New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  A white satin suit. Sequins. Outrageous. A defiant, outlaw quality to it, lewd and rebellious. The dancers in the aisles matching him step for step. Loose and free, boys spinning the girls out and around. A different move every time, chiming along Hi-dee hi-dee hi-dee hi ho—

  If I’d stayed at NYU, I’d know all this, Hawkins thought. Painful realizations began dawning.

  In school in England I was always the Yank. Saw myself that way, too. Well, because they all said so. The outsider. They made me feel that way. Something exotic. Always different. Different accent, whatever. The other boys picking on me, when I let them. The girls, standoffish, wary. Then there was Will Wanders, big kid, big knuckles. Used to wait outside of school, pick a fight all the time. Had to fight, had to get tough. Mother used to sigh so when I came home all dirty with torn clothes. At university, over here, it was better, but still. The girls all loved the way I talked, the accent. But in the end, it all said, “You are different. You don’t fit in. You don’t belong.”

  How much time have I actually spent here in the States? A bit out of touch. Well, more than a bit. That’s why the music, the dancers and Ventnor caught me so off guard.

  But he began happily clapping along with the music. Like the lights outside, the music was impossible to resist.

  -29-

  Kapitänleutnant Fritz Eberling rocked back and forth as the U-56 rolled gently on a swell. Fresh air roared through his head. Manhattan’s reflected lights glowed like an aurora over the bow. What glories lay behind them? he wondered. Girls. Champagne. Music. But we’ll have an entertaining time tonight.

  Off to starboard the lights of the Rockaways glimmered, tantalizingly close, individual streetlights a white necklace lining the dark shore, the neon marquees of stores and yellow house lights barely visible. A passing car’s headlights traced the shore road. To port the Sandy Hook light winked across the sky, followed by the West Bank light off the bow.

  Rubbing his eyes, he squinted through the binoculars again. Out there, between him and the lights of the city, steamed six British and Canadian ships and a pair of escorts. If he didn’t go blind from eyestrain first, and if his luck held, he’d see the ships silhouetted against the glowing horizon. They’d be running dark, without lights.

  He called down to the soundman, “Any pings?” The exec shook his head. Eberling grunted. Too bad.

  Convoy commanders had basically two tactics. They could run for it or take a defensive approach and use sonar. That meant stopping dead in the water periodically because the ship’s engine noise and particularly cavitation, a singing sound caused by the propellers, drowned out the sonar pings. They’d travel a few miles, stop their props, ping, and when the coast looked clear, proceed.

  But to Eberling the pings were as happy a beacon as an East Frisian lighthouse. A pinging convoy was practically crawling—fat hens squawking for a plucking.

  No pings meant they were running for it. Some kapitäns preferred attacking submerged, relying on their quiet electric motors to intercept ships—much safer. But the electrics ran slow. Running on batteries meant sinking one ship but no more. Eberling wanted to maximize his chances and use his fast diesels. The U-56 had five torpedo tubes, four forward and one astern. Since it took a painful half hour per tube to restow the crew’s gear, unbolt each new fish from the hull and slide it in the launcher, each torpedo had to count.

  A shape flicked against the glowing horizon through the binoculars—ships or a tic? His eyes were watering now. No. Ships. Too soon to tell their direction. He paused a minute, waiting, resting his eyes. Opening them, he looked again. The ships were definitely there and moving fast. The lights at the tip of Rockaway Point winked out as a dark wave passed, obscuring them, thirty-five degrees off the starboard bow, about six kilometers away.

  “Battle stations.” The deck crew loitering below him in the darkness instantly began stowing the cannon and the two aft antiaircraft guns. Inside the boat others latched up and secured the berths and bunks. Eberling peered through the binoculars again. The convoy turned hard east once it cleared the harbor and the three-mile limit. Plotting their path on a mental map, he slid down the ladder.

  “Periscope depth.” The boat’s deck tipped slightly down as it sliced beneath the waves, the crew standing at their positions bathed in red light, waiting and watching for the next order. Eberling took off his uniform blazer and cap, leaving him without any symbol of rank on his turtleneck sweater. They knew the familiar ritual well. U-boat crews became as close as families and he didn’t need to assert rank. The boat leveled off.

