Why not? The Bureau itself had changed incalculably, with a wider remit, a bigger role not just in the country but the world as well. Despite Glavin’s moaning, the Bureau had expanded fourfold in less than four years, and there were now over 3,000 Special Agents. Even so, the old guard still held sway, and it seemed incredible that one of these staid, white-shirted, white-skinned, old-school agents would so fundamentally betray the country they were paid to protect. He couldn’t believe it of any of them.
It was Tamm’s turn next. Guttman could never really figure him out. Tamm made it no secret that he couldn’t stand Tolson, which might have made him an ally. But Guttman knew that in a pinch Tamm would always do Hoover’s bidding, hoping to be restored as the heir presumptive – and he knew too that Tamm had checked up on him more than once in the past at Hoover’s behest. Recently it was rumoured that Tamm nursed secret ambitions of becoming a judge; he was said to be building relationships at the Justice Department upstairs, and had been spotted coming out of Attorney General Biddle’s eyrie, high in one corner of the building.
Tamm started by reporting on the growing evidence of Communist influence in industrial disputes, long a Hoover preoccupation, and he cited continuing trouble with the miners’ union, whose leader John L. Lewis was a particular Bureau bête noire. Guttman, who was claustrophobic in his own basement, let alone hundreds of feet underground, found himself secretly sympathising with the miners. Tolson asked Tamm about RACON, the programme launched by Hoover himself earlier that summer to investigate agitation among Negroes, especially those involved in the March on Washington Movement. Although President Roosevelt himself had met in a spirit of conciliation with the movement’s head, A. Philip Randolph, this had cut no ice with Hoover – who claimed Randolph was a mere figurehead, and that the real levers of Negro power were controlled by James W. Ford, a member of the American Communist Party, who’d had the temerity to run for Vice President on the CP ticket. Tamm reported that wiretaps had been installed in Ford’s office and home; at this, Tolson nodded meaningfully at Miss Caccioppo, who stopped writing until Tamm was finished. Not for the first time, Guttman was glad he wasn’t running Div 5.
At last it was Guttman’s turn. He had hastily cobbled together notes from his own field reports in the hour he’d had at his desk since returning from Chicago. He began with the Nazis. He’d personally turned another Nazi agent named Sebold two months before, and persuaded him to send misleading transmissions for well over a year to the German High Command. Sebold had led the Bureau to the other members of his network, which had just been rolled up – unbeknownst to their German masters. Tolson was nodding approvingly as Guttman turned to the Hawaii Territory, where the SAC, a straight shooter named Shivers, had forcefully argued against extending the internment of Japanese-Americans. Hoover, in an atypical display of liberalism, had agreed, and persuaded the President to exempt Hawaii from his Executive Order. There had been howls from xenophobic elements of the West Coast press, so it was gratifying to hear from Shivers now that there had been no evidence of espionage activity in the Islands. Finally, Guttman mentioned a case in Milwaukee, where a former Bund member had been found in possession of an arsenal – though Guttman omitted the fact that this ‘arsenal’ had only consisted of five shotguns.
Tolson asked, ‘Nothing further on Dasch?’
‘No. I’m confident we got them all.’ Dasch was a spy who’d landed on Long Island in June, courtesy of a U-boat, but within a week of his arrival he and seven co-conspirators had been arrested. The case had been a sensation in the press and a major public-relations triumph for the FBI. The trial of the saboteurs had ended two months before in early August.
‘Dasch is lucky to be alive,’ interjected Tamm. ‘If you hadn’t written to the judge he wouldn’t be.’
That was true, and Dasch’s reprieve had caused outrage. What the public didn’t know was that Dasch had not only given himself up, but had also led the Bureau to his co-conspirators, including four Germans who had landed in Florida. Without Dasch’s help it might have taken months to catch them all, giving the others time to wreak havoc along the eastern seaboard. Considering the value of Dasch’s crucial assistance, Guttman had been perfectly happy to write to the judge asking for clemency on his behalf. Looking now at Tamm he felt a sudden surge of anger. ‘They executed six of the eight. That’s a pretty good batting average, even for a hanging judge.’
