Crossword (7 page)

Everyone in the room knew that this would make a very
difficult operation harder, but it was Julian, the only one with any experience
running field operations, who really knew the almost unimaginable dangers added
by having a civilian along, especially one who certainly would have had no
training in anything useful and who was, to boot, a woman. His eyes rolled back
and a barely audible groan emerged. Dulles was not annoyed by this. Julian
could be a difficult person to work with, his lack of deference and his curt
attitude often bordered on insubordination, but his tactical assessment was
usually right on the money. Allen Dulles stared at him and knew that his muted
groan was an apt comment on the assignment that Dulles was now going to
propose.

"We need to begin planning as soon as possible; this
war is drawing to a close and German military authority could collapse before
long. Who knows what person or group might find the plutonium, and what they
could do with it. The United States just can't take the risk of ignoring
this."

"Just what can they do with it?" Kent asked.

Dulles looked at Ruckelman. "Tell him."

"A bomb. They can make a bomb. Not just any firecracker
but an explosion bigger and more destructive than any ever made by man, able to
destroy an entire city. A bomb equivalent to thousands of tons of TNT."

"That must be one huge mother of a bomb," Kent
exclaimed. "How is our guy supposed to get it out of Germany? Will he have
to steal a truck?"

Ruckelman turned to Kent and when he spoke his voice was
low, and to the perceptive ear, a slight quaver could be discerned, almost as
if he were scared. "The amount of plutonium needed to make such a bomb is
about the size of a grapefruit."

Kent, who had leaned forward in his chair, now sank back,
exhaling as he slumped in his chair. "Holy shit!" The others were
silent, each staring ahead blankly, lost in thoughts of horrors yet to be
known.

Dulles broke the silence. "You see why this operation
is so important. Now, let's get on with some of the details so we can begin
planning." He placed the bowl of his pipe in the heavy glass ashtray on
his desk, carefully balancing the stem on the edge before returning to the
table, where he pulled out a chair and, for the first time since the meeting
began, sat down alongside the men who would have to figure a way to get an OSS
agent into wartime Germany, have him retrieve the makings of a weapon so far unknown
to all but a few men, and get that material back to allied territory along with
a female civilian.

Ruckelman shifted in his chair and Dulles nodded at him,
knowing that he was waiting permission to speak, that he had more to say.

"The plutonium, like I said, doesn't take up much room,
but it is radioactive and if it's not protected by lead shielding, it can be
lethal to anyone who gets too close. When it was going to be sent by rail that
wouldn't have been a problem since even with the shielding it could be
contained in a crate about the size of a foot locker; but it would be very
heavy, too heavy for one person to lift, let alone to carry it out of
Germany." Julian sat back in his chair and shut his eyes, his arms crossed
in front of him, as Ruckelman explained about radioactivity, the deadly
sickness it caused and the necessity for keeping it enclosed in lead. The
others at the table thought it impertinent, even for Julian, to sleep and each
silently wondered when the old man would explode, maybe not with the force of a
plutonium bomb, but enough of an explosion to make the briefing most awkward
for everyone there. Dulles, however, didn't seem to notice or, if he did,
didn't seem to care. In reality, he knew Julian wasn't sleeping. He knew his
mind was already several steps ahead of the rest of them, exploring
possibilities, figuring contingencies and calculating odds. He wondered if
Julian played chess and what kind of opponent he would be. Formidable, he
thought, but perhaps a bit too confident and self assured. That could be a
weakness to exploit. He would have to remember that if they ever sat across a
chess table.

By the time Ruckelman finished, it was apparent to everyone
that not only would this be an extremely difficult and dangerous operation, but
it was certain to end up as a suicide mission. But the suicide would be a slow
death, and a particularly unpleasant one; not a bullet in some vital organ, or
even a fatal wound where life ebbed over minutes or, at most, hours and the
victim languished until overcome by the ultimate sleep. The agent, if he was
not killed or captured during the operation, faced an agonizing and protracted
death upon his return. When all others associated with the project would be
celebrating a well executed and successful plan, the agent responsible for this
triumph, fresh from victory, would be thrust into an unwelcome confrontation
with his own mortality, the end of his life telescoped into a few short months.
"How
,
"
thought Dulles, "does one ask another human
being to make that kind of sacrifice? And what of the woman? She would
certainly be affected by the radiation, Ruckelman had said, although he didn't
know in what way. Presumably to a lesser degree than the person carrying the
plutonium, but was this better or worse? No one knew; there simply wasn't
enough experience. Too many unknowns." Dulles did not have a good feeling
about this operation, but that would not deter him. He, too, had orders to
follow.

