Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  The P.A. went on: “There is another matter, even more urgent. I have brought a man out from Germany with me, under rather difficult circumstances. He is a German who has been for some time in the employ of our O.S.S., and the Gestapo was on his trail. He was able to get a false passport and exit permit in Berlin, but he could not get a Swedish visa, so he is being held by the authorities here. It is important that he should be freed, and without any publicity that might destroy his usefulness.”

  “You know positively that the man is in the employ of the O.S.S.?”

  “I personally told Colonel Donovan about him in Washington and arranged for him to be taken into the service. I have known the man for some thirteen years, and he was vouched for by the German woman who later became my wife and who was murdered by the Nazis in Dachau. This man Monck helped me in the effort to save her, and showed himself both brave and competent. When I ran into him in Berlin I was on the trail of an important story having to do with German discoveries in nuclear physics. I won’t burden you with the details—suffice it to say that I was trying to make contact with a certain German physicist, and I found Monck working for this man as his butler, photographing his notes and sending them out. That was why the Gestapo was after him, I assume.”

  “Mr. Budd,” said the Minister, “this is like having a motion picture brought into my study and run off for me.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Johnson,” said the P.A. with his number-one smile. “Colonel Donovan could run off hundreds of such reels for you. Such things are going on all over Europe.”

  “This world continues to take me by surprise. Tell me what you want me to do about this man.”

  “First, to get permission from the Swedish government for him to enter and stay for at least a few days. This ought to be done without their questioning him, if that is possible.”

  “There are some persons in the government who will do small favors for me if they are sure that scandal can be avoided.”

  “No man works more quietly than Monck. He is a self-educated man, and carries on historical researches in libraries—so well that he has been able to keep the very strict Swiss government satisfied about him.”

  “And what else, Mr. Budd?”

  “As soon as possible he should be put into contact with the O.S.S., so that he can make a report and receive further orders.”

  “You must know surely, that our Minister is not supposed to know anything about espionage activities being carried on inside a friendly country.”

  Was there possibly a tiny twinkle in this Minister’s eyes? There was one in Lanny’s as he replied: “I thought it conceivable that you might have heard some whisper and be able to recall some person who might be in touch with Colonel Donovan’s organization.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I would ask you to include in your code message a request to inform Colonel Donovan that Bernhardt Monck is at the Grand Hotel. I should be sorry to have it done that way, because there is always the possibility of even the most carefully guarded code being read.”

  “All right, Mr. Budd. I will make inquiry and see if I can find somebody here who will call upon your friend.”

  “Thank you,” said Lanny gravely. “I have here the names for your convenience,” and he handed over another slip of paper on which he had written: “Real name: Bernhardt Monck. Working name: Konrad Kraft. Present name: Anton Vetterl.” He added: “Would it be possible for you to get that message off to Washington tonight? Let me explain that my father is in Newcastle, Connecticut, my wife in New York, and my mother in Marrakech. All three must have been informed that I have been lost in the Sahara, and I am anxious to relieve their minds. It is about midday now in New York and there is time for the President to get my message and act upon it.”

  “I will do what you ask, Mr. Budd. At this time of night there may be delay in getting hold of our code man, but I will do my best.”

  VIII

  The P.A. had got what he had come for; so, naturally, he felt pleased with Mr. Herschel Johnson. He decided that he liked all Southerners. Laurel was one, and would have known how to get along with this one. “Thank you ever so much,” he said. “I am in your debt both personally and professionally.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Budd. May I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again before you leave?”

  “Certainly, sir, if you wish. But it had better not be in the Legation. Don’t forget that I am supposed to be a Nazi sympathizer, and not a fit person for you to associate with. I expect to be seen about town in the company of Mr. Eric Erickson, whom I met at Karinhall, and with whom I traveled out of Germany.”

  “Eric Erickson!” echoed the other. “Tell me, how on earth did you find out that he is one of ours?”

  “One of ours?” Not all the training of a lifetime could keep Lanny from showing his amazement.

  The Minister’s face revealed embarrassment. “Dear me, I am afraid that I have made a slip. You didn’t know his position?”

  “I took him to be a businessman making money out of the Nazis. I was playing the role of an art expert, buying some of Baron von Behr’s unwanted French paintings. But I must admit that I was puzzled about Erickson because he didn’t have what I thought of as the Nazi smell.”

  “He has been bringing us a mass of information. For God’s sake, don’t mention it to any living soul.”

  “Rest assured on that, Mr. Johnson. If I have not told my devoted wife what I am doing, you may be sure I have learned to keep the secrets of the underground. Neither Monck nor I have ever told each other anything that wasn’t needed for our duties.”

  “I think it might be better if you do not let Erickson know that you have learned about his position.”

  “Of course not. I couldn’t tell him without at the same time revealing that I myself am not what he thinks me.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Budd. It doesn’t seem to me that you yourself have much of what you call the Nazi smell.”

  Lanny grinned. “You should hear me talk when I am among them. I have been studying them for almost twenty years, and I really do know their lingo. I assure you, the day I never have to speak another word of it will be a red-letter day in my life.”

