The Crook Factory

by Dan Simmons

  “And does William D. have something to do with your gambling story, Ian?”

  “Yes, actually,” said Fleming, glancing past my shoulder at the green island seeming to rise toward us. “You’re aware of Edgar’s… ah… disapproval of this William’s methods, are you not, dear boy?”

  I shrugged. Actually, I probably knew more about Mr. Hoover’s hatred for Donovan than did Fleming. One of the most successful coups the COI had carried off in the past six moths had been to break into Washington embassies—of allies as well as enemies—to steal their code books without the embassies’ becoming aware of the intrusions. In a few weeks, Donovan was planning to break into the Spanish embassy, which should be a treasure trove for U.S. intelligence because Fascist Spain routinely passed along intelligence to Berlin. What I knew from my SIS contacts was that Mr. Hoover planned to show up the night of the COI bag job with the Washington police—sirens wailing and lights flashing—and to arrest the COI men in the act of breaking into the Spanish embassy. Once again, jurisdictional battles took precedence over the national interest in Mr. Hoover’s eyes.

  “Well, all that aside,” said Fleming, “it seems that our friend Tricycle came to the United States shortly after my delightful evening with him last August.”

  This was accurate, I knew. The files I had seen reported that Dusan “Dusko” Popov had entered the United States on August 12, 1941, arriving on a Boeing 314 Flying Boat, the so-called Pan American Clipper, from Lisbon. Popov had been sent to the States by Canaris and the Abwehr to set up the same sort of successful spy network he had “run” in England. Six days later, on August 18, Popov had met with the FBI’s Assistant Director Percy “Bud” Foxworth. According to Foxworth’s report, Popov had shown him $58,000 in small bills given to him by the Abwehr in Lisbon and an additional $12,000 which Popov said he had won in a casino. Popov was ready to play the same game with U.S. intelligence that had worked so well for him in England.

  The report had mentioned some “promising information” which Popov had turned over, but had not gone into detail—which was, as I thought about it, unusual for a Bureau report.

  I knew from friends in SIS and the Washington end of the Bureau that William Donovan and the wild crew at COI had been clamoring for access to Popov and the information passed along by Popov. Donovan had sent FDR’s son, Jimmy, as a liaison to Mr. Hoover to try to shake loose some hard information. Hoover had been polite but had shared nothing. Nor had the information been distributed through the Bureau’s own counterintelligence network.

  Ian Fleming was watching me very carefully. He nodded slowly, leaned closer, and whispered above the rising roar of the motors, “Tricycle brought a questionnaire into the country, Joseph. It was a helpful gesture from the Yellow Admiral to their yellow allies…”

  I translated: Canaris and the Abwehr had sent questions via Popov to Abwehr operatives in America, the answers to which would help the Japanese. It was a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Then again, this was four months before Pearl Harbor.

  “A microdot, actually,” whispered Fleming. “It was finally translated by Edgar’s chaps… your boys, Joseph… on September 17. Would you like to see the questionnaire, dear boy?”

  I looked Fleming in the eye. “You know I have to report every word of this conversation, Ian.”

  “Quite right, dear boy,” said Fleming, his gaze cold and steady. “You shall have to do what you have to do. But would you like to see the questionnaire?”

  I said nothing.

  Fleming took two folded sheets of paper out of his suit pocket and handed them to me. I shielded them as the stewardess walked by, announcing that we were almost ready to land at José Marty Airport and could we please fasten those seat belts? She would help us if we did not know how.

  Fleming got rid of her with a joke and I looked at the two sheets.

  Photostats of the enlarged microdot. The original was in German. The other was a translation. I read the original questionnaire. Popov’s orders to help their Japanese allies in August 1941 were—

  1. Exact details and sketch of the situation of the State Wharf and the power installations, workshops, petrol installations, situation of Dry Dock No. 1 and the new dry dock which is being built in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

  2. Details about the submarine station at Pearl Harbor (plan of situation). What land installations are in existence?

  3. Where is the station for mine search formations? How far has the dredge work progressed at the entrance and in the east and southeast lock? Depths of water?

