Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  “Dunno. Says his name is Hank Burns.”

  “Show him in. But do me a favor, will you? In five minutes I want you to ring this number to the second phone on my desk and say that the Governor is on the line. I’ll get him out of here.”

  Mike stacked the memos, looked up and smiled at the skinny young man who entered the office. The guy had deep blue eyes that skittered around the room. He also had not had a lot of sleep lately; the violet rings under his eyes attested to that. “Good Morning, Mr. Burns, isn’t it?”

  Hank looked around the dimly lit, windowless office. There was no glass, there were no pretty receptionists. What a queer place for someone who was supposed to be important. “Yes, it is.”

  “Agent Michael Hicks, Federal Bureau of Investigation. So you have something to report on one of our posters?”

  “Actually, I do not. But I have information that may be a matter of national security for the U.S. I don’t know exactly where to report it. There does not seem to be an office for intelligence.”

  Hicks began to laugh. “Nah, our offices aren’t set up for intelligence.” He rubbed his right eye, and pushed back a stray hair from his forehead. Today was his day for irritation. “So, what is it that I need to know?”

  “I was at a home down the river yesterday. They’re Germans.”

  “We have Germans all over upstate New York.”

  “Yes, but these Germans are planning to steal something that I believe is U.S. property.”

  Michael sat up and pushed his chair closer to the desk, elbow on the stack of papers, and propped his chin in his hand, mouth set somewhere between neutral and stern. “So what is this U.S. property?”

  “It’s a set of plans – are you familiar with the Norden bombsight?”

  “What?”

  “The Norden bombsight is an invention of a Dutchman – you know the Dutch have been developing lenses for more than 300 years…”

  “Mr. Burns, please come to the point.”

  “The plans for a bombsight with a new stabilizing system are being prepared at Sperry on Long Island. I met a couple men who are planning to steal them and get them to the Germans.”

  The second phone on the desk rang. “I have to take this. It’s the Governor’s office.” He snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hello, I have someone in my office right now. Could you ring back in ten more minutes?” He lit a cigarette.

  “So how in heck did you meet a couple thugs from Long Island?”

  “I’m not sure they are thugs. I have been dating their sister for almost a year. She invited me to meet the family this weekend, and when we sat down to dinner, they raised their arms in the Nazi salute and sang the party anthem. I was shocked at the display. They’re Nazis.” He paused. “She never spoke of it. My mother was born in Germany, but I was raised in Amsterdam.”

  Mike looked at his visitor closely. “That explains the accent. So, you’re Dutch.” He looked at the papers on his desk. “And Holland is being occupied by Germany. How do your folks like that?”

  Hank stiffened, “I am not in touch with them.”

  Hicks caught the discomfort at the mention of Hank’s family. Hmm, he’s a lone wolf, good and bad— good because he makes independent judgments, bad because he may not follow directions. We will need to control this guy to get things right. “Okay, so why don’t you just tell me what happened?” The whole FBI was a pack of lone wolves, so this guy might fit right in.

  Hank recounted every detail of the Sunday dinner, including exactly what had been served and eaten. “When Greta and I went for a walk she said her brothers were just a pair of bullies. But the plan is for her to carry the plans to Geneva. She has applied for a post at the American Red Cross and wants to serve as soon as she finishes nursing school.”

  “So, you have a girl mixed up in this?”

  “I was planning to propose to her.” A frown deepened the bruised shadows under his eyes. “But I refuse to have anything to do with Nazis. The ring is still in my camera bag. I guess now I have to break it off and not see her again.”

  “Not so fast Hank, let me think on this one.” Pulling his chair back from the desk, he faced Hank again. “For the time being, do not break it off. Does she think you’re coming to Geneva with her?”

  Hank stiffened, remembering the comment about ‘a nice place to honeymoon.’ “No, I said that I would not go back to Europe, and she didn’t seem to be wild about the idea either. I think if she were married she would forget nursing. She is so dear. She just needs someone to take care of.”

