by Larry Loftis
OSS Madrid maintained detailed records on every chain, and summary biographies of every agent, often with grades of performance. Typical entries, by code name, included:
From the AKAK chain:
Brutus - operating out of Marseille. Graded “B.” The best AKAK agent and may be the best agent we have in France in all our chains. He has a number of sub-agents.
From the HIHI chain:
Vichy-2 (BIBI) - operating out of Vichy. This lady is well-placed. Silky told me (706) that if this woman had a microfilm outfit she could send us a number of official documents. A relative is pro-German and editor of “Le-Matin”, knows Abetz and many other Germans. Can go to Paris easily and even live there if necessary. Since Feb. 1943 has been working as courier on the Truck Route.
From the ZUZU chain:
Mr. Boua - (in fact a woman) Perpignan letter drop.
Gomez - Spaniard, very high official of the Seguridad…. Furnishes all the CE work on foreigners having gone through Barcelona…. He has two agents working for him, tailing people, questioning them, etc.
Robert Guy – One of the two chiefs in France. Lives in Paris, recruits the agents, can come to Spain legally. Deals in contraband.
Page one of the agents in the AKAK chain. NARA
The work was highly dangerous, though, as participation on either side of the border was considered a capital offense. In an OSS summary report about the “Truck Route” chain, risk was mentioned as a matter of course: “The chain was partly blown at the end of 1943, some of the members having been jailed or shot and new ones picked up.” Another report, sent to ELTON at the Barcelona station, stated: “Although arrests and executions of a number of agents in France within the past month have adversely affected certain of our French Chain operations, I am pleased to report that our activities in this field are expanding rapidly.”
Madrid was the information-collecting station and the hub that facilitated passage through Spain. It wasn’t enough that an escapee crossed the border; landing in Spain without a Spanish passport and cover meant imprisonment for downed Allied pilots and arrest and possible execution for agents in the Resistance. But if a pilot or agent could make it across the Pyrenees and reach Madrid, the OSS would sneak them to Gibraltar, and from there they would fly to London.
All legs of the journey were perilous, the Pyrenees crossing in particular. Since Germans guarded the French side of the border and Civil Guards the Spanish side, it took a local guide to escort escapees through arduous mountain terrain at night. If caught, all stood to be imprisoned or shot. As such, guides had to be paid and safe houses were scheduled on each side. In many instances an Allied agent might have to wait several days or even a week before a guide could take them.
The experience of Captain Peter Churchill, a British SOE agent who made the journey in 1942, was typical of what agents went through. At a café in Perpignan, some twenty miles north of the Spanish border, he placed a torn postcard on the table. A moment later a young man in his late twenties came over from the bar.
“My name is Pasolé.”
The guide.
“A taxi will take us the first kilometers,” he said, “then a short walk brings us to the frontier, where we shall spend the night in a barn belonging to a friend of mine. We’ll rest there throughout the following day and complete the trip on the next night.”
Pasolé’s fee was 12,000 francs.
The following evening they met at half past six. Peter had his things in a small hunting bag and noticed that Pasolé had a huge pack that Peter estimated to weigh over fifty pounds.
“Radio parts,” the guide said.
Peter asked about Pasolé’s family and he said he had a wife and two young girls.
“Where are they now?”
“In hiding.”
Peter nodded. Life in the French Resistance.
Pasolé said the road would be clear of any controls until eight, by which time they’d be at the frontier. He knew this, he said, because one of his teammates on the Perpignan football team was a gendarme who would warn him of a patrol.
After a short drive the taxi dropped them off on a deserted country lane. It was pitch-dark so Pasolé tied a white handkerchief to his rucksack so Peter could keep sight of him. And off they went, through fields, hedges, streams, and underbrush. They passed through a small village, crossed another stream, and began their ascent into the mountains. The area was filled with cactus bushes, and even more annoyingly, there was no path.
They got lost.
Pasolé remained undeterred, though, and they trudged around in circles until he regained his bearings. They began climbing mountain peaks, some which seemed to be vertical, only to discover that the route was impassable. Peter began to worry since even a direct route to where they had to walk—Bañolas, on the other side of the Pyrenees—was forty miles. And they weren’t traveling anything like a direct route.
After another two hours of steady climbing they reached a tiny village.
“You must keep very quiet going through here,” Pasolé whispered, “because of the dogs.”
They crept between the houses, silently Peter thought, but apparently not. A dog started barking, then another, and soon there was a canine chorus. Lights snapped on and Pasolé blurted, “Come on!”
They sprinted through the black night into a cluster of trees, and Pasolé jumped into a stream. They splashed onward about three hundred yards but one of the village dogs was still onto them, chasing and barking from the right bank. Pasolé motioned toward a ridge and they kept moving. Suddenly the dog plunged into the water and began closing. The men reached the ridge and clambered out just as the dog arrived. As it tried to come out, Pasolé gave it a swift kick and the animal retreated.
Unfortunately, the rest of the pack were still coming, yelping and barking. Pasolé and Peter bolted for another group of trees and raced through, losing their canine pursuers.
