Fifth Column

by Christopher Remy

  Stephenson put down his paperwork and briefed the two men. He told them the background on Johanna Falck and her original mission to the German Foreign Institute and that the FBI had spotted her in New York.

  "After consultations with COI, we have been asked to bring her in. They want to avoid any problems with the FBI, who've been given exclusive province over counter-intelligence matters. As we are not bound by any such agreements, we're the ones who are going to get her. Since she was presumed missing and has since popped up in the company of known German spies, we are operating under the assumption that she is assisting them in their espionage and/or Fifth Column activities. COI wants to allow for the possibility of some reasonable explanation for her behavior, so when you find her, it's nice nice and keep it quiet, understood?"

  Both men nodded.

  "Excellent." Stephenson produced two manila envelopes from a desk drawer and handed them to the two men. "Pictures inside. FBI last sighted her in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, Little Berlin they call it. Maps in the envelope."

  Mearah let out a whistle as he pulled out Johanna's picture. "If I catch her, can I keep her, then?"

  Alexander looked at the photo and his scowl deepened.

  Stephenson picked up his shipping report and waved them out of his office.

  "Make it quick gentlemen, we're wasting valuable time. Chop chop."

  Johanna rubbed her wrist where the handcuff had been. After spending two nights sleeping upright in the car, having a bed to sleep in was a welcome relief, even if she was chained to it. She sat at the kitchen table eating a sandwich while Hagen and Simon made preparations for tonight.

  All of the pieces were finally fitting together, but now more questions arose. Hagen was sent by German military intelligence to stop Heydrich's foolhardy mission to assassinate Charles Lindbergh and prevent war between Germany and the US. What could they possibly think this was going to accomplish given the tensions between the two countries? Germany was practicing unrestricted submarine warfare and had already killed many Americans at sea. All summer, Hitler had ratcheted up the rhetoric against Roosevelt as the German Navy sailed near American coastal waters in the Atlantic and Caribbean.

  In any event, she was along for the ride to witness Hagen's foiling of the assassination plot. The only people who would see her as a trustworthy witness would be other Americans. The only logical purpose of this was to demonstrate to the American government (on behalf of whom: Abwehr? Hitler?) that Germany wanted to ease tensions with America and avoid a pretext for war. Johanna supposed that she could see the purpose of such a plan, maybe even support it.

  But is this just a futile exercise? she wondered. If Hagen succeeds in preventing Heydrich's insane mission, is that going to make any difference in the end? What's the point of taking such enormous risks when it's not going to make a damn bit of difference?

  The small doorknocker clanked softly in the hall. Simon got up to answer it and let the three Abwehr agents in. He showed them into the parlor and Hagen reprised his Nazi act. He told them that he was enlisting their help for tonight's rally at MadisonSquareGarden.

  "We have identified the traitor. His name is Otto Viersing. He will be using the crowd to pass valuable military secrets to the Americans. Berlin has instructed us to stop him at all costs." He paused to let this sink in. The three men stared in rapt attention.

  "It is very important to remember," he continued. "Viersing must be caught in the act. He is to make contact with his FBI handler tonight. That man, and you must keep this secret above all else, is Charles Lindbergh."

  Johanna struggled to keep a straight face as the men gasped in disbelief.

  "Quiet! It is vital that if you see Viersing going anywhere near Lindbergh, you must stop him...shooting him if necessary."

  He paced in front of the men like a general reviewing the troops.

  "Simon will give you a map of the facility and detailed instructions. If you get caught with any of these materials, I will have you shot."

  Simon gave them each a folded piece of paper and shooed them out the door. As he locked the door, he gave Hagen a look and shook his head.

  "I know," Hagen replied. He slumped onto the couch. "We have to make do with what we have. Give me the list – let's find more help."

  Alexander and Mearah spent the day driving around Yorkville. They questioned everyone they could think of, but there was no sign of Johanna. Mearah did all of the talking. With his Irish accent, he played the role of a New York City police detective.

  "This is a bloody waste of my time," Alexander spat as he turned onto First Avenue for the umpteenth time. "We've driven around in circles all day, questioned a bunch of uncooperative German bastards, for bloody well what?"

  "Now, now. You're perspective's all wrong," Mearah replied. "We've got this German girl who's probably gone double. So what? I don't care, you don't care, and I'm sure Bill Stephenson doesn't care. What he does care about is that the FBI has been looking for rope to hang Big Bill Donovan and the COI with, and this may be it. We need COI to help us make sure every last Yank bullet and rifle gets shipped safely across the Atlantic. Right?"

  Alexander grunted.

  "Exactly," Mearah continued. "And we need COI to kick start American involvement in the war 'til they're hip deep. What're the Yanks worth on the battlefield?"

  "Nothing," Alexander replied.