Dulles was first posted in Europe in 1916, at the age of 23,
when he served as the third secretary at the American embassy in Vienna,
capital of the Hapsburg Empire. At a young age he had been thrust into the
diplomacy, duplicity and gossip of an imperial court and had handled it all
with aplomb, a benefit of his upbringing and the social stature of his family,
not to mention the innate ability he possessed to interact with people in such
a way that they thought he was more interested in them than in anyone else. It
was this latter quality that served him so well as a spymaster in later years,
allowing him to extract information from a variety of sources who had been
reticent to divulge their secrets to any other person.

During his time in Vienna, Allen heard a story that was
circulating among the members of society and the imperial court, a story that
he found both fascinating and troubling. Three years earlier, Colonel Alfred
Redl, a well-respected young officer, one who would have been expected to
continue his rise up through the ranks, had committed suicide. The details of
this incident were classified, but in the Austro-Hungarian court, secrecy was
no match for the persistence of upper crust quidnuncs, and the whole rather
sordid affair was soon being discussed at all the nicest places, usually over
an elegant afternoon tea, the fashionably dressed magpies delicately removing a
crumb of Sacher tort from their upper lip while they tisked and shook their
heads disapprovingly. The Colonel was a homosexual, engaged in an affair with a
younger man, and needed money to pay for the gifts he lavished on his lover. A
military officer's salary was inadequate for his affaire d'amour, so in order
to garner the finances necessary, he began selling state secrets to Imperial
Russia. This went on for some time until, because of stupidity or urgency,
Alfred went himself to pick up a payment. One act of carelessness, one lapse in
technique, led to his capture and the dismantling of a spy network.

The sad story of Colonel Redl impressed upon the young
Dulles two key points that were to stay with him throughout his career as an
intelligence chief and a statesman. The first was the realization of how much
influence a single person could have on the affairs of state, both in war and
in peacetime. Second, it cautioned him on the importance of never deviating
from proper tradecraft and always utilizing sufficient cut outs and
intermediaries to protect your agents in the field.

Templeton's eyes flicked open just as Ruckelman finished his
explanation, interjecting a question directed primarily at Dulles before anyone
had time to say anything. "How much of this plutonium are we talking
about? You said that the Germans were attempting to ship their entire supply
back to the Fatherland."

Dulles thanked Ruckelman for his contribution before
responding. "Allied bombing and commando raids destroyed most of it. All
that remained was in that one crate." There being no follow up, he went
on. "Julian, I want you and Kent to put your heads together and start on
an operational plan. Bill, my aide, will give you access to all the info we
currently have. Let me know what you need that's not there and I'll see what I
can find out. At some point you'll also have to meet with Schroeder. I'll set
it up when you're ready. We'll meet again in one week; we've got to move this
along. If you have anything else on your desk, put it aside or, if it can't
wait, give it to Bill and he'll reassign it."

"Who's the agent in the field on this one?" asked
Julian.

"Don't have one yet. It's not exactly easy to get
volunteers for this. Any suggestions you have would be appreciated, but I'll
take the responsibility for this part of the operation. That's it for now. Next
week at nine."

A feeling of melancholy washed over him. It was an emotion
that was coming to be an old friend, a despondent visitor that came uninvited
and slipped into quiet moments. He knew that he had to send young men into
dangerous situations, that many of them would die or be tortured before
succumbing, that they did this willingly out of loyalty, patriotism or a belief
in the freedom they thought was threatened, and that few of these brave young
men would ever fully know what their sacrifice meant to the allied cause. This
op, though, was different. Always, in the past, Dulles had hoped that the agent
would both succeed in his mission and return safely. This time he could hope
only for success. And what of the agent? No matter how dangerous or difficult
their assignment was thought to be, they always expected they would make it.
Whether this was because of the immortality with which all youth believed they
were imbued or merely a defense mechanism of the mind to allow it to function
under the most severe stress, Allen Dulles did not know; nor did he expect that
he ever would, for how could he ask someone why they expected to live when the
odds were so against them. Nonetheless, it bothered him and he knew it would
continue to do so.

