FIFTEEN
The next evening Siegfried locked the door of his clandestine radio room and pulled the curtains across the single window. He unraveled his antenna and strung it carefully across the floor, up the cream-colored walls, along the bookshelf that held no books, and parallel to the molding where the ceiling met the walls. He positioned the wire for optimum communication with Hamburg. He checked his watch. It was 10:17 on a Wednesday. He had more than enough time.
The spy plugged in his receiver. It hummed as it warmed up. Then he adjusted the tone by tuning into the dots and dashes of various amateur operators in the area. He donned a set of heavy headphones, plugged in his transmitter, and connected his telegraph key. He limbered his fingers, then cut his own power and monitored a dummy transmission of his own steady hand on the key.
Satisfied, he moved his transmitter back to an
ON
position, tuned the receiver to the assigned frequency for AOR-3, and raised the volume as high as possible. He listened to static on the frequency as he checked his watch again.
It was 10:48. He was ready. He smoked two Pall Mall cigarettes. His anxiety heightened as he watched the minute hand on his watch edge with painful slowness toward the twelve. Would the hour for transmission never come?
As a safeguard against his own timekeeping—which he knew to be compulsively precise—he reached to a boxy Dumont table radio that he always kept turned to 660, WRCA in New York, pilot station of the Blue Network. WRCA always had the precise time, a gong right on the hour.
He listened, keeping his headphones slightly ajar. Then it was eleven; 2300 hours on a Wednesday. Those bastards in Hamburg better be listening!
He leaned toward his telegraph key and concentrated. He turned off the radio and fixed the headphones perfectly around his ears. He rubbed the moisture off his palms and he tapped out his own call letters to identify himself: C...Q...D...X... V . . . W . . . 2.
He waited. When there was no response for a full minute, he tapped out his letters again. And again he waited as utter silence, confusing and forbidding, greeted him through the atmosphere.
Siegfried cursed violently. He had risked his life the previous day for these cowards safely back in the Reich. Why couldn't they be at their receiving station at the proper time? Angrily, Siegfried repeated his call letters at ninety-second intervals. His face reddened and the moisture from his hands dripped onto the key. It was essential that all messages emanating from North America be quick and methodical. They had to comprehend that in Hamburg!
Who knew who else was listening? The Americans would eventually set up monitoring stations. Siegfried tapped out CQDXVW-2 a tenth time. Then his insides jumped. His headphones came alive with a faint but unmistakable signal. Siegfried recognized the call letters of AOR-3 in Hamburg.
Huffily, Siegfried tapped out his greeting:
IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU MORONS! HAVE BEEN SENDING FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES!
CQDXVW-2
To which Hamburg replied:
REGRET DELAY. PROCEED.
AOR-3
Siegfried drew a breath and glanced with annoyance at his watch. So much precious time had been wasted. It was essential to beat the listeners. Siegfried transmitted in German:
AMERICANS BOARDING PERHAPS AS MANY AS TEN THOUSAND MACHINE GUNS ABOARD ADRIANA. HAVE ALSO SEEN MOTORCYCLES AND SIDECARS, OBVIOUSLY BOUND FOR U.K. CARGO ALMOST COMPLETELY LOADED AND ALL SHORE LEAVE FOR ADRIANA CREW CANCELED AFTER
AUGUST 27. REPEAT: AUGUST TWO-SEVEN. SUSPECT DEPARTURE SOON AFTER THAT DATE.
CQDXVW-2
Siegfried reclined slightly, but a faint response flew through the atmosphere within seconds.
HAS ADRIANA BOARDED ANY ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS?
AOR-3
Siegfried responded.
HAVE SEEN NONE. WHEN WILL YOU IMPROVE YOUR BLOODY SIGNAL? EXTREMELY WEAK. HAVE YOU NO COMPETENT ENGINEERS?
CQDXVW-2
There was a pause of several seconds. Siegfried cocked his head in response. Don't disappear now, you imbeciles! he thought. Then he heard them again.
HAVE YOU DISCOVERED MATERIAL ON BROWNING U.S. ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS?