  4. Number of anchorages?

  5. Is there a floating dock in Pearl Harbor or is the transfer of such a dock to this place intended?

  Special task—Reports about torpedo protection nets newly introduced in the British and U.S. navy. How far are they already in existence in the merchant and naval fleet?

  I looked up at Fleming and handed the two papers back to him as if they were coated with acid. A Nazi agent seeking such facts about Pearl Harbor—as a favor for the Japanese—in August 1941. It might not have tipped us to the attack, but I knew for a fact that Bill Donovan had been working a large team of COI analysts trying to figure out Japanese plans through the summer and fall of last year—a puzzle solved most publicly on December 7. Would this have provided the missing part of the puzzle for that team if Mr. Hoover had sent over the microdot information?

  I did not know. But I did know that the microdot questionnaire in Fleming’s hands—obviously not a forgery; I could see the familiar Bureau stamps and signatures—could have blown J. Edgar Hoover’s job right out of the water if it had been released during the post–Pearl Harbor hysteria and blame-calling this past winter.

  I stared at Fleming. The aircraft pitched and bucked as it came in low over heated land, feeling for a runway. I could see green hills, palm trees, blue water through the small window across the aisle, but my gaze stayed on Fleming.

  “Why tell me all this, lan?”

  The NID man put out his cigarette and slowly, gracefully set the long cigarette holder into the same pocket in which he had put away the photostats. “Just a cautionary tale of what happens when one agency becomes… shall we say… too preoccupied with its own preeminence and forgets to share.”

  I continued to stare. I did not have a clue what this had to do with me.

  Ian Fleming put his long-fingered hand on my sleeve. “Joseph, if by any chance you were heading down to Havana to have anything whatsoever to do with this writer chap and his little escapades, have you given any thought as to why Edgar would have chosen you as liaison?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Of course not, dear boy,” said Fleming. “Of course not. But you have one unique skill which may apply to this writer’s circumstance. One bit of job experience which Edgar might value in this situation, if, for instance, your writer friend stumbles onto something he ought not to. One bit of experience which sets you apart from Edgar’s other employees.”

  I shook my head. For a second I honestly did not understand what Fleming was saying. The plane touched down. Wheels screeched. The propellers roared. Air rushed into the cabin.

  Amidst all that noise, without leaning perceptibly closer, in a soft voice which I could barely make out, Ian Fleming said, “You kill people, Joseph. And you do it on command.”

  5

  WEMET AT MID-MORNING on Friday in Ambassador Braden’s comfortable office at the American embassy. I had arrived early and discussed the situation with Spruille Braden, who had known me in Colombia as a troubleshooter for the State Department working with the SIS and who understood that he would introduce me to Hemingway as such. After my private conference with Braden, Robert P. Joyce and Ellis O. Briggs showed up. Joyce was one of the first secretaries at the embassy, an urbane, well-dressed man with a firm handshake and a soft voice. Briggs had been ranking officer at the embassy until Braden’s arrival, but he showed no resentment at being dropped down a rung, and the
atmosphere in the room was cordial. Ten A.M., the time for the ambassador’s appointment with Hemingway, came and went. Ten more minutes passed. No Hemingway.

  The three of us chatted. Both Briggs and Joyce seemed to accept my cover story of being a State Department counterintelligence expert attached to SIS. They had probably run across my name in memos from Colombia or Mexico, and my exact position was always murky in such communications. Talk turned to the tardy writer, and Briggs spoke about the interest he and Hemingway shared in shooting—skeet-trap and live pigeons, both at a local club and out in the marshes near Cienfuegos. I had to sort through my mental file of maps of Cuba to recall where Cienfuegos was—the image appeared in my mind as Briggs went on to talk about going after yaguasas in Pinar del Río Province. Cienfuegos was a bay, port, city, and province on the south coast.

  While Briggs went on about Hemingway’s shooting ability, I glanced covertly at my watch. Twelve minutes past the hour. I was surprised that Ambassador Braden put up with such impertinence. Most ambassadors I had known would have canceled the meeting if the person requesting it was so much as a moment late.