  “Up periscope.” Eberling swung the ’scope around, relocating the convoy by the shadows passing the shore lights, exactly at its expected location. After several tense minutes they arrived in position directly in front of the convoy, turned ninety degrees, bearing east, and slowed to three knots, just keeping pace with the current.

  They listened breathlessly to the growing rumble of the approaching ships. Eberling motioned to the helmsman to move slightly to starboard, adjusting their positions on the sound alone, centering them in the convoy’s path, and stopped their motors. At the right moment Eberling nodded to a rating and the sailor gradually pulled a lever, slowly blowing the tanks as quietly as possible. The U-boat’s diesel clanked to life when they broke the surface. He sprang up the reopened hatch. With her diesels running the U-56 easily matched the convoy’s speed.

  No reaction showed from the ships. They’d penetrated undetected, their engine noise masked in the rumble of the group. On each side steamed two freighters less than a thousand feet apart. Two more sailed in line ahead, two behind.

  “Hard to port.” The U-56 quickly swung to north, pointing its sharp bow at the black shape of a ship at almost point-blank range. Missing would be nearly impossible.

  “Fire number one.” The torpedo chugged out the number one tube. “Hard starboard.” The boat swung sharply southward until it again pointed directly at a ship.

  “Fire number two.” Another torpedo shot out. Only seconds had passed. “Hard port again.”

  At that moment the first torpedo struck home. A brilliant flash lit the water with an eerie greenish glow all around and under the ships, fading out into the ocean, silhouetting the dark hulls, suspending them in air for a long moment. A tremendous concussion thundered through the water, the boat and into the soles of their feet. As they swung to port he fired the two fish remaining in the front tubes at the ships in line ahead. The starboard torpedo found its mark, lighting the ocean with another green circle, floating the dark ship in midair.

  The escorts on the outside crashed into action, launching dazzling white star shells with a cracking pop, bathing the convoy and the U-56 in a harsh bluish light, reversing the light from under the water to over it. The escort’s gun crews pivoted around and opened fire, quickly dropping a pair of shells perilously close to the U-56’s hull, throwing up two huge white columns of phosphorescent spray.

  Ears ringing from the explosions, the kapitän abandoned firing the rear tube and half-climbed, half-fell down the conning tower hatch into the control room.

  “Crash dive!” Those two shells were a bit close, he thought. The Brits are improving. The diving planes rammed the U-56 under. The crew heard the distant thud of the third torpedo striking home. They counted, waiting, but no fourth hit resounded. A miss. The kapitän shrugged and began shaking hands all around. Three ships in six minutes? Not bad. Not bad at all. And they still had nine fish left.

  -30-

  The midday heat and humidity on the street steadily crawled up into the nineties. Roiling eddies of burning sausage and bacon fumes acridly mixed with billowing clouds of traffic exhaust. It all churned together, suffocating, weighty. Hawkins gingerly rested against the white enameled wall outside a Nedick’s luncheonette on Herald Square, testing for a clean spot with his fingers. There weren’t any. Filthy. Greasy. Impossible to ignore the revolting stench.

  Several drivers crawling by in the traffic began
angrily beating their fists on their horns, their mouths wide open like baby birds panting from the heat. Then the noise stopped dead. All the mouths gaped at a solitary yellow Packard gliding along the street. Its windows were rolled up, the only air-conditioned car on the market, drawing a wake of jealous awe behind it. Several of the men actually hung an elbow out their windows, angling their heads out to watch.

  Hawkins missed it. He’d just spotted his contact, Special Agent in Charge Mike Kelly, striding up the street a half block away.

  The FBI’s director, J. Edgar Hoover, ran the Bureau like a personal fief and it mirrored all his well-known eccentricities, which were considerable. It might have been a sweltering Manhattan August but Kelly came tricked out in full FBI regalia: dark fedora, dark wool suit, a topcoat, and best of all, white socks. Rivulets of sweat ran down Kelly’s face. A raw band of prickly heat erupted above his visibly damp shirt collar. From his expression Kelly was not in a good mood.