  “Maybe you should get her a kitten.”

  Hank stared at Hicks. Was he serious? Anyway, he hated cats. If the agent was joking, that was—rude.

  “Hank—just give me a moment. I need to get another guy in here. Can you stick around a little longer? You might be able to help us.” Hicks picked up another phone and buzzed, “Tom, can you come in here a minute?” A moment later the door opened and the frame of a very large man filled the space. “Hank, this is Tom O’Brien, Special Agent. Tom, Hank has brought us some very interesting information.” He recapped the story from his notes, and then asked Hank if he had anything to add. Hank was astonished. Michael had recounted all the details precisely, even the explanations. It was almost as if he were reading everything on the surface, and digging a level deeper.

  “That is accurate. But I don’t know what to do now. I usually see Greta when I eat lunch over at Woolworth’s. I don’t even know if I should do that anymore.”

  O’Brien smiled, “Oh, we’ll be seeing lots of Greta. Maybe even her brothers if we do our job right. Hank, want some coffee?”

  Hank started to explain that he did not like coffee, but then decided that it was more important to fit in. “Yes, please, with two cubes of sugar.” He needed something sweet today.

  “So, let’s start with the brothers, Frank and Joe Fischer.”

  Hank interrupted. “At the house they called themselves Franz and Josef Fischer. “

  “Okay, we need to dig out birth certificates on both sets of names, plus any records of name changes, naturalization certificates, passports, etc. I sure hope they were born in the U.S. If we don’t find it in U.S. records, we can assume they were born somewhere else. We also need to verify their employment with Sperry on Long Island. Are they actually Norden’s bodyguards, or just a couple security goons? What are their shifts, who supervises them? And we don’t want Sperry to think anything might be wrong. Otherwise they will change their plans.” Once he got going, O’Brien’s delivery was like a machine gun.

  “Dig out German American friendship clubs and find out what they are up to. I heard they actually had a group marching in the Chicago May Day parade. Boy, that must have been a swell parade. The commies were there too.”

  Michael pushed all the briefing memos aside. He had pulled out a yellow legal pad and was writing furiously. “Hank, where do the Fischers live? We need to start tracking their actions as well.”

  “Oh no, do you need to spy on the whole family? On Greta?”

  “Nah, we’re not gonna spy on Greta.” Hicks looked across his desk at O’Brien, then they both shifted in their seats. “You’re going to spy on Greta.” Hank clamped his mouth shut. “And we call this an investigation. We are the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The United States doesn’t spy.”

  “Excuse me?” Hank’s brows knit into total confusion.

  “Hoover shut down intelligence activities in the Department of State because we would never have any more wars, and the embassies were just having cocktail parties – great place to go during Prohibition.” Tom continued, “But we do investigate.”

  “How is investigation different?”

  “Beats me. We get paid less, and we don’t get to go to cocktail parties?”

  Hank couldn’t imagine these two rumpled bureaucrats being invited to embassy cockt
ail parties. He remembered the stiff suits and slick shoes they wore to glittering palace events in Amsterdam. Okay, he personally had been in uniform, but he knew that these guys would not fit in.

  “Okay, Hank, when do you see Greta next?”

  “Well, she is away for the holiday, so I would be having lunch there on Wednesday.”

  “Great. And when do you two date?”

  “We usually go dancing on Saturdays.”

  “Where?”

  “We like to go to the Four Aces. They have a great big band. Gosh, I hope she’s not mad at me.”

  “Why would she be?”

  “I didn’t even kiss her good night. I was supposed to stay the weekend, and instead I said I had to work today. I just caught the late night train.” He began to fish around in his pocket, and pulled out a roll of film. “I’m not sure, but do you want this? I have a roll of film.”

  Hicks startled, snapping his head away from O’Brien. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I thought I should take a family portrait—you know, as a thank you gift? But I did get good full face and profiles of everyone.” A twinkle of blue, and then a fixed gaze. “Would you like me to develop it?”

