The Strivers' Row Spy (5 page)

“Shit,” said Ellington. “My God. Sorry, Temple. Sounds like there wasn't anything you could have done to stop it, though.”

“Nah. I was never a fighter. I didn't have a fighter's mentality. If I had known how to use my hands, I would have intervened. And what adds to the anger I still feel is the fact that we were riding our bicycles in our part of the city.

“So, you see, this man had crossed the tracks and had entered ‘Colored Town.' He was the foreigner. He was also a coward because my cousin never had a weapon to brandish. He was using his bare hands. That man was a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Damn right, Temple.”

“Whole thing has always made me want to change the way things work . . . the race thing and all. Know what I mean?”

Ellington nodded. But what I hadn't told him was how the police never even looked for the man. Two white officers arrived on the scene, questioned me, took the body away, and that was it. There had been two colored women who witnessed the event, and they told the policemen the story, but nothing came of it. I had to accept the horrific fact that a man murdering a Negro and getting away with it was routine in America. But accepting that reality had killed a part of me.

“To answer your original question,” I said, “about dreaming—after he died, I began searching for some kind of skill I could learn to help me feel like I could defend myself. I told one of my teachers—my mentor—Mrs. Bright—about what I was seeking and why. She could sense that I needed something to help me focus because I had lost that ability.

“She had one of her colleagues in the white district go to the Central Library in Milwaukee. She checked out a book entitled
Scientific Boxing
by James Corbett. I was able to learn the basics of the sport and how to stay fit by sparring with an imaginary opponent in the mirror, but I was always seeking something more. Years later at college I found the answer in a book called
Judo Kyohan
by Yokoyama and Oshima. I read it and learned about a man named Jigoro Kano. He had created this form of Japanese fighting known as Kodokan Judo in 1882.”

“I've heard of it,” said Ellington.

“I began working on his techniques every night. The book was filled with pictures that showed the Leg Wheel, Advancing Foot Sweep, Shoulder Wheel, and lots of others. I actually made a dummy out of pillows, a broomstick, and some rope. I tried to master the moves, visualizing the dummy being real. Kano stressed the idea of ‘maximum efficient use of energy.' Anyway, somehow it all helped me finally cope with my cousin's death.”

“Sounds like some very intense shit.”

“It is. I told myself that I would spend one hour a day for the rest of my life working on this form of hand-to-hand combat, and I would do it in my cousin's honor.”

“Speed has no idea you know all this shit.”

“Don't make it sound like too much,” I said. “I'm no master, that's for sure. Kodokan Judo just gave me a starting point, a foundation. It gave me discipline in every facet of my life.”

Ellington began flexing his arms and jokingly asked, “But do you think you could handle Zeus?”

I smiled. “No.”

We both stared at the still-quiet hideout, wondering what those so-called Galleanists were doing in there.

* * *

It had been seventeen days, and finally the rain stopped. With only four days left in Baltimore, I sat alone with Jones at dinner—basic fare—red meat, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, and corn. It was the first time the two of us had engaged in any substantive conversation.

Ellington and Mann were still sleeping, while Speed, Knox, and Long were on night watch. This was a first, as they had always reserved the day shift for themselves.

“This is something, isn't it?” I asked. “The two of us being in this position.”

“Indeed,” said Jones. “I knew it would happen eventually—just didn't know if it would be in my lifetime. Actually, let me slow way down. It still may not happen in my lifetime. They haven't hired either of us yet. And I learned in the police department, waiting for a brother to rise within the ranks is akin to watching paint dry. But I'm optimistic.”

“You were a policeman, huh?”

“That's right.” He sipped his lemonade. “After college I took a job as a policeman in Washington—as a footman. You a college man, Temple?”

“Middlebury College,” I said. “Vermont.”

“I'm a Virginia Union graduate.”

“You're also a veteran of the war, correct?”

“Yes,” he said. “But that doesn't seem to mean much to ol' Speed. To tell you the truth, the fact that we're training, eating, and sleeping alongside these men is something to behold in itself. When I was sent to Des Moines, Iowa, for training, the facility was segregated. And, of course, when we actually went off to fight in France, we were confined to colored units. My men and I battled the enemy in the Vosges Mountains. It was ugly.”

“I can only imagine.”

I watched him pick at his turnip greens, trying to think of a question worth asking. This was a man who'd seen hell.

“What unit were you in?” I finally asked.

“I wasn't just
in
. I was in command of a Company F. It was part of the 368th Infantry. Like I said, an all-Negro outfit. We fought like hell. And when the war ended, unlike the colored troops of Britain and France, who were very well represented in the grand victory parade down Paris's Champs-Élysées, we American coloreds were kept out of sight.”