AOR-3
Siegfried shot back:
HAVE NO ACCESS. HAVE FOCUSED FULL EFFORTS UPON ADRIANA. PLANTED ROSES.
CQDXVW-2
To which, Hamburg answered,
CLARIFY! AOR-3
Siegfried then tapped out his closing—smugly, joyfully, and egotistically:
PLANTED FLOWERS ABOARD ADRIANA. BY MY CALCULATIONS, ROSES WILL BLOOM TWO TO THREE DAYS OUT OF RED BANK, DEPENDING ON WEATHER AND TIDES, DISABLING SHIP. SUGGEST YOU SEND MORE FLOWERS FROM BERLIN.
SIEGFRIED
Hamburg digested the message slowly, then replied with obvious enthusiasm.
BRAVO, SIEGFRIED!
AOR-3
Of course, "Bravo, Siegfried," thought the spy, glancing at his watch. The communication had taken six full minutes, all of them filled with peril for him, not them. The transmission was much too long, much too dangerous. Siegfried felt his insides set to explode, for the second time in two days. What kind of life was this?
Siegfried leaned back and AOR-3 evaporated into the stars. He felt his own pulse racing when he removed his hand from the transmission key. Good thing he had nothing further to do. He could just disappear into the respectable American middle class and think. He let several minutes pass as he gradually regained his composure. He smoked two more Pall Malls. Then, as his senses returned to earth, he took down his transmission station.
It was only at that moment that he allowed himself to be satisfied with a job well done. And as he descended the long staircase from his radio room, it occurred to him that some sort of reward was in order.
Siegfried grinned. He already knew what he wanted.
Charlotte wore her most seductive black dress, the one that plunged low in the front, and her finest jewels. She used less makeup than usual and her hair was washed, brushed, and styled in a less flamboyant manner than usual. She wanted her Mr. Bolton to, well, she wanted him to know that she was more than just a good prostitute. She was a woman, too. And she deserved to have what other women had, if only the right man would notice.
The buzzer rang and she felt a flash of anxiety. She was acting like a schoolgirl. She tried to settle herself. Imagine, she thought to herself. Me! Charlotte Benton of Hoboken, New Jersey, nervous with a man! How many men have I known? She did not like to think about it in those terms. She only knew that her clock manufacturer, Mr. Bolton, was special to her. And she wanted to be special to him.
She opened the door. "Hello, sugar," she said when she saw Siegfried. "Missed you."
He accepted the kiss, but did not reciprocate. She locked her arm seductively with his and led him into her living room. She let him sit in his favorite chair and she went to the bar to pour him a scotch. She gave him plenty of opportunity to admire her from the back. Sure, she was thirty-one, she told herself. But she had the figure of a woman ten years younger.
She brought him a drink and noticed that he hadn't said anything. She handed it to him and he accepted it. "Something bothering you, tonight, lover?" she asked.
Siegfried sipped his drink. "Business," he said. "Rough week."
He even managed a slight laugh. "That's why I'm here," he said. "I could use some relaxation. Need to unwind, I suppose."
He was always so considerate, she thought. Not like the doctors and lawyers who came to her: cheap and always in a rush. Not like the policemen whom she paid off with sex to keep out of courtrooms: they were rough and inconsiderate.
She studied Mr. Bolton. Indeed, she noticed, he did look as if he had been under a great deal of stress.
"Well," Charlotte cooed softly, "I know how to make a nice man very happy." She knew many ways, she told herself. And they included rooms of the house other than the bedroom. The kitchen, for example. The den. The family room . . .
She pictured herself with a little girl or a little boy.
"You always make me very happy, Charlotte," Mr. Bolton said to her. "Very."
She sat on the arm of his chair. He reached for her with the hand that did not hold the drink. He pulled her head down to him and he kissed her, a slightly scotch flavor to his kiss. But she gave him a long and impassioned kiss. He deserved it.
She noticed that there was a slight tremor to his touch tonight. Obviously, something major had happened this week for Mr. Bolton. But she knew better than to ask a customer about his personal business.
