Crossword

by Alan Bricklin

  Kent Mallory sat next to Julian and was eleven years his junior. He admired his abilities, the knowledge he had in so many disparate areas, but mostly he envied the ease with which Julian navigated the confusing military and political currents of the OSS. Before the war, Mallory had an entry level job in the State Department and was considering making a career of it, especially since his first posting was overseas, Berlin to be exact, and the charm and excitement of being abroad were somewhat intoxicating to a young, naïve man from East Rutherford, New Jersey. However, neither the charm nor the excitement were sustainable to a man of his sensibilities in pre-war Nazi Germany, and when the personnel from State were evacuated in the face of what seemed an inevitable war, Kent resigned his position and, in a burst of indignation and patriotism, enlisted in the Army, only to be transferred, after several years of holding a desk job in procurement, to the OSS and sent abroad again, in a position that to him seemed not unlike the one from which he had so recently resigned. His life seemed to be in an eddy and he had yet to feel that he was really taking part in the war effort. With the way things were going, the war would soon be over and, by his way of thinking, Kent would neither have advanced his career nor aided the war effort. Stateside, his wife had moved back in with her parents in New York, but as her letters attested, she was not happy with the situation and she constantly harangued him about their financial situation and her inability to take care of herself in a manner that she thought appropriate. As these thoughts revolved in Mallory's mind, Dulles once again faced the group at the table.

  "There are problems, however," he continued. "General Schroeder, Heinrich Schroeder, that's the name of the officer that contacted us, has been transferred to Northern Italy and because of the success of our bombing in knocking out Hitler's infrastructure, he can't contact his friends in Germany, and even if he could, it might be impossible for them to get the plutonium out of Germany. He was going to have it shipped by rail, but with him being in Italy, unable to commandeer the necessary resources, and most of the rail lines out of commission or very risky, that is no longer an option. However, Schroeder says there is another way."

  Julian could tell by his eyes that this "other way" would be dangerous and would entail a significant risk to one of their agents — a loss of life or capture, which amounted to essentially the same thing. He had seen Dulles look this way before, almost as if his eyes turned inward, either hesitant to face those to whom he gave such news, or lost in his own remorse and guilt about sending men to risk their lives while he remained behind. The two men sitting to Julian's right fidgeted and he wondered if they too sensed the turmoil that was building in Allan Dulles' conscience.

  The agent sitting next to Julian was new to Bern, having arrived only two weeks before from stateside, and he didn't know much about him. He wore a suit and seemed to be a contemporary of Kent's, that same eager look on his face. A look that combined subservience and a desire to do something tangible to help the war effort, with a certain feeling of awe that he was actually privy to these behind the scenes machinations. David Ruckelman had been recruited from the civilian arena only recently, bringing resources that were needed by the OSS for this particular project.

  Ruckelman was a chemical engineer, or at least that's what he was trained as, but aside from a brief period on the faculty of the University of Chicago, he really hadn't done very much at all in what he considered to be his field of expertise. When he was honest with himself, he admitted that even his time at U of C was more babysitting grad students than any kind of useful research. It was not surprising, therefore, that when he was offered a position working with a team of scientists being assembled by professor Fermi for a secret wartime project, he accepted without even asking for any of the details. In point of fact, it wouldn't have mattered if he did ask, because no one would have told him anyway. He had hoped, nonetheless, that this would be his chance to prove his worth as a chemical engineer and to do something to help his country. In the latter he was successful, but unfortunately, the former remained a more elusive goal, for after a mere six months on the Manhattan Project it was the opinion of Fermi that David was much better at engineering people than at engineering fissionable elements. He became the project personnel manager and liaison with the military. Still unable to feel fulfilled in his work, he readily agreed to be put on loan to the OSS, hoping that some new endeavor might provide him with the self-justification that he so needed. Therefore, he sat at the table with hope in his heart and tried to look attentive and capable while waiting for Dulles to continue his explanation.

  "It is possible that an agent can cross into Southern Germany by way of Lake Constance, retrieve the plutonium from where Schroeder hid it and make his way back the same way."

  "Where is it hidden?" Julian asked, his mind already thinking about possible routes and methods of transportation.

  "He hasn't exactly told us although we believe it is in the vicinity of Munich."

  "When is he 'exactly' going to tell us?"

  Kent thought that Julian was getting too close to sarcastic with Dulles but felt comfortable with Templeton's ability to deal with these kinds of exchanges with his superiors without seriously ruffling anyone's feathers.

  "Actually, Julian, he's not."

  "Well sir, with all due respect, if we don't know where we're going it's unlikely that we'll get there."

  "He's afraid that if he tells us now, he gives up his only bargaining power."

  "Just what is it that he's bargaining for?"

  "He wants immunity and safe passage to South America." Dulles puffed slowly on his pipe and was about to continue when Julian interrupted. Kent noticed the brief flicker of irritation that crossed Dulles' face.

  Julian plunged ahead, "Can't we set up some sort of guarantee that will make him trust us?"

