The Cryptographer's Dilemma

by Johnnie Alexander

  “Yes.”

  It seemed to Phillip that she breathed the word instead of saying it. Or had he imagined what he wanted to hear?

  His grip on her hand tightened. “Did you say yes?”

  “Yes.” She released a deep breath and pulled her hand away. “I said yes.”

  Phillip barely stopped himself from jumping to his feet and letting out a loud hurrah. His smile was so big that his cheeks hurt. He didn’t care. He was going to fly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saying yes to the plane trip had proven to be a wise decision. The experience wasn’t nearly as frightening as Eloise had expected it to be. At least not once she got over the initial shock of being among the clouds. She also was glad she’d said yes for Phillip’s sake. The captain invited him to spend time in the cockpit. He couldn’t stop talking about how much fun that had been. Still, she was glad to have both feet back on the ground.

  Today they sat around Dorothy Walker’s kitchen table. A petite woman with graying hair and round spectacles, she scanned the letter that the censors had forwarded to the FBI last February, six long months ago.

  “I know nothing about this,” she said, her voice wavering. “The signature is similar to mine, but this letter is not from me.”

  “We believe you,” Eloise said soothingly. “We’re not here to upset you, but we do have to ask a few questions.”

  “Of course. I understand.” Mrs. Walker pointed at the next to the last paragraph. “Though this is true.”

  Eloise scanned the words. I do hope you can read my typing, I am trying to learn to type so I can be able to type records for the Red Cross.

  “You’re learning to type?” Eloise asked.

  “It’s a way for me to be of service. But I would never have said it like that. ‘I can be able to type.’” She pushed the letter away. “That’s atrocious grammar.”

  “Who knows about the typing lessons?”

  “Just about everyone, I suppose. It’s not a secret.” Mrs. Walker crumbled the cookie on her plate into pieces. “I don’t know why anyone would use my name for something like this. It makes me feel…” She shivered.

  Eloise laid a comforting hand on the woman’s thin arm. “I know this is difficult. But can you think of anyone, maybe someone who has a grudge against you for some reason, who might have done this?”

  Mrs. Walker’s lips formed a worried line. “I live a quiet life with a small circle of friends. We’ve known each other since we were young mothers together, and most of us attend the same church. I just can’t see any of them writing a letter like this or being involved in something nefarious.”

  “Do your friends also collect dolls?” Phillip asked.

  “Three or four of us do. The rest have other hobbies.” She folded her hands in her lap, no doubt to stop their shaking. “Quilting. Knitting. Gardening. The usual things. Though we’re all gardening now. Anything we can do to contribute.”

  They chatted a little longer, but Mrs. Walker could tell them nothing that was helpful. Eloise asked if she had correspondence with other doll collectors, but Mrs. Walker said no. She was too busy to write to anyone except family and faraway friends.

  The next day, they made the long trip from Spokane back to the FBI’s Seattle field office. Neither of them had much to say on the hours-long drive. It didn’t seem like they were any closer to finding proof that Eloise’s assessment of the jargon code was correct. She had no idea what they were supposed to do next. She’d been a failure when she longed to be a success. Not for her own glory but to ensure that, if there was a traitor, he was caught. To prevent any more information about the US Navy falling into the hands of their enemies, whether they be German or Japanese.

  When they arrived at the field office, an agent informed them that Richard Whitmer, some bigwig from headquarters, had left a message for Phillip to return his call. The agent didn’t seem to realize that Richard was Phillip’s uncle, and Phillip didn’t tell him. Perhaps that’s the way he wanted it—to make it in the FBI on his own merit and not because of his uncle’s position. Eloise admired him for that and for other things.

  He treated her with respect despite her lack of investigative experience. She’d read the printed copies of what they were calling the Clark correspondence several times, especially the ones postmarked from New York, paying close attention to any unusual spellings or odd capitalizations. But nothing seemed to stand out. Nothing seemed off or strange. But Phillip never criticized her or made fun of her. He’d even read the letters once more, though he had no better luck than she did.

  The agent directed Phillip to an office where he could make his call in private. Eloise hesitated, unsure whether she should join him.

  “Stay here,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “This won’t take long.”

  She nodded agreement while swallowing her disappointment. They were supposed to be equal partners on this mission, so anything Richard had to say to Phillip about the case should be said to her too.

  Phillip disappeared down a long corridor while Eloise stayed in the reception area. As she waited for his return, a freckle-faced man with a shock of red hair beneath his fedora and a slight limp came through the door. He gave Eloise a too-long glance before making his way to the front desk. She turned away, uncomfortable with the man’s appraisal, then realized her response wasn’t that of a trained operative. She straightened her shoulders and faced his direction. He was bent forward, hands on the desk, as he talked quietly to the thirty-something woman sitting near a bank of phones. From the expression on the woman’s face, she was swatting away the man’s attempt at flirting without any effort whatsoever.

  Eloise swallowed a sigh. That was a gift she wished she had. Despite what she’d told Phillip about her ability to handle men, she often felt like she was to blame for a man’s unwanted attentions and apologetic for any rebuffs she made. Even her brother had chastised her for being so foolish, but that hadn’t affected her inability to get over her discomfort enough to take a different approach.