Tamm’s cheeks flushed. He looked about to reply when Tolson cut in: ‘Okay, let’s move on.’
‘That’s all from me,’ said Guttman.
Reports done, Tolson took over; he liked to finish the meeting with a short sermon of his own. Guttman never understood the point of it. Half-homily, half-directive, the little talks were unpredictable in their choice of topics. One week Tolson might inveigh against the perfidy of the American Federation of Labor or, as he did the week before, speak scornfully about Charlie Chaplin’s Communist associations and predilection for underage girls (to Tolson’s annoyance, Tamm had asked if the girls were also Communists).
This week Tolson’s target was conscientious objectors. There weren’t very many of them (the last figure for those registered by the Selective Service was 12,000), and to Guttman they seemed by definition not to pose a threat to peace. Tolson saw things differently, and now ordered that instructions be relayed to field offices to increase surveillance of COs. Guttman wanted to sigh out loud. Most COs were either in prison or doing alternative service, so this seemed a more than usually pointless exercise. Guttman might have said as much if he’d felt Tamm would support him, but their spat had put paid to that.
The meeting ended and Guttman was getting up to leave when Tolson called out – ‘Harry.’
‘Harry’ was as rare as Marie calling him ‘Mr Guttman’. Guttman waited warily as the others left. The kid T.A. was collecting the press clippings from the table and Guttman expected Tolson to wait for him to leave too, but he didn’t.
Tolson said, ‘How are you doing?’
‘Okay,’ Guttman said cautiously. Tolson was not one for personal concern.
‘Must be tough being on your own,’ said Tolson. Guttman shrugged. He was embarrassed to have this exchange in front of T.A.
Tolson went on, ‘The boss is pleased about your handling of this Dasch business.’
‘Is he? I haven’t had a blue page.’ Hoover communicated congratulations to senior members of the Bureau on blue-tinted paper.
‘He wouldn’t want it to go to your head,’ Tolson said edgily. ‘And he doesn’t want you to take your eye off the ball.’
‘I’m not.’ It was important to sound emphatic. You didn’t just toe the line; you had to hug the goddamned thing.
‘Good to hear. I had a feeling something else was bothering you.’
‘Who, me?’ All innocence.
‘Yeah, in the meeting.’
‘No. Not at all. I’ve just got my hands full at the minute.’ Then, in case it sounded as if he were complaining, he added, ‘Like everybody else.’
Tolson said, ‘Well, like I say, the boss is pleased. And it seems you’ve also got a fan at the Court.’
‘Oh?’ Guttman wondered what Tolson meant. Hoover’s court? Not likely.
‘The boss was leaving the White House the other day and ran into Justice Frankfurter.’ Tolson chuckled. ‘I guess the separation of powers doesn’t extend to FDR’s cocktail hour. Frankfurter was full of praise for you. He told the Boss you were a “stellar G-Man”. Ha!’
‘Nice of him,’ Guttman said dutifully.
‘Sure it was,’ said Tolson. His speech was speeding up – never a good sign. ‘Thing is, when the Boss mentioned this to me, I couldn’t help thinking, how does Frankfurter know whether you’re good at your job?’
It had been cool in the room during the Executives Conference, but Guttman felt he was breaking into a sweat. He threw his hands out, like an Italian. ‘He doesn’t, Clyde. We know each other from other stuff. You know, Jewish fundraisers.’
Tolson nodded neutrally; it was impossible to tell if he bought this. ‘You people do stick together. Still, it doesn’t hurt to have an ally at the Court.’
Downstairs, he walked towards his end of the corridor and the small bunch of offices which Tolson, in a moment of dubious comic inspiration, had nicknamed Guttman’s Ghetto. Coming through the open door to Marie’s anteroom, he found her on the phone. ‘Have a good trip,’ she quickly said into the mouthpiece, then put it down, looking flustered. He wondered if she’d found a fellow. She deserved to.
