Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Now if you don’t mind, it’s time to move on from theory to practice. We have news of a British seaman at the port selling information to the Germans regarding the positions and schedules of British convoys. Two FBI agents will take us downtown to see the evidence. We leave in five minutes. Remember that they believe this is the British passport office.”

  Even after three months in New York City, Paul hardly knew how to characterize it, particularly after surviving through the night of the bombing raid on St. Paul’s Cathedral. This city was rumbling, loud, and clouded with exhaust fumes from streets crowded with cars. He realized that the same could be said of London in daytime despite the war, but there was a qualitative difference that at first, he had difficulty identifying. The cars in the British capital were square and boxy, while here they were rounded and muscular; but that aspect did not quite describe the essential difference beyond the massive size of this city, which, in any case, he could not see from ground level in the financial district of Manhattan.

  A horn blared as he and Stephenson crossed a street, and then he put his finger on the issue. In both cities, traffic moved, but in London, they proceeded in well-ordered straight lines while here cars seemed to maneuver all over the thoroughfares depending on where they could continue forward most rapidly. In both cities, pedestrians packed together on sidewalks and dispersed at intersections to venture in fits and starts to navigate to the opposite side of a street.

  Stephenson had already introduced him at his swank business club, The Stork, where the elegance of high-class living was pronounced compared to the noisome tumult on the streets. In the cool, refined atmosphere of cozy camaraderie, Paul had become aware that his mentor was not a newcomer to either the city or the back rooms of America’s business elite. In fact, he learned, the Rockefeller family allowed Stephenson and his British Security Coordination organization to occupy two stories in their tower essentially rent-free. They wouldn’t do that for a Johnny-come-lately.

  “Here we are,” Stephenson said, stepping toward a dark sedan that swung to the curb and stopped in front of them. He opened the back door and slid to the other side. Paul clambered in beside him.

  “Where are we going?” Stephenson called out.

  The front-seat passenger turned. He was a stern-looking man with a thin face, but his shoulders were broad. He removed a cigarette from his mouth. “Good to see you, Bill. Who’s your sidekick?”

  “This is Paul Littlefield. He’s on loan from the British army, an aide, so to speak.”

  The man scrutinized Paul. “Why would the British passport office need a British soldier over here, and why isn’t he wearing a uniform?”

  “He’s a captain. If you must know, we’re supposed to be rounding out his training. I’m not sure how that works. I’d guess the British government would like to track any unsavory characters who might do us harm, like the one we’re checking out now. I requested an aide, and this is what I got. Don’t be too rough on him. He seems like a good sort.”

  The man searched Paul’s face, and then extended his hand. “Sorry. I’m suspicious by nature. I’m Special Agent Bernardi and this is Special Agent Thompson.”

  The driver grunted while Paul shook Bernardi’s hand.

  “What do we know about our quarry?” Stephenson asked.

  “Not a lot yet,” Bernardi replied. “We got lucky. On a fluke, one of our special agents overheard part of a transmission while scanning radio stations. He thought he heard German, so he tuned back to the station. We keep an active presence in the ports, and the bad guy was careless. We nailed his identity in about fifteen minutes.”

  They arrived in an alley off a back street near the docks. “He’s not here now. He doesn’t know we’re on to him yet, but we have him under surveillance. We already have a warrant based on our transcript of the broadcast we overheard.”

  After parking the car, the two special agents led the way through a back door of an apartment building, up dimly lit stairs, and to a green wooden door that already stood open. “Two of our guys are in there,” Bernardi said. “They’re securing evidence, dusting for fingerprints, and so on. When he comes back, we’ll arrest him.”

  “What happens then?” Stephenson inquired.

  “We’ll take him to our offices and hold him. He’ll be arraigned tomorrow, or at least within a few days. He won’t be offered bail because he’s engaged in espionage. Your people are really the ones who have a beef with him, so I imagine your embassy will be notified and request extradition. That’ll take time. Several months down the line, we’ll ship him back to Britain, and your guys will deal with him.”

  Stephenson glanced askance at Paul and then returned his attention to Bernardi. “All of that for a man who’s been caught dead to rights carrying out actions that will kill British citizens. There must be a more expeditious way of dealing with the issue.”

  Bernardi shrugged. “That’s the system. He’s entitled to due process, and we’ll have to prove our case in court before we turn him over to your government.”

  Stephenson hid his disgust and circled the room silently with Paul in tow. Bernardi handed him some papers. “This is what we’ve transcribed so far.” He pointed to a section near the top of the first page. “This shows the ships in port, what’s being loaded onto them, their departure schedules, destinations.” He turned the page. “Here you can see when and where they’ll join their convoys, and their expected progression across the Atlantic.” He turned another page. “This shows the same information for ships already at sea.”

  Stemming his anger, Stephenson pointed to a photograph stapled to the top of the first page. “Is that him?”

  Bernardi nodded. “We pulled his record from the ship’s files.”