Kent stayed behind a moment to talk to Ruckelman before
leaving. Julian was talking to the receptionist just inside the entrance as
Kent walked down the stairs, his hand tapping the banister absent-mindedly
during the descent. The sides of the banister, as well as the evenly spaced
supports, bore intricate carvings, the edges of which were worn smooth by
decades of waxing and polishing. Figures of men sporting the traditional
Bredzon, the delicate decorations on the puffed sleeves visible through the
artistry of a long dead carver, young women in pigtails wearing their Mandzon,
grazing sheep and dogs prancing on their hind legs, all danced their way down
the stairs accompanying Kent. Julian interrupted his conversation with the
attractive fair skinned, red headed woman who sat behind the desk. Her name was
Victoria, and anyone who chose to call her "Vickie" soon found out,
in no uncertain terms, that a proper English woman was not to be addressed by
any type of slang American appellation. He turned to Mallory and called,
"Hey, Kent, hold up a minute. I'll walk out with you."

"All right. I'm just going to check my mail; be right
back."

From where Julian stood, which happened to be leaning over
the desk with a clear view of the top of Victoria's breasts extending well
above her bra, certainly a size too small, he wasn't sure just how proper she
really was, notwithstanding her disdain for any sobriquet. She came from
Swindon, an old railroad town two hours west of London and a bit east of
Bristol. Julian had stayed there for about eight weeks in 1940, as an informal
and discrete liaison between the U.S. State Department and intelligence units
within the British government. His posting was discrete, not secret, so he saw
nothing wrong with checking out the nightlife, of which there was not much
except the local pubs and workingmen's clubs. Feeling at home in all strata of
society, Julian became friendly not only with his English counterparts, but
also with the various clerks and typists that seem to make governments
everywhere function, and it was this latter group that showed him all the
places that official government representatives would not be expected to
frequent. A quick learner, he came to know the town quite well in a matter of
weeks, and despite Victoria's outward propriety, he bet that she hailed from
between the bridges, where the workers lived, and that she was no stranger to
the local pub. On loan from William Stephenson of British Intelligence, the man
known by some as Intrepid, she was sent to help out Allen Dulles when he set up
shop in Bern and was having a tough time finding experienced people; sort of
lend lease in reverse; England's gift to the United States.

Shortly after he was recruited for the OSS by William
"Wild Bill" Donovan, Dulles leased space on the thirty sixth floor of
the International Building at Rockefeller Center, so he could pursue his new
job away from prying eyes in the law offices of Sullivan and Cromwell whose
well appointed suites had been his bastion up until then. It was not a
coincidence that his new digs were next door to offices occupied by Stephenson,
who was also Donovan's mentor in the business of spying. That was back in 1942
and Victoria had been a fixture at 23 Herrengasse ever since he settled in
there, most of the staff assuming that she was really sent to keep an eye on
Dulles. Stephenson considered "Wild Bill", the first head of the OSS,
to be his protégé and did whatever he could to make sure the United States
succeeded with its fledgling spy shop, including acting as an employment
agency. After all, the well being, even survival, of England was intimately
tied to the United States. Of course, there was another camp at the Bern
headquarters that thought Victoria was kept on because of her beauty and
presumed extra curricular activities, although the identity of the supposed
lucky recipient of her favors seemed to change from month to month. Julian believed
the former but also thought that with the right maneuvers someone might succeed
in bringing out the wilder side of this railroad town's daughter. There must be
purpose, he thought, in the blouse opened one more button than was prudent or
the sweaters that always seemed just a smidge too tight. He continued the small
talk, seemingly spontaneous, but like most of what he did, well thought out,
purposeful and part of a larger plan.