  The woman said something and rolled her eyes. The man merely laughed then eyed Eloise again. She refused to look away but prayed Phillip would return soon. She didn’t like the awkwardness of not knowing whether she should sit or stay standing or what she would say if the man made an unwelcome comment to her.

  Thankfully, he didn’t. Instead, he tipped his hat in her direction then headed down the same corridor that had swallowed up Phillip.

  Eloise dropped into a chair where she could see both the front door and the corridor door. That’s what Phillip would do. Line of sight on two entrances and, as a bonus, the receptionist’s desk. Eloise picked up the front section of the local newspaper, which lay on a nearby table. None of the articles held her attention, and she found herself reading paragraphs twice without knowing what they said.

  She flipped one page and then another. As she started to turn one more, a photograph near the lower corner caught her eye.

  No! It couldn’t be.

  A sick feeling swirled in her stomach, and she fought the urge to vomit. With careful movements made more deliberate by her pains-taking attention to detail, she folded the newspaper in half then in half again.

  The photograph and accompanying article took up most of the quarter page. Hot tears stung Eloise’s eyes. The corridor door opened, startling her, and two men walked through. Her sudden dread collapsed into relief that neither of them was Phillip. Without thinking, she gripped the newspaper and fled from the building.

  Once outside, the humid heat beat upon her. The field office was located in the Vance Building where Third Avenue intersected Union Street. The nearby buildings, housing a variety of stores and offices, formed shadowed alleyways that trapped the damp ocean air between their stone and concrete walls. Eloise pushed against the heat, unaware of her path, only aware that she was moving, that she needed to keep moving because if she stopped, she’d have to think about the photo she’d seen, the headline she had read. The article
itself—she’d been too shocked to read it. Only a few words had popped out at her. She stopped at the crosswalk in a robotic trance, then trudged on without a thought of where she was going or what she was doing.

  When the sidewalk eventually ended, she turned the corner, suddenly aware that she had entered an area of tenements and fleabag hotels. A different kind of dread gripped her, and she turned on her heel to retrace her steps. She walked slower now and realized her cheeks were damp from tears she hadn’t realized were falling.

  Weary with emotion and weighed down by the relentless heat, she paused in the entryway of the first department store she came to and leaned against the brick wall. With the newspaper tucked beneath her arm, she pressed her fingers against her eyes. Surely this was a mistake.

  There had to be a mistake. Even as doubt crept in, she couldn’t bring herself to look at the photograph again. Not yet.

  Customers exited the store, and she turned away from their curious stares, crossing her arms around her body to give her the strength to stay on her feet. After they passed by, she entered the store.

  The interior was cooler than the street but not by much. Eloise edged around the perimeter, avoiding eye contact with any of the sales-clerks, until she found the elevators. After descending to the basement, she made her way to the ladies’ room. A vanity stretched along one wall, and she lowered herself onto the stool. The person in the mirror stared at her, eyes wide and shimmering with tears, cheeks smeared with mascara, her hat askew.

  She looked a mess.

  She was a mess.

  The turmoil twisting her insides scared her with its vehemence, as if a monster had awakened within her and was determined to get out or to destroy her in the attempt. She’d experienced strong emotions before—and not that long ago—but this painful angst was something entirely different than the overwhelming grief that assailed her when Allan died.

  Raw anger fed the monster along with a stabbing pain to her heart she hadn’t thought possible to endure. She feared giving in to the monster, knowing it could devour her, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to fight it.

  She plopped the newspaper on the counter, the photograph facedown so she didn’t have to see it, then unpinned her hat. She carelessly dropped the pins onto the counter. One bounced to the floor. She reached for it, stretching her fingers toward it while balancing herself on the stool, then she overreached and fell—hard—to her knees. A small tear appeared in her nylon stocking.

  No, no, no!

  This last indignity was too much. She sat on the hard floor, arms wrapped around her shins, head on her knees, and rocked back and forth as hot tears flowed. The rhythmic movement somehow seemed to calm her monster even as all reason escaped her. She seemed to have no thoughts; instead, she was lost in a swirl of wordless emotion.

  As her mind settled, her heart turned to a despairing prayer.

  Why?

  It was a question that must have been asked by anguished souls since the beginning of time. Wouldn’t Eve had begged God for an explanation of why he’d placed the Tree in the Garden? And again when Abel was found murdered in a field or when Cain was marked by God?

  “I don’t understand, Lord.” Eloise shook her head. “I will never understand.”

  The restroom door creaked open. Eloise grabbed at the pin and rose to her feet. The two women who entered glanced at her with questioning gazes then at each other.

  “I’m fine,” Eloise said before either of them could speak. Doing so gave her control of the conversation and, hopefully, would prevent her from experiencing the horror of falling apart in front of strangers. “I had startling news, that’s all. I’m better now.”

  The older woman dug in her purse and pulled out a man’s handkerchief. She handed it to Eloise with an apologetic smile. “I always carry one of my husband’s handkerchiefs in my purse along with my dainty lace ones. Those little feminine squares aren’t meant to soak up the kind of tears we find ourselves crying these days.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” the younger woman said. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “It seems there’s nothing for us to do but trust in God.”