Plus, it was time. His head had slipped down from her lips and he was kissing her throat. She reached to the zipper behind her back and loosened her dress. Her breasts were freed from their confinement and Mr. Bolton kissed further downward. He unzipped her.
Then she stood, removed her dress, and returned to the arm of the chair. And her sensual, handsome Mr. Bolton was kissing her on the nipples now, making them hard and taut, exciting her in the ways that she had fantasized in the hours she had spent thinking about him.
He reached between her legs, which surprised her. Normally the next move was for her to kneel before the chair and satisfy him. He was different this week. She found his new mood exciting.
"What would you like tonight, sweetie?" she asked. "The loving you always want? He motioned with his head. "The bedroom," he said. She was surprised. But she took him by the hand and led him, then undressed him.
She had been naked before him many times, but this was the first time he stood fully unclothed before her. He was surprisingly muscular. His body was not one that impressed when covered with the square clothes that he wore. But obviously Mr. Bolton took care of himself. He was in good shape. Almost like an athlete, she marveled.
Astonishing for a businessman, she pondered as she reclined on the sheets of her bed. So unusual. Usually businessmen were so repulsively flabby. But then he was climbing onto her and suddenly her clock manufacturer astonished her once again. He pinned her fiercely to the bed, entered her, and moved rigidly and methodically between her legs. Charlotte yelped with both the surprise and the pleasure. Unlike with most of her customers, she was not faking. And she kissed him hard on the lips right before he had his explosion inside her. Afterward, he lay beside her for several minutes, saying nothing. She did not spring to her feet and dress quickly as she would have with other men.
Finally, she spoke.
"For all the time you've been coming to me," she said, "there's something I've wanted to ask you."
“What?" he asked.
"Your first name."
Siegfried thought for a moment. "It's Fred," he finally said. "From Frederick."
She hesitated. "May I call you that?" she asked.
Again, he thought for a moment, wondering where this might be leading. Siegfried had noticed that she was acting differently. Now he was certain.
"Of course," he said. "Why not? Fred."
Siegfried rose and went into the bathroom, where he carefully washed himself. Then he returned. Acting more deliberate now as she remained in the bed, he dressed himself. Then she stood, pulling a red print silk robe around her. He reached to his wallet and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, plus a five, which was her usual tip.
"Fred. . . ?" she asked.
He looked at her, his hand folding the two bank notes.
"I don't want money from you anymore," she said nervously. "You can come visit me anytime you want. But I don't want money."
She felt like saying more, like telling him how she really felt and what she would really—eventually--like to have with Mr. Bolton. But there was confusion discernible on his face. The hand with the money had stopped dead still, and he was staring at her.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
She had rushed things a little, she felt. But then again, he was a gentleman. She had made him happy— she was certain about that—so this was the time to be honest with him.
"Maybe, if you like what I do for you, if you even like me a little," she edged with a nervous laugh, "we could go out to dinner instead of you paying me. Or maybe we could go to a Broadway show together."
His eyes changed again and the confusion on his face was gone. A smile drifted in from somewhere and he started to laugh lightly. He understood. So she laughed, too.
Charlotte was in the midpoint of a laugh when the hand that held the money switched into a firm open palm, reached backward, and then exploded forward like an express train; smacking her from right to left across the face. The impact was so hard and sudden that it sent her reeling backward. She was holding her stinging, stunned cheek and pressing her own hand against the rattled teeth of her upper jaw. And she was fighting back tears.
Siegfried spoke in very measured tones. "You're a whore, Charlotte," he said, dropping the money on her dresser. "Don't ever forget that. And don't ever overstep yourself again. It could cost you your life."
The spy found his coat in the next room and was gone a few seconds later.
SIXTEEN
On Saturday morning, a Bureau driver—a neat young man who said his name was Thomas Jenks—met Cochrane at Union Station and drove him to a green clapboard house on Twenty-sixth Street in Georgetown. The Bureau had owned it for Special Operations—this quite illegally—since 1934. The house was faded, small and accommodating. It had a front porch that squeaked at the first footfall. “And he leaves it this way to curtail unexpected company,” Cochrane mused.