  The door burst open and Ernest Hemingway swept into the room, moving quickly on the balls of his feet like a fighter floating to the center of the ring, his booming voice sounding very loud after the muted tones of our conversation.

  “Spruille, Ambassador… sorry… I’m goddamn sorry. All my fault. The damned Lincoln was out of gas and I had to drive way the hell out past the university to find a station open. Bob… sorry I’m late. Ellis.” The big man shook the ambassador’s hand, then floated to Joyce to grip his hand in both of his, then moved quickly to Briggs, clapping him on the back while enveloping the First Secretary’s hand in his. Then Hemingway turned to me with a smile and a quizzical look.

  “Ernest,” said Ambassador Braden, “this is Joe Lucas. The State Department thought that Joe might be of help in your Crime Shop plan.”

  “Joe,” said Hemingway. “Nice to meet you.” His handshake was solid but not crushing. His eyes were bright, his smile unfeigned, but I saw the briefest glimmer of wariness there as he calculated what my presence might really mean.

  Braden gestured us all back to our chairs.

  My assessment of Hemingway was quick. He was a big man—six foot or six one, probably about 195 pounds, but most of that weight was concentrated above his waist. The rest of us had dressed in suits, but Hemingway was wearing stained chinos, old moccasins, and a light cotton shirt—what the locals called a guayabera—worn untucked. He had massive, squared shoulders that gave much of the impression of size on him, and his arms were long and well muscled. I noticed that his left arm was twisted slightly at the elbow and that there was a jagged scar there. Hemingway had a deep chest and showed a hint of belly, but even though the loose shirt and chinos there was the impression of almost no hips or thighs: he was all upper body.

  As he sat down and looked across at me, I noted that his hair was straight and dark—a brown almost sliding into black—and that there was no gray in his heavy but carefully trimmed mustache. His eyes were brown. He had a ruddy complexion—tanned from long days out in the Caribbean sun but still flushed with sunburn and high spirits—and a small web of laugh lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. His teeth were white as he smiled, and he had dimples in both cheeks. His chin and jawline were solid, not at all blurred by fat or middle age. I had the impression that Ernest Hemingway could be charming to the ladies when he so chose.

  As always, I could not help myself from assessing another man in terms of a possible matchup between him and me. In his brief movements around the room, Hemingway had moved like a fighter, even standing poised on the balls of his feet when he was at rest. His head bobbed slightly from side to side as he spoke and even as he listened, giving others the impression that his attention was tightly focused on what they were saying. As he and Braden exchanged pleasantries, I noticed that despite years of living abroad and in Canada, Hemingway’s accent was still solidly midwestern, Chicago flat. He seemed to have the slightest of speech impediments, pronouncing his l’s and r’s a bit like w’s.

  Hemingway was taller, heavier, and more muscled than I was, but the hint of belly under the guayabera suggested that he was not in full fighting trim. The damaged left arm—probably an old injury, since he seemed not to favor that arm—would weaken his jab and allow an opponent to move to his left. I remembered that years before, Hemingway had been rejected from service in the first war because of poor eyesight. He was probably a close-in fighter despite those long arms, grappling with his foe and slugging short and hard, going for a knockout before he ran out of wind. It would pay to keep Hemingway moving, moving to his left, bobbing, never being a still target in his vision, keeping out of his reach until he tired and then to move in and work on that belly and those ribs…

  I shook the thoughts away. Bob Joyce and Ellis Briggs were laughing at a joke Hemingway had made to Braden about the embassy staff’s propensity to lose money at the jai alai games. I smiled. There was no doubt that there was a powerful sense of fun and well-being coming off this man. Hemingway in person had a great physical presence which no dossier or photograph could express—he was one of those rare human beings who could dominate any room he entered.

  “All right, Ernest,” said the ambassador when the laughter had ebbed. “Let’s talk about your Crime Shop idea.”

  “I changed the name,” said Hemingway.

  “Pardon me?”

  The writer grinned. “I changed the name. I think I’ll call it the Crook Factory. Crime Shop sounded too high-falutin’.”