‘Marie, wasn’t Powderman supposed to come see me?’ The new New York SAC.
‘He came by yesterday. I explained you were sick,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘He went back to New York last night.’
He nodded but looked at her sharply. ‘Are you okay, Marie?’ It wasn’t like her to forget things.
‘Of course I am. But what about you? You’ve lost weight, Harry.’
‘Have I?’ No one had ever said this to him since … He thought hard. Actually, no one had ever said this to him before. He flexed his shoulders. It was true; his suit jacket felt looser than normal.
‘It’s not good,’ Marie said.
‘Why not?’ He’d always wanted to lose weight.
‘It doesn’t suit you. You’re a big man – you don’t want to shrink all of a sudden.’
‘Okay,’ he said, a little flustered now himself.
‘You need feeding up. I bet you’re living on leftovers.’
‘Well,’ he said hesitantly. On his way home he would have so many work things on his mind that he never remembered to shop. On the days Annie Ryerson came in to help out she usually left supper, so twice a week he had a proper evening meal. Other nights he usually ended up eating a bowl of cereal.
‘Come to dinner one night, Harry. I’ll cook you a proper meal.’
‘You don’t have to do that, Marie.’
‘I’d like to. And little Jack is dying to meet you.’
Big Jack had departed some time before Marie had come to work at the Bureau. Guttman had no doubt her abandoned son could use a father figure, but Guttman already had his hands full with Jeff, Annie’s little boy, who had taken to coming over at weekends to play.
‘I’ll give you a date,’ said Marie.
He nodded unenthusiastically. ‘Hold my calls, will you?’ he said and went into his office, closing the door behind him. Lifting the phone on his desk he gave the switchboard a number in New York.
After a minute a female voice answered the phone. ‘British Passport Control Office.’ This was the cover name for the British Security Coordination Office, where a Canadian, William Stephenson, was in charge. A former pilot in the Great War, Stephenson was a self-made businessman who had volunteered to help the British lobby for support during the two years when Britain was at war and America was on the sidelines.
‘Hi, Katie, it’s Harry Guttman. Is your uncle in?’
‘Oh, Mr Guttman, you’ve missed him. He may be back this afternoon.’
‘I thought you’d transferred to Bermuda.’
‘No such luck. Uncle Bill won’t let me go. Do you want me to leave him a message?’
‘Just tell him I returned his call.’
4
HE LEFT EARLY, suddenly tired. The travel back and forth had caught up with him, and he swept a stack of memos into his briefcase, explaining to Marie that he was heading home. His car, an ageing Buick sedan, was parked around the corner and thankfully started up at once. It was dark by the time he passed the White House, and he could see the lights on in the living quarters upstairs where Roosevelt would be sitting now, before the cocktail hour he enjoyed with cronies and anyone interesting who was passing through town.
He drove through Georgetown, not far from the house where Nessheim had boarded for several months in 1940. Frankfurter had helped the young agent find accommodation there, and Guttman felt a sense of déjà vu about the re-emergence of the connection between the three of them. Crossing the bridge, traffic was light, and ten minutes later he was home, at the new house he’d bought over ten years before on the outskirts of Arlington. It was part of a suburban development that had stalled during the Depression, but now the once-empty lots all held houses.
He parked his car in the driveway, outside the garage he’d had built next to the side of the house. In a sudden inexplicable fit of busy-ness he had started to clear the contents of the garage before leaving for Chicago, and now boxes full of old clothes filled the space where the car usually went. He stopped outside at the twin mailboxes, propped at chest height by the sidewalk. Both were empty and he wondered what had happened to his newspaper. Inside, there was a light on in the living room and one in the front hall. It soothed him momentarily, but then he realised there would be no one there; nowadays the lights were just a beacon to mislead burglars into thinking someone was home.