  Stephenson studied the document and thrust it at Paul. “Read this,” he said, his voice marked by contained anger. “This is what we have to contend with. He’s directing German U-boats to our ships with the most militarily significant cargoes. Most of them also carry food that our people are desperate for and everyday products they need to survive.” He jabbed a finger at the photo. “This criminal would have our sailors killed and see British people starve to line his pockets. The authorities on both sides of the ocean will coddle him for months and use up the king’s legal resources and treasure to try him, and in the end, he’ll meet a hangman’s noose. There should be a way to shorten the process, bring him to justice, and save the money.”

  While Paul scanned the papers, Stephenson continued to examine the room. It consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen with a tiny area for a breakfast table. A two-way short-wave radio with microphone rested on the table.

  Stephenson studied the equipment without touching it. “It’s powerful,” he told Bernardi. “How long has the man been here?”

  “Not long. The manager says he rented the room three days ago. That jibes with when his ship came into port.” He rubbed his forehead. “I just got some news. It’s not good news, but it’s not terrible. Our men lost track of him. He went into a crowded train station, and we didn’t have enough people to keep him in sight. He has to come back here, though, unless he’s abandoned his radio.”

  “Why didn’t you grab him when you had the chance?”

  “We were hoping to see who his contacts are.” He lifted his palms in a chagrinned gesture. “So far, nothing.” The agent heaved a sigh. “The guy ought to be given the chop.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Stephenson said, blandly arching his eyebrows.

  “Sure you will.” Bernardi laughed while shooting Stephenson a nervous look.

  “I’ve seen enough. Please take us back to our offices.”

  Paul and Stephenson arrived back at Rockefeller Center shortly before lunchtime. Stephenson had been unusually quiet on the ride back, his eyes fixed on an indefinite point ahead of him. On entering their reception area, he walked into his office without a word and closed the door. Paul went to his own desk just outside.

  Thirty minutes lat
er, Stephenson emerged brusquely. “I have some errands to run. No need for you to accompany me. I’ll be back before close of business.”

  True to his word, Stephenson strode into the office suite shortly before nightfall. To Paul, he seemed less agitated than he had been that morning, even perhaps pleased with himself. “Anything concerning happen while I was out?” he asked as he passed by Paul’s desk.

  “Mr. Bernardi called a little while ago. He sounded urgent but wouldn’t leave a message.” He handed Stephenson a note with a telephone number.

  “Maybe they’ve found their spy. I’ll call him right back.”

  A few minutes later, Stephenson emerged, smiling Sphinxlike. “It seems someone saved the British and US governments a lot of trouble and expense. Our spy was found in the basement of his apartment building with a broken neck. I suppose he was not universally loved.” Swinging his right hand down and striking the edge of it into his left hand, he chuckled and said, “I said I might give the guy the chop.”

  Paul’s head popped up. With a strange sense of inexplicable dread, he stared into Stephenson’s eyes but said nothing. He did, however, notice a hard glint in the Canadian’s eyes that he had not seen before.

  Stephenson returned the glance. “Did you know I was a champion boxer?” He saw Paul nod and went on without waiting for further response. “Yes, strictly amateur. That was before I flew for the RAF in the last war.” Stretching, he took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Bernardi’s call settles that situation. Back to work. As we discussed earlier, this war leaves no time for mulling over moral dilemmas. We need to get cracking on that project we discussed this morning.”

  He peered at Paul, studying him. Then, without a word, he disappeared into his office, reappearing a few moments later with a thin booklet. “Read this tonight,” he said. “I’ve underlined a passage. Pay particular attention to it.”

  Paul tossed in his sleep that night. Did Stephenson admit to murder? He went over the Canadian’s words again and again: “I said I might give him the chop.”

  Did he do it?

  And what of the notion of misleading the American public—Stephenson’s new intelligence operation—to maneuver events that might sway public opinion to support America’s entry into the war. Paul’s mind went to the meeting he had attended with Claire in which MI-6 Director Menzies had scolded them both for breaching Bletchley protocol.

  The director had railed, “We’ve acquired information through our Enigma decoding machines telling us that our convoys are headed into ambush and certain death, and yet we do not warn them. And do you know why? Because if the enemy learns that we’ve broken their codes and can read their messages at will, they will simply change them, and we will fight blindly against overwhelming force. We’ll suffer more casualties; we’ll lose the war; and our people will be enslaved like those in Europe.” He had even used the same words that Stephenson had uttered this morning. “I make no apologies.”

  Paul sat up in the night, wide awake. He had already read the pamphlet Stephenson had given him. He pulled it out again and flipped to the underlined passage. The booklet was Shakespeare’s King Henry V play, and the highlighted section read, “He which hath no stomach in this fight, let him depart… But we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers… For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brethren…”

  Regarding himself, Paul was sure that the part Stephenson intended most was, “He which hath no stomach in this fight, let him depart…” Under the circumstances, Paul was not sure he wanted to be “brethren.”

  He ambled to the window. The room where he had been quartered was in a penthouse belonging to one of Stephenson’s friends. The luxury was beyond any Paul had ever experienced; certainly, it was far greater than the Seigneurie on Sark Island.

