The Princess Spy
Page 2
Hoping to attend a university that had football games and dances, Aline was a bit disappointed when her parents chose for her a less exciting alternative: Mount Saint Vincent. It was a Catholic girls’ school with the regimen of the Marines: lights out at ten o’clock. It was also in the Bronx, a less than appealing college town.
The adventure Aline had been hoping for seemed far away.
In the summers she found convenient, mundane jobs. After her sophomore year, she worked as a supervisor at Rockland State Hospital, and after her junior year she worked as a secretary for Manny Rooney, a Pearl River attorney. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do after graduation, but events soon conspired to create the opportunity she was looking for. During her final semester, the winter of 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and her younger brothers went off to war almost immediately, Dexter as a fighter pilot in England and Tommy as a submariner in the South Pacific. Aline knew that as a woman she couldn’t be a soldier but felt that nothing short of joining the war effort in some manner would fulfill her patriotic longing to do her part. Throughout December she searched for a way to help, but without success.
After the New Year she found employment, but it was a far cry from military service. At five foot nine, slender, and beautiful, Aline was perfectly suited for modeling, so she took a job with Hattie Carnegie in New York City. It was a dream job for any young woman, as Hattie was one of the top fashion designers in the country, but it wasn’t Aline’s dream.
While Aline wouldn’t have known it, Hattie Carnegie was an American success story. When her father died in 1902, thirteen-year-old Henrietta Kanengeiser commenced her business career as a messenger for Macy’s. Two years later she began modeling, and in 1909 she launched her own custom clothing business, having changed her last name to Carnegie, a nod to Andrew Carnegie, the wealthiest man in America. Just a few years later Hattie opened her own store just off Park Avenue and was traveling to Paris annually in search of the latest fashions.
From Hattie, Aline would learn not only fashion, but poise, composure, and how to mingle at high-society events—skills that would come in handy later in situations with much higher stakes.
For eighteen months Aline modeled each season’s new dresses, parading down runways as if she’d been trained in Paris. But the fittings, makeup, hair styling, and glitz of fashion were the last things she wanted. She was grateful for the work but there was a war going on, and what she was doing on a daily basis seemed almost sinful compared to the sacrifices others were making.
In August 1943 one of her friends, Amy Porter, invited her to a dinner party. Amy was dating a wealthy young man named John whom she hoped to marry, and she wanted to introduce Aline to John’s brother Frank, who was coming to town. Frank was in his midthirties, Amy said, and he was flying in from somewhere overseas.
Overseas. Perhaps he’d have firsthand knowledge about the war, Aline thought.
The dinner was at John’s apartment in Manhattan, and along with Frank, Amy, and Aline, two of John’s colleagues from Standard Oil had been invited. The oilmen sat to Aline’s left, Frank to her right. His suit was immaculate and looked hand-tailored, suggesting Wall Street or Madison Avenue. He had light blue eyes, a square, intelligent-looking face, and thin lips. His neck and jaw were thick like a wrestler’s, but he had an easy smile. He was handsome, she reckoned, in a college professor sort of way.
As the night wore on the men bantered endlessly about the war, going back and forth about Patton and Rommel, Hitler and Roosevelt. Aline noticed that Frank was polite but a bit aloof, as if preoccupied with more important matters. He also didn’t seem to express any romantic interest in her, which was something of a relief.
When the conversation lulled, Frank turned to her, smiling.
“Are you planning to become a famous model?”
The question caught Aline off guard, but she realized that John must have told Frank that she worked for Hattie Carnegie.
Aline smirked. “Not if I can help it.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“I want to get into the war—overseas.”
Frank suggested that she could become a nurse, but Aline brushed it off, saying that training to become a nurse would take years. She wanted to get into the war now, she said, and in Europe where the real fighting was.
“Now, why on earth would an attractive girl like you, safe and sound here in New York, want to go abroad to become embroiled in a bloody massacre? Someplace where your life could be in danger?”
Aline shrugged. “I love adventure. I like taking risks. All the men I know are eager to get over there. Why should it seem strange that a woman wants to also?”
Frank ignored the rhetorical question and probed about Aline’s romantic life. Did she have someone she was in love with? Was she about to get married?
The inquiries were a little personal, Aline thought, but she answered that no, she wasn’t in love—not that it should make any difference about what she could or could not do for her country.
“Do you know any foreign languages?”
Aline replied that she had majored in French and minored in Spanish.
Frank flashed his easy smile. “Well, Miss Griffith, if you’re really serious about a job overseas, there’s a slight possibility I can help. If you should happen to hear from a Mr. Tomlinson, you’ll know what it’s about.”
Aline returned the smile with a glimmer of hope, but at the same time she didn’t expect much. Frank hadn’t said who Mr. Tomlinson was, or even taken her number, so how serious could he be?
At the very least, though, she felt she’d made a new friend in Frank Ryan.
* * *
About two weeks later Aline’s father mentioned that their bank had received an inquiry of some sort about them. Her mother thought it probably had to do with their boys now that they were in the service, but her dad worried the investigation might be connected to business.
