After each day’s lesson, Lieutenant Boyd marched off the range muttering about women no longer knowing their place. Eloise flushed with humiliation and embarrassment each time. She longed to make a snappy comeback, but her mind always went blank. She hardly slept at night as her mind replayed her failure at the range. Mr. Whitmer might rethink his offer when he discovered she could barely hit the edge of a target. Though why in the world did she need to be a skilled marksman to talk to women about their doll collections?
The following week, a different firearms instructor appeared at the range. He introduced himself as Sergeant Prescott, but he didn’t explain why he’d taken Lieutenant Boyd’s place. Eloise didn’t care enough to ask. Though the sergeant exuded no-nonsense gruffness, he also had the patience of Job.
First, he reviewed the basics of gun safety, a lesson Lieutenant Boyd had glossed over. Then Sergeant Prescott suggested she try a lighter weapon, a Colt semiautomatic. With his guidance and support, Eloise overcame her nerves and consistently shot within the target’s boundaries. By the time her training was nearing an end, she was even handling the Smith and Wesson monster with more ease.
Her training regimen also included physical fitness. After she left the range, she joined other female students in calisthenics, navigating an obstacle course, and self-defense tactics. A few of the women excelled at the training while Eloise struggled to go over a high wall with only the aid of a dangling rope. Her final score was acceptable but not stellar. Muscles she didn’t even know she had ached from the unaccustomed strain. Obviously, she’d been sitting behind a desk for too many hours for too many days.
Brain, beauty, or brawn.
She knew which category she fit in, and she had no desire to exchange her intellect for either of the other two no matter the inducement. Phillip, on the other hand, definitely claimed brain and brawn. According to his dossier—at least the areas that hadn’t been blacked out—he was intelligent and intuitive. His superiors wrote glowing reports about his achievements. Though the specifics of any particular mission were also redacted, it was clear he was a valued asset to any team.
His physical training reports indicated respectable scores and race times. Certainly much better than any of hers. But he’d had the benefit of playing football both in high school and college. A quarterback. Just like Allan.
Phillip might beat her in a foot race and on the firing range, but at least she could take dictation for five letters and type them up while he was still looking for a steno pad and pencil. Small satisfaction since he probably had access to a secretary who did that job for him.
Though what did any of it matter? The likelihood that she and Phillip would be jumping hurdles or running races was slim to none. Phillip didn’t need to know how to take dictation to do his job, and Eloise didn’t need to know how to climb a wall to travel around the country and talk to people.
During her days of training, she never saw Phillip. But Richard Whitmer sometimes appeared at the range or at the edge of the field where they exercised. He didn’t attempt to speak to Eloise, but if their eyes happened to meet, he’d tip his hat in her direction. He always stood too far away for her to say anything to him unless she shouted. She sensed he would consider her yelling at him as unseemly, so she simply returned his hat tip with a wave or a nod. Then she did her best to ignore him and focus on the task at hand.
She was imperfectly suited for long marches in the mud and the intricacies of tradecraft. After the training ended, he’d probably send her back to the cryptography unit. Because of the emphasis on “loose lips sink ships” no one would ask her where she’d been or what she’d been doing, so she wouldn’t have to confess her failure.
But she’d have to live with it. As she struggled one more time to get over the obstacle wall, she imagined the expression on Phillip’s face when his uncle sent her packing. Smug. Arrogant. Good riddance.
With renewed motivation, she clung to the top of the wall with her fingertips and gripped the rope as she pulled herself upward. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. After flinging one leg over the wall, she straddled it a moment to catch her breath. She could do this. Another deep breath and she slid downward, landed with knees bent, and raced for the finish line.
“You did it,” the timekeeper shouted. “With seven seconds to spare.”
Take that, FBI Agent Phillip Clayton.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Phillip paced the small room on the fifth floor of the Department of Justice building where he’d been instructed to wait until it was his turn to testify before the closed-door military tribunal presided over by seven generals. Over the past couple of weeks, Phillip had been too preoccupied with Operation Pastorius to think too much about his next assignment. Or maybe he was focusing so much on his current mission because he dreaded even thinking about the next one.
A mission so obscure and unimportant it hadn’t even been granted a name. He’d jokingly suggested Operation: China Doll, but Richard hadn’t been amused. In his stuffy way, he replied that FBI investigations didn’t always require operational names. He’d also explained why he chose Phillip to accompany Eloise on the interviews. The motive boiled down to nothing more than simple pragmatism.
Richard knew, as Phillip did, that the public praise being heaped on the FBI for their capture of the German saboteurs before they’d carried out even one destructive act was due to J. Edgar Hoover’s uncanny ability to spin the truth. The men who’d traveled in U-boats from Germany—four to Long Island and four to Florida—had not been captured because of the Bureau’s amazing investigative abilities but because one of the Germans had turned on the others—a little-known fact that Hoover kept out of the press releases.
The one thing worse than German saboteurs on American soil was an American traitor.
