by Blum, Howard
A week after his wife’s burial, Wilson reined in his emotions and, wearing a black armband, addressed the American people. It was important, he felt, that the country understand the opportunity that existed, the “great permanent glory” that could be gained if America acted wisely. It was vital that the country not allow itself to be pulled into the fighting. He had come to the podium to preach neutrality.
His neutrality, however, was not a detached isolationism but something more vigorous and, he deeply believed, decidedly more moral. It was an evangelical strategy. America must assume its rightful place in the center of the world stage as arbiter, the one country that could apply the “standards of righteousness and humanity” to the European nations whose ambitions and greed had led them astray. Neutrality was the path to a benevolent destiny—an American-negotiated world peace.
“Every man who truly loves America,” he implored, “will act and speak in the true spirit of neutrality, which is the spirit of impartiality and fairness and friendliness to all concerned.” He begged his countrymen to be “neutral in fact as well as name, impartial in thought as well as action.” The days ahead, he warned, will “try men’s souls.” But a neutral America would give humanity “the gift of peace.”
Chapter 7
For months Frank Baldo had been attending meetings, listening with attention to one fervent speech after another either urging the overthrow of the government or denouncing the rapacious greed of the Catholic Church. He’d found a job doing manual labor in a Long Island City factory. He’d rented a sparse room with peeling paint in a building on Third Avenue where the hallways smelled of cat piss, and tried to pretend that it was home. He’d not seen his wife and infant son in the Bronx for so long that their absence tugged at him constantly. Each day in this strange, unnatural world was a lonely struggle.
No less dispiriting, as his daily calls to Tom made clear, was that there was nothing to show for all his painstaking efforts. Only a few members of the Circle had bothered to say more than hello, while the leaders blatantly ignored him. They’d gather in corners whispering intently, and all he could do was keep a respectful distance and fix a disinterested smile on his face.
Be patient, Tom advised, hoping he’d found a steady, reassuring tone. The truth was, though, that Tom was inwardly growing more and more concerned. He was beginning to suspect that this operation too would fail. It was as if he could hear a clock ticking ominously inside his head: It is getting late. Time is running out.
In November a bomb wedged against the door of the Bronx County Courthouse exploded. Was it the work of the Brescia Circle? Tom had no idea, and neither did his agent. The racing clock in his mind ticked louder and louder.
At last, though, Baldo got his opportunity. One Sunday night, as the more important members of the group huddled secretively, someone, bored and in high spirits, suggested a wrestling match. The men went at it. It was all good fun. But Frank Baldo, the new recruit who was built like Hercules, fought like a champion. He tossed one man after another to the floor as effortlessly as if he were handing out flyers announcing the next demonstration.
Baldo, who’d thoroughly enjoyed the chance to channel some of his frustration, was smoothing his ruffled hair back into place when he felt a tap on his back. He turned to see Carmine “Charlie” Carbone, the short, grim-faced shoemaker—a nasty piece of work, Frank had decided when he’d first spotted him months earlier—who was one of the group’s leaders.
“You’re a strong fellow,” Carbone said, and gave the new recruit a long, appraising look. “I’m glad to see you’re a member of the Brescia Circle.”
Frank smiled, and did his best not to confide how much pleasure it had given him to hurl those men across the room. In other circumstances he’d have gladly broken an arm or two, and could have done it easily and without compunction. They continued talking as they left the basement and walked up Third Avenue.
“The trouble with those fellows,” said Carbone, “is that they talk too much and don’t act enough. They don’t accomplish anything.”
“That’s right,” Baldo agreed, restrained but still playing along.
“What they ought to do is throw a few bombs and show the police something,” Carbone went on. “Wake them up!”
Carbone waved his right hand in front of Baldo’s face. The fingers were short stumps. “I got that making a bomb,” he explained proudly. “Some day I’ll show you how to make ’em.”
AND SO THEIR FRIENDSHIP BEGAN. They marched shoulder to shoulder at demonstrations, sat together at meetings, and went off for a few beers most Friday nights, and Carbone introduced him to his buddy, Frank Abarno. They became an inseparable trio.
