Voices Behind the Curtain

by Gordon Zuckerman

  As they watched the first scenes of the film, the men struggled to make the connection between the elegantly dressed feline beauty seated near them and the sprightly, casual young woman on the screen. Dressed in the briefest of shorts and a thin cotton blouse, the movie version of Mercedes could be seen straining to lift herself out of the sea and into a small fishing boat. The laughter and snide comments clearly indicated the male members of the audience were enjoying what they were witnessing. Their enjoyment was not shared by the disappointed and embarrassed main attraction of the evening, however.

  Once the screen flashed white, each of the dinner hostesses began to pass out the anticipated envelopes, two per guest. Meanwhile, Manuel stepped up in front of the glowing screen to announce, “My friends, I sincerely hope you enjoyed our latest work. Without your generous contributions, the making of this film would not have been possible.”

  A single clap triggered light applause, which grew in intensity when he motioned toward Mercedes and added, “You are all invited to remain. Talk to your hostess, talk to Mercedes, or listen to more mariachi music and take advantage of the open bar.”

  Few took him up on the offer. One by one, the executives thanked their three hosts—Manuel, Jordan, and Mercedes—for an extraordinary 3 days and, with feigned yawns, asked to be excused.

  As each guest entered the portico holding the arm of his dinner hostess, he signaled to the valet: one finger indicated that only the limousine would be needed; two fingers indicated he would need a taxi to return his hostess to her home.

  * * *

  AS THE PARTY BEGAN TO THIN OUT, MERCEDES FOUND HERSELF sitting at a small table near the bar. She was accompanied by Manuel and Jordan. She was not impressed. Midway through the evening, she was beginning to comprehend the true meaning of what Manuel had really been proposing when he offered her the opportunity to become a serious dramatic actress. Clearly, any opportunity to appear before the camera had turned into the cheapening exploitation of her physical beauty. So this is what is truly meant to be under contract to Arena Studios. Is spending the rest of the evening with the great lawyer from Wall Street also expected of me?

  Manuel kept getting pulled away—by departing guests, by house staff, or by vendors politely seeking payment. Jordan didn’t waste any time in capitalizing on his absences. Leaning in close to Mercedes, he attempted to capture her attention by sharing some of the most impressive details about a few of the more fascinating people he’d met along the way.

  His tactic was working. Mercedes found herself becoming captivated by his stories.

  * * *

  HER ANGER AT MANUEL WAS BEGINNING TO FADE. CLEARLY, SHE WAS impressed by Jordan’s worldliness and his attempt to fill in the details of his dealings with world leaders, powerful bankers, and corporate magnates. The more he spoke, the more approachable he made these luminaries seem. He was humanizing people she only knew from accounts in the newspapers and the weekly “Movietone” newsreels. Fascinated by the unusual nature of his stories, she began to ask a steady stream of questions.

  Jordan was similarly impressed. He was beginning to see past her beauty to recognize the sensitive, inquisitive, intelligent, and kind young woman who lay behind her outer shield of glamour.

  Each time Manuel reappeared at the table, Jordan stopped talking, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and, not so convincingly, attempted to mask his annoyance at the interruption.

  Unaware of what had been happening during his absence, Manuel’s mind was clearly focused on accessing the success of the evening. “What do you think?” he asked. “Did everyone enjoy themselves? What do we have to do next?”

  “Not much,” Jordan said, his tone clipped. “I’d say your work is done, and my work is just beginning. To a man, they approved our plan. They funded our war chest, and everyone left feeling more closely bonded together in a common effort.”

  Manuel smiled as he finished the last of his snifter. To a man, they approved our plan. They funded our war chest, and everyone left feeling an even greater sense of personal bonding. How could things have gone any better?

  Secretly, he was smiling at the thought of how much more compromising the film shot that night might become once it was safely stored in his secret safe. Rising from his chair, Manuel said, “Jordan, Mercedes, if you’ll excuse me, there still are some duties requiring my attention.”

