Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  Coming up on the block before the Orange Lantern, I swung onto a side street, cranking the wheel in a sharp U-turn and dousing the lights. Precious seconds passed, but no gray vehicle. I emerged from the side road, checking my mirror repeatedly to be sure the driver had not doubled back.

  The parking lot adjacent to the tavern was about a third full, but it was nearly eleven, the hour when the afternoon shift ended. Soon the next wave of plant workers would begin arriving. I needed to be inside the FBI truck beforehand or I risked blowing our cover. With no time left for puzzling over the Studebaker, I wove among the abandoned cars, hunting for Dante and the team.

  The panel truck was in a deserted back lot reserved for overflow parking. I parked and beat feet toward it. Painted black and backed into a far corner, it had a billowy white cloud as the backdrop of a logo stenciled on its side. An airborne Liberator had been painted above the cloud. BUGS AWAY, the name of the phony pest control company under whose auspices we would be entering Renner’s office, was emblazoned on the plane’s nose. Beneath the fuselage, a giant cockroach, a bomb strapped to its belly, had just been released from the Lib’s bomb bay and was plunging downward.

  At the truck’s rear doors, I knocked. Two raps, pause; one rap, pause; two rapid raps, stop. The square windows near the top of the doors had been blacked out. A few seconds passed during which I assumed someone was peering out of a minuscule peephole checking my identity. Finally, the chrome handle flipped downward. A hand reached out. I grabbed it.

  “Glad you made it,” Dante said, heaving me up inside.

  A mesh-protected bulb, like the ones mechanics use to illuminate the tight spaces in which they work, was suspended from the interior ceiling. Four men in dark clothing were huddled around canisters and other equipment.

  “Sorry I cut it so close,” I said. “Had to pay what I thought would be a quick visit to a sick friend.”

  “Our mutual friend?”

  He was referring to Liberty. “Sorry, no. But leaving the friend’s home, I picked up a tail.” I described the gray Studebaker and the evasive maneuver I’d used to ditch it. Dante’s brow was furrowed. “Don’t worry,” I added, “I used extra caution pulling into the lot.”

  He still looked concerned. “Positive you lost him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He nodded.

  My associates looked as if they had all stepped off the same Midwestern farm. Clean-cut, nice looking and with uniformly muscular physiques, they all had pale eyes, fair complexions, and blond flat-tops. On a team mission, such wholesome fungible looks were an asset as they could easily blend into a crowd should a fast getaway be necessary.

  Dante did the introductions. Each man had been assigned a code name having to do with his area of responsibility. The safe cracker, who was also our lock expert, was called Fingers; the camera expert, recording any suspicious documents, Eyes; the radio man who would be on the inside with us keeping communications open with the lookout posted outdoors, Lips. From slots concealed in the sides of the truck, and through a minuscule peephole I’d correctly guessed was in the back door, his counterpart, Ears, would be covering the area around the building’s entrance, scouting for late-night visitors. A cooperating supervisor, who knew only so much as to be able to help pave the way inside, had put Development Engineering on notice about our fumigation project. A schedule indicating the times their section of the building would be off-limits had also been posted.

  As agent-in-charge, Dante was code-named Doc. Finally, as the flaps and seals specialist assisting Doc in checking questionable documents for codes, ciphers, and secret ink, I was Nurse. We took a moment to review the sketches and photos of the office layout. Next, we ran through communications procedures and discussed various scenarios of what we would do once inside. Dante admonished us, “Keep in mind, this search of Renner’s office is illegal. If we’re caught we blow our chance of nailing Renner, plus the government will disclaim all responsibility for our actions.”

  Everyone, including Doc, had already slipped on coveralls. Made of black cotton twill, the jumpsuits zipped up the front. A logo patch with the company bomber and bomb-strapped bug was stitched over the breast pocket; a larger version of the emblem had been stenciled onto the back. Mine slid comfortably over my slacks and turtleneck. I tugged the zipper and it made a soft buzz fleeing upwards. Doc flipped a billed cap onto my head, suggesting I keep the pliable rubber hood that was also part of my disguise at the ready. Wartime or not, a woman who would take a job stomping out bugs and rodents would be considered eccentric, and we could not afford to draw any unnecessary attention.