  They both had a copy of the Daily News opened to the same page, Kelly’s suggestion. Needn’t have bothered, Hawkins thought. A ten-year-old could spot Kelly, his rig and demeanor that ludicrously obvious. Might as well wear a signboard proclaiming PLAINCLOTHES COPPER. An upward twitch started itching Hawkins’ cheek. No, no, he thought. Need that stiff upper lip now. Won’t do to crack a smile, not even a little one.

  Kelly offered his sweaty hand and gestured inside. As they sat down Hawkins bent forward, carefully avoiding the sticky green linoleum tabletop to see if Kelly sported the usual suspenders. Yep. There they were, along with a bulging .45-caliber Colt revolver in a shoulder holster. A hogleg indeed. Big as brick.

  Hawkins ordered a cup of tea, Kelley coffee. He got right to business.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Hawkins?”

  “I’ve been hired by the British consulate here in New York to represent their commercial interests. I felt it’d be a good idea to check in with you. We may be crossing paths occasionally since I’ll be handling shipping and the like.”

  Kelly leaned forward in the booth, hands clasped, manner short but correct. He watched Hawkins with a steady, expressionless gaze, his voice a featureless and unrevealing monotone.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right. I’m really glad to know there’s another foreign representative on my beat. I’ve got the Limeys, the Krauts, the Wops, the Japs, the Frogs—oh, wait, we lost them along the way—the Reds, and then there’s the Irish mob, the Italian mob, the Jewish mob, our usual bank robbers, embezzlers, forgers, white slavers. It’s a nice list. They keep me busy. Thank you for coming.”

  “Ah—Yes … As you know, through our various operations overseas we may periodically come into the possession of information that might be of interest to the FBI.”

  “What do you have today?”

  “Nothing at the moment.” Kelly’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “However, I want you to know if—when—I come across anything of interest to the Bureau, I will personally bring it to you first.”

  Kelly’s whole manner and expression subtly changed, leaning back in the booth, easing slightly.

  “All right, yeah. I’d appreciate that.” A waitress brought the tea and coffee. Kelly smirked. “I must say, Mr. Hawkins, you seem a little savvier than the last one. He came around demanding all kinds of stuff without offering a damn thing.”

  “We really want to promote cooperation.”

  Hawkins saw that puzzled expression again. Here it comes, he thought. The Question.

  “Who the hell are you? Where you from? England? Canada? You look more like a slick executive type, not a government man.”

  Hawkins told him. American father. English mother.

  “Okay. Where’s your residence then? You going back there, London, after the war, I mean?”

  “I might stay here.”

  “You vote here?”

  “No. I’ve never actually voted anywhere. Always been on the road.”

  “What are you then?”

  “Well—I’m—” Hawkins stopped. “Anglo American.”

  “But what country are you loyal to? You’re working for them, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. As a civilian employee. But I don’t see my loyalties as necessarily mutually exclusive.”

  “But if you’re a loyal, patriotic American, how can you work for a foreign power? How can you have it both ways?” Not an unfair question, Hawkins thought. Not even an unfamiliar one. Asked myself exactly that more than once.

  Hawkins twisted his head slightly, silently straining for an answer. He knows the score, and I can’t possibly tell Kelly I only plan on staying for a couple of weeks. He won’t be bothered.

  But Kelly finally seemed to sense he’d pushed far enough and backed off. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered Hawkins one. Hawkins said, “No, thanks,” and took out his pipe and pouch instead.

  “What you doing now?” Kelly said, waving his lit lighter so close Hawkins could feel the heat on his nose. “And don’t you dare bullshit me, I know Stephenson sent you.”

  And so we dance, Hawkins thought.

  -31-

  “Research. We’re making an inventory of German business interests,” Hawkins said. “See who might become involved in efforts to infiltrate espionage agents and saboteurs into Canada and the UK using neutral countries like the US.”

