by James Thayer
He wore four filthy sweaters, one on top of the other. Somewhere he had gotten a clean, brightly colored scarf, which he wore around his neck, with the ends hanging in front of his chest, in the best avant-garde tradition. A sooty miner's sock cap covered his white hair.
"Glad to, old man," said von Stihl as he lowered himself to his haunches near the fire and held his hands out to gather its warmth. Graf imitated von Stihl. Lange found a log in the shadows and quickly unrolled his oilskin pack.
"But, as you know, the old coffeepot gets a bit weak this late in the morning. I've got some water if you've got a little coffee," the hobo said as he raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"That I do."
From his pocket von Stihl took a small, tattered paper bag and handed it to the hobo, whose eyes lit up at the offering. As he dumped a handful of coffee into the pot he said, "I'm the Road Boy. These here are some of my friends, all similarly situated, like you."
Over the Road Boy's shoulder von Stihl saw several other small fires. Each had two or three hobos around it, and each fire had a small pot held over the fire by a stick planted in the ground. A mixture of low laughter and talk drifted over the crackling fires.
"Staying long?" asked the Road Boy as he stirred the pot with a twig.
"Nah, just long enough to catch the morning train to Portland. We got some friends down that way," von Stihl said as he rubbed his hands together in front of the fire.
"Say hello to Big Petey when you get there, will you? He's an old friend of mine. Him and the Pearl. They're both old friends of mine. Tell them the Road Boy sent you and it's worth a cup of joe."
From the shadows behind him, von Stihl heard the brittle clip of a Schmeisser submachine-gun bolt being dropped into place. Goddamn kid nurses that gun like it was a baby, he thought. Probably licking the salt out of the chamber.
"Hey, Sam Son, toss me three cups, will ya?" yelled the Road Boy.
Presently the tin cups landed in the dirt near the fire. The Road Boy tapped them together to shake bits of sand out and poured coffee. He handed one to von Stihl and another to Graf. Willi Lange walked from the shadows, lowered himself to the ground, and placed the oilskin package at his feet near the fire. He nodded his thanks to the Road Boy for the coffee.
Von Stihl opened the paper bag he was carrying and brought out a loaf of bread. He tore it into fourths and produced a half stick of butter. He smeared butter on each piece with his finger and passed them around. The Road Boy grinned toothlessly as he received the unexpected breakfast.
"I guess that old hag we flimflammed won't miss her bread and butter," said von Stihl.
"Certainly not as much as we appreciate it, eh, boys?" The hobo chuckled as he bit off a huge chunk of bread and palpated it with his gums.
"When's the next freight, Road Boy?" von Stihl asked.
The hobo chewed hard, muttered indistinctly, chewed several more times, and said through the wad of dough, " 'Bout five minutes from now. Maine Central short haul. It'll have 'bout twenty Johny O'Brians."
"Running empty?"
"Yep, and the doors wide open. Won't be any problem for you boys. Heads by here 'bout ten mile an hour."
The information confirmed what von Stihl had been told by the mission briefer in Germany. The train traveled to Portland, Maine, with ten stops en route. The railroad police were lax and could be bought with a cigar. Von Stihl carried a supply in his breast pocket.
"You know," said the Road Boy, "it does my travelin' heart good to see you young fellows hittin' the rails. Ever since Roosevelt's depression got over, I ain't seen many of you young ones."
"Well, when you got to travel, you got to travel," said von Stihl as he slurped the scalding coffee.
"Ain't that the truth."
As the colonel wiped his hands on his pants he heard the deep wail of the Maine Central pulling out of Rockland.
"That'll be your train," said the Road Boy. "It's been a real pleasure having you boys for breakfast."
"We'll be back," von Stihl said as he held out his hand to the hobo. "Keep the bag of coffee."
The train drew near and they saw black smoke spewing from the locomotive's stack into the blue dawn. It labored to pick up speed. The ground began to rumble and the train whistle pierced the camp. Lange strapped the package around his waist and Graf slung his cloth satchel over his shoulder. The engine and coal car rolled past the camp fire.