They came to a road, and Pasolé said they would walk with an interval of two hundred yards between them. “If I walk into a trap,” he said, “I shall talk loudly enough to warn you to get into the bushes. Should that happen, wait for an hour to allow me time to give anyone the slip and return. If I don’t come back, walk straight on to within three hundred yards of the Customs barrier at the top. Turn right up a steep hill, keeping the French and Spanish Customs sheds in view.”
About forty minutes later Pasolé pulled up and they took a break. He asked Peter what he had been doing in the war, and Peter lied, telling him he was a downed bomber pilot.
Pasolé said he had taken well over twenty RAF pilots across and Peter nodded, quickly changing the subject.
They took off again up a mountainside, and about an hour later Peter figured they had ascended about a thousand feet. After another hour, they reached the barn safe house and slipped in for the remainder of the night. At nine the next morning a farmer appeared with plates of eggs and coffee. They remained where they were until nightfall and then they set out again. The farmer’s son led them some eight hundred yards—to the peak of the Pyrenees—where he said goodbye.
In the distance they could see the lights of Figueras, but Pasolé said the village was too dangerous, that many Allied pilots had been caught and imprisoned there. They’d circle around it, he said, and head to his family’s farm just outside of Bañolas, some eight miles or so farther south.
“We shall walk all through the night,” he explained. “There will be one stop of a quarter of an hour for a short meal and a smoke.” The going would be up and down, he said, and he warned Peter to be careful about steps so as not to sprain an ankle.
For two hours they moved at a brisk pace, scrambling down steep slopes. Pasolé then disappeared over a ledge and Peter heard what sounded like a landslide. He stood where he was and waited. A moment later he heard the guide’s voice, some twenty feet below.
“Don’t follow me.”
Peter circled around the cliff and met Pasolé at the bottom. Fortunately, the gu
ide was uninjured and they carried on until 1:30 a.m., when they had their meal and a cigarette. Minutes later they were back on their feet.
Around 4:00 a.m. they ended up in a maze of terraced vineyards and had to climb over countless walls to get out. They marched on for five straight hours until they reached Pasolé’s family’s farm, where they were treated to an enormous breakfast. The Civil Guards were expected, however, so they slipped out and hid in a silo until dusk, when they returned for a night in a bed.
In the morning Peter paid Pasolé and they said their farewells. An escape-chain driver took Peter to his home in Bañolas, a safe house. Peter had him deliver a note to the British consul in Barcelona that Monday, and the same afternoon the diplomat arrived to collect him. After a night in the embassy, they were off the next morning for the 400-mile drive to Madrid.
This was the ordeal the two Resistance women in Aline’s salon had just endured, and without the aid of a British or American embassy.
Larry Mellon coordinated the Spanish side of the border for OSS escapees, and Aline’s apartment was one of the few Madrid safe houses for women. Twice during the prior month she had harbored women passing through, and in both instances they had brought valuable intelligence—maps showing coastal fortifications and roadblocks, and locations of German troops—all critical for Operation Dragoon,I the planned Allied invasion of southern France.
Unsurprisingly, the women in Aline’s salon looked like they had been through a battle. One had a bandaged hand, and they both looked and smelled as if they hadn’t showered in weeks. Aline welcomed them and the one with the bandaged hand said, “I am Marta. Madeleine, my companion, does not speak Spanish, but she is the one who obtained this information.” Marta produced a small packet from her coat pocket. “I guided her across the Pyrenees and on to Madrid. Since we have no identity cards we will have to wait here for a ride back to the frontier. We dare not use the trains or buses. The fish truck that brought us will make another trip back next Monday. Will the señorita allow us to stay until then?”
Aline said that would be fine and motioned to Marta’s hand. “Do you want us to get you a doctor?”
Marta shook her head. “We don’t want to be seen. We won’t go out of the house, and we need a rest. The climb across the mountains was strenuous and dangerous. We have to move like foxes. This will be my last trip. I’ve already killed two fascist Civil Guards, and if they catch me, I’ll be shot without trial.”
Aline nodded and looked in their eyes. These women were fearless.
She told them she’d be away for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Her apartment was theirs.
A few hours later, leaving the two exhausted, bedraggled women asleep in her apartment, Aline was off to Toledo. She had been invited to a weekend getaway by Casilda, whose father was hosting an extravagant gala. It was a trip she had been looking forward to, given the city’s historic significance.
Few places showcased Spain’s past, from Roman ruins to medieval castles and cathedrals, better than Toledo. Situated atop a hill surrounded on three sides by the Tagus River, it had been a center for sword production since 500 BC. Hannibal, in fact, had equipped his Carthaginian troops with its falcatas during the Second Punic War.II
Toledo eventually came under control of the Romans, who built the city wall, the Puente de Alcántara—the arched bridge across the Tagus—the Cave of Hercules, and the city’s baths and wells. Through the centuries it continued to gain commercial and cultural importance. One landmark, the Primate Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo, begun in 1226 and completed in 1493, became recognized as the pinnacle of high Gothic architecture. Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain during the sixteenth century, moved his court to Toledo and made it Spain’s capital city.
It was also here where El Greco lived and painted,III and where Miguel de Cervantes set Don Quioxte, a work considered to be history’s first novel.