  "Right, nothing. But their factories can sure pump out a pile of guns and butter. We nip this Johanna Falck problem of theirs in the bud and Bob's your uncle. Spam and rifles in Manchester as far as the eye can see."

  Alexander rolled his eyes.

  "Still a bleedin' waste of my time," he repeated.

  "Either way, we need more men on this. Let's pull over to that petrol station and call Little Bill."

  Alexander gunned the engine to beat a red light.

  "Stephenson gets wind of your 'Little Bill' bit, and you're in for it," he warned.

  Mearah winked. He dropped his brogue for a crisp, stiff-jawed Oxford accent. "Oh, do lighten up, old chap."

  Driving through Yorkville, Hagen explained to Johanna that he had a list of agents deemed by Berlin to be 'reliable.' Given the size of the crowd likely to be at the America First rally, he needed as many secondary agents as he could get.

  He found a spot on 79th street and pulled up to the curb.

  "Can I trust you to wait here?" he asked. "Without the handcuffs?"

  "I'd rather come in with you."

  Hagen shook his head with a wry smile. "This mission notwithstanding, I still have to protect against exposing our agents."

  He disappeared around the corner, leaving Johanna in the car.

  Across the street, she noticed the brownstone façade of the New York Public Library's Yorkville branch. She smiled to herself, remembering all the afternoons and weekends she had spent inside. That was where she first realized that there was a world outside 'Little Berlin', a world of books and ideas. It was also where she realized that her parents inhabited an old world, a smaller world. Dinner conversations revolved around prices of sausages and produce, or neighborhood gossip. At the library, she dreamt of escaping to a world where people discussed ideas at the table, not the weather.

  She hadn't been back to the library since she left for Smith all those years ago. I wonder if it still looks the same inside, she thought. Tired of spending yet another day in the car, she decided to get out and take a look.

  Opening the car door, she looked up and down the sidewalk. Nothing but the usual midday traffic. Johanna wondered what New Yorkers would think to know that Nazis were in their midst – real ones, not just the Bundist pretenders. She got out and crossed the street.

  She climbed up the four steps of the library stoop and looked up at the arched doorway. Everything seemed the same, down to the iron carriage lights and the lettering on the door. Going in was out of the question – she didn't know when Hagen would be back. She cupped her hands and peered through the glass. />
  "Well, what else did you think he was going to say?" Mearah asked. "Right-o, gents. I see you’re sick of this and don't have enough men for the job. Why don't you have a whiskey and call it a day?"

  Alexander grunted and turned the car onto 79th street.

  "This is such a bloody waste of my time," he muttered.

  Mearah was about to needle Alexander further when a woman across the street caught his eye. She was blonde and wore a red raincoat. He tapped Alexander on the shoulder and pointed. The car slowed and Mearah checked a photo. He showed it to Alexander and tapped it.

  Alexander looked from the woman to the photo. "Bloody hell."

  "Indeed," Mearah replied.

  Alexander gunned the engine and swerved across the street. He ignored the blaring horns and popped one wheel up on the curb. He snapped the ignition off and they both leapt from the car.

  Johanna was lost in her memories when she heard the loud screeching of tires behind her. It looked like a black coupe had driven on the wrong side of the road and hit the curb. She had just enough time to wonder if there had been an accident when she saw two men jump out of the car. Both men looked her in the eye and began to run. They were running right for her.

  For a long moment, she just stared, not comprehending. Then she felt a jolt of fear and realized they had come for her.

  Still a good half-block ahead of the men, she jumped off the stoop onto the sidewalk and turned to run. She stopped and with a quick look over her shoulder kicked off her shoes, leaving them there. In her stocking feet, she ran spurred by adrenaline and panic, her coat fluttering behind her like a red streamer.

  Just like in Stuttgart, she felt a prickly heat on her neck like a hand was reaching out to grab her. As she turned a corner, she caught a glimpse of her pursuers. She felt like she was running faster than she ever had before, but both men seemed to be keeping pace with her.

  Who are they?

  The sidewalks were crowded, forcing Johanna to weave between the streams of pedestrians. She realized they were probably police or FBI. What did she have to fear from them? She hadn't done anything wrong.

  If they catch me, I may never know how Lindbergh, Hagen and the rest fit together.

  She ran down alleys and side streets, hoping that being a Yorkville native would work to her advantage. The bottoms of her feet felt raw on the pavement, each pebble and crack in the concrete sending shocks of pain up her legs.

  I can't keep running all day. I need to find someplace to hide. Where?

  She remembered the bookshop from the other day. The one where Hagen had asked for information on Viersing.

  Johanna slipped around a produce stand and picked out the heavy Gothic script of the Yorkville Book Shop from the jumble of storefronts and billboards. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw that the two men were no longer behind her.