  Ambassador Braden smiled and looked down at the papers on his desk. “Very well, the Crook Factory.” He glanced up at Briggs and Joyce. “Ellis and Bob have filled me in on the details of your initial proposal, but perhaps you would like to elaborate a bit.”

  “Sure,” said Hemingway. He stood up, moving easily and bobbing his head as he began to speak. His blunt hands stabbed, molded, and jabbed softly as he made his points. “Mr. Ambassador, this island is ninety miles from U.S. shores and it’s filling up fast with Nazi fifth columnists. Passport control in Cuba is a joke. The FBI’s got a presence here, but it’s understaffed, it doesn’t have a real mission, and its agents stand out like undertakers at a street festival. Bob and I figure that there are more than three thousand Falangist sympathizers right here in Havana and many of them are in positions to help Nazi agents get onto the island and to keep them out of sight once they’re here.”

  Hemingway was pacing softly, walking to within a yard of me before turning back, his hands and head moving, but not so much as to be distracting. He never took his dark eyes off the ambassador.

  “Hell, Spruille, most of the Spanish clubs on the island are openly anti-American. Their little newspapers cheer on the Axis every chance they get. Have you read the important Cuban daily yet?”

  “The Diario de la Marina?” said Braden. “I’ve glanced at it. The editorial stance does not seem very sympathetic to the United States.”

  “Its owner-editor would dance in the streets if the Nazis invaded New York,” said Hemingway. He held out one blunt, callused palm. “This wouldn’t be such a big problem, I know, if the Caribbean weren’t swarming with wolf packs even as we speak. But it is. Allied tankers are going down almost every day. Hell, you can’t cast out a line for marlin without hitting a U-boat conning tower.” Hemingway grinned.

  The ambassador rubbed his cheek. “And what could your proposed Crime Shop… Crook Factory… whatever you want to call it… do about U-boats, Ernest?”

  Hemingway shrugged. “I’m not trying to oversell this, Spruille. But I have a boat, you know. A beautiful, diesel-powered thirty-eight-footer that I bought in ’thirty-four. Twin screws with an auxiliary engine. If we turn up information about German subs, I can head out to check on it. I have a good crew.”

  “Ernest,” said Bob Joyce, “tell the ambassador about the intelligence network you set up in Spain.”r />
  Hemingway shrugged again, as if from modesty. I knew from his dossier that he had a lot to be modest about in that area.

  “It wasn’t much, Spruille. When I was in Madrid in ’thirty-seven, I helped to organize and run a private intelligence operation. About twenty full-time operatives and twice that many temporary sources. Brought in some useful information. Amateur stuff, I know, but they would have shot us in a minute if we’d screwed up.”

  I heard Hemingway’s voice shift to a rougher, more staccato style as he recounted these exploits. Was that a habit of his when he lied? I wondered.

  Braden was nodding. “And who would you work with here, Ernest? Ellis mentioned a priest.”

  Hemingway grinned again. “Don Andrés Untzaín. Good friend of mine. He may be a bishop someday. He served as a machine-gunner for the Loyalists in Spain. He’d as soon shoot a Nazi as give him absolution for confession. Probably do both if he got a chance.”

  I tried not to show any expression, even though Hemingway’s back was turned toward me at that moment. Naming one of your agents or sources in an open meeting like this, without even being asked to, was the rankest form of amateur idiocy.

  Ambassador Braden seemed both amused and satisfied. “Who else?”

  Hemingway opened his hands in a wide gesture. “I’ve got dozens of good contacts in Cuba, Spruille. Hundreds. Waiters, whores, newspapermen, rummies, jai alai players, fishermen who see German subs every week, Spanish noblemen who’d love to get back at the bastards who drove them into exile… they’d all love to get into the game and turn in some of these Nazi rats who are coming ashore like flotsam.”

  The ambassador steepled his fingers. “How much would this cost us?”

  Hemingway grinned. “Nothing, Mr. Ambassador. It’ll be the cheapest counterintelligence organization the U.S. government has ever had. I’ll bear the brunt of the expenses myself. I mean, I may need some small arms or other minor supplies… radios maybe, some gear for the Pilar if we use her… but everything else is volunteer work or funded by me.”