The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Only then did I learn I would be working for the OSS. It was the closest thing we had to a CIA, but I had never heard of it. I decided it must be a little out of the ordinary when the job application included an “Agent’s Checklist” that asked me for a countersign “by which agent may identify himself to collaborators.” They also gave me a code name, an ID number for use in all official correspondence, and a desk in a windowless office in an old brick town house on Dufourstrasse.

  Most of my duties involved translation, but I suppose that officially I was a spy, unless there is some other name you’d give a job in which the boss sends memos on tradecraft and insists that you call him no, or Burns, or whatever the hell you wanted as long as you never used his real name. That first meeting on the train was the only time I felt comfortable calling him Mr. Dulles.

  So there I was, then, with Butchart on the train, trying to recruit someone else the same way that Dulles had recruited me, except we were seeking an altogether different sort of prospect.

  “What about him?” I said, pointing even though Butchart had asked me not to.

  “Where?”

  “Last compartment on the left, by the window. The guy with glasses.”

  The fellow in question looked like one of the younger crewmen, but it was his wariness that caught my eye. While most of the others wore a weary look of relief, this one still had his guard up. There was also a softness to his features, and a little boy wonderment as he stared out the window. You could tell he had never seen mountains like these.

  “He’s got potential,” Butchart said. “Navigator, I’ll bet.”

  “How you figure?”

  “The glasses. Must have a special talent or they’d have never let him in the air corps, and they’re always short on navigators. Keep an eye on him while I check the next car.”

  I did just that. A few seconds later Butchart returned, shaking his head.

  “I’m liking your navigator more and more.”

  “Want me to take him aside?”

  “Wait ’til we’re almost into the station. In the meantime I’ll let his CO know. I’ll also grab the Swiss officer in charge and start greasing the skids.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “Same thing Colonel Gill told them when he hired me. That I’m from the military attaché and we’re short on staff and looking for volunteers.”

  By now you may be thinking this isn’t exactly the most glamorous spy mission you’ve ever heard of, but it definitely beat what I had been doing up to then. Dulles had confined me to office duty, and I was going stir-crazy. It wasn’t so much that I craved excitement as that I needed distraction. At least twice a week I was still dreaming about being back in the bomber—the bed rocking as if shaken by a flak burst, a high-altitude chill creeping beneath the sheets. I’d wake up exhausted, hands numb, as if I’d just returned from an all-night mission. Frankly, I was worried about going ’round the bend if something didn’t come along soon to occupy my mind.

  Butchart had heard I was eager for action, and he had suggested I meet his boss, Colonel Gill, who kept track of intelligence matters for the military attaché. He said they might have a special job for me.

  I told him to give it a try, and it must have worked, because the next evening Dulles summoned me to his place on Herrengasse. I went after dark, which was the drill for just about everybody who went to his house. He had the ground-floor apartment in a grand old building that dated back to medieval times. It was in the heart of all those arcaded streets in the old part of Bern. Gumshoes kept an eye on his front door, so visitors like me entered through the back, after approaching uphill through terraced gardens overlooking the river Aare.

  It was always a treat visiting Dulles. He had a maid, a French cook, some mighty fine port, and plenty of logs for the fire. He also had a couple of mistresses, a Boston debutante married to a Swiss banker and an Italian countess who was the daughter of the conductor Toscanini. Dulles was probably the only warrior in the European Theater of Operations who suffered from gout.

  Not that he looked much like a Lothario. He was very much the old-school gentleman, all tweeds and pipe smoke, with an understated grace that immediately put you at ease. He was a hell of a good listener—which is probably what the ladies liked—and on any topic he zeroed in right away on the stuff that mattered. Glancing into his lively blue eyes when his mind was fully engaged was like peering into the works of some gleaming piece of sophisticated machinery, an information mill that never stopped running. Those newspapers in his pockets were no mere props. He devoured all knowledge within reach and chewed it over even as he engaged you in small talk about, say, the virtues of your university, or the quirks of some mutual acquaintance. Try to slip some half-baked thought past his field of vision and he’d seize upon it like a zealous customs inspector, and you’d end up wishing you had kept prattling on about your alma mater.

  When the maid showed me in, there was a fire on the hearth. Dulles was knocking at the logs with a poker.

  “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to a decanter of port on a side table.

  Someone had left a bowler hat next to it, and I figured there must be another guest waiting elsewhere in the house. Dulles confirmed this suspicion when he dispensed with the usual pleasantries and got right down to business.

  “I hear your services are in demand by Colonel Gill.”

  “Yes, sir. A little something to get me out of the office.”

  Dulles smiled and nodded.

  “I know you’re restless, but I do plan to get you out on the beat before long. Still, maybe this will offer some useful practice. Stretch your legs a bit. So you have my blessing if you’re so inclined, even if they do think of themselves as our competition. That’s not my view, mind you, but some of those Pentagon fellows seem to have a chip on their shoulders as far as we’re concerned. So mind your step, Bill. And don’t let them try anything fast and loose with you.”

  “Any reason to think they might?”

