Presidential Mission

by Sinclair, Upton;

  “Will I have to meet this Fürstin?” asked Monck.

  “I’ll have to see how she takes the story. I wouldn’t want her to take up the idea that I was hiding a woman in the room.” He didn’t tell his friend of the special and peculiar reason that he feared such a possibility. He believed the Fürstin to be, fundamentally, a decent soul, so that she wouldn’t cherish anger against him for what had happened in this room. But was there any woman living who wouldn’t blaze with wrath against a man who turned her down in that fashion and then smuggled another woman secretly into her home? Was there a woman who wouldn’t think of that possibility, and want to make sure?

  III

  A complicated set of problems for two middle-aged secret agents, lying side by side in a cold dark chamber and conversing in whispers! All the vast machinery of a highly organized civilization was against them, and they were staking their lives against their ability to foresee and to meet all difficulties that might arise. Fortunately Lanny had money, and that can do a lot; but it can do nothing against fanaticism, against the solidarity of an idea. Millions of men and women and even children were convinced that they were superior to the rest of the world, and that it was their destiny to remake the world, and that anyone who opposed them was a scoundrel, a criminal, a fiend out of hell. Such people were hard to persuade or to bribe.

  Lanny had that letter signed “Adolf Hitler,” and he could use it. But did he have the right to? His orders were to take care of himself and return to Franklin Roosevelt for more orders. He wasn’t permitted to be self-sacrificing or noble-minded; he was an apparatus for collecting military information, a very special apparatus that had cost a lot of money and taken a lot of time to construct; there was only one of him, and he did not have the right to destroy or even to risk himself. Most embarrassing of all, he didn’t have the right to explain this, but had to leave it for Monck to guess.

  At any rate, that was the theory. But unfortunately Lanny Budd wasn’t just a machine; he was a human being and had feelings of love and friendship. He had a wife and baby, and couldn’t keep from worrying about what he knew his wife must be suffering at the present time, having undoubtedly been informed that her husband had perished over or on the Sahara Desert. In the same way his mind was tormented now by the idea of this old-time labor man and Social Democratic comrade falling into the hands of the Gestapo and having to break and swallow a tiny glass capsule filled with cyanide of potassium. He just couldn’t let it happen, and he couldn’t help taking risks to keep it from happening.

  He told his friend about that congenial oil man whom he had come to know at Karinhall and was expecting to meet in Stockholm. “I know it’s a dirty thing, trading with the Nazis; but it is a fact that Sweden has to have oil. No modern nation can get along without it for even a week or two—all transportation would come to a halt and the people in the cities would starve to death.”

  “Sure, and besides that, he gets a lot of money out of it,” replied the Socialist, following his pattern.

  “I cannot lose sight of the fact that my own father was trading with Göring as long as the government would let him do so. You perhaps didn’t get a very good impression of my father, but I know him better, and have had his point of view hammered into my head since childhood. I know that a man can be a hard trader, and be making millions of dollars, and at the same time be personally very kind, even generous, to those he knows.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Lanny; it’s the system that poisons their minds. But what is your idea? To ask this oil fellow to help get me out of Germany?”

  “It’s my idea to go and sound him out. I’ll tell him that you’re a man I have known for ten years or more and that you rendered valuable services to my father. I’ll tell him the same sad story as I’ll tell Hilde, about your loss of family and home; that you don’t like wars and want to get away and start life over. I’ll put it up to Erickson that you are a valuable man who might work for him, and that if he doesn’t find you satisfactory I’m sure my father will take you on as soon as he can get you into the United States.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad. What would I be, an oil man?”

  “You could hardly get away with that. You could be a handy man who had traveled for Robbie and interviewed people. What my father valued was your trustworthiness rather than your technical knowledge.”

  “All right, Lanny—if I have the right to let you take such a risk.”