Von Stihl shot from his crouch to a dead run toward an open box car. He grabbed the door frame and kicked his feet up onto the car bed in a practiced maneuver. He pivoted and grabbed Willi Lange's arm and pulled him aboard. Graf ran easily alongside the car until they pulled back from the doorway. He leaped to a sitting position on the bed and rolled backward into the car.
The Germans leaned against the front wall and within seconds discovered what every hobo knows; it is impossible to be comfortable riding in a box car.
"Well, here I am, a lieutenant in Germany's finest, the SS Death's Head squadron, trained to perfection, physically fit," Graf said with his usual sneer. "And here I also am, a bum traveling across enemy territory in a freezing boxcar. Can you finally tell us where we're going, great leader?"
Von Stihl unwrapped a cigar, bit off the end, spat it out, and said, "Chicago. We've got important business in Chicago."
VIII
THE PUMP ROOM was a disappointment. Chicago's finest retaurant was everything Crown had heard and, unfortunately, more.
Ernest Lessing Byfield had decorated his restaurant with a flair quite in contrast to what one would expect from the portly businessman who invariably wore three piece, pinstripe suits. The Pump Room's color scheme was garish blue and white and from the high ceiling hung heavy crystal chandeliers with spangled arms reaching out like grasping octopi. Murals of Sarah Siddons and Princess Amelia covered the walls.
Some waiters wore bright red, swallow-tailed morning coats given a military flavor with arm stripes and gold buttons. Tight black pants were tucked into knee-high black boots. Other waiters wore brilliant green, knee-length Indian caftans decorated with gold braids across the chests, and small matching green turbans on which perched three giant white ostrich plumes. The waiters were widely recognized as being the most professional in the Midwest.
All dishes were served from wagons: hors d'oeuvre wagons, fruit wagons, roast-beef wagons, chafing-dish wagons, and dessert wagons. Byfield liked to brag that everything but shashlik was served on flaming rapiers. The food was simply the finest in Chicago.
Located in the Ambassador East Hotel on Chicago's Near North Side, the Pump Room was a focal point for the city's nouveau society. Averell Harriman, Eddy Duchin, Ethel Barrymore, Clifton Webb, and Mrs. Potter Palmer regularly held court in the Pump Room. Gossip columnists loitered near the doors, hoping to interview the restaurant's clientele for a story, and, failing that, to invent a story based on any recent change in the seating arrangements.
John Crown had wanted a quiet, dark restaurant where he and Heather McMillan could talk for the first time. This the Pump Room was not. When ringing laughter and boisterous conversation spilled into the lobby of the Ambassador East as the maître d'hôtel ushered Crown and Heather to the headwaiter's post, Crown knew the Pump Room would be a disappointment. The carts and waiters were constantly embroiled in loud traffic jams in the aisles. Shouts of recognition and noisy embraces filled the room. Obligatory gasps followed bursts of flame from exotic desserts. The din was overpowering.
They were led to a white leather half-circle booth against a side wall. Almost before Crown had settled himself a polite distance from Heather—an awkward maneuver, because the booth was large enough for six, and he had to slide along the seat for yards—Jimmy, the diminutive wine steward, approached their table. Crown scanned the wine list, which was written in eighteenth-century script and was almost impossible to read, and asked, "What do you recommend?"
"That depends on what you order for dinner," replied Jimmy with transparent obsequiousness, i
nstinctively knowing Crown and Heather were outsiders. The weight of the corkscrew suspended on the large-link chain around his neck seemed to pull the little man into a deferential, subservient stoop, which regulars knew was a ruse.
"I'm going to have whatever goes with the wine you recommend," said Crown. Without waiting for the exchange to become more irritating, Crown ordered an obscure burgundy from the hills east of Paris. The supply of this French wine in America was rapidly diminishing, and it would be exorbitantly expensive. That is, expensive for anyone not on a carte-blanche government expense account, as Crown was.
"I haven't been in a restaurant since the blitzkrieg started," Heather said, lifting her napkin. "London hotels and restaurants aren't getting gas and electricity. And many of them have closed because the air raids empty the places every night."