When he walked through to the kitchen he saw mail on the table in a neat stack, a folded copy of the evening newspaper waiting for him, and a telegram envelope. Annie had been in, even though he’d told her not to bother. A plate sat covered by a dish towel; when he lifted it he saw a big sandwich of ham and cheese, some carrot sticks and a handful of potato chips. Bless her; the last thing he felt like doing was cooking.
He went outside through the kitchen door and stood on the little deck, peering into the dark of his backyard. A nice suburban plot, decent neighbours, a still night; it seemed difficult to believe that seventy feet away by the back of his garage someone had fired a bullet at his head. The unreality of it had grown since he’d been alone.
Most nights now he paced the yard, almost willing his assassin to return and finish the job – such was his misery since his wife’s death. But something had changed: as he surveyed the yard, its shapes gradually emerging as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he gave a slight shiver when he looked over to the dull dark patch of grass by the garage. An odd feeling filled him, one which he dimly recognised as fear. He hadn’t thought he would ever feel that again.
He went back inside and took the plate with his dinner to the living room, where he poured himself two inches of Johnny Walker, turned on the radio, and ate while a reedy voice told him American soldiers fighting on Guadalcanal were making advances against fierce opposition from Japanese troops. When he started to nod off, he got up and turned off the radio and lights and went into the bedroom. He took his clothes off, put on fresh pyjamas, brushed his teeth and got into bed in the dark, not even pretending to read. He waited for a moment on what had always been his side of the bed; he was trying not to give in.
He yielded at last, rolling over to lie face down on what had been Isabel’s side. People would think it was nutty if they knew, but it was the only way he had to try and reach his wife. On his belly he kept still for a moment, inhaling as deeply as he could, his nose pressed against the bottom sheet, hunting for the faintest perfume.
It was no good; the traces of Isabel weren’t there. Lately they hadn’t been. Either the sheets had been washed too often since her death or enough time had passed to make her scent disappear. He sighed and turned on to his back, moving over to his side of the bed, even though he could have the whole of it now if he wanted.
Someone had told him it would be two years before he felt any better at all. Somebody else told him he had to take life a day at a time. Heeding that advice, he lay still on the bed, wondering what the next day – number 117 since the death of his beloved wife Isabel – would bring. He wasn’t optimistic.
In the morning the phone woke him. He sat up, shaking the sleep fog out of his head, then looked at his watch: 6.15. It must be Nessheim or Marie, he thought, but why were they calling him this early? He reached for the phone and grabbed it on the third ring.
‘Harry?’ The voice was mild, mid-Atlantic, familiar. Neither Nessheim nor Marie.
‘Who’s that?’ he demanded. It was still dark outside.
‘It’s Bill Stephenson. We’ve been playing
tag with the telephone. I thought I’d try again before I left town.’
‘Hi, Bill,’ said Guttman, slowly regaining his composure. ‘How are you?’
Stephenson chuckled down the line. ‘More awake than you from the sound of it.’
‘Sorry. I’ve been away.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Not really. Business. Kind of unofficial business.’
‘Ah – I’ll ask no more questions. So how can I help?’
‘I need to check up on some people,’ he said hesitantly. He had asked Stephenson for assistance before, but still felt uncomfortable that it was so obvious he couldn’t use the Bureau’s own resources. It felt peculiar to be trusting a foreigner more than his own colleagues, but it was not the first time.
‘Here?’
‘In Europe. You know we haven’t got people over there. I was hoping you could help.’
‘Is there a list?’
‘I’ll send it to you tomorrow.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Confirmation mainly. That people are who they say they are. But it could also be that they’ve left people behind who could be used against them.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘We’re talking about recent émigrés to America then?’
Guttman just grunted.
‘Jews?’
It was a factual enquiry; Guttman knew Stephenson well enough to recognise that. ‘Yes, pretty much all of them. It’s a question of whether the Nazis could put pressure on someone over here by threatening people who got left behind.’
‘In normal circumstances they probably could. The thing is, from what we’ve learned, they’re going to kill all the Jews they can anyway.’
The Accidental Agent Page 6