  “I had decided to go out by plane; but I’ll take a chance and tell Erickson that I’ll go with him as he so kindly offered. I’ll have my Hitler letter if trouble arises; but I don’t believe it will arise, because if you’re in the right company the police won’t have the suspicions they would have if you were alone. If the worst came, I would have to say that you had lied to me, and that I had had no idea of your illegal activities.”

  “Sure thing,” replied the German. “No use throwing good money after bad!”

  IV

  Some time after midnight the two agents got reluctantly out of their warm bed into the still, deadly cold of a marble palace. Lanny, who was in his underwear, put on his clothes, including his overcoat. Monck took off his butler suit and went through the pockets, taking out all his belongings—a watch, a purse, a handkerchief, a fountain pen; these he put under his pillow to keep them out of sight, for obviously a man who escapes from a bombed building in his underwear might pick up his shoes and run with them, but he could hardly gather up these smaller objects for which he had no receptacle. He gave Lanny a small box of matches—very precious in Germany—and his identification papers in the fatal name of Konrad Kraft. Then he got back into bed and set to munching a chunk of bread for his supper.

  The P.A. took the discarded garments and went to the door of the room and carefully turned the key. He opened the door without a sound, and stood in the darkness, listening. It was as it had been on the night before Christmas—“not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Lanny knew that the ladies used the rear rooms of this second story, and that the servants slept higher up; so, barring a possible burglar, he would have the lower part to himself. He crept down the carpeted stairs, feeling his way. He knew the ground floor because he had visited here in happier days; he knew approximately where the door to the basement was, because he had been taken there during an air raid.

  He groped his way through the dining-room, step by careful step, for to upset a lampstand or other piece of furniture would be a calamity. When he had come to what he thought was the right part of the building, he struck a match and then marked in his mind where the door was. When he blew out the match he ground it against the sole of his shoe and then put it into his pocket. He groped his way and opened the door, not forgetting to have his gloves on. There was a flight of stairs leading to the basement. He went down them, and with the help of another match found the furnace-room. As he expected, the furnace was cold and the grate empty; it had been that way for a year, or perhaps two.

  Still wearing his gloves, Lanny laid the clothing in a rounded pile inside the furnace, and used the Swiss passport and the residence permit of Konrad Kraft to set the clothing afire in several places. It was dry and burned not too slowly. Lanny laid the ends of the papers on top, and stayed there and poked the little fire about with a stick, until there was nothing but ashes and black bone buttons. These fell down through the grate; and Lanny, who wanted to make sure of a perfect crime, raked the buttons out one by one and transferred them to a half empty ashcan and raked old ashes over them. All this he managed in silence, even to the opening and closing of furnace doors. Then he tiptoed back as he had come, and when he was safely locked in the room he whispered to his friend that the telltale suit was no more.

  Lanny took off his overcoat and suit and spread them over the bed as before. He got himself a chunk of bread—for he, too, had had no supper—and crawled into his bunk and munched while he whispered with the ex-capitán. They would have a good part of the next day to work out plans, so they de
cided that it was time now to sleep. Lanny had known this man of many roles for more than ten years, but had never before chanced to sleep in the same room with him. It happened that he snored loudly; but this wouldn’t be fatal, for if members of the household heard him they would blame it on Lanny. So Lanny went to sleep, too.

  V

  Steel-gray clouds and a cold wind—that was Berlin on the next morning, the first of March, a day fateful for the whole city as well as for two anti-Nazi conspirators. The P.A. had adopted the odd program of putting on his clothes, including his overcoat, and then wrapping a towel about his neck before shaving. He used ice-cold water out of a pail, for the running water in the palace had had to be shut off and the pipes drained in winter, so that they would not freeze and burst. Lanny went down to the kitchen, which was warm, and there he was welcomed by the elderly servants. What kind and lovely people the old Germans were, he reflected. They fed him hot gruel and an ersatz drink, and he left a food coupon, according to etiquette.