"Not even an air raid would clear this place. Everette Smithson recommended the Pump Room to me and said several dozen of Chicago's high and mighty almost live here. Everyone knows everyone else. I feel like I'm crashing a party."
Heather surveyed the spangled, furred, studded, and polished Pump Room people as they gushed and gooed. She said, "You and I would last five minutes at this party. Our yawning wouldn't be considered very polite. Who's the greeter?"
"Probably Ernest Byfield, the owner. Smithson says you've made Chicago society when he can greet you by name. He also owns the Buttery in the Ambassador West Hotel. He largely dictates Chicago's taste in food and wine."
Jimmy, the wine steward, rolled a half-barrel on wheels to their table. It was filled with ice in which were buried several bottles of wine. Bunches of purple and green grapes were draped over the barrel edge and hung almost to the first metal stave. With the smoothness of decades of service, Jimmy inserted the screw, popped the cork, and poured a taste into Crown's glass. Not knowing whether his act was for Jimmy or Heather, Crown swirled the dark red wine, sniffed the bouquet, sipped it loudly, swished it around in his mouth, and, much to Jimmy's relief, did not spit it on the floor, as proper wine tasting dictated, but swallowed it. He nodded approval to the steward, who poured two glasses and placed the bottle in the table-side ice-filled replica of the half-barrel.
Heather and Crown had been together for a week, and he knew surprisingly little about her. Their conversations had been short and without exception related to their mission. He had read her meager file, supplied by the air chief marshal. She was twenty-nine years old and had lived in London all her life. Her parents supplied her with a public-school education, and she had attended one of the London colleges Crown had never heard of. She had been working at a series of insignificant jobs and attending college part-time for six years. The file did not summarize, but Crown guessed she had been drifting, perhaps searching. When she volunteered for the British service, her life seemed to focus and accelerate. Her position with the air chief marshal indicated her proficiency for the work and her dedication. Attached to her background file was a letter from the air chief marshal attesting to her ability as an adjutant.
"How did you become Air Chief Marshal Hilling's adjutant?" Crown asked.
"I was his typist for several months. A secretary. One morning I put a memo on his desk telling how his command could be more efficient if certain positions were eliminated and others made directly responsible to his office. The air chief hardly looked up when I gave it to him, and it lay on his desk for over a week."
"He finally noticed it?" Crown was concentrating on her beautiful lips, not her words.
"Yes. There came the nasty day every executive dreads—the day dedicated to clearing off the corner of his desk, which is piled with nonurgent letters and orders. The chief usually delayed this until the pile reached a foot high. When he came to my memo, he spent half an hour studying it, and then called me in to ask questions. The reorganization began the following day."
"That must have been traumatic for Hilling's subordinates," Crown said.
"It was. Word leaked that I caused the rearrangement that sent many officers to new posts and a few to new ranks."
"And who leaked that?"
"I wouldn't know." Heather smiled wryly. "But from that moment, no other lieutenant in the RAF was treated with such deference and, by a few former antagonizers, plain fear."
"Good God, you're a devious one."
Heather laughed and continued, "And no longer did other RAF officers call me 'my little lieutenant' and return salutes while mouthing kisses. I felt marvelously secure."
Heather sampled the wine and said, "I'm glad we could be together tonight. We don't get to talk freely much."
"No, not with the deputy führer around. He's a strange case. How've you and he been getting along?"
"The same. I sat in on Professor Ludendorf and Peter Kohler's interrogation of Hess after you and I met Mr. Fermi on Saturday. Most of the time he just sits and stares, but once in a while the professor can get him to talk. He'll let Hess talk about anything, so he rambles on and on about life in Germany. He loves to tell about how he first saw Hitler and joined the Nazi party. Ludendorf and Kohler eventually shut him off, especially when he talks about the Nazis. I think it makes them sick to hear about it."
"No wonder," Crown said, absently swirling his glass by the stem. "The Nazis chased both of them from their homes and jobs. Ludendorf told me he wants to go back to Germany after the war."
"They finally got Hess to talk about the German experiments, but he gets really fuzzy about them. And he uses terms none of us know. I dutifully wrote them down, and I'm preparing them for Mr. Fermi to look at before his interview with Hess."