If one of Uncle Sam’s own was betraying the country, the Bureau needed to find the who, what, and why as quickly and quietly as possible. Richard was adamant that someone like Eloise, with her wholesome, girl-next-door demeanor, was the perfect choice to interview other women.
But a trained agent needed to accompany her on the interviews…and that’s where Richard’s pragmatism came in. As he explained to Phillip, he couldn’t send a married agent with Eloise. That could cause unnecessary marital problems. Richard needed an unmarried agent he could trust to act professionally at all times, no matter what circumstances the couple found themselves in.
He needed Phillip.
A knock sounded at the door, and Phillip refocused his thoughts as he buttoned his suit jacket. A military officer led him to Assembly Hall #1, the large room where the tribunal was taking place. Once he was sworn in, he told his story as succinctly and clearly as he could.
He’d been one of the agents who interrogated George Dasch while a stenographer wrote down the German’s story. They were in Dasch’s DC hotel room, where he’d given them over $82,000 in cash meant to finance the destruction of such important targets as the aluminum plants in Tennessee and vital railway lines throughout the country.
Dasch had betrayed his own team, the men who’d landed on Long Island’s shoreline. Then he used contact information written on a white handkerchief in invisible ink to help the FBI agents find the team who had come ashore on a Florida beach near Jacksonville.
Each one of the potential saboteurs had been recruited by the Abwehr, Germany’s intelligence service, because they had lived in the United States for several years before returning to Germany. Two of them were US citizens. If Dasch hadn’t ratted them out, who knew how much havoc they could have created?
And for what?
Phillip understood patriotism and love of country, but he would never understand the motivations of these men who knew firsthand the differences between living in the United States and living in Germany. Did it mean nothing to them that their so-called Führer planned to take over the world? Or was that part of the appeal?
Nah! Their motives had nothing to do with patriotism. Good old-fashioned g
reed had driven them to undertake their ill-fated mission. They’d been promised exemption from military service and high-paying jobs when they returned to Germany.
The mere thought of the chaos the men could have caused had sickened Phillip when Dasch first confessed the plot, and it sickened him now.
After he was dismissed from the stand, Phillip left the building. At least his part in this chapter of the war had come to an end except for a brief epilogue when the tribunal announced their verdict.
As soon as Eloise finished her classes, they’d be on their way to Ohio. A pretend brother and sister making the long journey by train to talk to a woman about a letter she apparently hadn’t written about a bunch of dolls.
Not the reason he’d joined the FBI. Not the reason he wanted to delay his plan B for military service. But he’d promised his uncle he’d do this one last mission before signing up, and his uncle had promised to use his influence to expedite the process.
The tribunal’s verdict was announced a few days later. All eight saboteurs were declared guilty. All eight were sentenced to death.
It was the verdict Phillip had hoped for, but he found he couldn’t join the others in the assembly hall who celebrated the news. He forced a smile as he shook hands with the legal team and other agents. But all he wanted was to get out of there, to forget about German saboteurs and potential infrastructure disasters. To forget that he was stuck here in Washington, DC, when his buddies were battling the enemy where it counted—in Europe and in Asia.
If he were a drinking man, he’d find the nearest bar, park himself on a stool, and stay there until the alcohol pickled his brain. A jog through the streets of DC would have to suffice, except he wasn’t sure he could garner the energy for that, either.
He headed for the exit and found Richard waiting for him outside the corridor.
“Did you hear?” he asked.
“I heard.” Richard walked toward the elevator, and Phillip matched his stride. “I have it on good authority that Roosevelt will commute Dasch’s sentence to a prison term.”
“A reward for turning himself in?”
“Precisely.”
“What about Berger?”
When they’d arrived in New York and separated themselves from the other two members of their team, Dasch had told Ernest Peter Berger, who’d been a member of the US National Guard before returning to Germany, of his intentions. Berger didn’t accompany Dasch to FBI headquarters, but neither did he try to stop him. Maybe because Dasch threatened to throw him out of a hotel window if he did.
“His sentence will also be commuted.” Richard’s tone was grim. “Execution for the others will come quickly.”
That meant the electric chair. Phillip involuntarily shuddered. They deserved the punishment, a risk they’d accepted when they got in the U-boats that brought them to America’s shores. But had Germany sent other unknown saboteurs, ones who hadn’t been caught, who were biding their time? Were there other traitors they didn’t know about?
“Has Eloise deciphered those letters?” Phillip asked once they were alone in the elevator. “Or are they what they appear to be?”
“She has an idea or two.” Richard’s expression lightened, as if he were pleased Phillip had asked about Eloise. “I thought we’d have a working session this evening at my home. Would you mind fetching her?”
Phillip wasn’t sure he wanted to see Eloise right now. Or more precisely, that he wanted her to see him. Not in his current mood anyway. But his uncle’s invitation wasn’t exactly a request. More like a polite order. He had little choice. “Better than going on a bender, I suppose.”
Richard’s eyebrows arched. “A bender? You?”
“Just a passing fancy.”