  Our weapons were minimal. Dante would be carrying a revolver and blackjack while the rest of us had been issued gas guns. As a final precaution, we checked them.

  The facilitating supervisor had cleared our admittance through Gate 10, the inbound entrance for all trucks arriving at Willow Run. We would follow normal security procedures, subjecting our truck and gear to the requisite inspection. A search raised the stakes, but Dante had been discouraged from trying to win an exemption, as special requests always raised a red flag and could ultimately backfire, drawing closer scrutiny once we were inside. To that end, all canisters, spraying devices, and traps that might be related to an extermination business had been left in sight; all equipment that might appear suspect was hidden in compartments beneath the truck’s elevated floor.

  Dante and I climbed into the panel truck’s cab, leaving the rest of the team seated on the two benches bolted to the interior walls in back. He started the engine and pulled the knob for the lights. “You okay?” he asked, looking over.

  We were about to break into a locked office of a government-owned factory. The idea of getting caught and returning to jail terrified me; the expression I pictured on my father’s face horrified me even more. Yet I was also keenly aware of embarking on an adventure few would know about much less have the privilege of experiencing. That was as heady as it got.

  “I’m doing swell,” I replied, smiling back across the cab at him.

  Telling Dante the news about Liberty, as well as V-V’s ominous send-off, needed to wait until after the breakin. His briefing could not have made it clearer: our focus needed to be one hundred percent on the job at hand.

  I recognized the unbuttoned jacket and protruding paunch of the guard at the Gate 10 checkpoint immediately. My skin crawled. It was Officer Flynn, the chunky, florid-faced guard who had been manning the lobby desk when I’d visited Willow Run earlier in the day.

  “The guard knows me,” I whispered, slipping the loose rubber hood over my head.

  Flynn reviewed the copy of our contract then leaned in to scrutinize the cab’s interior. My eyes were riveted to the windshield but I sensed his gaze pause on me. I did not breathe.

  “Need to check the back.” Flynn pushed away from the door with a grunt.

  “Fine,” said Dante, hopping out while I expelled an audible sigh.

  Muted voices and the sound of equipment being shifted across the floor penetrated the small sliding door at my back. Then silence. Resisting the urge to fling open the trap door and have a look, I discovered a hangnail and nibbled at it until at last Dante returned.

  Flynn’s gruff voice penetrated the cab as Dante climbed in. “Everyone on-site’s required to wear a badge. You’ll need six.” He handed the identification to Dante, charging him with returning the badges once we had finished.

  A lanky youth with shiny, pock-marked skin and a pencil-line mustache sauntered outdoors and coolly surveyed our truck.

  Flynn hitched up his pants. “Outsiders have to be escorted. The Kid here will take you over.”

  The Kid stepped astride a nearby factory scooter. We chased the scooter’s taillights along a spottily lit lane that serviced the back of the L-shaped factory. I regarded the windowless concrete walls and metal doors. Hadn’t I left County Jail?

  Dante cracked the small trap door behind our seats. “We’re here,” he said, projectin
g his voice softly through the narrow opening. “You men ready?”

  Several hushed voices chorused back. “Yeah.” “You bet.” “Let’s go, Doc.”

  The Kid had dismounted his scooter. “This is the section where you’ll be working,” he called, indicating we could begin unloading.

  I stood amid the equipment we’d piled near the truck’s rear door. Hoisting a canister onto my back, I lifted my black bag. Fingers, Eyes, and Lips had already loaded up. Dante slammed the door, leaving Ears inside, and we marched toward the door as a unit.

  A lamp suspended from a curved metal rod illuminated the entrance as our escort tugged open the door. He motioned us inside. After checking to be sure Dante had his directions straight, and reminding us that he would remain nearby until we finished, he began closing the door.

  “The offices with the infestation problem were left unlocked,” he said just before the door clicked shut.