  Paul had not met his host, but Stephenson had shown him the room, handed him the key, and assured him that there was no difficulty with his staying there. “You have the run of the place. My friend is a good chap. He knows Great Britain is up against bad odds and he wants to help.”

  “Does he know what we’re doing?” Paul had asked, surprised.

  Stephenson’s smile in response had been one of those that would go unnoticed by anyone not paying strict attention, a slight turning up of the corners of his lips below hooded eyes. “Do you mean assuring that our countrymen’s passport concerns are handled efficiently? Of course.”

  The city was laid out in an array of twinkling lights as far as Paul could see in any direction. On the streets below, the taillights of innumerable cars and delivery vehicles streamed between an unbroken string of bright greens, yellows, and reds of neon signs. If not for the events and conversations of the day, Paul could easily feel a sense of grandeur from this perch. And then he recalled the pitch-dark blackouts of London.

  What have I got myself into? The meetings at Whitehall with Churchill, Donovan, and Stephenson had been unnerving, even surreal. Is Stephenson a churl or a patriot?

  “We’re at war,” he muttered, admonishing himself. “I’m not an investigator. Stephenson made no confession. Without one, or without any other evidence, he’s presumed innocent. His comment could have been pure jest. And even if he did kill that man, what’s the difference between what he did and what soldiers do every day? They go out and kill the enemy.

  “As for the disinformation project: Mr. Roosevelt is responsible for his own intelligence. My loyalty is to Great Britain, and my job is to obey the orders of those in authority over me, which now is Bill Stephenson.”

  He went back to bed, switched out the lights, and fell into restless sleep, rising at dawn with still cascading, conflicting thoughts of Stephenson’s implied action, Shakespeare’s passage, and the realities of this war. Are we acting in the best interests of Great Britain?

  28

  January 8, 1941

  Dinard, France

  “Happy New Year, Mademoiselle Rousseau.”

  Jeannie stymied a gasp and managed a big smile that she hoped contained traces of friendliness as she glanced up at Major Bergmann’s taunting face. He walked to her desk and leaned over it.

  “Happy New Year to you,” she said. “Did you enjoy your leave?”

  “It was very good,” he replied, clipping his words. He glanced down at the papers in front of her. “What are you working on today?” Without waiting for an answer, he cocked his head around for a better view and then picked them up.

  “They’re translations from French to German that the field marshal wanted. He has a team going through French doctrinal manuals to see if there’s anything useful.”

  “‘Learn from those you defeat with no fight,’ I always say,” Bergmann muttered with thick sarcasm. “That makes sense to me.” He tossed the documents on the desk, scattering them. Jeannie looked down and started gathering and arranging them.

  “I hear that you’ve had electrical work done in your parents’ house. Is your electrician good? I need some work done in my room, but my men have been unable to locate the one that you used. Maybe you can call him?”

  Stung, Jeannie steeled herself to be calm. She continued straightening the documents while she looked up with a shrug. “I can try to find him if you like. He was referred by a friend. I’ll have to ask for his contact information this evening. Will that be suitable?”

  “Major Bergmann!” Oberst Meier commanded from across the room. “Do you have business with the fräulein?” As he spoke, he strode toward her desk.

  Bergmann straightened and turned, the back of his neck turning red. “I was performing my duty as security officer to check the classification of the documents she is working on.”

  Jeannie looked rapidly back and forth between them. “He kindly conferred a New Year’s greeting,” she said brightly, “and asked if I might refer an electrician.”

  Meier glanced at her for a second without emotion, and then turned to Bergmann. “She is in a secure location cleared for classified documents, and sh
e is authorized to read those at the lowest level of classification.”

  “And I was checking to ensure that the ones on her desk were not above that level—”

  “Those above her classification are in a vault.” Meier’s voice had turned hard and angry, and his tone had dropped low, menacing. “You are harassing her. I saw you pick up those papers and toss them down, scattering them. She told you that the field marshal ordered the work she’s doing. Do you wish to question him?”

  Bergmann straightened to attention. “Not at this moment, but I do need to conference with you. Is now a good time, sir?”

  Jeannie’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  Meier peered at Bergmann through squinted eyes. Then he glanced at his watch. “You have fifteen minutes, and you’d better not waste my time.”

  Jeannie watched them walk down the hall. Despite raw nerves, she waited a minute, picked up her bag, and headed for the restroom. Instead of going in, she checked to see if anyone looked her way, and then darted toward the exit. She had several corridors to navigate, but she managed to reach the foyer with no one stopping her for conversation.

  “Are you taking an early break?” the security supervisor asked her at the entrance.

  She smiled and winked. “I need real coffee,” she said in a mock conspiratorial whisper, “not Wehrmacht poison, if you know what I mean. Would you like me to bring you some?”

  “That would be great, Fräulein,” he said, laughing.

  “I’ll be just a few minutes,” she said, while putting on her coat.

  As soon as she was outside, she removed her scarlet beret from her bag and put it on. She walked briskly, ostensibly against a cold January wind blowing off the sea, but she was also in a hurry. Along the way, she met people that she normally saw, and she did her best to give her usual friendly greeting, but fear darkened her spirit.