  He had sent word to the two sisters that he wanted to see them about a matter of importance, and they made themselves and their room presentable. Lanny told the tragic story, of which he had studied every detail with Monck. He and his father had an old friend in Berlin, a Prussian of education and high character who had been employed by Robbie in his oil days at a salary of six hundred marks a month, doing research work, checking accounts, carrying on negotiations. Lanny had gone to call on Anton Vetterl to see how he was getting along, and had found that the house in which he lived had that morning been hit by a bomb. Evidently the story in the newspapers that no bombs had been dropped was due to a misunderstanding—Lanny put it thus tactfully, and could be sure the ladies would accept his statement, for no intelligent Germans any longer believed Doktor Goebbels. The house was a smoldering ruin, and the man was at a neighbor’s, weeping uncontrollably; his wife and two children had been in the next room and the roof had collapsed upon them and pinioned them in the fire. Vetterl had tried to claw his way to them, but in vain, and the firemen had had to drag him out of the house. He had had only his underwear on, and neighbors had wrapped him in a blanket. Lanny had put his overcoat on the man and got a conveyance and brought him to the palace—he hadn’t known where else to go and hoped the two ladies would forgive him.

  It was a shame to distress one’s friends with such a tale, but Lanny thought it would be a still greater shame to let a valuable agent of the democracies fall into the hands of the Gestapo. So he piled on the agony; the man was both grief-stricken and shell-shocked, and the only thing to do was to leave him alone and let him get over it. No, he didn’t need food, because Lanny had made purchases, intending to bring them to Hilde, and had given this food to Vetterl. The poor fellow was embarrassed by his lack of self-control and couldn’t bear to meet anybody. Lanny had advised him to lock his room door, so that he could be sure of not being disturbed; he had had almost no sleep, but might get some during the day. Hilde asked with anxiety whether Lanny could be sure the man wouldn’t commit suicide. He answered that his friend was a gentleman, and would not think of subjecting his hostesses to such distress.

  There was only one problem: this bombing victim had to have some clothes. He had money, and so did Lanny, but new clothing was unobtainable; Lanny was wondering if these ladies would part with some of the men’s clothing that might be in the house. He saw the two women look at each other, and saw the pain in their features. But they knew that the request was a proper one; Hilde said she had decided that the clothing of her lost ones ought to be put to use in such a time of scarcity. Anyhow, they had to vacate this palace in a week, and could transport only a small part of their possessions. What was the size of this Herr Anton Vetterl? Lanny said that he was not quite so tall as Lanny himself, but a solidly built man, and it was a safe guess that the late Fürst’s clothing would fit him.

  They went to the dead diplomat’s room, where everything had been left as he had had it. From the clothes closet Lanny selected a winter overcoat of the best wool and a black suit of the kind that elder statesmen wore at all the international conferences that Lanny had attended from 1919 to 1939. Monck would look impressive in it, and Lanny would have fun teasing him about it after they got out of Germany. But then the P.A. reflected that he had just burned a black suit, and that possibly some ignorant passport official or border guard might not know the difference between a diplomat’s costume and a butler’s. Lanny decided upon an English tweed of a mixed pattern, such as businessmen wore. He found a shirt, and a tie to match, for of course without that nothing would have been right.

  Hilde said that she wouldn’t think of taking money for any of her late husband’s belongings, but Lanny told her that he was going to make her a present to cover all the many favors she had done, and she would have no choice but to take it, because he would drop it into her lap and get out of her reach. To cheer her up he reminded her of the joke they had heard in the night club—that Ribbentrop’s dream of bliss was to have a suit of real English wool and to be able to rub a real grease spot off it!

  VI

  So far so good. Lanny took the clothes up to his friend, so that if anything were to make it necessary for him to get out of the Donnerstein palace he wouldn’t have to go in his underwear. Monck dressed himself, to make sure that everything was right; then he undressed and got into bed again, so that the clothing might not be rumpled.