  We followed the corridor to Renner’s office. Beyond the frosted-glass door the room was completely dark.

  Dante surveyed our group with a sweeping glance. “Ready?”

  Inside the anteroom, we pulled on fitted leather gloves. Dante tried the door to Renner’s private office, but it wouldn’t budge. “Blast. Son of a gun installed a special device of some sort. Fingers…”

  Fingers slipped a small metal pick into the lock. Dante turned the handle, cracked the door, and paused. “Eyes, the washroom is right down the hall. How about getting set up in there, we’ll get started in here.”

  Once we were inside, our objective would be to uncover Renner’s drawings of the night-bombing device. We would also be on the hunt for evidence pertaining to other espionage activities, such as letters or records containing names or leads to other spies, drop-site addresses, strategic enemy plans or drawings of secret devices, and any data that could be used to mislead the enemy. Eyes would use the darkroom he was setting up in the restroom to photograph the items, then process the film to be sure we had the shots we wanted. Back at headquarters, the prints would be developed in the lab. Later, after Renner was brought in, the photographs would be used to inspire his cooperation.

  Beneath his coveralls, Eyes’ thick neck and broad shoulders bulged as he lifted his black bag and collected a second valise containing his photo equipment, including cameras, collapsible tripod, film, special lights, and chemicals for developing.

  Dante entered Renner’s office and closed the blinds before turning on the light. Signaling me to wait by the door, he motioned to my counterparts. The men each took a section of the room. Light fixtures, sills, and furnishings were examined for traps. I studied the stacks of paperwork, thinking they looked nearly as high as they had twelve hours earlier.

  Something on the floor behind the desk caught Dante’s eye. He got down on one knee to take a look. Fingers, having completed his search of a potted fern, started toward Doc, gesturing for me to follow. A leather case had been shoved into the corner behind another plant. Sensing Fingers and me behind him, Doc motioned to a nearly invisible wire which ran to an electrical outlet in the wall. He disconnected the plug and opened the case: It contained a sound recording device. I had seen the exact model demonstrated in training. The beauty of the recorder was an extremely sensitive switch that could be rigged to be thrown automatically whenever someone spoke. It was creepy to think that Renner might have my voice preserved for his private purposes on a recording somewhere.

  No one had made a peep since we’d entered. Dante found another wire connected to a port in the side of the briefcase. Holding it between his fingers, he followed it to the bookcase behind Renner’s desk, where he found a microphone attached to the photograph of Clara. On the opposite side of the room, Fingers discovered yet another wire taped discreetly along the baseboard. It led him to a second microphone attached to the underside of the drawing table across the room.

  Lips, turning up nothing unusual in his area, took a seat at a table near the door. He donned earphones connected to a radio inside the open case positioned in front of him. Satisfied we had uncovered and exterminated all existing electronic bugs, Dante asked Lips to contact Ears inside the truck. Ears had nothing to report other than that The Kid was guarding the door, whiling away the time smoking cigarettes.

  Eyes returned, having set up his equipment in the washroom. Lips remained at the table, tuned to the radio, keeping an eye on the anteroom beyond. The rest of us went to the color-coded blueprint near the drafting table. The giant drawing was affixed to cork board. After carefully examining the board’s edges for a trip wire, Fingers slipped his hands beneath the center of the rendering. My mouth felt dry, watching him pull the twin panels apart to reveal the pleated dumbwaiter door.

  Fingers leaned into the wall, placing an ear near the large dial at the door’s center. I held my breath, my gaze riveted to his thumb and index finger as he deftly spun the knob. He tugged the corrugated metal inset and it gave way, sliding noiselessly toward the ceiling and exposing the wall safe. He gripped the safe’s handle. This morning when Mrs. K was similarly poised to open the safe, Renner had made a surprise appearance. Fingers pulled the handle, the door opened, and when nothing unexpected happened, I gave the men a thumbs-up.

  I took my position at the table we planned to use for the sorting process while Dante began examining the inside of the safe. He handed over several legal-sized manila envelopes and I arranged them on the table.