  Hicks picked up the roll and set it on top of his notepad. “We can send it to our lab. You look like you didn’t have much sleep. Buddy, you go take a walk and maybe a nap. Let’s surprise your girl with entrance to the Arcadia Club.”

  Hank took a deep breath. The Arcadia was the most exclusive club in Rochester, a place where owners of big businesses met for golf and confidential talks. No Italians, no Irish, and no Jews were allowed to join. Hicks broke in on his daydream. “And don’t be surprised if one of us turns up at the Arcadia with a date. I’ll see if the wife would like to go. If you see me, please do not greet us. Don’t even look at us. We will do all the watching. You need to keep dating this girl and treat her like the princess that she undoubtedly is. Don’t pull back, and for heaven’s sake don’t make promises. Act as if there are no concerns. And if she invites you to visit the family again, by all means go.”

  Tom O’Brien breathed a sigh of relief. At 6’4” and with his red hair he was not an ideal candidate for undercover work in a ballroom. But he would get to the bottom of the questions about the brothers. He also needed to set up undetectable surveillance for Hank Burns or whatever his real name was.

  Chapter Ten

  Upstate New York

  July 1940

  “Auf wiedersehen – until we meet again”~ German folk song

  Greta sat on the front porch, the muggy evening closing in around her while fireflies appeared in the bushes and disappeared again. Hans had vanished into the night. She planned to stay outside until her brothers left the front room, but Franz’s voice cut the night air. “Hey Gretel, where did your Dutchman disappear to?

  “Yeah, what happened to Hänsel?”

  Greta looked at her brothers, puzzled. In the first place, it was none of their business and she didn’t like the contempt she heard in their comments. Their beer glasses were empty and the ashtrays were full. Foul air filled the tidy house. No wonder Hans had left. He didn’t drink or smoke.

  There were only two emotions that she could express safely. One was to lash out in anger. The other was cold silence.

  Franz persisted with his line of questions. “I thought you said Dutchman had a German mother. What did he say when we took over Holland? Did he ever express any gratitude for our protection of his precious ‘Motherland’?”

  Greta glared at him.

  Josef laughed, “We all know there is only one Fatherland and it’s not that stupid swamp full of cheese-heads.”

  A heavy glass ashtray was in her hand, but she set it back down on the coffee table. The last thing she needed was to attract Gertrude’s concern by throwing it at her brother. Her mother had done everything to make her a good wife, but now she was about to lose her temper. She folded her arms and straightened up to her full height.

  “Hank is not stupid! He has a good job and he was smart enough to leave that swamp and move here. He speaks, reads and writes German, which is more than you two know how to do. He even knew the words to your dumb song.”

  Franz put down his beer, and lit a new cigarette. He blew the smoke toward her and asked, “So, how was your walk by the river? Seems like the two of you weren’t out long enough to have any meaningful ‘talk.’”

  Greta started to move toward the kitchen. Josef ordered, “You need to answer us.”

  “He received a late order from a very important client. He got up early, took the bus here, and didn’t tell me until after dinner that he needed to return to Rochester. He didn’t want to spoil our day together.”

  “Boy oh boy, that must have been some good night kiss. So what kind of order was it?”

  “He runs the darkroom at Rosenbaum’s Photo.”

  “Goddammit, they’re not even proper Germans, they’re Jews. Your boyfriend works for Jews?”

  “He’s a Presbyterian.”

  Franz stabbed out his cigarette near the clean ashtray and blew the ashes around the tabletop. “For crying out loud, you never realized that he wasn’t a Lutheran? How in God’s name did you miss that? That guy isn’t German. You dumb bitch, you are going to have to clean this up.” His beer sloshed as he slammed the glass down.

  Josef’s grinning mouth closed and he sat back in his father’s easy chair as Greta retorted. “I don’t need to clear anything up except your filthy ashtrays and beer glasses. When I’m married, I won’t even need to do that anymore.”

