Double Agent

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Prologue

1. The Object of the Bombardment

2. The Highest Humanity

3. Almost Single-Handed

4. True Faith and Allegiance

5. With the Resources We Have on Hand

6. To Lead an Organization There

7. In This Solemn Hour

8. “You Are Harry Sawyer”

9. A Vile Race of Quislings

10. And You Be Careful

11. Room 627

12. The Trusted Man

Epilogue

Photographs

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About Peter Duffy

Notes

Photo Credits

Index

I have everything I ever wished for, and Germany doesn’t appeal to me a bit.

—Bill Sebold, in a letter to FBI special agent Jim Ellsworth, August 9, 1946

I
n the early afternoon of December 11, 1941, Berlin time, Adolf Hitler mounted the rostrum in the Reichstag and delivered an eighty-eight-minute address that cataloged the sins of President Franklin Roosevelt (an “unsophisticated warmonger” who was “mentally unsound”) and praised the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor of four days earlier “as an act of deliverance” that “all of us, the German people and, I believe, all other decent people around the world as well,” regard with “deep appreciation.” The Führer took note of “the insulting attacks and rude statements by this so-called president against me personally,” making particular mention of FDR’s barb that he was a “gangster.” “This term did not originate in Europe, where such characters are uncommon, but in America,” he said to the delight of the deputies, assorted Nazi dignitaries, and honored Japanese guests. But the loudest cheers came when Hitler made clear that the purpose of his speech was to declare war on the United States, his voice suddenly drowned out by raucous applause that escalated into a standing ovation.

Late in the evening on the following day, Brooklyn time, a jury of nine men and three women filed into a packed courtroom in the old federal building on Washington Street. At a few minutes before midnight, the jury’s foreman, Edward A. Logan, stood before the hushed assemblage and read guilty verdicts against the fourteen out of thirty-three Nazi spies who hadn’t already confessed to their membership in what was known as the Duquesne Spy Ring, still to this day the largest espionage case in American history. The proceeding was unmarred by any disruption. “The defendants took the verdicts stoically, for the most part,” wrote the
Times
. Judge Mortimer W. Byers then thanked Logan and his fellow jurors for their service. “It will readily appear,” he said, “that you have rendered a very substantial contribution to the welfare of the country which you and I hold very dear.” And so they had.

This, the first US victory of World War II, would’ve been impossible without one man whose contribution to the war effort has never been recognized, William G. Sebold. In a culture that has come to celebrate even the most tangential representation of the Greatest Generation, his identity has remained mysterious, his picture never published. By 1951, Sebold had “lapsed into an obscurity which has been protected ever since by the FBI,” according to a magazine that used a pseudonym to describe him. “All we know is that somewhere in the U.S. today is a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man to whom each native-born American can well doff his hat in love and respect,” neglecting to mention that the non-native-born citizen owed him a debt of gratitude, too. When Sebold died in February 1970, no obituary or death notice appeared in the newspapers. A pivotal figure in America’s confrontation with Nazism had been forgotten.

▪  ▪  ▪

In the years before the formal commencement of hostilities, Hitler’s agents were active in New York. They were a collection of ideologues, opportunists, dupes, adventurers, thugs, sophisticates, poseurs, patriots, seductresses, lackeys, and sympathizers. Most (but not all) were German immigrants who would come to be associated in the public mind (not always unfairly) with a single neighborhood of upper Manhattan, the home base of a nationwide movement of uniform-wearing Nazis whose rallies and marches were a constant source of media fascination. Dwelling within this community of the like-minded were a handful of individuals with the genuine talent to provide meaningful assistance to the German war machine. Few today realize that a Bavarian-born immigrant living in Queens, Hermann W. Lang, succeeded in stealing the plans for America’s greatest prewar secret, a precious instrument of mythic reputation designed to turn modern airplanes into bomb-dropping systems of unprecedented accuracy, a brazen act of thievery that represents the most significant intelligence coup of the Third Reich.

The spies of the thirties were initially able to conduct their work without worry of detection because the US government, focused on remedying economic misery in a period of rigid isolationism, hadn’t assigned any agency to root them out. The story among the Soviet agents was that you could walk down Broadway wearing a sign identifying yourself as a spy and still not get caught. It took a botched investigation into a portion of the Nazi network in New York by an unprepared FBI to convince President Roosevelt that J. Edgar Hoover should be empowered to become the nation’s first modern spymaster. Already a national celebrity for directing his “G-men” in a tommy-gun-assisted crusade against the John Dillingers and Pretty Boy Floyds of the early Depression, Hoover was given the authority to launch covert investigations against “those who reflect in their pernicious activities the desires of enemy modes of thought and action,” as he said in a speech on October 24, 1939, less than two months after Nazi Germany’s invasion of Poland marked the beginning of the war in Europe.

But Hoover’s FBI couldn’t rectify the failure to capture the most destructive Nazi agents in New York—and prove that it had the ability to construct a counterespionage operation of sufficient expertise—without Bill Sebold, a naturalized American of German birth who was both guileless and headstrong. In early 1939, he made the mistake of leaving Manhattan and returning to his mother’s home in the Reich just as Hitler was stepping up his march to war. Through “a strange set of circumstances,” as a US diplomat put it, Sebold was coerced into the German espionage service and sent to the United States, accepting the assignment “knowing that he would never go through with it, but knowing that he had to do something in order to get out of Germany alive,” said the FBI. Upon his arrival in New York, he agreed to become the first double agent in Bureau history, the central figure in a pioneering undercover operation that steadily grew in size and sophistication, its expansion enabled by the Germans’ willingness to allow him to reach into an ever-widening circle of Hitler’s underground.

