A Despicable Profession (29 page)

He explained that this creepy old manse was President Truman's place of residence during the Big Three Potsdam Conference two months after VE Day. We were suitably impressed. He rambled on about Babelsberg, the German Hollywood, site of the Ufa Film Studios where Marlene Dietrich and Fritz Lang got their start. Had we noticed the cavernous sound stages on the drive in?!

He was wound up, the CO.

Jacobson had a chat with the MP, signed something on the clipboard and waved us in. We trooped down the wide corridor to the office with the closed door. Jacobson told Sean and
Patrick that the facilities were two doors down. They took the hint.

“How'd it go with Colonel Norwood?” said the CO when they were gone.

“One question first. Do we know a Petrov Voynivich?”

“He's an NKVD Colonel operating in the Soviet sector.”

That was the answer I was looking for. “Voynivich is Col. Norwood's boss.”

No visible reaction from Jacobson. “How?”

How did you determine that is what he meant. I wasn't supposed to tell Norwood about Leonid's confession so I couldn't tell the CO that I had done that in order to accuse Norwood of Commie collusion and force a reply. But I had to tell him something.

“The more I chewed on it the more I suspected that Norwood had been turned. Too much coincidence, he was always a step ahead. I wandered off during one of Norwood's long-winded speeches, did a quick search. And found this.”

I showed the CO the scandalous photo. I had promised the Colonel I'd keep the photo in my pocket, but we spies lie all the time.

Jacobson shook his head at the stupidity of it, and at the endless bad tidings I brought him. I told another lie. “Norwood thinks I threw it in the fireplace.”

“Which was why he gave you Voynivich.”

“More or less.”

“You could have used it to spring Ambrose.”

“Yes sir.”

The CO nodded his appreciation. No riot act, no ass chewing. I was home free.

“How did you leave it?”

Maybe not. “I told the Colonel to go to some tropical paradise and stay there.”

“You did what?”

Sean and Patrick returned about then. Jacobson, not wanting to dress me down in their presence, lit a cigarette and fumed.

I returned the photo to my coat pocket and wondered who Bill Donovan was talking to behind that closed door. Had to be Klaus Hilde. What a thumb in the eye to the CO. Made to cool his heels in the hallway while General Donovan consulted with a Nazi fugitive. That's the military for you. Hilde was a Nazi, sure, but he was also a general. And generals stick together.

The door opened a minute later. Herr Hilde emerged, spit and polish in a pin stripe suit, beard shorn, sentried by Jug Ears. He turned to Victor Jacobson, bowed and clicked his heels.

Of course, I should have known. Hilde was a
Junker,
a member of the landed Prussian aristocracy who dismissed Hitler as a bumbling corporal until it was too late and who more or less invented modern warfare. The Whiskey Colonels would worship at his feet.

The CO did not return Hilde's Prussian nod. I did, when my turn came.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Herr Schroeder,” he said, “for your successful mission to free me from captivity.”

“You are most welcome, Herr Hilde,” I replied. “Sleep well tonight.”

Hilde paused before he nodded, uneasily. When I intoned a well-loved lullaby the Brigadeführer turned on his heel and stalked down the hall, Jug Ears scrambling to keep pace.

“Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf / Ich gebe Dir ein Schaf / Und es soll eine Glocke aus Gold haben / Für Dich zum Spielen und zu halten / Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf.”

The CO didn't ask. He stood up as Wild Bill Donovan stepped out of the office to greet us a short time later. Sean and Patrick stood to attention.

“In here,” said Donovan, hand on the door knob.

I gave the Mooney boys a stay-patient palms-down and followed the CO into the dark office, closing the door behind me.

The office had striped gold and brown wallpaper, a white marble fireplace and a massive intricately-carved desk suitable for treaty signing ceremonies. The only light came from late afternoon sun bleaching through the muslin drapes and a two bulb desk lamp capped by a black metal shade.

General Donovan took his place in a high-backed upholstered chair behind the deck. There were no other chairs in the room, no stenographers or adjutants. Wild Bill was flying low to the ground this trip.

“Good work on Hilde,” said the General to Jacobson. “He's very knowledgeable.”