I could sense his uneasiness about thinking back. And as we finished our meal in silence, I believe he respected my decision not to press on. We understood each other. And when it came to being Bureau agents, we certainly understood the unique position we were in.

* * *

The next day Ellington and I arose before the others and walked to our training site at Patterson Park where we sat on damp grass waiting for the hard day to begin. I could smell the recently poured fertilizer and noticed the shoddiness of the fence around the field. Beyond, I could see the top of the Phoenix Shot Tower. As if out of nowhere, Agent Speed approached with Jones and Mann. He began yelling.

“All right, get your asses off the ground and get in position. This is going to be a sprint, not a goddamn jog. Understand?”

The four of us lined up and, on Speed's cue, ran the first of ten sprints. I felt like vomiting up my oatmeal from the morning's breakfast. Kodokan Judo hadn't worked my lungs the same way.

Later that night, Ellington and I walked from the hotel toward the hideout.

“Where do you think they'll send you?” he asked.

“My hunch is New York.”

“I love New York. I spent spring break there once with some buddies. Down in the Tenderloin, at a place called the Kessler, I drank 'til I passed out. Worst hangover ever.”

As we approached the Lincoln from behind, I wondered what smartass remark Knox would have for me this night. Instead, he leaned his head out and put his right index finger to his lips, signaling for us to keep quiet. He then pointed toward the hideout.

There was light shining through the window. Ellington and I froze for a moment and then eased our way up to opposite sides of the car, I to the passenger side. The realization that there'd actually been people in the house for fourteen days had all of us rattled. It was eerie.

Knox turned to me and whispered, “Head back to the hotel and fetch Speed.”

Just then, a loud explosion came from the hideout. The blast lit up the entire front of the alley house. Glass and debris flew everywhere. It took me a minute to digest the fact that the Galleanists had accidentally killed themselves. And just like that, our Baltimore assignment had come to an end.

* * *

A few days later I was back in Washington, ready to meet again with this important man of my age, Mr. Hoover. He sat me down in his office while I waited with bated breath to find out if I'd been hired and, if so, where I'd be working.

“Sidney, I'd like to familiarize you with three individuals: Max Eastman, James Weldon Johnson, and Marcus Garvey.”

I sat and listened to him rattle off the details about the three men's lives. One word he kept repeating was
Bolshevism
. He believed all three had ties to the Russian movement. And after going on and on about it, he finally finished and took out a file.

“Sidney, you're to be commended for the swiftness with which you've mastered the variety of skills generally reserved for a military man. We've decided to hire you as a special agent. And as such, that makes you—officially—only the second colored agent the Bureau has ever hired, Agent Jones being the first, as he signed a contract while on assignment in Baltimore. So, Agent Temple, welcome aboard.”

T
IME STOOD STILL FOR A MOMENT
. I
FELT AN EXCITEMENT IN MY
belly, a nervousness. I wanted to share the news with the world but knew I could share it with no one.

“I must say,” said Hoover, still holding a file, “sounds nice and official, doesn't it? This new title of yours: Agent Temple.”

“Indeed.”

Hoover stood and walked over to a file cabinet in the corner behind him. He removed several documents and returned.

“Let's get down to business,” he said, dropping the pages on the desk and taking his seat again. “With the growing threats toward a variety of government officials, the general increase of antiwar socialists and organized communists, Americans are starting to think we're on the verge of Armageddon. The Bureau and the country need you now more than ever.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hoover. I'm committed to upholding the law of the United States of America.”

“Things are really heating up. We've had our New York office forward all information on Johnson, Garvey, and Eastman to headquarters here in Washington. These are three very smart men. We have to present something new to them—something foreign. We need colored agents for this assignment.

“Your mission is to move to Harlem. Get comfortable. As you've already been told, you are to tell no one of your status with the Bureau, including your wife. That is critical in assuring her safety and yours—and in not compromising the mission. Many of our agents' wives know what their husbands do, but your case is different. You're not just an agent; you're being hired specifically to go undercover, to act as a spy.”

“A spy. Of course. I see.”

“Once you're in Harlem, find a home, get situated, and make sure your wife's comfortable. It's vital that you both just blend in. Attend church, go to functions, make friends. You will need to set up a front company in the heart of Harlem as soon as possible—some kind of engineering consulting firm with your degrees on the wall would suffice.”

Hoover was looking at me like a hungry dog, chomping at the bit to get his jaws around one of these targets.