  Lanny went out from the Legation building, chuckling to himself, now and then snapping his fingers and exclaiming: “By heck! He fooled me!” Somehow that seemed to him an especially good joke. He hadn’t really taken it for granted that he was the only American agent in Naziland, but he had acted as if he believed it, and now to discover that there was somebody as smart as himself entertained him vastly. He almost wanted to say “smarter,” but then he reflected that he had fooled Erickson. Or had he? Could it be that Erickson had got on to him and had been too tactful to hint it? Or was Erickson in the same position that Lanny had been, speculating as to how a man could be a Nazi and still be decent?

  IX

  Anyhow, the P.A. was relieved, because he wanted to like this oil man and now was free to do so. He would tease him a bit by showing his liking and letting the oil man wonder if he ought to have friendly feelings for a traitor! Early next morning Lanny sought out “Red” in his hotel room, and they were free to talk about their adventure without fear of dictaphones. Lanny didn’t say that he had been to see the Minister, but let this remain a mystery. What he said was how grateful he was to his Swedish friend, and that he would never forget it. Did Erickson ever come to America? Or to England? They might get together again somewhere, perhaps after the war was over. Lanny gave his various addresses, Newcastle and Bienvenu and Wickthorpe, and they promised to meet and fight their battles over again.

  In midmorning Anton Vetterl came out of his durance. Nobody told him how or why; the officials just said that it had been decided to let him in. He went to one of the smaller hotels and booked a room, and then phoned Lanny’s hotel and left a message. As soon as Lanny got it he went to an outside booth and phoned the Minister, saying: “This is your visitor of last evening; the man we talked about is ready fo
r business.” Lanny gave the address, and Mr. Johnson said: “A Mr. Halperson will call upon him this afternoon.” The P.A. observed with satisfaction how bureaucrats and officials appeared to have been transformed by the war; they now acted promptly, where hitherto they had postponed; they remembered, where hitherto they had been apt to “forget.”

  Lanny phoned his friend, and they had their promised meeting in Berzelius Park, named after a Swedish scientist—a good example to other nations. Stockholm of course would be as full of Nazi agents as Geneva had been, and Allied agents would need to take precautions to avoid being shadowed. They looked behind them before they joined each other, and they did not delay for sociability. Lanny gave the name of Halperson, Monck’s new contact; also Lanny stated that his best mail address would be in care of his father. If something special should come up, Monck would write one of his letters about art works. They exchanged a handclasp and parted—it might be for years and it might be forever.

  Lanny had politely declined the oil man’s offer to meet some of the latter’s aristocratic friends. He said he was suffering from blast shock, which was true; but the real reason was that he couldn’t be sure what sort of people they would be, and he was tired of intrigue and uncertainty as to every word that passed his lips. He thought it a good axiom that no two spies should ever be seen in public together; that would be telling the enemy something he had no business to know.

  What Lanny wanted was to stroll about and look at the unusual city of Stockholm. It had been called the Venice of the North, but that didn’t fit, for the canals of the Italian city were not so clean, whereas the water that crept around the islands and under the bridges of this Swedish capital came from cold mountain streams. At present everything was frozen, and people skated. Lanny, raised on the Riviera, had learned to propel himself through water, but not on top of it, and he was content to watch the skill of others. There were skating ponds in the parks, and he envied the young men their lovely blond partners; he stamped his feet, and was glad that Hilde had insisted upon his keeping that pair of fur-lined gloves. Lanny Budd wasn’t as young as he had been.

  Some fifteen years ago the yacht Bessie Budd had sailed into the Baltic, bearing the Robin family and Beauty Budd and her son, on a delightful summer’s holiday. Hansi Robin had just been married to Bess, and Freddi had brought his fiancée, Rahel; they had all been so happy, having no idea of tragic fates that lay before them and the world. They stopped for several days at this shining city; they swam in these waters and watched the sailboats, canoes, and other craft from the bridges. They improved their education in the National Museum, which contains examples of most of the schools of painting in Europe.

  This last was the place for the son of Budd-Erling, and he spent his time renewing impressions of many individuals and schools. He had an unfailing memory for everything about art works, and this included what his dearest friends had said about them. So, when he looked at Rembrandts and Raphaels he saw not merely these painters, but the spirit of Freddi Robin, at once gentle and heroic, dreaming of a free and just world, and never resting in his determination to bring it about. This boy and young man was an undying part of Lanny Budd’s being, and the foul murder that the Nazis had committed upon him was one of the reasons why a P.A. would never rest in his war upon the infamous system.

  When Lanny last heard from Hansi and Bess this pair of musicians had been in Leningrad, making their contribution to the defense of their beloved Soviet Union. They were a couple of hours’ airplane flight distant, but, alas, the Luftwaffe was in the way! If it had not been for that circumstance, Lanny might have gone on to Moscow and completed the commission that F.D.R. had assigned to him. He consoled himself with the thought that what he had got in Germany was important enough to be delivered, and if the Boss still wanted the Moscow trip taken he could arrange it. In these days, when you could fly two thousand miles in a day, you spoke of “hopping” to places that had taken your forefathers several weeks to reach.