  At the safe, Fingers gave a low whistle. Curious, I edged up behind Dante. He had discovered a false bottom. He opened the trap door and was reaching for a long tin box inside when Fingers signaled Dante to freeze. A barely visible string had been placed in a zigzag pattern across the top. Inspecting the container more closely, Fingers also called our attention to a fine white dust coating the lid.

  A few quiet seconds passed while Fingers sketched the pattern of the string’s layout so that he would be able to reaffix it in precisely the same manner. Next, using the beam of a small flashlight and a hand-held implement resembling a dental tool with a tiny mirror, he checked the safe’s interior for other booby traps. Finally, the box was cleared for removal and Dante slid it out, positioning it between the piles of manila envelopes on the table.

  The elongated lid lifted easily. He flipped it backwards, resting it on the table. The box contained a large envelope. As Dante carefully extracted it, something long, thin, and weighty slipped to the side.

  Fingers pointed to some reddish-brown streaks on the envelope’s exterior. “Blood?” he whispered.

  “Could be,” said Dante. He unfastened the flap’s wing-clasp and looked in. “Eureka.”

  Carefully, using only the tips of his gloved fingers, he withdrew the prize. A push dagger. I knew the weapon from training. Made by the Brits, the specialty dagger combined a round, ice pick-like blade with a three-fingered grip that added power to the thrust. Designed to be used in close combat, it was particularly effective in a surprise attack when approaching a victim from behind. The blade readily penetrated clothing, flesh, and tissue, and was favored by female agents because of the extra supportive grip.

  A flaky, rust-colored matter clung to the tip and to parts of the weapon’s spiked gray metal blade. Looping a finger through the grip, Dante dangled the dagger, rotating it, giving us all a chance to examine the weapon, before he returned it to the envelope.

  “Hold on. What’s this?” He removed a newspaper clipping that had also been inside. It was yellow with age and we stared over his shoulder, trying to read it.

  “Is it German?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, absorbed in the article.

  “What’s it say?” Fingers whispered.

  “Something about a merchant seaman. Age twenty-three…Named Wilhelm Oskar Mehnert…Jumped ship in Galveston, Texas. Uh, was on shore leave, got into a scrape, broke an ankle. A doctor…someone treated him. Wasn’t there when the ship set sail, next morning. The desertion raised a lot of questions…Mehnert had been a corporal in the
Kaiser’s Army during the last war…. Served in a machine gun outfit, earned several medals…It surmises the young seaman didn’t want to return to Germany because of post-war economic conditions.” Dante flipped the paper over. “Ah, dated September 12, 1922. It fits. There was a terrible depression in Germany then.”

  He placed the clipping beside the envelope. “Eyes, be sure to get a shot of this. I’ll want to study it more thoroughly later.”

  Numerous other manila packets awaited our inspection. He shoved the metal box aside and, following a prearranged system for sorting, spread the papers out on the table, culling out any suspicious documents, handing them over to me. While the two of us evaluated papers, Fingers went to Renner’s desk and examined ledgers and reports, occasionally showing Dante an item of potential interest.

  Within minutes, a small stack of material had accumulated, including a roster of names and addresses that looked interesting, as well as carbon copies of instructions describing how to use invisible ink and how to apply various makeups for disguise. Once he had enough to get started, Eyes left the room.

  His search of the desk completed, Fingers turned to the adjacent three-drawer file cabinet and flipped through folders. Meanwhile, the portable dark lamp was getting plenty of use. I ran it over every document Dante turned over to me, testing for hidden messages. He had also given me two sealed envelopes. I opened them using my special razor device. One envelope contained a business letter inscribed with an awkward personal note near the end.

  “Mother arriving Billy Boy’s seventh,” Dante said, reading the line out loud when I showed it to him. He frowned. “Hmm, ‘Mother’ might be code for a convoy. What do you think?”

  I shrugged. “It’s possible. And Billie Boy…?”

  Dante studied the letter again. “A secret landing spot, maybe. Bilbao’s a port in the north of Spain, near France.” He handed the document back, asking me to try ultraviolet light, then reagent, if necessary.