“You will work out of that office during the duration of your assignment in Harlem, which could be five weeks or five years. Pick a small office and give it an authenticity that will serve as a great cover for you. Be creative—we're paying the bill. It needs to be credible enough for you to feel at ease if Eastman, Johnson, or Garvey themselves eventually set foot in there. No other agent will work out of that office. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Get to know people connected to these targets. Be friendly, and become known as an independent businessman who's willing to donate bits of his money to their causes. Of course, it's actually our money. As far as you're to be concerned, not one of these men has priority over the other in terms of whom you target first.”

This part I didn't believe. He seemed more fixated on Garvey. Every time he uttered his name the disgust on his face was all the more obvious, the clenched jaw, the frown lines. Still, time would tell.

“Take it as it comes,” he continued. “Walk through the doors that open first. We have no reason to believe these three are connected in any way, but we have every reason to believe they are all independent threats to American democracy as we know it. You're to become our eyes and ears on the street. We know very little about these people. We know little of their intentions. We want you to be a floater. Make sense so far?”

“Perfect. Be your eyes and ears.”

“Good. We may not be able to nail the big fish, but we want to at least take down the little ones. Who's giving money to the NAACP—to Eastman and the
Liberator
? Eastman may be a white man, but he has a history of opening his publication's door to Negroes. When he opens it for you, carefully walk through. James Weldon Johnson is a bit of an enigma, but he's becoming powerful; find out why. And Garvey isn't the only West Indian immigrant that's making noise. Give us details on the others. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Once you've gained access to the inner worlds of these targets, we want to know as much as you can dig up on them—where they go, who they see, what they're thinking, what they're writing, the list of high-ranking individuals they correspond with, and who their stated enemies are. Eventually, once you're able to establish solid connections with these targets, if they so much as fart, we want to know what it smells like. Can you juggle all this?”

“Performing multiple jobs simultaneously has never been a problem for me.”

“You're to keep records of everything. You are to report to me once a week, if not more, on the details surrounding at least one of these men's actions—even if the report simply says that there is no news that week. And any correspondence you send via courier or telephone will be under the code name Q3Z. Got it?”

“Yes. Q3Z.”

“As of this moment, the name Sidney Temple is never to be written on any documents used for corresponding with the Bureau. That's critical. On the other hand, Sidney Temple will remain your street name. Most of our covert agents inevitably run into someone they know from the past, so it's important for you to remain who you are to the general public. And the targets will know that you are Sidney Temple, graduate of Middlebury College.

“From this point forward, unless otherwise notified, your sole duty is to demonstrate loyalty to the United States government. You have signed an oath to uphold the law, and the Bureau expects your complete honesty. Lying to the Bureau would be a death sentence for your career, and you would be terminated immediately.

“Lying to the Bureau would make it virtually impossible for you to ever find work in the United States of America again. Never compromise the integrity of this Bureau. Having said all of this, the question I pose to you—the real question—is can you even convince Eastman, Johnson, or Garvey to let you in—convince them to allow you to get close to them?”

“I can.”

He stared at me as if deciding one last time whether he indeed felt I was up to the task. Then he continued. “Our agents, in general, may not have the authority from Congress to carry firearms, but by the authority of the Justice Department, I will permit you to obtain a sidearm for your personal protection . . . for this unique assignment.”

I marveled at the way this Hoover had worked all of these details out in his mind. It was as if he were reading from a script. But he was doing no reading. In fact, he never even looked at the files in front of him. It was all from memory. Information just poured out of him.

“Harlem is hell, Temple.”

“I see.”

“Harlem is a new kind of code. It is . . . how should I say this? Let's just say you'd be the first to crack it.”

Again I nodded. I intended to work for the Bureau only long enough to get the inside details on Garvey—and to assure that Du Bois's agenda would flourish. The NAACP's cause and survival were worth dying for. This was going to be my contribution to American history—my George Washington moment.

“I know you won't disappoint us, Temple.” He stood and I did the same. “Good luck.”

With that I shook his hand and headed for the door. I felt an overwhelming need to speak with Professor Gold. In fact, I was desperate to pay him a personal visit. I had every intention of telling him about my new covert mission. Maybe I wanted him to talk me out of it. Still, I knew he was the one person I could tell.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Temple,” said Irene, the secretary, as I walked by her desk.

“Good day, ma'am.”

An agent was waiting for me in a car out front. I had him stop at a nearby café and I grabbed a ham sandwich to go.

Once at the train station, I exited the car and headed for the nearest payphone. I called Loretta and told her that I'd be home three days late because of some extra training and examinations I needed to complete. I planned to board my scheduled train to Philadelphia. Once there, I would catch a series of connecting trains to Middlebury. I intended to sleep the entire way.