  She knew this was her chance. Those men didn't look like the types to give up so easily. She reached the door of the book shop and pushed with her shoulder.

  It was locked.

  She looked inside and saw that the lights were still on. One door down, a butcher was shuttering his shop for the afternoon.

  It's closing time.

  Out of breath, Johanna pounded on the glass door with her fist, rattling it in its frame.

  She looked behind her, but saw no sign of her pursuers. For the moment. Again, she hammered at the door. People walking by gave her odd looks – a winded, barefoot woman banging for entry into a book store.

  About to give up, she saw the white haired man come out from the back. He had an angry look on his face until he saw her frantic state. He unlocked the door and let her in.

  Special Agent White had managed to talk Wexler into letting him go out on his own to practice surveillance. He sat in a black Ford, his eyes trained on the door of the Yorkville Book Shop.

  All afternoon he had watched men and women walk in and out of the shop. He just knew that some of them had to be Nazi spies and here he sat, his hands tied. Wexler had given him strict instructions not to get out of the car or say a word to anyone.

  How the hell am I supposed to nab the Kraut bastards if I have to stay in the car?

  He held a Kodak in his hand and he popped the back to load another roll of film. If he couldn't question anyone going into a known Nazi hangout, he was at least going to get a photo of everyone he saw go in or out.

  White took his eyes off the shop for a moment to load the film and when he looked up he saw a flash of red run right past the car.

  He froze.

  It's her. What's-her-name. The German girl.

  He jumped in his seat and fumbled with the camera. He wound the film and snapped off a couple of shots of her banging on the book store's door and then going in.

  White picked up the handset of the car's police radio and asked the operator for Wexler.

  He sat listening to the crackle and buzz of the radio's static until Wexler came on.

  "What is it, White?"

  "Sir, I just spotted Falck. Going into the book shop. She ran right past me." White felt out of breath like he had been running. "Should I go in after her?"

  "No," Wexler replied. "Let her go. We're going to get her at the Garden tonight. I'm sure she'll be there with Lindbergh. You just sit tight and meet me at the Garden at 7:30."

  "Yes, sir." White couldn't hide his disappointment. "Oh, and sir, one other thing?"

  "I'm listening, White."

  "Two guys just ran down the street, like they were chasing her. Maybe thirty seconds after the girl."

  Wexler took their description and told White to stay put.

  In the book shop, the white haired man took Johanna by the arm without a word and led her to the back storeroom. He switched off the lights out front and offered her a chair.

  While Johanna sat catching her breath, the man went into a small bathroom and filled a glass of water. He handed it to her with a smile.

  Johanna sipped the water and felt her heart rate slow. The man stood with his arms folded, smiling down at her. She smiled back and felt a twinge of guilt. When she was here with Hagen she had looked at him with contempt, thinking him a spy or collaborator. Now, he looked more like a kind neighbor, or a grandfather she never had.

  "Thank you," she said. "There were two men chasing me."

  The man nodded and said nothing, still smiling. She wondered if he spoke any English

  "What's your name?" she asked, in English again.

  "Marcus Goering," he replied, taking her glass to refill it. "No relation."

  His English was perfect. He must be an American.

  Johanna related what had happened and asked for help getting in touch with Hagen. She wasn't sure he knew anything about Hagen or how to contact him. She was wary of saying too much, but assumed it was safe. He must be a Bundist or Abwehr agent or something.

  Goering nodded.

  "Have you been staying at the safe house with Major Hagen?" he asked.

  Johanna nodded.

  "Do you think he will be going back there?"

  "I suppose so."

  He clapped his hands. "Well, then. Shall we go for a ride?"

  Goering held out his hand and led Johanna to the back door which opened into an alley, just wide enough for his convertible.

  They got in, Johanna slumped down to hide her face, and they drove out to Brooklyn.

  37

  Washington DC

  "Yes. Trust me, Bill – if I hear from her, I'll tell you. Alright, thanks."

  Charlie Daly jiggled the receiver, got the operator on the line and was connected to his wife's extension.

  "I just got off the phone with Bill Stephenson," he told her, and related their conversation.

  Johanna had been spotted by BSC agents in Yorkville. They tried to bring her into custody, but she got away. BSC was now reassigning all available agents in New York City to bring her in. Donovan and Dulles, along with Stephenson, were concerned that the FBI would attempt to take advan
tage of the situation to the detriment of COI. Stephenson had asked Daly if Johanna's family would assist in finding her. Charlie told him that he had no idea – Johanna had never really spoken of them.

  "What does he mean, 'she got away'?" Eve asked. "That makes it sound like they were chasing her."

  Daly hesitated, tapping a finger on the desk.

  "They were."

  "Oh, Dear God. They aren't serious about the idea that she could have turned are they?"