“That was Hal's doing General.”

I got a brief nod. This wasn't the back-slapping Wild Bill I had met in New York. This was a Major General in a foul temper.

“And this Committee that Hilde tells me about. Why wasn't I kept abreast?”

“I cabled you sir,” said Jacobson.

“Never saw it. Is it true?”

“We believe so sir.”

“Explain.”

“I sent Mr. Schroeder to one of their meetings. He determined that the Committee to Free Berlin was a front bent on mayhem.”

“On what evidence?”

Donovan said it to me. I think. The downward lamplight cast his face in shadow. I wrangled up my tongue, not sure what to say. No mention of Leonid's double dealing had been made as yet. I wasn't going to be the one to reveal my CO's major career embarrassment to Bill Donovan. But how to explain it elsewise?

Tell the truth. The best of it anyway.

“I went as a Stars'n'Stripes reporter, General, got a very cool reception, as if they were hiding something. When I went to leave I was greeted warmly by a founding member who assured me that the Committee was on the up and up.”

“Make your point.”

How to say this? I wasn't going to flat out lie to the Great Man.

“Our counterintelligence officer Leonid Vitinov informed me in advance that I would be so approached. And that the approacher would be an NKVD agent.”

Well he did. Inform me. Leonid just didn't know he did.

Donovan filed this away this without comment. “What else do you have?”

I looked to Jacobson. He answered for me.

“Mr. Schroeder reports that Col. Norwood of MI6 has been compromised by the Soviets and is in the process of fleeing to a distant country.”

“John
Norwood? Who knows about this?”

“Just the people in this room General.”

Donovan looked to me for further explanation.

“The Colonel admitted this to me personally sir. He's been reporting to Col. Petrov Voynivich, Soviet Sector.”

Donovan didn't ask why Norwood made this stunning admission to me. Didn't want to know the sordid details maybe. I could keep my scandalous photo in my pocket.

Wild Bill looked me over. And smiled. “You have been keeping your eyes open, haven't you?”

“Trying my best sir.”

“Where is Norwood now?”

“I'm not sure General, but as of about 0300 hours he was still in his chalet on
Spirchenstraße.”

Donovan gave me a long and complicated look. I came clean.

“I didn't say anything till now because I promised the Colonel I would give him a chance to flee in exchange for the identity and location of his Soviet Case Officer. It seemed a good bargain at the time, perhaps not so good now in the cold light of day. Col. Norwood has a way of confusing a person.”

I braced myself for a tongue lashing that didn't come.

“Did Colonel Norwood indicate why he turned against the Directorate?”

“The who, sir?”

“The Directorate of Military Intelligence, Section Six,” said Donovan impatiently.

I'd always wondered what MI6 stood for. “Yes sir. The Colonel said their checks bounced.”

Donovan exchanged a knowing look with Victor Jacobson, and said, “Let's move to the Club Room.”

Wild Bill jumped up from behind the massive desk as if he couldn't wait to get out of there. We followed him out into the hall. The CO introduced Donovan to the Mooney brothers. The Fighting Harp invited them to join us, to their infinite delight.

I too was glad to be out of that dark office. There was something sinister about it. Walking down the hall I realized what it was. That dark room would have been President Truman's office during the Potsdam Conference, which had adjourned in early August. About the time Truman made the decision to drop the A bomb on Hiroshima, incinerating more than 100,000 Japanese.

Truman gave the order in that room. I knew he did, I could feel it. It was a momentous decision, a horrific decision, and the correct decision in this man's opinion. But not one you wanted to cozy up to.

There were ghosts in that dark office. Thousands of them.

The club room had a piano, a checkerboard table with checkers lined up and, by the rear window, two of those low slung leather wing chairs you need a winch to climb out of. An orderly took our drink orders. We followed Donovan's lead. Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

Bill Donovan seemed back to his old self in the new setting. He asked the Mooney brothers their names, and what county they hailed from.

“County Cork sir,” said Sean, shoulders back, chin down.

“By way of Cuyahoga County, Ohio,” said Patrick, likewise. The boys did a quick take to one another and concluded, in tandem, “USA!”