* * *

I arrived at Gold's early in the morning before the sun had risen. I'd called him from the Philadelphia station to inform him of my unplanned visit. He greeted me with a warm hug and a piping hot cup of coffee. I intended to spend the day with him and immediately head back to Philadelphia the next morning.

“Well, well, well,” said the silver-haired Gold, still dressed in his burgundy bathrobe and slippers, “isn't this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes, and I have good reason.”

“Please, come inside and let's talk.”

We entered the chalet and went into his office. He offered me some warm scones, and we made ourselves comfortable, he behind his maple-wood desk, and I on his warm, cozy, cowhide sofa. Professor Gold, unlike Mary, had always been an early riser. His energy was amazing, and a healthy diet had kept him a youthful-looking seventy-year-old.

“Talk to me,” he said, scooting his chair back and crossing his bony, long legs.

“Has any agent from the Bureau of Investigation ever been to see you?” I asked.

“From the BOI? No. Why?”

I started from square one, explaining the details of what had taken place in my life over the last six weeks. He didn't seem surprised that the Bureau had contacted me. He knew the significance of the hire and was much more familiar with the Bureau's past activities than I. But I explained how the Bureau mistakenly believed that I was this neophyte who had spent his entire life with his head in a physics book, oblivious to the politics of the day.

I finished the story and dipped a scone into my coffee. I didn't know what to expect from Gold. If he had been readying himself to suggest that I get out, I wasn't sure if I'd oblige.

“You know the first rule of becoming a covert agent?” he asked.

“What?”

“Write a will,” he jokingly said, flashing a wry smile.

I smiled back and we just sipped for a moment. Then I brushed aside some of the scattered, clipped newspaper articles that were decorating the sofa. His brown Chesapeake Bay retriever, Muddy, came into the office and began licking my hand. I noticed Professor Gold ruminating, squeezing the skin on his chin with his fingers. He could barely contain his excitement about what I'd just told him.

He had spent his entire forty-year career as a history professor attempting to unearth the hidden details about the government. He didn't teach the history that everyone knew, but rather the history that he was newly discovering. All of the books he had written were groundbreaking in terms of their specific subject matter.

He had been obsessed with researching the specificities surrounding Abraham Lincoln's supposed Civil War spies. Now he was sitting across from his pupil who was being hired by the government to do just that.

“Max Eastman is white,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“I just find it interesting that they'd hire a colored agent to shadow him.”

“The element of surprise,” I said. “Eastman is known for being good to us folks.”

“I can tell you,” he said, “the government is worried about Max Eastman for one reason. When he was running his first magazine—the
Masses
—just after the U.S. decided to go to war, he published several cartoons and articles that vehemently opposed the war. Government officials claimed that Eastman had violated the Espionage Act.”

“What's your take on their targeting James Weldon Johnson?” I asked.

“Mr. Johnson is an interesting case. I know he was U.S. Consul to Venezuela in 1906. He's the man who wrote the song ‘Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing.' ”

“I had no idea he wrote that,” I said.

“I am mainly familiar with him as a poet. I'm fascinated that the government has him on their watch list. I certainly know why they're going after Garvey.”

“Yeah,” I said, “so do I. He has the loudest voice. And, of the three, I am only interested in shadowing him. Although I have to get information on all of them if I'm to satisfy Hoover's hunger for details.”

“You know, Sidney, as a student of the abolitionist movement, I must confess a bit of forgiveness for Garvey's way of thinking. Because on one hand you've got this God-loving movement rooted in purity, and created to free slaves from the shackles of hell, yet it was a movement largely comprised of Northern, white, well-educated men. Sounds beautiful, correct—this abolitionist movement?”

“Of course,” I answered.

“But,” he said, “on the other hand—the hand that a so-called Garveyite would choose to see—these same white men are simply undoing the damage that they themselves caused.”

He paused and picked at a scone.

“I keep trying to understand what's pulling me into this,” I said. “This obsession that Garvey seems to have with convincing all coloreds to leave America and return to Africa is too simple-minded for me to digest. It in no way takes into account the complexities and deep roots that coloreds have in this country.”

“I know what's pulling you into this,” he said. “You can't enjoy any personal success while the overwhelming majority of black America lives under segregation. Not even as a highly educated man. You're really no different than Du Bois in that regard.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I want my future children to live in an integrated country. None of this Garvey separatism. I need to know how far he's willing to go—if and how he plans to destroy Du Bois and the NAACP.”