  Eloise bit her lip as she accepted the oversized handkerchief. Trusting in God wasn’t easy when a person’s world was falling apart. But the woman was right. What else could she do? Throw away her faith entirely because life hadn’t turned out the way she thought it should?

  As tempting as that might be, she couldn’t do it. Without her Heavenly Father beside her, she’d be lost in a slough of despondency without any hope. She might only be holding on to her faith by a thread, but that thread was strong. God wouldn’t let her go, so the choice was hers—to hold on with all her might or to let her faith slip through her fingers.

  She refused to let go.

  The older woman led Eloise to a sink. “Wash your face now. We’ll stay with you as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Eloise wanted to say more, to let these women know how much she appreciated their thoughtfulness. But she wasn’t sure she could trust her voice. She took a deep breath and whispered again, “Thank you.”

  She splashed water on her face then did her best to finger-comb her short waves, limp from the humid heat, into a small bun at the nape of her neck. The older woman pinned her hat on her head for her.

  “Are you all right now?” the younger woman asked.

  “I think so.” Eloise glanced at her watch, stunned to see how much time had passed. Hopefully, she’d be back in the lobby before Phillip finished his call with Richard. What would he do if he returned to the lobby and found her gone? For the first time, she realized she’d left her handbag behind.

  “I need to go.” She held out the handkerchief. “I’m sorry I made such a mess of it.”

  “You keep that,” the older woman said. “I have plenty more.”

  “I’ll never forget your kindness. Both of you.” She glanced at the newspaper. She should walk away and leave it behind. Forget she’d ever seen it.

  But that wasn’t possible. Having seen the photo, she had to learn the truth about the man it depicted. With a heavy sigh, she tucked the newspaper beneath her arm and said goodbye to the strangers who’d shown her such kindness.

  Strangers or angels?

  Either way, they were a gift from God when she needed one most.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Phillip ended the call with his uncle then rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. The executions were over. Six of the eight Germans who participated in Operation Pastorius had been electrocuted and buried in a potter’s field. Only Dasch and Berger had been spared.

  The men were enemies. Potential saboteurs. So why did their deaths bother him so much?

  From the first time he talked to Dasch, a man willing to betray his own countrymen, Phillip had struggled with the ramifications of the investigation. Dasch was praised by some within the FBI for his courage. But that hadn’t stopped a military tribunal from finding him guilty and giving him the same sentence as the others—death.

  According to Uncle Richard, President Roosevelt commuted Dasch’s sentence to thirty years in prison and Berger’s sentence to life in prison.

  Phillip didn’t disagree with the president’s decision. Dasch, and Berger too, deserved something for their refusal to go along with Germany’s plan. But why had they agreed to be part of the plan in the first place? When had they decided to turn themselves in instead?

  He knew the answer for Berger. When he and Dasch had separated from the other two saboteurs, Dasch had given him an ultimatum—rat on me and I’ll kill you. Berger made the wise choice to go along with Dasch, a decision that saved him from the electric chair.

  Phillip had never experienced mixed feelings before about a criminal’s conviction and sentencing. The line between right and wrong had always been clear in his mind, and he was a strong believer that those he’d brought to justice in previous missions had absolutely reaped what they had sown.
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br />   What made this operation different?

  Maybe because war blurred the lines.

  His thoughts caught a ride on the same merry-go-round they’d been on before—one that wouldn’t let him jump off. If he had the chance to sneak into Germany and create havoc, he’d do it in a heartbeat. If he were caught, he would face death secure in the knowledge that he’d done what he could for his country. His life would be a small sacrifice to pay for a US victory.

  Unlike Dasch, he’d never have betrayed those on the mission with him. He’d never have turned himself in to the authorities.

  The question he couldn’t resolve was whether he should respect Dasch for his patriotism to his adopted country or despise him as a traitor to his homeland and to those who trusted in him to carry out their assigned mission. Even though he’d met the man, interrogated him, investigated him—he still wasn’t sure of an answer. Or if he had the right to judge.

  They were buried in a potter’s field, Richard had said. Like Judas Iscariot, the ultimate traitor, who hung himself after betraying the Son of God. An act foretold in the ancient texts of scripture. A betrayal that set other God-ordained events in motion leading to the crucifixion and resurrection. To grace for sinners.

  Grace to a wretch like me.

  Phillip rubbed his hands across his face as his emotions battled inside him. Maybe he should have stayed in DC. Maybe he should have attended the electrocutions. Or at least he should have visited Dasch one more time. Perhaps the German would have said something—Phillip had no idea what—to provide more insight into his motivations.

  Where Phillip shouldn’t be was here. In Seattle. Almost as far away from DC as a person could get. An overpaid, glorified chauffeur driving around a woman who in any other year would be teaching a class of giddy teenagers about triangles and theorems. Instead, she’d been elevated to civilian-agent status and sent around the country to talk to bored, silly women who were obsessed with dolls. A trip that so far hadn’t gotten them anywhere.