This brought a twinkle to Wild Bill's baby blues. We stood around and shot the shit and waited for beer and generally had a fine time until the General asked Sean and Patrick why they were here.

The boys froze. Me too. The CO intervened on our behalf. “It's something we need to discuss General.”

Shiny cold bottles of Pabst were served. Also bowls of mixed nuts, pretzels and a plate of rollmops. The others ignored these pungent rolls of marinated herring so I appropriated them for myself. They came with wedges of rye toast. Perfect.

Our roles were reversed in the club room. We took chairs to enjoy our snacks while Bill Donovan remained standing, and held forth.

“The auction houses of France are suddenly flooded with valuable oil paintings. Also sterling silver, cut glass crystal, gems, gold jewelry and the like.” He shook his head. “This is
what we are reduced to. Intelligence from French art house auctioneers.”

I sought to fill in the blanks. “What is the significance General? Of the flood of contraband?”

“The ruble's almost as worthless as the reichmark. The Reds would need hard currency in order to mount an invasion.”

“Which is why they're selling all their captured German loot in France?”

Donovan nipped at his beer. Obviously.

The CO and Donovan moved to the wing chairs by the window for a huddled conversation. I overheard the occasional heated contraction -
don't, won't, can't -
and decided this wasn't a conversation I wanted to overhear.

I looked to the Mooney brothers, seeking distraction. Sean was eyeing the piano. “You know how to play?”

“Sure. We both do.”

They did at that. Sean took the high keys, Patrick the low. They were halfway decent, plunking out an Irish ditty on a piano that Truman had likely set a spell at. Wild Bill hoisted his beer in salute. The boys liked that.

Donovan's information had been sliced thin and served sparingly. He knew much more than art house auction proceeds. He would have access to Army Intel cable intercepts and Air Force flight surveillance reports, State Department briefs and scuttlebutt too. ‘In order to mount an invasion' he had said. That tin map in the Comm Center, the one with all the red magnets crowding the Elbe, was becoming very real.

No wonder Donovan hadn't gigged me for letting Col. Norwood scamper off. Good riddance to bad rubbish was his thinking. It was time for serious men to take charge.

I was ginned up and ready to roll, half drunk on half a beer, eager to make my case for the rescue of Ambrose and all that would follow. But Jacobson and Wild Bill were still deep in conversation, Jacobson doing most of the talking, Donovan
sipping beer from the bottle, answering with brief remarks. It went on like that for two beers.

At last Donovan stood up and shook hands with Jacobson and walked over to the piano. My CO gave me a quick thumbs up.

He had made the case for me, had, apparently, convinced Wild Bill to approve my hare-brained scheme to rescue Ambrose. I nodded my profound thanks.

All I had to do now was work out the operational details. Figure out precisely how to infiltrate the Soviet Armory, locate, liberate and exfiltrate a heavily guarded prisoner while pausing to snap photos of the machine gun emplacements set up to mow down the Committee to Free Berlin. That's it. That's all I had to do.

My cranial cavity was a whirlygig of pressing questions and concerns so I'm not really sure if Major General William J. Donovan spent the better part of an hour singing Irish ditties with the Mooney Brothers at the piano.

But that's the way I remember it.

A thought occurred when I climbed behind the wheel of the delivery truck after our session with Wild Bill.

We had agreed that the operation to free Ambrose would launch tonight. The CO informed the boys and me that we wouldn't be permitted any heavy weapons or explosives, if we were captured no one had ever heard of us and so on and so forth. Then he went to the trunk of his Horch and presented the boys with two clean Colt .38 Specials and a box of ammo. He gave me a set of handcuffs and his Kine Exakta camera with the flash attachment. Then he shook hands all around and wished us Godspeed.

The thought that occurred was this. Sean, Patrick and myself were about to get our necks wrung doing something that Colonel Norwood said he could do with a phone call. Was it too late to bring the Colonel back in? Norwood and Sedgewick weren't going to drive to the South Seas. They were likely at Templehof right now, waiting on a flight. We could be there in an hour. I would give Norwood his scandalous photo back as payment for the favor, tell him that General Donovan wished him a happy retirement.