"Are you getting used to Kohler's interrogation?" Crown asked.
"Not really. Most of the time he glares angrily at Hess, letting Ludendorf ask questions and steer the conversation. But once in a while Kohler yells at Hess to quit hiding information, or asks the professor to let him question Hess alone for a while. Ludendorf never lets him, but the threat is always there, and Hess knows it. Kohler really frightens him."
"Well, that's a proven technique," Crown said, reaching for the menu.
"What are you going to have?" Heather asked, purposely leaving the business talk and looking at her menu. She had never seen menus like those in the Pump Room. Not only was the script difficult to read, but the foods were grouped according to seasoning, rather than by entrée. One list was headed "Dishes Highly Seasoned with Garlic." She would not eat garlic tonight.
"Top sirloin and a baked potato."
"You won't feel like a member of the proletariat, ordering meat and potatoes here?" she teased.
"I'll have them set it on fire at our table and serve it shish kebab, if you like."
When the red-coated waiter visited their table, she ordered chicken hash.
"Chicken hash?" Crown exclaimed. "That's something my mother served whenever there was nothing else to eat. It has the parts of the chicken in it that I couldn't get down unless they were disguised."
"Don't be funny. The Pump Room's chicken hash is famous, isn't it?" she asked the waiter.
Looking like a general in his red coat with gold piping, their waiter explained, "Actually, it was famous at Jack and Charlie's Twenty-one in New York City before it came here. We do it with more flair, though."
Several minutes later the general rolled an entrée wagon to their table. He gripped a deep-dish pan with a towel, splashed alcohol into it, and brushed the hash with a punk. The flame leaped halfway to the ceiling, illuminating the booth with a yellow glow. As the fire died, the waiter swirled the hash in the pan to cook it evenly and slipped it onto Heather's plate. He returned a minute later with Crown's order.
"You were raised in Oregon?" Heather asked as she sprinkled pepper on the hash.
"Yes," Crown mumbled through the steak.
"Well, tell me about it."
He swallowed and said, "My upbringing was pretty mundane. My father is a channel master on the Columbia River."
"What's a channel master?"
"The Columbi
a below Portland is treacherous, particularly out over the bar at the mouth of the river near Astoria. When the Columbia rolls into the Pacific, huge swells grow. They're dangerous by themselves, but they also change the sand on the ocean floor and river bottom. The lower Columbia is a graveyard for scores of ships that didn't make it. So a channel master takes a small boat from Portland out over the bar to the incoming ship. The master guides the ship in."
"I've heard how beautiful the Columbia is," Heather said.
"I used to go with my father on his trips down the Columbia. The most inspiring place I've ever seen is the last fifty miles of that river. The Columbia just doesn't lie there, like the lower Mississippi. It swirls into blue patterns as it passes, as if to show it's a force that alters the weather and slows the tide. The river is blue, but not your blue in England, or Chicago blue. It's Columbia blue, a blue so deep it sparkles."
"I'd like to visit your river."
"See it in the fog. When an opaque film obscures the banks, the Columbia is the world. The air is diaphanous, and the sky and river blend together. When boating through the fog, small river islands appear and vanish as if by sleight of hand. Fog slows movement, and the river seems eerily still through the haze. But it's a lie. The Columbia is always deadly."
"It sounds surrealistic."
"I suppose so, but unlike a painting, sound permeates the picture. The boat's horn booms through the fog bank every few seconds and bounces back from the hills. And the gulls and cranes squawk at the boat. The sounds are mesmerizing, and the haze disorienting. Fog enters the mind."
"Now you make it sound frightening," Heather said, nibbling at the hash.
"Once, when I was a kid, maybe eight or nine, I was standing at the bow of my father's boat as we churned through the fog to the bar. Suddenly it just overwhelmed me. I imagine it was like the instant you realize you're lost in a forest. I ran to the pilothouse. Maybe because my dad suffered the same thing once, he grabbed me, sat me down in his pilot's chair, and said, 'See these instruments. See this foghorn chain and this wheel. You and I are in control of this boat and this river. We don't fear the Columbia.' I've never forgotten that lesson."