  “Not really, other than Gill himself. He’s bucking for promotion, which always makes a man a little dangerous. Sometimes in a good way, I’ll allow, but you never know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Bill.”

  “Yes?”

  “Even if you say yes, if the first step is squishy, don’t feel as if you have to take the second one. Don’t let pride shame you into doing something foolish. Perfectly fine by me if you bow out. Just don’t tell them I said so.”

  Early the next morning, Butchart ushered me into Gill’s office. Gill had set up shop in the back of a legation town house on Dufourstrasse, with a view onto a lush narrow garden. He stood behind a big varnished desk, a tall, trim fellow going gray at the temples. He offered a big handshake and spoke in a smoky baritone, which made for a powerful first impression. The starched uniform and all the ribbons didn’t hurt, either.

  Butchart stayed in the room after introductions, which was a little annoying although I wasn’t about to say so. Gill referred to him by name instead of rank. Maybe that was his way of signaling that the meeting was off the books.

  “Kevin here tells me you’re a little unhappy over in Allen’s shop. All cloak and no dagger, I hear.”

  “Maybe I’m just impatient.”

  “A man is entitled to impatience when there’s a war on. It’s no time to be sitting behind a typewriter. Not that I can promise you much dagger, either, I’m afraid. But at least you’ll be out in the field.”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Bu…uh, Kevin said you had an assignment in mind?”

  “I do. You’d be working it together. Are you familiar with the prisoner exchange that occurred a few weeks ago, those six American airmen we sent up into France?”

  “Yes, sir. Did something go wrong?”

  “Quite the opposite. Worked like a charm. All six are currently back in the
States awaiting reassignment. Apparently the Germans were happy to get their six men back as well. From all accounts they’re amenable to doing it again. But were you aware that your boss, Mr. Dulles, arranged the whole show?”

  I wasn’t, and it must have shown in my face.

  “I didn’t think so. Well, he did. And he was quite clever about it. Secretive, too. Even my bosses didn’t know what he was up to until a few days ago, and that didn’t go down so well in Washington. When some civilian wants to put their soldiers at risk, they prefer to be told in advance. Of course, now that it has turned out so well, they’re wisely keeping complaints to a minimum. And, frankly, it has opened up an opportunity for a similar effort by us. Which is where you and Kevin come in.”

  “So it was some sort of operation?”

  “Oh, yes. Unbeknownst to us, two of the airmen were functioning as OSS couriers. Apparently Dulles had gathered a lot of information on German troop movements up along the Atlantic Wall. He figured it was too hot to send out by wireless, even by code, so he drilled it into these two fellows instead. Strict memorization. Gave the lessons himself.”

  In those days it was no secret to anyone that the invasion of France was coming soon, and that’s why information on German troop strength along the French coast was at a premium.

  “Sounds like a smart idea,” I said.

  “It was. The only problem is that he left the job half-finished.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, think of it for a minute. In the intelligence business, the only thing better than passing along a lot of good information is convincing the enemy that you actually have a lot of bad information. That way, they’re more likely to miscalculate when they try to guess where you’re going to come ashore.”

  “So you’d like to load up a couple of prisoners, too, except with a lot of bad information?”

  “Exactly. One is all you need, in my opinion. Then, of course, you find some way to make the Germans suspicious enough to haul in your fellow for questioning. Of course, that means you have to choose just the right man for the job. One who will tell them what they want to hear, but in a convincing enough fashion.”

  “A good enough liar, you mean.”

  “Exactly. And what do you suppose would be the best way to make our fellow a good enough liar?”

  “Training?”

  “Only if you have months or even years at your disposal. We don’t have that luxury. We’ve only got weeks, if that. So I’ve come up with an alternative. Send in a novice. Just don’t tell him he’s carrying bad information. That way, he believes in the material enough to make it convincing.”

  “If he talks.”

  “Exactly. Which is why you have to pick just the right fellow. Not a hero, or someone who will keep his secret to the bitter end. Someone a little more, well, malleable. A weaker vessel, if you will.”

  “Someone who will break under pressure?”

  “And preferably not too much pressure. Which is why Kevin and you are perfect for the job. You’ve experienced firsthand what these airmen go through, and you know their state of mind when they arrive. More to the point, you’ve seen firsthand the ones who can’t cut it, the ones who break under pressure.”

  Like me, I almost said. I could have told him all about my latest nightmare, but I doubt he would have understood.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

  I thought the idea was dubious, and I recalled Dulles’s advice. Maybe it was time for me to bail. Or maybe Dulles had offered an easy escape merely to test me. Bow out now, and he might keep me deskbound for the rest of the war. You never knew for sure what was going on in a mind like his.

  So, despite my reservations, I decided to say yes. But first I had some questions.

  “How will we make sure the Germans pick him up?”

  “I’m afraid that aspect of the operation is above your pay grade, Bill.”

  It rankled, but it was the right thing to say, even though Dulles would have just winked and said nothing at all. But Colonel Gill, as I would soon discover, could never pass up an opportunity to impress you, even when he should have kept his mouth shut. And just as I was about to reply, he began elaborating on his statement in a way that obviously was intended to show the genius of his grand design.