Past the entrance foyer was a sitting room, equipped with some blue upholstered chairs, a sofa that matched the chairs in both pattern and wear, two matching oversized pink lamps that more than bracketed the sofa, and—the prize of the room—a large Philco console radio, presumably for tuning in Roosevelt or the Washington Senators, not necessarily in that order. Adjacent to the living room was a small dining room, furnished functionally with an oval mahogany table supported by thick, overdone legs and surrounded by five matching chairs and—Cochrane lamented immediately—one mismatching one. Cochrane sighed. The interior of the house appeared to have been decorated by the Racketeering Division of the Grand Rapids F.B.I. office. Why couldn't they have hired a vivacious young woman, Cochrane wondered.
"Anything wrong, sir?" young Jenks asked.
"Everything's just fine," Cochrane answered, whereupon Jenks led him to a small kitchen, which Cochrane found to be freshly stocked.
"Tell me, Jenks," Cochrane asked indulgently, "do you know why I'm in
Washington?"
"No, sir," said the younger man, breathing heavily through his mouth. "We're under instructions not to have such discussions, sir."
"Whose instructions?"
"Mr. Lerrick's, sir."
Cochrane wandered from the kitchen through the dining room, toward a flight of stairs. Jenks followed. Cochrane answered, after too long a pause. "Maybe you can tell me more about this house, then."
Jenks stammered slightly and as Cochrane listened, he noted the heavy cloth curtains, blocking any view of the interior from the outside.
"A woman comes in twice a week to clean up and sweep," Jenks explained, trailing Cochrane. "She'll also tend to the laundry, take care of any dirty dishes, and replenish the cupboards with fresh groceries," Jenks said.
Replenish: so Hoover was still hiring English majors as his errand boys, Cochrane thought to himself. It figured.
"Any special grocery requests or maintenance items," Jenks continued, "can be arranged by leaving a note on the kitchen table. She'll take care of it."
"Who will?"
"The woman, sir."
"Ever seen her?"
"Never, sir."
"Do you think she might be one of the Bureau's stable of nymphomaniacs?"
"A what, sir?" Then, realizing, Jenks exclaimed. "Oh, no, sir. Not a chance, sir! Why, to my knowledge, sir, there's no stable of—"
"Just show me the upstairs and all the escapes," Cochrane requested.
Humorless English majors from small, bad Midwestern colleges, Cochrane thought, refining his earlier appraisal.
There was an exit through the kitchen and an exit through the basement. Both led to an alleyway that connected with the street on both ends of the block. And all the downstairs windows opened wide.
Upstairs, a chain fire ladder was poised by a window in each bedroom and there was also one in the hallway. Each of the two bedrooms was furnished as sparsely as the downstairs room: a bed, a night table, one lamp, a dresser, and a chair. Each bed was a single. The Bureau brain trust—Morality Division—had anticipated everything, and did their best to discourage it. Bureau safe houses were not to turn into hotels for non-Bureau female guests. The rule wasn't stated, not surprisingly; it was just there. Cochrane opened a night-table drawer and uncovered the final Hooverism: a Holy Bible for light bedside reading. "And that's it?" Cochrane finally asked, downstairs again and shadowed diligently by Jenks.
"Not entirely, sir."
"What else could there be?"
"Mr. Wheeler wishes you to come straight to Bureau headquarters as soon as your bags are unpacked. I'm to wait."
"Of course," said Cochrane. "It's a workday, isn't it? Saturdays always are, aren't they, Jenks?"
"Usually we get Saturdays off, sir. Today is the exception."
“Wonderful,” said Cochrane.
Jenks drove him an hour later to the Justice Department. At the guard's desk in the lobby was a balding man who flicked through a list of special passes when Cochrane announced his name. Cochrane watched the gnarled, unsteady fingers twice pass his name before finding it.
"Cochrane. Cochrane, William. There!" the man looked up and smiled. "Of course."
He handed Cochrane his pass.