“It’s a hard thing,” Richard said. “Knowing your actions, your testimony, contributed to men—men created in the image of God—being executed for their actions.” He held up a finger. “But that’s the key, you see. They chose destruction. And now destruction is coming for them.”
The elevator jolted as it reached the ground floor. When the doors slid open, Phillip accompanied his uncle to the exit. He appreciated Richard’s efforts to place the blame where it belonged. Yet Phillip couldn’t help wondering what he would have done in Dasch’s shoes.
Would he have allowed himself to be recruited for such a mission? Would he have betrayed his countrymen to protect his adopted country?
But for the grace of God…
CHAPTER EIGHT
As mentally and physically tired as Eloise was after her long days, she spent her evenings studying the two letters and researching possible solutions to phrases she suspected to be in code. That Saturday evening, a couple of women in her self-defense class invited her to go to dinner with them, but she declined. Since most of the dozen or so young women, whose presence at the marine base was a mystery, would have plans to go out on the town, Eloise could take advantage of the rare opportunity for a long soak in a hot bath.
But when she arrived at the dormitory, she found a message waiting for her from Richard Whitmer. His request for a debriefing couldn’t be refused. She took a quick bath, pulled her hair into a neat chignon, and donned a pretty floral sundress. Anything else would be too hot. Before leaving the room, she tucked her notes into her handbag.
To her surprise, she found Phillip waiting for her in the dormitory lobby. She noticed him before he noticed her. He leaned against a pillar, his attention focused on one of the windows. Though his shoulders slouched, he didn’t appear relaxed. Only weary. Nothing at all like the overly confident agent she’d met several days before. Perhaps the matter he had to attend to while she was in training hadn’t gone well. Eloise supposed she’d never know. Seemed like everyone had their secrets these days.
Loose lips sink ships was more than a slogan on a poster. Decoded messages often delivered the tragic news of another ship lost to U-boats as it tried to deliver needed supplies to England.
As if he sensed her presence, he turned her way. His shoulders straightened as a welcoming smile brightened his expression. The transformation from carrying the weight of the world and not having a care in the world was seamless.
“My uncle sent me to fetch you,” he said lightly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Eloise matched his tone. “I suppose we need to get used to traveling together.”
“It’s too bad we can’t drive to Ohio and beyond. Then we could set our own schedule instead of following the dictates of bus and train timetables.” He offered his arm, and Eloise took it as they walked toward the door.
“I imagine traveling by car would be more comfortable,” she said. “I took a bus when I moved here. It wasn’t at all relaxing with so many stops and starts. And it was scorching hot even with the windows down.”
“Did you ever consider turning back?”
“Not even once.” Though she hadn’t been sure what waited for her when she arrived in the capital, she knew without a doubt she was needed here. She had picked up her brother’s fallen mantle, and she was determined to do everything in her power to bring this war to an end as quickly as possible. Only a swift victory would protect others from experiencing the same grief she had known.
Phillip chuckled as if at a joke known only to him. “Spunk. It should be your middle name.”
“Maybe it is.”
“I’ve read your file, remember?” He leaned close and whispered, “Eloise May. Very pretty.”
Eloise flushed at the compliment then inwardly chided herself for such silliness. This was a working partnership not a date. “Why the flattery?”
“Why not?”
“I know your middle name too.” That and his birth date and alma mater. The thin file also contained his training scores and a few letters of commendation with specific details blacked out. Instead of trying to decipher the heavily redacted documents, though, she’d mostly focused on his photograph. He stared at the camera, his mouth set in a straight line, yet there was somet
hing playful in his expression. As if he found it hard to be serious for this oh-so-serious photo. “Phillip Richard Clayton,” she continued. “I assume you’re named for your uncle.”
“Give the girl a prize.” Phillip opened the door, and they stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun hung low in the western sky as if reluctant to let go of the day.
“A year ago on an evening like this,” Phillip continued, “we’d be on our way to a movie or to dinner and dancing. I don’t know about you, but I miss those days.”
“Me too.” Eloise’s tone sounded more wistful than she had intended. But he was right. Saturday nights used to have a special, festive quality about them. Now, the days seemed to run together with only Sunday as a consistent day for worship and rest. Even that was difficult when codes and alphabetical patterns invaded Eloise’s thoughts during an overly long sermon.
Phillip suddenly stopped. “Then why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why not go to a movie? Or dancing, your choice.”
“Because your uncle is expecting us. I have information to give him about those letters.”
“Great.” He started walking again, his pace slightly faster now. “We’ll stop in for a few minutes, and then we’ll go out on the town.”
Eloise scurried to keep up with his long stride, not sure whether she should put an end to his madness or go along with it. She sensed he needed a break from the harsh realities of whatever he’d been involved with the past couple of weeks. But she couldn’t bail out on his uncle even if he could.
Once again, he suddenly stopped, and she almost bumped into him. He grabbed her by both elbows. “Nothing is going to happen tonight unless you know the name of the traitor. Do you?”
The Cryptographer's Dilemma Page 4