  “Surely a smart fellow like you shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring out how we’ll do it,” he said. “Let’s face it, the Germans are all over town. You can’t even have a drink at the Bellevue without bumping into half the local Gestapo. So maybe we will have to arrange for a few well-placed leaks. A slipup here and there. Just enough to let them know that our man might be of interest to them as he makes his way through their territory. That’s the beauty of it, you see? No need to run too tight of a ship in the run-up to zero hour. The only real need for precision is in picking the right man for the job.”

  “But then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s say they take our man in for questioning. Pressure him. He talks, tells them everything, just like we want. Then what? Is he still exchanged as a prisoner?”

  “Oh, we’ll make it all work out, one way or another. If worse comes to worst, he’ll end up back where he started, as a captive.”

  “Except in German hands, not Swiss.”

  “Your concern is admirable, Bill. But have you been over to Wauwilermoos lately? Pretty brutal, I’m told. I’m sure there are some German stalags that would be an improvement over that rat hole. It’s wartime, Bill. Besides, anyone who volunteers will know the risks. If he were the hard type, the type to fight to the bitter end, then I’d say okay, you have a point. But this is the beauty of our operation. With the right man, the right temperament, the risk is minimal. So it really is all up to you. Or to you and Kevin, of course.”

  Translation: Failure would be on our heads, and mostly on mine. By recruiting an OSS man, Gill had arranged for a fall guy who could be laid at the feet of Dulles, his rival. If it succeeded, he could claim he knew better how to use OSS personnel.

  I said yes anyway. I can be stubborn that way, especially when I sense that an opportunity, no matter how chancy, might be the only one to come along. And a few days later there I was, entering a train compartment to talk to the young man who we had decided was our hottest prospect.

  * * *

  —

  “Morning, Lieutenant. I’m from the American legation in Bern and I have some questions for you. The first thing I need to know is your name.”

  The young airman looked suitably intimidated and clutched his escape kit to his chest. But he answered without first asking for my name, which I took as a good sign. Easily cowed by authority, I surmised, even though he carried a decent rank of his own.

  “Lieutenant Seymour Parker. Emporia, Kansas.”

  “Navigator, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I know a lot of things. Come with me, please. We’ve got some more questions for you.”

  “Are you an officer?”

  “Like I said. I’m with the legation.”

  “But the Swiss officers said…”

  “They’ve been notified. So has your CO. Let’s go.”

  He looked around at his seatmates, who shrugged. I got the impression they hadn’t known one another long, or else they would have risen to his defense.

  Parker rose awkwardly. A long flight in a Fortress stiffened you up, especially when followed by an uneasy night of sleep on a Swiss cot in an empty schoolhouse. He followed me meekly up the aisle to where Butchart was waiting, just as the train was pulling into Adelboden. We had arranged for the legation to send down a car and driver, which seemed to impress him. Butchart and I sat on either side of him on the backseat of a big Ford.

  If I had been in Parker’s shoes, I would have been asking
a million questions. He tried one or two, then stopped altogether when Butchart told him brusquely to shut up. If we had been Germans posing as Americans we could have hijacked him every bit as easily. Butchart looked over at me and nodded, as if he was thinking the same thing.

  The roads were clear of snow, and we made it to Bern in about an hour. We said little along the way, letting the pressure build, and when we reached the city we took him to an empty back room in one of the legation offices. Seeing the American flag out front and hearing other people speaking English seemed to put him at ease. We shut the door and settled Parker into a stiff-backed chair. The first thing Butchart asked was how many missions he’d flown.

  “This, uh, this was my first.”

  Perfect, and we both knew it. Enough to get a taste of terror without growing accustomed to it.

  “Some of your crewmates looked pretty experienced,” I said.

  “They are. I was a replacement.”

  “So what happened to you guys up there?” Butchart asked. “You fuck up the charts or something, get everybody lost?”

  Parker reddened, and for the first time defiance crept into his voice.

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. We were in the middle of the formation and took some hits. Didn’t even reach the target. We came out below Regensburg with only two engines, and one of those was smoking. Lieutenant Braden, he’s our pilot, asked me to plot a course toward Lake Constance.”

  “Well, you did that part okay, I guess.”

  Butchart then eased up a bit by asking a few personal questions. He companionably pulled up a chair next to Parker’s and started nodding sympathetically as the kid answered. I say “kid,” but Parker was twenty, the son of a wheat farmer. He was a third-year engineering student at the University of Kansas, which explained how he had qualified for navigator training.

  As he spoke it became clear that he was a man of simple, innocent tastes. He liked to read, didn’t smoke, preferred soda over beer, and didn’t have a serious girlfriend. Up to the time of his arrival in England he seemed to have believed that his hometown of Emporia was the center of the universe, and his college town of Lawrence was a veritable Athens. The most important bit of intelligence to come out of this part of our chat was that he had spent the previous summer as a lifeguard at a local pool.