence setting the scene,’ Isaac said, ‘defining the terms, creating the fog of expectation.’
‘Ah?’
The Bells of Hell Page 13