  Kelly drained his cup, tilting his head back, raising his eyebrows slightly. A crooked smile crossed his face. “And you have no interest in the activities of these potential Nazi agents or saboteurs here?”

  “Our mandate is the security of Britain and Canada. And British shipping worldwide, of course.”

  “Ah, yessir. Slipping agents through here would indeed violate the Neutrality Act. Okay, you’ve read the law. So who’s attracting your interest? Right now.” A polite order, but an order.

  The tricky part. After a moment of feigned surprise, anxiety and indecision, Hawkins tried to seemingly make a leap of confidence.

  “Very well. We have—allegations, only—against a certain Hans Ludwig. That he might be aware of certain types of activities. I think it’s more likely he knows who does.”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re aware of him!” Kelly’s tone boastingly blasé. “The new commercial rep from the Reich Trade Ministry.”

  The dodge had worked. An official commercial representative. That’s a little more than we expected, Hawkins thought. Ludwig might have traveled on a Swiss passport but obviously didn’t enter on one, then. One more little piece—

  “Yes, but he bears a routine check—even if he is traveling officially.”

  “Oh, well, that doesn’t mean anything. Very busy fellow. There’s a big meeting at the Waldorf Astoria tonight. He’s one of the speakers. Regular star.”

  And there we are, Hawkins thought, official cover. It would be interesting to know exactly where in his luggage Ludwig hid his diplomatic passport. Maybe it never left his person.

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “It’s a jumble of right-wing, pro-Nazi types and isolationists. The German-American Bund helped set it up for them. Officially it’s a neutrality rally but the German government’s using it to concentrate on businessmen here. Perfectly legal and up and up as far as we can tell.”

  “I’d still like to check him out.”

  “That’d be a good idea.” Kelly glanced at his watch, then blandly announced, “I’ve gotta get going. Got an interstate stolen-car case to investigate in New Jersey.” Kelly jotted on a napkin and pushed it to Hawkins. “Here’s his address at the Waldorf.”

  “The Waldorf? The Waldorf? He’s staying there?”

  Kelly seemed intrigued at that little slip, smiling slightly. He grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser, wiping his face and hands. “I tell ya, they got dough to burn.”

  “They must. Thank you.”

  Kelly threw the napkins down, started to leave, then settled back down again and added, quite unthreateningly, “I’ll try and see you there.”

  “Good.” />
  Hawkins watched him go. What to make of that? he thought. Kelly’s manner’s maddeningly opaque. And yet this man, obviously a highly experienced officer, let drop a seemingly pointless story about chasing stolen cars. Hawkins remembered an old Service joke he’d once heard, “There are two things you tell your wife—when you get a transfer and when you get a cut in pay.”

  So I’m on notice. Kelly plans on following me. But he’s letting me know that. Also the fact he has other claims on his time. Taking advantage of the situation, after a fashion. See what I come up with. That’s fine with me. Out front’s exactly where I want to be.

  -32-

  A double row of police black-and-whites stretched up Park Avenue. The cabbie’s eyes disappeared behind a bushy, gray frown. With a loud cough he spat a stream of cigar juice at the corner of Forty-Eighth Street.

  “That’s it, pal. End of the line. No fare pays for trouble.”

  A tremendous, echoing mob swarmed around the Waldorf Astoria like an army of ants trying to carry away a stupendous bauble with spires.

  Hawkins ran up, pushing to the front of the throng. He peeked through the crowd past a police line and across the street. A densely packed mass of neutrality supporters milled around behind another police line on the opposite curb, nervously trying to edge away from a small clutch of about fifty young uniformed “storm troopers.” They had brown outfits similar to German Sturmabteilung uniforms, complete with caps and boots. Only no swastika armbands or insignia.

  The would-be storm troopers were rapidly strutting up and down, leather belts striping their puffed-out chests. A loud taunt rang from across the street. They defiantly snapped their arms out in a sieg heil salute, arm arched, hand down. Then they cupped hands to mouth, shouting back.