Baldo courted both men carefully. He listened attentively, smiled, but did not talk much. He never asked questions. And in time, Carbone kept his promise and showed him how to make a bomb.
On a wintry Sunday in January when the basement meeting room seemed as frosty as an icebox, Carbone waited until the speeches were finished and then drew Baldo aside. “Come on up to the 125th Street Station,” he said quietly. “It’s warm up there, and we won’t be bothered. I’ll tell you something about making bombs.”
In the comforting heat of the subway station, the steady churning and high-pitched screeching of the trains making it difficult for bystanders to overhear, Carbone talked freely. He boasted that he could get all the dynamite he needed from his uncle, a contractor. He just needed some ignition caps, each one, say, about two inches long.
“We’ll get some dynamite, and then you and Frank and me will blow up some churches, see?”
“Sure,” Baldo answered evenly. “What church?”
“St. Patrick’s is the best. This time it’ll be a good one too. I’ll make a bomb that will destroy the cathedral down to the ground.”
In the days that followed, they set to work making two bombs. Abarno and Carbone carefully measured the proportions of sulfur, sugar, chlorate of potash, and antimony. Next the mixture was poured into two tin soap cans. A length of strong cord bound strips of iron rod to the can, and this was further reinforced by wrapping copper wire repeatedly around the entire device.
Baldo’s heart galloped as he watched the two men; the memory of the three Circle members who’d been blown to bits while working in a bomb factory on Independence Day never left his mind. But when Carbone picked up a hammer and began firmly banging the fuses into the tops of the devices, his courage abandoned him. He scrambled behind the bed on the other side of the small room, and then, for further protection, dropped to the floor.
“No use to hide there, Baldo!” Carbone teased. “If she goes off, she’ll blow the whole house down.”
The house did not blow up. The two lethal devices were completed, and Carbone gently placed them in the bottom of a steamer trunk. The swirls of copper wire had given them an orangish tint, and they looked like small, very spooky pumpkins. Carbone closed the trunk, and then took a key from his pocket and locked it. As soon as the bombs were out of sight, Abarno shared his plan to destroy St. Patrick’s.
“We’ll meet here in two days, on Tuesday morning at six o’clock to the minute,” he said. “We will get to the cathedral just at 6:20. Then we light the bombs, and the fuses will burn slow for twenty minutes. We can get over to Madison Avenue and then we can all get to work on time. We’ll have a good alibi, all right. Then we’ll get together Tuesday night and go some place and have a good time.”
In high spirits, the men left the bomb factory. Baldo walked with Carbone for a while down Third Avenue and then said he was exhausted. The day’s activity, he confessed, had him still shaking. He wanted to go back to his room and get some rest.
Carbone laughed. He told his friend to get a good night’s sleep. Baldo, he said, needed to be ready for Tuesday.
Baldo went off alone. He walked slowly. But when at last he was certain he was not being followed, he rushed through the early-evening darkness to find a phone booth. He needed to call a private line on C
entre Street at once.
WHERE WERE THEY? TOM WONDERED.
He stood in the cathedral, pressed tight against the stone pillar in the semidarkness, and continued his vigil. The Tuesday-morning Mass had begun, yet there was still no sign of the bombers. Had they opened the cathedral door, looked up the aisle, and at once seen through his detectives’ disguises? Had they bolted?
In the next uneasy moment, another thought jumped into his mind: What if they had made Polignani? He would never forgive himself if something had happened to that brave young man. Should he risk summoning one of his men parked in an unmarked car on Fifth Avenue? Should he have the officer rush down to Centre Street in case Polignani was trying to contact him? Six months of exacting, painstaking work was on the line, but Tom was getting very close to putting the entire operation in jeopardy. He owed it to Polignani, to the detective’s wife and baby, to get him out of this alive.
Yet Tom, his stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots, waited. Just one more minute, he decided.