  28

  Land of Hope and Glory

  I

  A message came for Mr. Budd, and he called at the office of the airline and was informed that a place had been reserved for him on the plane flying to Britain the next day. Those planes had to pass over German territory, and their number was limited and their routes strictly defined. Germany could not entirely deny this right to a neutral nation, most of whose trade she was seeking to absorb. Lanny packed his few belongings, bought some English newspapers and weeklies to read, and had an uneventful trip across Norway and the North Sea. The moment when he set foot on the soil of the blessed isle was one of the happiest he had known for months.

  A man who had come through Hitlerland might expect questions to be asked, and Lanny had spent some time figuring out how to meet that situation. But to his satisfaction there was his friend Fordyce waiting for him; he could guess that Baker had taken the trouble to notify B4. When Fordyce said: “The P.M. wants to see you as soon as convenient,” Lanny could imagine Roosevelt remarking in one of his transatlantic telephone chats: “By the way, Lanny Budd is arriving, and I suspect he may have a story.”

  Lanny replied that he would be delighted to meet Mr. Churchill, and Fordyce asked: “Will this week end be too soon?” Lanny answered: “I’ll be at Wickthorpe Castle, awaiting your call.” The British agent told him that things were rather crowded now, so he had taken the liberty of engaging a room for him at the Dorchester. Lanny could understand that Fordyce might be curious to hear how a man had got from the Sahara Desert to the Venice of the North. Lanny was willing to “spill it” to the head of their government, but not to any common or garden variety of agent. On the drive to the hotel he entertained his host with news as to the situation in Sweden, and then about what he had seen in North Africa; but not a word about places and people in between.

  Lanny’s first action in the hotel was to send a cablegram to his father, addressing it as usual: “Robert Budd, President Budd-Erling Aircraft Corporation”—this for the benefit of the censor. Now he wrote: “Arrived safe and well love to all returning soon.” This sounded like a proper family message and no code. He did not mention Laurel; Robbie could get her on the telephone in less than a minute, and he would be sure to do so. Also Robbie would cable to Beauty, something he could do because of his position. Lanny tried it from London, but with no assurance of success. He began: “Dear Mother”—but would that have any effect upon a censor who might well have Lanning Prescott Budd on his list as a Nazi sympathizer?

  The traveler telephoned the Castle to ask if his presence would be welcome. Irma said: “We have been terribly upset about you. Come as soon as you can. Frances is wild with joy that you are alive.” He told her: “I can hardly believe it myself. I’ll take an early morning train.” They made an appointment for him to be met at the station.

  II

  Lanny wanted to see Rick, and the flying sons if it were possible. When he phoned to the paper for which his friend was writing, he heard a voice, deeply moved. “For God’s sake, Lanny, what happened to you?” It appeared that in newspaper dispatches from Algiers he had been reported as missing on the Sahara Desert and presumed dead. Nobody knew why he had gone out in a fighter plane and nobody knew what had happened to either him or the pilot. Lanny said: “Maybe I’m dreaming, but I have the impression that I’m still alive.”

  He had decided after much thought that he wasn’t going to tell anybody in England with the exception of Churchill that he had been through Germany. The story was sensational, and it would be difficult to keep rumors from getting into the press—something which Lanny dreaded above all things. It was enough that the man who was dead had come back. The son of Budd-Erling would go about surprising many people, and would tell them casually that he had got out of the desert all right and there wasn’t much of a story to it. If any newspaperman got after him he wouldn’t be mysterious, but just offhand, English fashion. “Nothing to it, old boy; it happens out there all the time; chaps get lost and they find
their way in.”

  What could he tell Rick that would be of any use to a journalist? Certainly nothing about Peenemünde, nor yet about Rjukan, nor any of the German scientists or what they had said. The various messages that had been entrusted to him by Hitler and Göring were all just rubbish, “springes to catch woodcock”; Rick had heard them many times before and knew them by heart. The condition of the people in Berlin, their grumbling, their behavior at the movies and at the railroad station when the wounded were brought in—Rick could have made an A-1 article out of that, but hardly without pointing to Lanny as his source. The alert Gestapo would surely not fail to know when the Führer’s friend had left Stockholm and when he had arrived in London, and they would pounce eagerly on any signs that he was doing harm to the Nazi cause. If they found out that he went to see the P.M., that wouldn’t be so bad—for the Führer had requested him to get a message to Churchill!

  Lanny said: “I’m sorry, but this time I’m not free to talk. However, I can tell you about North Africa, where there’s a story that won’t be out of date for a long time.”

  Yes, for General de Gaulle had come back from Casablanca not the least bit reconciled with Giraud or with the American occupation. He was determined to have power for himself and was using the radio that the British provided to persuade the people of France that he was their heaven-sent deliverer, the one man who could lead them to freedom and security. A man of boundless ambition, a driving ego, he was in Lanny’s view the traditional French “man on horseback.” He stood for the army caste, for aristocracy, and clerical privilege—forces which had ruled la patrie since the days of the St. Bartholomew massacre. President Roosevelt distrusted him, and more than ever since the exhibition he had given at the Casablanca Conference. “Thumbs down!” F.D.R. had said.