  “You rotten cunt!”

  “This stinks! I don’t have to follow orders from you.”

  “Well, actually you do. So let’s think about what they will be.”

  Greta began to fold the heavy sections of the newspapers. She drew the flowered chintz drapes. The outside door was left open in hopes that a river breeze would help clear the air. Her brothers were used to treating her like a dummy, but her ears were wide open as they conspired.

  “She needs to dump him.”

  Josef leered at his sister. “Nah, actually, she needs to get to know him better. He pop your cherry yet?”

  Gretchen spun around, mortified. “Good God, no!”

  “It’s time for some fireworks then.”

  “Not until after I’m married.”

  “Well, you are going to have to spend time in his apartment – where do you go to snuggle?”

  “This really isn’t your business.” She turned back toward the kitchen door. Josef grabbed her arm, pressing hard enough to leave a mark.

  “Let’s try this again.”

  Her eyes filled. “We kiss on a park bench. Sometimes we walk by the lake.”

  “Bitch, where do you two go after dark?” Franz smirked. “Just tell him you are cold or uncomfortable on the park bench. He’ll find a warm soft place for you. That’s his duty.”

  “He lives in a rooming house, and they can’t take girls to their rooms. I live in a rooming house, and I can’t take young men upstairs.” She paused, assessing the two men, rumpled and smelling of tobacco and beer. “We go out on dates. Maybe you should try an evening with a nice girl sometime.”

  “What else don’t you know about this guy? How do you know if he doesn’t have a girlfriend in Holland?”

  “Or a wife?” Franz lowered his head, like a bull planning to charge. “Dutchman might have run away.”

  Josef stretched out his arm and reached for another cigarette, lit it and pulled on the tobacco until it glowed bright red. “Nah, I don’t think there is a wife, or he would have tried to pop her cherry.”

  Outside a thunderstorm started. A light sprinkle began to fall from the pink sky. Toward the west the sky had already turned violet with black clouds forming in the remains of the sunset. A low rumble threatened. “Crap, that’s all we need. A per
fect evening. Well, hopefully your boyfriend got on the bus OK. Be a shame to get him all wet.”

  “Yeah, or his snazzy camera. At least he has a German camera. That little Leica cost more than our salaries for a week. He better be rich, or I hope you enjoy eating film. Oh wait, he works in a darkroom – he can steal all that stuff.”

  “Stealing.” Franz scratched a pimple on his chin, “We need to get back to our plan. So, you will keep on dancing with Hans, or Hank or whatever he calls himself. You need to get into his room – you’re a woman, figure it out. He just needs to see that we are doing the right thing. If he’s with us, we’re OK. If he’s not, we’ll make other plans.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rochester, N.Y.

  July 1940

  “NORTHERN EUROPE: Most of Europe is now under Nazi rule.

  France surrenders. The French Vichy Government will cooperate with the Nazis. Britain is given the choice to surrender or die.” ~ N.Y. Times

  Hank pulled a strip of negatives from the tank. The shop was silent, closed for the holiday. Just before leaving work on two days before he had met a new customer. Rosenbaum greeted the man. “Hi Shel! Hey Hank, I want you to meet Shel. He is a big agent–he finds actresses and models for Broadway producers. You know those gorgeous gals at Radio City Music Hall? They come from all over the country, some even from here. Pretty and talented.”

  Hank thought of his sister and how he could have helped Esther live her dream of being a beauty on film.

  Shel laughed, “Yeah, very talented. I got a rush order here.”

  “Hank, can you do it?”

  “I’m going to Greta’s house for the long weekend.”

  Rosenbaum laughed, “Aah Greta, now there’s a sweetheart–not talented, but a great cook. Good wife material. When are you going to ask her to marry you?” Hank began to fiddle with envelopes of photos, sorting and resorting them. “Seriously, Hank, have your weekend, but can you figure out how you can get these contact sheets to Shel right after the holiday?”