At last he saw them. There were just two men, Abarno and Baldo, and they were walking up the north aisle of the cathedral. Later, Tom would learn that Carbone had had a last-minute case of nerves. At this moment, though, Tom centered all his attention on Abarno and the ominous object protruding from the pocket of his topcoat.
Abarno led the way. Both men held lit cigars by their sides. It was as if they were holstered weapons.
On the altar, a bell rang. The bishop was about to begin the consecration.
At the tenth pew, Abarno gestured to Baldo to stop. He obeyed, and dropped to his knees in prayer.
Abarno continued on. He walked up another four rows, then took a seat. His head and body bent forward as if he too were in prayer.
The scrubwoman had already put down her mop. She moved up the aisle, a rag in her hand. But she made no pretense of dusting as she hurried forward.
Abarno suddenly rose. He darted to a pillar near the north end of the altar.
“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,” the bishop chanted.
Abarno crouched by the pillar. Swiftly, he removed the bomb from his coat pocket with one hand and placed it against the base of the stone column. With his other hand, he flicked the ashes from the coal of his cigar and used the glowing end to ignite the fuse. The fuse started to burn, and he fled quickly down the aisle.
By his third step, the charwoman had grabbed him in an iron grip.
In the same moment, the elderly usher suddenly could not only walk upright but run. He sprinted to the pillar, found the bomb, and pinched out the burning fuse with his fingers.
Tom came out of the shadows to arrest Baldo. It was important to maintain Polignani’s cover until all the conspirators—Carbone and other members of the Circle—were in custody. Tom did his best not to say anything other than a terse “You’re under arrest.” He tried not to betray his pure joy at his realization that with those words, he knew his agent had returned from a very dangerous mission. But as Tom put the cuffs on Baldo and led him out to the waiting police car on Fifth Avenue, he couldn’t help feeling that never before in his long career had he been so happy to make a collar.
Chapter 8
The British sailors boarded the Noordam as it approached Dover. Europe was at war, and the British navy ruled the sea. Von Bernstorff had no choice but to join the other passengers when the order was given to line up on deck. He went topside with the briefcase that held $150 million in treasury notes in his hand.
On deck, he slowly edged closer and closer to the rail. He moved without apparent purpose, a restless passenger absently stretching his legs. To his surprise, he felt calm, almost at peace. Ever since his meeting with Nicolai he had wondered what he would do, how he would act under stress. Now he knew.
Summoning up a deliberate nonchalance, he leaned absently on the rail. The sharp, crisp smell of the ocean filled the air. If he was challenged, he would toss the briefcase into the water before the sailors could reach him. One hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth of notes were as heavy as a brick; the briefcase would sink in an instant to the bottom of the sea. He was prepared.
Von Bernstorff waited. A British sailor fixed his gaze on him from across the deck. The count did not smile; instinct told him that little would be gained by appearing eager to ingratiate himself. Yet at the same time, he tightened his grip on the briefcase. With the sailor’s first step toward him, it would fly into the Atlantic.
The sailor moved on. No one said a word to von Bernstorff; he was ignored. And within the hour the Noordam was steaming on to New York Harbor.
There had been no drama, no crisis. But a lesson had been learned. Von Bernstorff discovered not only that he could play his secret role but also that he enjoyed its sharp edge of danger. From that moment on he no longer had any qualms, any doubts, about his double life. He would be Germany’s spymaster in America. He would lead his country’s attack in an undeclared war.
WHEN TOM WANTED TO THINK, or simply escape from the pressures of his job, he’d take off on long, solitary runs. He’d begun running when he first joined the force to train for the annual Police Field Day; in his twenties, he was unbeatable in the hundred-yard dash, and then, older, he won medals in long-distance races. These days, though, he ran only to get his thoughts in order.
With his captain’s salary, he’d recently bought a newly built two-story brick house on the corner of Fuller Place in Brooklyn. It had a bay window and a narrow front porch, and both, with a craning of the neck, offered grassy views of Prospect Park.
It was not long after the conclusion of the Circle case that Tom took a loping jog through the park. He had long legs, and he ran easily, without effort or, it seemed, exhaustion.