Aline’s OSS car—driven by one of the agency’s chauffeurs—arrived in Toledo while the sun was still bright. The crenellated city walls loomed over them as they bounced along a cobblestone road and passed under a massive stone arch, at which point the terrain began to incline. At the Plaza de Zocodover a policeman stopped them, saying that the roads were closed for the festivities that evening. From here, he said, they’d have to walk.
The driver grabbed Aline’s bags and they continued on up the steep climb. As they walked they passed in front of a succession of grand palaces, and she noticed that each had a different family crest carved into the façade. A moment later they were at the Count of Avila’s palace. They entered into a patio area and Aline saw Casilda, her hostess, waiting at the bottom of a wide stone staircase.
“What do you think?” Casilda asked. “You are going to meet General Franco. Papa has invited him here to see the procession tonight.”
“I thought you aristocrats were monarchists and didn’t like Franco.”
Aline had touched on a sensitive and complicated subject. The monarchists were without a political party during Spain’s Civil War. As Catholics, they vehemently opposed the communist-led republicans, whom they believed would have abolished the Church and instituted state atheism. Franco’s nationalist coalition of Catholics and the military, however, also had no intention of restoring the monarchy. Monarchists, then, had little choice but to support Franco, whom they saw as the lesser of two evils.
“That’s more or less true. But when the chief of state makes an official visit to Toledo, he comes to this house, because the kings did also whenever they came to the city.”
Casilda introduced Aline to her sisters and they joined a small party for tea, and then all went upstairs to don mantillas for the Franco reception. When they had finished draping and pinning, they heard a commotion in the street and rushed to the balcony.
Three Mercedes-Benz limousines were directly below them and a moment later the Generalissimo appeared. As Franco moved along the greeting line, Aline was intrigued by his appearance. While he wore a red beret and a white military jacket adorned with medals, there was nothing particularly striking or intimidating about him. He was short and plump and had a pleasant expression. Without the military jacket, he could have been a bellman at any hotel.
Aline also noticed that few officers accompanied him and he didn’t appear to have any bodyguards. As the party moved inside, she thought about the risk Franco was taking. Throngs of people moved in and out of the house, but there were no incidents.
As she and Casilda watched from the balcony, they could see a procession coming toward them. There were lots of candles, hooded figures in black robes, and then a float with even more candles surrounding a statue. As the illuminated float came closer, Aline noticed that it was not supported by a car, but rested on the shoulders of about twenty men. A woman began singing and when she finished, the men tilted the float toward her—as if the statue were bowing in recognition of the performance—and then tilted it toward the balcony.
Aline wondered why it would bow to the balcony, and then she noticed that behind her was none other than the Generalissimo. She tried to move out of his way but he stopped her.
“I have seen this procession all my life, señorita. You probably have not.”
Aline was surprised by Franco’s high-pitched voice. “Oh, Your Excellency, I did not know you were there. I would have moved.”
Franco smiled. “And I did not know an American girl was hiding under that mantilla.”
He was friendly and unassuming and she wanted to talk more, but an aide informed the general that it was time to change balconies.
“Sorry,” Franco said. “I would have enjoyed explaining the ceremony to an American.”
* * *
Aline arrived back in Madrid before dawn on Monday. Everyone was asleep so she opened her bedroom door quietly and set down her bags. As she expected, someone was in her bed and she started to leave when she heard a shutter rocking in the breeze. So as not to awaken Marta or Madeleine
, she began tiptoeing across the room to close it.
About halfway she glanced over and froze.
The pillow and sheet were drenched in blood.
I. Previously called Operation Anvil.
II. The falcata is a curved sword common in pre-Roman Iberia.
III. El Greco’s View of Toledo is considered his second greatest masterpiece (after The Burial of the Count of Orgaz), and its depiction of sky—with van Gogh’s The Starry Night—remains one of the most famous in Western art.
CHAPTER 11 THE BODY
Aline trembled.
She inched forward, pulse pounding, fearing the worst. The long black hair was matted and there was a blood streak across the cheek. It was Marta.
She had been shot in the head.
Aline stood there, unable to move, staring at the dead body. Someone had come in through the balcony apparently, but who had known Marta was here? Had the women been followed, the assassin watching and lying in wait? And how could a shot be fired without waking Madeleine, Angustias, or Cecilia?
Unless the pistol had a silencer. Which a snatch or hit team would use.
Then it dawned on her. Marta had been killed in her bed. So who was the real target?
She eased the phone off the hook and with a shaking finger dialed Gregory Thomas. She uttered the emergency password and Thomas said, “Do nothing until I arrive.”
Aline couldn’t bear to stay in the room and went out, closing the door behind her. In the kitchen, Cecilia—the maid who did most of the cooking—was lighting the stove to prepare breakfast.
“Señorita, you look so, so—pale. Is something the matter?”
“No. Please don’t disturb the woman in my room.”
Aline tried to regain her composure and went down the hall to check the room where Madeleine, the other Basque woman, was staying. She was fine, sleeping soundly.
Thomas arrived minutes later and Aline whispered quickly.