Cochrane proceeded to one of three new elevators, swift, smartly polished and chrome, and a black elevator man in a verdant uniform deposited him at Wheeler's sixth floor where yet another assistant was waiting for him.
Hoover was doing a fine job on the Senate Appropriations Committee, Cochrane concluded. Hoover had the F.B.I. wing all polished, modernized, and shining, a veritable temple to America's only federal policy agency. Hoover always knew where bodies were buried, Cochrane reminded himself.
Cochrane was announced and stood for a moment in a reception area, studying a collection of framed photographs on the wall, each depicting J. Edgar Hoover's personal role in the apprehension of various American bandits. Then Cochrane heard something midway between a bellow and a roar.
"Bill! Fine to see you! Thanks for being so prompt, though I knew you wouldn't be anything but."
Cochrane turned away from a portrait of J. Edgar Hoover with a granite-faced President Coolidge to see Big Dick Wheeler hulking massively into the reception area, his hand extended in greeting, a huge smile across his face.
Wheeler, all five foot fifteen inches of him, clad in a gray suit, white shirt, and tie, lumbered to Cochrane's side. He took Cochrane's hand into his paw, crushed it with a welcoming pump, and wrapped his other arm around Cochrane's shoulders.
"Very good of you to come by on a Saturday morning," Wheeler said. "You saw your house? Your new residence for the duration?"
"Your driver took me there. Yes. Thanks."
"I know it's not a home, but it will have to do," Wheeler said. "Tell you what. One of these nights the missus and I will have you over for a roast chicken. How's that? A man's got to live, doesn't he?"
Predictably, Dick Wheeler was louder, more garrulous, and more of a dominant force on the sixth floor, his own, than on the second, Hoover's.
"Why am I here today?" Cochrane asked.
"I want to show you through Section Seven," Wheeler said. "Much easier on a Saturday. Fewer interruptions."
"What is Section Seven?"
"Espionage and Counterespionage," Wheeler said, plucking a Missouri meerschaum pipe from a breast pocket. "Call it 'Spying' if you want to use the current profanity."
"I didn't know we actually had such a division."
"Officially, we don't. Fact is, we've been turned down six times since 1935 for congressional funding for it. The money comes out of General Appropriations." Wheeler stuffed tobacco into his pipe with his thumb and struggled to get a fire started. They walked down a hall, closing doors behind them. "You'll feel at home here. I read your reports from Germany last night. Fine work! I'm surprised you're still alive."
"So am I," said Cochrane.
"My office first," said Wheeler, leading Cochrane into the largest quarters on the floor. A picture window looked toward the Capitol. "Have a seat," Wheeler said. "We need to chat first." Cochrane chose an armchair, and Wheeler did likewise, staying away from his desk.
"Just out of curiosity," Cochrane asked, "what are Sections One through Six?"
"They don't exist."
"Then what's this seven?"
"Seven is everyone's lucky number. The number seven symbolizes God's perfection, doesn’t it? His sovereignty and holiness. God created earth in seven days. One seven-day week is a reminder of our Creator. And God blessed the seventh day, making it holy. So. ‘Section Seven.’ Good luck. That's what you're going to need, you know. Luck. Just like J.E.H. to toss a good capable man into an impossible situation. But, come on. It beats banking fraud in Bored-All-The-More, doesn't it? I'll give you the grand tour anyway. You're going to need all the help you can get. Someone's here all the time, of course. That's another reason for the name. 'Section Seven' seven days a week." Wheeler mustered a groan. "One of those assignments. Like Racketeering in the Kansas City office. You remember?"
Cochrane nodded.
Wheeler foraged through a drawer of his desk and produced a bottle of twelve-year-old bourbon. "Want a drink before we start?"
"No, thanks."
Wheeler poured himself a taste of Tennessee's best in a small glass. "You're sure? You and me? We have worked together three times now and I'm in charge here, you know."
"It's all right," Cochrane reaffirmed.
"Okay then," said Wheeler, sipping and positioning himself massively in his chair. "Just remember this is top-secret stuff. You don't even discuss this with any other agent. Only the people you see here."
Cochrane nodded.
"Let me explain," said Wheeler.