As he ran that afternoon, he recalled the lengthy, tense operation that had just been put to rest. He felt a sense of pride in what he and his squad had accomplished. Both Abarno and Carbone had been convicted, and would be off the streets for at least the next six years. The Brescia Circle had slowly disbanded; its members had begun to suspect each other of being police spies. Other radical groups throughout the city were also in disarray, their anxious leaders slinking off, wondering if Tunney and his men were on to them, too. Most gratifying of all, as soon as the chiefs fled, the bombings stopped. Months had passed without an incident.
A terrifying threat had been, he wanted to believe, extinguished. And with its end, he told himself, his short-lived career as a handler, mentor, shepherd, friend, and even father to the men he’d dispatch on dangerous covert missions was also, thankfully, over. His harried squad could look forward to a well-deserved rest. His secret life could at last be given a proper burial. The city, he decided, was safe.
Frank Abarno, twenty-two, and Carmine Carbone, eighteen, who were accused and convicted of an anarchist plot to blow up St. Patrick’s Cathedral, appear in court on March 20, 1915.
(George Grantham Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Chapter 9
Erich Muenter was on the run. The Harvard professor and wife murderer had boarded a train to California in the aftermath of the somber burial service in Chicago. He had left behind his two children, the two doting nurses he’d cajoled into accompanying him on the tearful journey from Cambridge, his grieving and still supportive in-laws, and any encumbering pangs of guilt.
A steady barrage of headlines in the New York Times trumpeted “Harvard Teacher Still at Large” and “Muenter Not Yet Found,” but Muenter traveled west like a man without a concern in the world and, in his own mind, a blameless one too. He’d only done what he felt he needed to do. His motive for poisoning his wife, he explained in a rambling letter to a Cambridge friend written on his way to Los Angeles, had its roots in revenge. Therefore, he insisted, with a logic that was purely his own tautological invention, the act was quite legal.
What was he avenging? Here the teacher turned perplexingly vague. He hinted that his anger at his spouse was grounded in sexual dissatisfaction; neither harmony nor pleasure exis
ted in their shared intimate moments, he suggested, without providing any of the raw and apparently gnawing details. But a torrent of even more fiercely vituperative paragraphs raged on about the unfairness of his being burdened with a wife and children. Her pregnancies, he implied, were all his cunning wife’s mischief. Perhaps this was why Muenter felt he had a legal right to condemn her to a slow and painful death.
Above all, though, the letter worked hard in its sputtering way to make the fantastic case that specific reasons were unnecessary. Leona Muenter had been executed—that was how her husband saw it—for the crimes she had committed. She deserved to die. Erich Muenter, a man who understood the unarticulated laws that governed the universe, had the right—no, the duty—to end her life.
Once in sunny Los Angeles, Muenter, with the discipline of a veteran secret agent, set about reinventing himself. With a pang of regret, he shaved off his mustache and his artfully cultivated Vandyke, but took appreciative measure of the suddenly youthful face staring back at him in the mirror.
The frayed tweed suit that had served as his Harvard uniform was packed into a suitcase, and he bought a pair of shiny khaki pants, a blue shirt, and a deep-pocketed rust-colored jacket at a haberdashery that did a brisk business in secondhand clothes. His gentleman’s black derby was discarded too, and replaced by a more plebeian brown felt hat that he set at a rakish angle.
He couldn’t disguise, however, his distinctive tubercular gait, and that was a concern; the description widely circulated by the Cambridge police described the fugitive murderer as a “loose-jointed walker.” Prudence, he decided, required that he leave the country.
MUENTER TRAVELED SOUTH ON A vagabond route through Mexico. It was an aimless yearlong journey, but it gave him the time to fit a cover story snugly around his incriminating past. He christened himself Frank Holt, born in Wisconsin, parents long dead and without any siblings. Anyone who asked was told he’d picked up his knowledge of German—and perhaps, he’d concede pleasantly, some foreign mannerisms—during years employed as tutor to the children of a wealthy midwestern family as they traveled in high style through Europe.