  Mercedes was suddenly conscious of being left alone with Jordan. Her attention was only half-focused on Jordan’s telling of his next interesting stories. The other half was busy analyzing her different options. Ole girl, this isn’t the first tight spot you have found yourself. It might be a good idea if you think carefully about what you should do next. Whatever you decide could change your life!

  Oh, what the hell. This is not the first time or probably the last time you’ll find yourself in this position. Why not wait one day, before making what could be a life-altering decision?

  Having made up her mind, she gradually began to relax and refocus her complete attention on the nice-looking and handsome man in a refined sort of way. Behind his gusto and sense of self-importance, he seems to be a sensitive, thoughtful, and a very lonely man.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mary Wheeler Clarke

  NEW YORK, APRIL 1948

  On the following day, at 7:00 p.m. sharp, the bell rang in Cecelia and Mike’s thirteenth-floor Upper Eastside cooperative apartment. They stepped into the hallway just outside their residence in anticipation of greeting the highly regarded former OSS administrator. Moments later, the elevator doors opened and out stepped a tall, trim, middle-aged woman with short, curly, graying brown hair and large brown eyes. She had the tall and lithe body of a dancer somewhat softened with age. Dressed in a tailored tweed business suit of earth tones, she projected the image of a smart, professional woman whom you would feel comfortable talking to as if she was an old friend or older sister.

  Her eyes twinkled as she extended her hand. “Thank you for your timely invitation. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you ever since I returned to New York.” Handing them a gift-wrapped bottle, she continued, “Here is a small token of my appreciation.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mary,” Cecelia said as she stepped forward to shake her hand. “Ever since Jacques explained what you have encountered, you can’t imagine how excited we are to see our old friend from Switzerland.”

  Mike, momentarily, chose to stand back and watch as these two remarkably smart and strong willed ladies, with well earned respect for each other, silently accessed each other. The last time they had met, it had been under entirely different circumstances. That was a social occasion; tonight would be devoted to a deadly serious situation.

  After waiting for the ladies to finish, Mike stepped forward, and, spreading his arms, engulfed the lady spy in a friendly hug. After disengaging, he said, “Mary, Claudine has described you as a bit of a storyteller. While we appreciate the purpose of the evening must be devoted to talking about serious problems, I hope we will take some time to learn more about your wartime experiences in Bern. How often do you think we have had an opportunity to spend time with someone who had such an interesting window to view the circumstances that led to the start, the conduct, and the conclusion of the war in Europe?”

  * * *

  AFTER ENTERING THE APARTMENT, MIKE STARTED TO UNWRAP MARY’S gift. “Cecelia, look at this bottle of wine Mary has brought us. It’s a 1938 vintage Joseph Drouhin Gevrey-Chambertin, one of France’s finest wines from its Bordeaux wine-making appellation. There has only been one other occasion when I have enjoyed the pleasure of this particular wine!”

  * * *

  MARY AND MIKE WERE SEATED NEAR THE BIG FIREPLACE WHEN Cecelia returned from the kitchen holding a polished silver antique tray that held three generously filled martini glasses. She extended the tray toward Mary.

  Mike carefully lifted a second glass from the tray, before offering to take it from Cecelia so she could help herself to the t
hird well frosted glass. As soon as they were all seated in front of the burning fire, in the well screened big fireplace, Mike asked the first question. “How are you finding life in NewYork?”

  “It’s funny you would ask,” Mary replied. “There’s no way the life of a part-time college lecturer and aspiring author can compare with the kind of work or office atmosphere the OSS director and I had grown accustomed to in wartime Bern. Though of late, it seems—with all the calls I have been receiving from some of my old friends—life in New York appears to becoming a bit more interesting.”

  Mike seized the opportunity to come right to the point. “Why have you chosen to bring what you have been telling Henri to our attention?”