Under the guidance of the bespectacled special agent assigned to be his handler, Sebold proved to be a gifted improviser and tireless worker possessed of the fortitude to overcome his anxieties and face down some of the most ominous characters in the city. Since neutrality laws and political opposition prevented the Roosevelt administration from providing even limited military assistance to the Allied cause in Western Europe, the case represented our most consequential fight against Fascist aggression during the pivotal years of 1940 and 1941. The double agent, the skilled FBI men brought in from across the country to work with him, and even Hoover himself were among those honored few Americans who actually did something to stop Hitler at a time when national figures such as Charles Lindbergh were arguing for rapprochement. The thirty-three convictions ensured that the enemy could not call upon a small army of embedded loyalists once America joined the war and mobilized its full strength against the Axis. In February 1945, when the death of Nazi Germany was all but guaranteed, the
New York Times
said the “elimination of this organization, which had extensive ramifications, placed a decisive check on German espionage operations, from which it has found it difficult to recover.” The Manhattan Project to create our greatest
wartime
secret, the atomic bomb, would be infiltrated by Soviet spies not Nazi ones.

Sebold became a particularly American kind of hero. He was an immigrant with a less-than-perfect grasp of English who stood in opposition to malignant beliefs from back home that were infecting his ethnic community. He was a brave man forced to endure the charge that he was a traitor to his own people because he regarded his oath of allegiance to the United States, taken when he became a citizen in 1936, as “a sacred thing,” in his description. When one of the accused spies called him a “son of a bitch” in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the Brooklyn courtroom, an assistant prosecutor approached the bench and confided to the judge, “This Sebold is the kind of a man that throws that kind of thing off like a duck throws water off.” Judge Byers agreed. “Of course he has shown that he has taken his courage right in his hands in this whole thing,” he said out of the hearing of the jury, press, and spectators. “Probably it is nothing new to him to hear people say those things, speak of him that way, but of course it is very distressing from the standpoint of decorum that that should be observed in the courtroom.”

“As you know,” FBI assistant director D. M. Ladd told Hoover in a memo on December 17, 1945, “Sebold gave us the most outstanding case in the Bureau’s history.”

It is only a question of moral steadfastness and boldness of spirit, imagination, and determination if we are to achieve the development of the air force into a weapon which will command the air.

—Lieutenant General Walter Wever, chief of staff of the Luftwaffe, November 1, 1935

D
uring the early years of Adolf Hitler’s dictatorship, the Nazi state had few greater priorities than its crash program of aerial rearmament that sought to build as many planes as the revived German aviation industry could churn out. The Führer wanted to throw a shield over the country so a more general war-preparation campaign could be completed, part of his goal to keep his enemies at bay as he prepared to lead a battle “not for an adjustment of boundaries” but to secure “so much land and ground that the future receives back many times the blood shed,” as he said in 1928. Even though only about eight hundred aircraft were operationally ready for duty when the air force’s existence was announced to the world in March 1935, a blatant violation of the terms of the Treaty of Versailles banning all but a nominal military force, Hitler boasted to visiting British officials that his Luftwaffe was already the equal of the Royal Air Force. His bluff played upon now-prevalent fears about the devastation that aerial bombardment would wreak in the modern era. Since “no power on earth” could protect the “man on the street” from “being bombed, whatever people may tell him,” as former (and future) British prime minister Stanley Baldwin said in the House of Commons in 1932, the nation with both the ability and inclination to launch an all-out assault from the skies was one to be reckoned with on the world’s stage. “The bomber will always get through,” Baldwin warned, a comment that encapsulated the thinking of the era.

The emergent symbol of Nazi might went to war for the first time in July 1936, giving Air Marshal Hermann Göring “an opportunity to try out my young air force,” as he said at the Nuremberg trials. The Nazi air fleet joined the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Nationalists led by General Francisco Franco in their violent uprising against the democratically elected Republican (or Loyalist) government that included Communists in its coalition of left-wing parties, a consequence of Moscow’s decision to instruct its adherents throughout the world to participate in united or popular fronts with “fellow travelers” against the Fascist common enemy. From late July until October, the Germans played a central role in airlifting twenty thousand Nationalist soldiers from Spanish Morocco to the Spanish mainland, providing a lifeline to the struggling Fascist forces during the early months of the war. By September, the Luftwaffe was conducting its first low-level attacks in support of Nationalist troops and finding middling success in the Madrid region, where the Republican government was relying on the assistance of
its
most formidable foreign ally, the Soviet Union, which had sent enough aircraft and pilots to gain air superiority over the capital. During these days Nationalist general Emilio Mola announced that four columns would attack Madrid, but the initial blow would be struck by a “fifth column” within, “men now in hiding who will rise and support us the moment we march,” a boast that guaranteed a vicious Republican campaign against those who were suspected to be “spies, scare-mongers, defeatists—those who, concealed in their hiding places, are awaiting the order to rush out into the streets . . . the
quinta columna facciosa
.” Over one month in late 1936, some two thousand Nationalist-supporting prisoners, including military officers, Catholic clergy, and white-collar professionals, were loaded onto buses, transported to the villages of Paracuellos del Jarama and Torrejón de Ardoz on Madrid’s outskirts, and executed by Communists and their Anarchist auxiliaries, likely at the instigation of Soviet advisers, who were well practiced in the art of liquidating state enemies.