  "If he tells us," Kent interjected hesitantly, "can't we just bomb the shit out of it so the Nazis can't use the plutonium?"

  Allan looked at Kent first. "We would have no way of knowing for sure if we succeeded, plus which, to hit a target that small we'd have to have personnel on the ground anyway." He now turned to face Julian, his eyes narrowing just perceptibly, and went on, "As I started to say," and the phraseology was not lost on anyone, "he feels he needs to hold an ace in his hand because whoever we send in has to bring out his ward, a young woman in her twenties. To insure that that happens, she is the one who will take our agent to the plutonium."

  Everyone in the room knew that this would make a very difficult operation harder, but it was Julian, the only one with any experience running field operations, who really knew the almost unimaginable dangers added by having a civilian along, especially one who certainly would have had no training in anything useful and who was, to boot, a woman. His eyes rolled back and a barely audible groan emerged. Dulles was not annoyed by this. Julian could be a difficult person to work with, his lack of deference and his curt attitude often bordered on insubordination, but his tactical assessment was usually right on the money. Allen Dulles stared at him and knew that his muted groan was an apt comment on the assignment that Dulles was now going to propose.

  "We need to begin planning as soon as possible; this war is drawing to a close and German military authority could collapse before long. Who knows what person or group might find the plutonium, and what they could do with it. The United States just can't take the risk of ignoring this."

  "Just what can they do with it?" Kent asked.

  Dulles looked at Ruckelman. "Tell him."

  "A bomb. They can make a bomb. Not just any firecracker but an explosion bigger and more destructive than any ever made by man, able to destroy an entire city. A bomb equivalent to thousands of tons of TNT."

  "That must be one huge mother of a bomb," Kent exclaimed. "How is our guy supposed to get it out of Germany? Will he have to steal a truck?"

  Ruckelman turned to Kent and when he spoke his voice was low, and to the perceptive ear, a slight quaver could be discerned, almost as
if he were scared. "The amount of plutonium needed to make such a bomb is about the size of a grapefruit."

  Kent, who had leaned forward in his chair, now sank back, exhaling as he slumped in his chair. "Holy shit!" The others were silent, each staring ahead blankly, lost in thoughts of horrors yet to be known.

  Dulles broke the silence. "You see why this operation is so important. Now, let's get on with some of the details so we can begin planning." He placed the bowl of his pipe in the heavy glass ashtray on his desk, carefully balancing the stem on the edge before returning to the table, where he pulled out a chair and, for the first time since the meeting began, sat down alongside the men who would have to figure a way to get an OSS agent into wartime Germany, have him retrieve the makings of a weapon so far unknown to all but a few men, and get that material back to allied territory along with a female civilian.

  Ruckelman shifted in his chair and Dulles nodded at him, knowing that he was waiting permission to speak, that he had more to say.

  "The plutonium, like I said, doesn't take up much room, but it is radioactive and if it's not protected by lead shielding, it can be lethal to anyone who gets too close. When it was going to be sent by rail that wouldn't have been a problem since even with the shielding it could be contained in a crate about the size of a foot locker; but it would be very heavy, too heavy for one person to lift, let alone to carry it out of Germany." Julian sat back in his chair and shut his eyes, his arms crossed in front of him, as Ruckelman explained about radioactivity, the deadly sickness it caused and the necessity for keeping it enclosed in lead. The others at the table thought it impertinent, even for Julian, to sleep and each silently wondered when the old man would explode, maybe not with the force of a plutonium bomb, but enough of an explosion to make the briefing most awkward for everyone there. Dulles, however, didn't seem to notice or, if he did, didn't seem to care. In reality, he knew Julian wasn't sleeping. He knew his mind was already several steps ahead of the rest of them, exploring possibilities, figuring contingencies and calculating odds. He wondered if Julian played chess and what kind of opponent he would be. Formidable, he thought, but perhaps a bit too confident and self assured. That could be a weakness to exploit. He would have to remember that if they ever sat across a chess table.

  By the time Ruckelman finished, it was apparent to everyone that not only would this be an extremely difficult and dangerous operation, but it was certain to end up as a suicide mission. But the suicide would be a slow death, and a particularly unpleasant one; not a bullet in some vital organ, or even a fatal wound where life ebbed over minutes or, at most, hours and the victim languished until overcome by the ultimate sleep. The agent, if he was not killed or captured during the operation, faced an agonizing and protracted death upon his return. When all others associated with the project would be celebrating a well executed and successful plan, the agent responsible for this triumph, fresh from victory, would be thrust into an unwelcome confrontation with his own mortality, the end of his life telescoped into a few short months. "How," thought Dulles, "does one ask another human being to make that kind of sacrifice? And what of the woman? She would certainly be affected by the radiation, Ruckelman had said, although he didn't know in what way. Presumably to a lesser degree than the person carrying the plutonium, but was this better or worse? No one knew; there simply wasn't enough experience. Too many unknowns." Dulles did not have a good feeling about this operation, but that would not deter him. He, too, had orders to follow.