  “Well, first and foremost, it’s important that you realize I’ve seen what I suspect may be happening in America take place before. Don’t forget I had a ringside seat from which I could watch the German people, in their excitement of witnessing the arrival of the ‘new man on horseback,’ who never challenged his desire to create an ‘Arsenal for Peace.’

  “Later, as it became apparent that Hitler was transforming his ‘Arsenal for Peace’ to an ‘Arsenal for War,’ I found it particularly interesting when nobody questioned his motives. Even more confusing was the failure of people to question why the historical conservative hierarchy of Germany would choose to support a new reform party of questionable repute.

  * * *

  “REPORTS DESCRIBING THE INVESTMENT AGREEMENTS BETWEEN automakers, oil and chemical companies, aluminum and steelmakers, shipbuilders, commercial banks, investment banks, and others were constantly crossing my desk. I couldn’t believe it as I watched hundreds of military appropriation contracts being offered on a noncompetitively bid basis to the same companies owned by those who had financially supported Hitler and his National Socialist Workers Party rise to power. The German citizens, impressed by the improvement in their economy, never questioned his rhetoric of fear. He was never asked to substantiate his claim that Germany was at risk from France in the West and Russia from the East.”

  Mike knew the story, but he listened intently, curious to learn more from her perspective. Finally, he asked, “When Hitler’s armies invaded the Saar and the Rhineland in 1938, why didn’t the French and the British take advantage of their military superiority to dissuade Hitler when they had the opportunity?”

  * * *

  “GOOD QUESTION. WHO REALLY KNOWS, BUT IF I HAD TO GUESS, IT was in their governments’ best interest not to disrupt the economic growth of the transatlantic German cartel arrangements that included substantial American, British, and French investment sources. Enormous sources of private pressure were being applied to search for peaceful means to resolve the ‘German Situation.’

  * * *

  “WHEN PEOPLE SUCH AS YOURSELVES BEGAN TO QUESTION WHAT was really happening behind the scenes, no one of influence was willing to listen. Even your warnings about the possibility the German industrialists were leading the world to war failed to gain the motivated cooperation of responsible leaders. Now, 8 years later, you and your Sentinel friends have succeeded in opposing two serious threats to the public. You might ask yourselves, who else can we approach that might be capable of opposing what this enormously powerful coalition of prime military-industrial contractors may be planning? I worry we may be watching the self-serving influence of the American military-industrial complex penetrate ever more deeply into the American government. Should they be allowed to accomplish their objective, what do you think their ultimate objective might be?”

  Mike and Cecelia sat in silence, awed by the gravity of this sweet, harmless- looking lady’s worst fears. “There’s certainly ample precedent for what you are suggesting,” Mike said. “But as much as we’d like to take advantage of this information you’re bringing us, we don’t want to put you in danger. We don’t want to be the cause of destroying confidences your friends have placed in you.”

  “Not a problem. Not only is most of this data publicly available—if you know where to look—but more importantly, I wouldn’t hand over information if I didn’t have their permission to share it. It’s important for you to understand the sources of this information are, for the most part, distinguished former military leaders who share an uncommon love for their country. It’s their concern over the growing influence of the military-industrial complex taking place inside our government that has caused them to come forward.”

  * * *

  OUT OF RESPECT FOR CECELIA’S FINE DINNER, PERFECTLY complemented by Mary’s bottle of wine, they talked about everything but business. An hour later, the trio pushed back from the table, relaxed, well sated, and anxious to resume their discussion. As the three of them retired to the comforts of the living room and the warming fire, Mike, ever the consummate host, asked, “And, what would you be your choice for an after-dinner drink?”

  As Mike busied himself searching through his liquor cabinet, selecting the right kind of glasses and pouring the drinks, Cecelia asked Mary, “Why don’t we take advantage of Mike’s absence and you tell me more about your personal experiences in Bern. Surviving with two young children, a demanding job, and a tough boss couldn’t have been so easy.”