But when they heard nothing more about it, it slipped from their minds. Then, on the last day of September, Aline received a long-distance call.
“This is Mr. Tomlinson,” the man said in a deep voice. “Can you be free for a few minutes tomorrow?”
Aline said she could.
“Then please be in the Biltmore Hotel lobby, at six o’clock. A man with a white carnation in his lapel will be looking for you. Don’t mention this meeting to anyone.”
At the appointed hour Aline was at the hotel. Soldiers in crisp uniforms were buzzing in and out, a few at the bar having their last drinks before shipping out. After several minutes a distinguished silver-haired man in an expensive suit—duly adorned with a white carnation—greeted her without mentioning his name. He motioned to a quiet alcove where they could talk.
He said he worked for the War Department, and that they might have some work that could interest her. He couldn’t tell her exactly what the work would entail, though, until she had passed some tests. He had a calm, soothing demeanor that put Aline at ease, and he seemed to take it for granted that Aline would be interested.
“Would I work overseas?”
The man nodded. “If you succeed in the tests, yes. Can you come to Washington within ten days? It will mean taking leave from your job. You may never go back, if all goes well.”
Aline said she could.
He thumbed through a date book and told her she’d need to arrive in Washington on November 1. Handing her a card with a phone number and address to give to her parents, he explained that she would not be at that location, but that calls and messages would be forwarded to her.
“Tell your family you’re being interviewed by the War Department for a job. Bring a suitcase of clothes suitable for the country. Remove all labels. Carry nothing with your initials, nor papers or letters with your name. No one must be able to identify anything about you.”
He gave her a second card with a different address and told her this was where she was to arrive, no later than noon. “Go directly to the Q Bu
ilding. Give a false name and home address to the receptionist.”
With that he bid her good luck and was gone.
CHAPTER 2 THE FARM
August 17, 1943
Mexico City
Edmundo Lassalle mailed his résumé to Dr. James Hamilton, still mystified over exactly what the Office of Strategic Services did. From his conversation with Hamilton the day before, he understood the position would entail work abroad—perhaps in Latin America or Spain—and Lassalle felt sure his credentials were as good as anyone’s.
Born in San Cristóbal, Mexico, in 1914, Edmundo had graduated from the National University of Mexico in 1934—after only two years—at the age of twenty. In addition to his native Spanish, he could read and speak French and Italian, and read Portuguese. So that he might add English to the list, he enrolled at Columbia University in the fall of 1935, but soon thereafter he was offered a scholarship and a part-time teaching position at the University of California. He excelled at Berkeley, graduating Phi Beta Kappa in 1938. Following his path toward a career in academia, he remained at Cal to pursue a doctorate in history.
That path was interrupted in 1940, however, when he was offered a job in Washington at the Pan American Union (forerunner of the Organization of American States, or OAS). He wasn’t a US citizen at the time, but the position was open to citizens of Union member countries, which included Mexico, and he was appointed special assistant to the Division of Intellectual Cooperation. The job was something of an academic-diplomatic hybrid, and within his first year he published two white papers: “Higher Education in Argentina” and “The Araucanians.”
His work did not go unnoticed. In the fall of 1941 he was offered a position with the Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs (later to become the Office for Inter-American Affairs, or OIAA). Few had heard of the organization, which was loosely affiliated with the US State Department, but the young man running it was Nelson Rockefeller, grandson of Standard Oil founder John D. Rockefeller.
The agency’s principal function was to distribute news, films, advertising, and radio broadcasts in Latin America to counter German propaganda, and Edmundo’s job—commencing January 19, 1942—was to advise on implementation regarding Mexico. Since the OIAA had set up a special division for producing radio and motion pictures propaganda, Edmundo consulted often with the main contractor, the Walt Disney Company.I
In March, Edmundo gained US citizenship, and in April he received a promotion and a raise. In spite of the terrific work and high-profile contacts, though, he chafed at what he felt was Rockefeller’s top-down, Aristotelian management, believing that the director paid little attention to the counsel of the organization’s Latino staffers. After a year Edmundo had had enough and began looking for other employment.
Edmundo’s conversation with Dr. Hamilton on August 16 suggested that the position with the Office of Strategic Services had real promise. In his cover letter accompanying his résumé, Edmundo highlighted his credentials:
My [OIAA] office has been mainly devoted to research, the appraisal and preparation of propaganda material and the handling of confidential projects concerning Latin America…. I believe I can satisfactorily perform any assignment which your office may require in any place where Spanish is important; however, I have knowledge of Italian, French and Portuguese.
The references he gave were impressive: Dr. Enrique de Lozado, his OIAA supervisor, and one Henry A. Wallace, vice president of the United States.
For more than a month Edmundo heard nothing. Then in October, while in Hollywood for business, he was summoned back to Washington for an urgent meeting. It wasn’t the OIAA calling, though; he was supposed to meet with someone from Dr. Hamilton’s office.
Someone named Frank Ryan.