  Lanny telephoned to the Adlon and made an appointment to meet Eric Erickson. “I am going to change my mind and go out with you if there’s still room in your car,” he said. And the other replied: “Plenty of room.” It had been some time since Lanny had heard any more welcome words. “Give me your room number,” said the P.A., for he was known in that “Club” and wanted to slip in without attracting attention.

  He managed this feat without trouble. The oil man greeted him, and the one-time son of New England-Arabian Oil set out to exercise his conversational skill to its utmost. He repeated the tragic story of an old friend who had lost his home and his family under bombs, and who was fed up with living under such conditions. He had been in the employ of Robbie Budd for many years, and wanted to join Robbie in America; of course that was out of the question in wartime, but at least he could get to a neutral country. Lanny could recommend him as a valuable employee, both honest and intelligent. If Erickson could use him, all right; if he couldn’t get a job in Sweden, he would go to South America; he had money, and Lanny was willing to give him more.

  The oil man listened with interest, then said: “That is all right, Budd, and I’ll be glad to accommodate you. But what about your man’s passport and exit permit?”

  “He tells me he can arrange that.”

  “But I have to leave tomorrow morning. I have engagements that are pressing.”

  “He is sure he can get it today.”

  “By God, if he can he’s a wizard. Even I couldn’t do it, with the friends I have here.”

  “I think I could do it for him if I had to. You know, I have a letter from the Führer.”

  “Red” Erickson fixed his blue Swedish eyes upon his new friend and said with a touch of sternness: “Look here, Budd! Is this some political fellow?”

  “I haven’t asked any questions about that,” responded the well-prepared P.A. (It was true, in a way.) “One doesn’t want to bother a man who had just met with a calamity.”

  “Understand,” persisted the other, “I take a lot of trouble to keep out of politics. We oil men have no country.”

  “That used to be Zaharoff’s saying,” remarked Lanny with one of his genial smiles.’ “Only he always added: ‘Except where there’s oil.’”

  “Sweden has no oil, and we’re in one hell of a fix, caught between two fires—the hottest fires in history. We have the problem of surviving, and believe me, it will take our best brains.”

  “I understand you, my friend. As an art expert I am trying to save a small part of the world’s culture; incidentally, when I see a chance to p
ut in a word to end this mass slaughter, I venture to do it.” The emergency required that Lanny should say this with a straight face, and that he should gaze steadily into the eyes of the other man. At the same time he was thinking: Will he swallow that? Or will he think me the world’s worst fraud?

  Erickson continued in his quiet and even voice: “Many Swedes take sides in this war, and they become bitter about it. Some rage at me because I buy oil from the Germans. They do not stop to think what would happen if no one in Sweden would carry on this business. Quite certainly the Allies are not in a position to meet our needs, and in a short time all Swedish industry would come to a stop, and all the population except the farmers would starve to death. I take the position that I am a businessman, and it would be embarrassing to me to discover that I had been bringing either a German or an Allied propagandist into Sweden.”

  “I am quite sure that Anton Vetterl is nothing resembling that. When I last saw him in Geneva a few months ago, he was diligently digging in the public library, compiling a history of Swiss diplomacy during the Napoleonic wars. He was working here in the Staatsbibliothek on the same theme. You will find him a man of culture as well as of business acumen.”

  “All right, Budd, I’ll take your word for him. If he has his papers by ten o’clock tomorrow morning I’ll take him along. We have to leave at that hour to catch the steamer. Shall I come to the Donnerstein palace for you?”

  “It will be a great favor if you will do so. And of course I’ll pay our share of the cost of the car.”

  “There is no cost. It’s a government car and chauffeur. Will you have a drink?”

  VII

  Lanny joined a queue in front of a delicatessen and bought some cooked food. In the old days no one would have dreamed of approaching a home of the aristocracy carrying a bundle wrapped in newspaper; but now it was the fashion, and if anybody saw you he envied you. Lanny went up to the room, tapped lightly, and waited while his friend got out of bed and opened the door. “Cheerio!” Lanny said, and told what arrangements he had made.