  “The view from Bern couldn’t have been more exciting. By the time I arrived in Bern in 1938,” she said, “the city had become one of the few places where agents, military officers, concerned private citizens, and diplomats from friendly and hostile foreign countries could regularly congregate. It was cosmopolitan, it was politically neutral, and it was rapidly becoming a center for European intelligence.

  “Almost daily, the director’s and my work brought us into contact with an amazing combination of high-ranking Allied military officers, government officials, and case operatives vitally concerned about daily events that appeared to be leading to inevitable military conflict.”

  “Given the size of your workload at the OSS,” Cecilia said, “how did you find time to create and maintain so many interesting relationships? From my own experiences, I’ve always found these people to be high-powered, high energy, extremely demanding, very skeptical, and terribly overloaded. How was it that they were willing to make the time to talk to you?”

  “You’re right about the daily press of our workload. I applied myself as best I could. I wanted to become regarded as a timely and accurate research administrator. In no time, I found myself fulfilling the role of the go-to person. Rather than wait for my written reports to make their way through channels, certain higher-level commanders and case officers started dropping by my office to get copies right off the press. These same men would use the opportunity to ask me about any useful information that I might not have included in my final report. It didn’t take long before interdependent personal bonds of friendship began to develop.

  “These same friends who are working in the relative obscurity of highly confidential work environments began to learn of some new secret plan being developed to restore defense spending. Believing the plan was some secret plan that applied only to their company, my friends reported their surprise when they discovered the same subject was being discussed by some of their other friends who worked for other defense companies.

  “If it were only one or two projects, they might have written it off as nothing to be concerned about. But after hearing of so many different incidents occurring from so many places, virtually overnight, they were inclined to believe some new master plan must be in the works to accelerate the rearming of the American military.”

  Mike, his brow furrowed, asked, “If what you suspect is really being planned, documentable information of the actual plan must be well hidden and carefully guarded. Obtaining confirmation might be difficult.

  * * *

  “WHY DON’T YOU GIVE US A COUPLE WEEKS TO POKE AROUND TO SEE what we can learn? It’s getting late. Why don’t we plan to reconvene as soon as we have learned something?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Marco’s Notes

  NEW YORK, APRIL 1948

>   To his wife, Anna, Marco Tancredi looked more relaxed than he had in years. He had learned the value of hard work from his Sicilian immigrant parents at a very young age. A proud product of the tough New York City streets, without the benefit of a college education, he had spent much of his life working two jobs: one to help support his father’s family and one to support his.

  On this particular morning, Marco and Anna were quietly sitting in the sunlit breakfast nook of their new West Side eighth-floor apartment. More than 3 months had passed since escrow had closed on the sale of Marco’s owners’ garbage collection company, and he had received his very large sixfigure management bonus. After a lifetime of living in the brownstone flat in their old family neighborhood that had once been the proud center of Italian heritage, he had decided to purchase a cooperative apartment in a newly completed building bordering the Hudson River.

  Always a prolific reader, he was studying the Wall Street Journal and enjoying a second cup of coffee when the red phone, the phone that everyone else knew not to answer, started ringing. Setting down his newspaper, he said, “I’ll take it in the other room.”

  The walk to the rear of the apartment gave Marco time to think. He suspected his lines were still tapped, and he hoped whoever was calling knew to be careful about what they said.

  A familiar voice said, “Marco, would you mind meeting me for lunch at the same restaurant where we ate at last week, at the same time? We need to talk.”

  The familiar voice was that of his young partner, the son of an old friend, Armando Camarillo. He was the oldest son of one of the men he first met when they arrived in America. They shared a small one-bedroom apartment, they worked as waiters in the same restaurant, on Sundays they attended church together, and they spent what little spare time they had talking of their dreams of living in America. Two years ago, Marco had innocently asked Armando how his new business was progressing.