November 1, 1943
Washington, DC
When Aline arrived at the Q Building, 2430 E Street, she was not impressed. Unlike most of Washington’s grand structures, the building was single-story and appeared prefabricated. It seemed a most unlikely place from which to launch a top-secret mission.
As she’d been instructed, she gave a false name and the receptionist escorted her to the office where she was to be interviewed. The walls were bare and gray, like a hospital, and from what she could tell the filing cabinets were built into some kind of safe. Military security, perhaps. The man behind the desk, though, gave her a start; sitting there like a seasoned bureaucrat was none other than Frank Ryan, her old dinner date.
Ryan greeted her warmly and asked her to have a seat.
“Your first trip to Washington, isn’t it?”
Aline could feel her heart thumping as she nodded. “Almost the farthest I’ve ever been from home.”
“There is nothing I can tell you today about your work,” Ryan said, folding his hands. “The most I can do is to warn you to be very careful never to say anything about yourself. You are going to be tested in many ways to see how you adapt to new situations. From now on no one can know anything about you, whether you are American or European, whether you have lived in one country or another. Your success depends entirely on yourself and your ability to learn and to preserve secrecy.”
Ryan’s voice was low and calm, and with the same deadly seriousness as the man at the Biltmore. “From this minute on,” he added, “you may be followed. And where you will be living, your colleagues may go through your belongings searching for clues to your identity.”
He handed her a small slip of yellow paper. “Here are your instructions. Remember—you may be followed every moment from now on.”
Aline glanced at the paper, which revealed an address somewhere in Maryland, outside of Washington, DC. Ryan told her to go to the Hay Adams Hotel and wait at the main entrance for a black Chevrolet sedan—license number TX16248. She was then to ask, “Is this Mr. Tom’s car?”
Ryan stood and showed her to the door. “Destroy it afterward,” he said, motioning to the paper. “It’s a luxury for beginners.”
Suitcase in hand, Aline hustled out of the building and then it dawned on her: she had no idea where the Hay Adams Hotel was. Remembering Ryan’s warning about being followed, she strolled three blocks, went into a store, called the hotel for directions, and hailed a taxi.
Minutes later the car turned into the circular drive leading to the hotel’s portico. The Hay Adams looked just like a government building—a hulking cube built out of the city’s ubiquitous gray granite blocks—and was a hive of activity. Bellmen and porters were scurrying about loading and unloading guests’ luggage.
Aline got out and scanned the driveway for the black Chevrolet. A bellboy suddenly appeared at her side and tried to take her suitcase. She jerked it back, unsure of what to tell him. She had never stayed at a hotel before and wasn’t sure of the protocol. Did bellboys automatically take everyone’s luggage?
Brushing him aside, she again searched for the car and found it. As she checked the tag—it was the right one—two men jumped in and the chauffeur started the motor.
“Stop! Stop!” Aline yelled. “I’m supposed to go with you.”
“What’s your name?”
Aline started to answer but caught herself. “Is this Mr. Tom’s car?”
With that the driver took her bag, put it in the trunk and they were off.
The men sitting next to her—a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a younger man by the door whose face she couldn’t see—didn’t say a word, and Aline figured it was best not to greet them or engage in small talk. The car headed east out of the city and after some time she checked her watch. They had been driving for forty minutes and were now on a two-lane country road surrounded by woods. Fleeting thoughts of being kidnapped came and went, but she reminded herself that Frank Ryan was legit, whatever he was up to.
From her seat in the back, Aline noticed that the driver constantly checked the rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed.
Some twenty miles south of the capitol they arrived at their des
tination: Lothian Farm. A 100-acre campus near Clinton, Maryland, it served as an OSS training facility and was officially known as RTU-11. Unofficially, it was just called The Farm.
Aline peered out at a large white house set atop a hill. It was surrounded by woods, and the red, yellow, and brown foliage made the entire estate look like something out of Town & Country. A chorus of chirping birds greeted them and she sighed at the tranquil setting, until another noise caught her attention. She cocked her head.
Was that gunfire?
The driver pulled up to the entrance and an army officer met them at the door.
“I’m Captain Williams,” he said. “Welcome to The Farm.”
As the captain greeted their party, Aline finally got a look at the man who had been blocked from her view in the car. He was simply the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was athletic-looking with thick black hair, skin darkened by the sun, and brooding brown eyes.
Captain Williams seemed to know him, addressing him as “Pierre.”
It was a name she’d not soon forget.
After the introductions—aliases, Aline presumed—they were led inside. The farmhouse, while spacious, was no country club. Suspended from the ceiling were models of German warplanes and tanks, and along the walls and in every corner were life-size dummies of German, Italian, and Japanese soldiers of various ranks. This was a war college, it seemed, and she wondered if she’d be tested on enemy equipment and uniforms.
Models of German soldiers used at The Farm. NARA
Dinner was at six, Williams informed them, and there would be a meeting for new recruits in the library afterward. Turning to a sergeant, he said, “Why don’t you take this young lady’s suitcase and show her to her room.”