  Dulles was first posted in Europe in 1916, at the age of 23, when he served as the third secretary at the American embassy in Vienna, capital of the Hapsburg Empire. At a young age he had been thrust into the diplomacy, duplicity and gossip of an imperial court and had handled it all with aplomb, a benefit of his upbringing and the social stature of his family, not to mention the innate ability he possessed to interact with people in such a way that they thought he was more interested in them than in anyone else. It was this latter quality that served him so well as a spymaster in later years, allowing him to extract information from a variety of sources who had been reticent to divulge their secrets to any other person.

  During his time in Vienna, Allen heard a story that was circulating among the members of society and the imperial court, a story that he found both fascinating and troubling. Three years earlier, Colonel Alfred Redl, a well-respected young officer, one who would have been expected to continue his rise up through the ranks, had committed suicide. The details of this incident were classified, but in the Austro-Hungarian court, secrecy was no match for the persistence of upper crust quidnuncs, and the whole rather sordid affair was soon being discussed at all the nicest places, usually over an elegant afternoon tea, the fashionably dressed magpies delicately removing a crumb of Sacher tort from their upper lip while they tisked and shook their heads disapprovingly. The Colonel was a homosexual, engaged in an affair with a younger man, and needed money to pay for the gifts he lavished on his lover. A military officer's salary was inadequate for his affaire d'amour, so in order to garner the finances necessary, he began selling state secrets to Imperial Russia. This went on for some time until, because of stupidity or urgency, Alfred went himself to pick up a payment. One act of carelessness, one lapse in technique, led to his capture and the dismantling of a spy network.

  The sad story of Colonel Redl impressed upon the young Dulles two key points that were to stay with him throughout his career as an intelligence chief and a statesman. The first was the realization of how much influence a single person could have on the affairs of state, both in war and in peacetime. Second, it cautioned him on the importance of never deviating from proper tradecraft and always utilizing sufficient cut outs and intermediaries to protect your agents in the field.

  Templeton's eyes flicked open just as Ruckelman finished his explanation, interjecting a question directed primarily at Dulles before anyone had time to say anything. "How much of this plutonium are we talking about? You said that the Germans were attempting to ship their entire supply back to the Fatherland."

  Dulles thanked Ruckelman for his contribution before responding. "Allied bombing and commando raids destroyed most of it. All that remained was in that one crate." There being no follow up, he went on. "Julian, I want you and Kent to put your heads together and start on an operational plan. Bill, my aide, will give you access to all the info we currently have. Let me know what you need that's not there and I'll see what I can find out. At some point you'll also have to meet with Schroeder. I'll set it up when you're ready. We'll meet again in one week; we've got to move this along. If you have anything else on your desk, put it aside or, if it can't wait, give it to Bill and he'll reassign it."

  "Who's the agent in the field on this one?" asked Julian.

  "Don't have one yet. It's not exactly easy to get volunteers for this. Any suggestions you have would be appreciated, but I'll take the responsibility for this part of the operation. That's it for now. Next week at nine."

  A feeling of melancholy washed over him. It was an emotion that was coming to be an old friend, a despondent visitor that came uninvited and slipped into quiet moments. He knew that he had to send young men into dangerous situations, that many of them would die or be tortured before succumbing, that they did this willingly out of loyalty, patriotism or a belief in the freedom they thought was threatened, and that few of these brave young men would ever fully know what their sacrifice meant to the allied cause. This op, though, was different. Always, in the past, Dulles had hoped that the agent would both succeed in his mission and return safely. This time he could hope only for success. And what of the agent? No matter how dangerous or difficult their assignment was thought to be, they always expected they would make it. Whether this was because of the immortality with which all youth believed they were imbued or merely a defense mechanism of the mind to allow it to function under the most severe stress, Allen Dulles did not know; nor did he expect that he ever would, for how could he ask someone why they
expected to live when the odds were so against them. Nonetheless, it bothered him and he knew it would continue to do so.

  Kent stayed behind a moment to talk to Ruckelman before leaving. Julian was talking to the receptionist just inside the entrance as Kent walked down the stairs, his hand tapping the banister absent-mindedly during the descent. The sides of the banister, as well as the evenly spaced supports, bore intricate carvings, the edges of which were worn smooth by decades of waxing and polishing. Figures of men sporting the traditional Bredzon, the delicate decorations on the puffed sleeves visible through the artistry of a long dead carver, young women in pigtails wearing their Mandzon, grazing sheep and dogs prancing on their hind legs, all danced their way down the stairs accompanying Kent. Julian interrupted his conversation with the attractive fair skinned, red headed woman who sat behind the desk. Her name was Victoria, and anyone who chose to call her "Vickie" soon found out, in no uncertain terms, that a proper English woman was not to be addressed by any type of slang American appellation. He turned to Mallory and called, "Hey, Kent, hold up a minute. I'll walk out with you."

  "All right. I'm just going to check my mail; be right back."