by Larry Loftis
Then the unthinkable. Little by little, evidence accumulated that Gordana was an Axis agent. On July 30 Ian Wilson received a report that she had been a sales agent for the Italian Caproni Aircraft Works, often calling at Rome and Berlin. In Lisbon, she was regularly seen at the Nina, a bar known to be patronized by Germans. Two weeks later MI5 received further proof that Gordana was indeed working for the Italians. Ian notified MI6 officer Frank Foley that the suspicions against Gordana also “rendered suspect virtually the whole of the Yugoslav Legation at Lisbon. If TRICYCLE is to return . . . he should be warned to be extremely careful of this woman.” Without question the entire Bailoni family knew of Popov’s opposition to Nazism and love of France.
The news was crushing. They were more than family friends. The Bailonis, as owners of Savska Bank, had been Dusko’s largest client, and representing the bank had been part of his cover. He was extremely close with both daughters and had conducted financial transactions with Gordana. He had spent considerable time at their home in Carnaxide.
And he still owed them $8,500.
If Dusko was not already blown—and it now seemed almost certain that he was—Gordana Bailoni or the Yugoslav Embassy would remove any doubt.
It was over.
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Ian politely suggested that Popov retire from espionage. It was simple enough: The FBI had fired him, he was deeply in debt, and his cover was surely blown. He had served well, Ian said, and England was grateful.
Dusko would have none of it. Regardless of the danger, he wanted back in the game. He asked to be returned to Lisbon to re-engage.
Wilson was stunned. “You’d be a damned fool to play with them again.”
Ian was right, of course, but Dusko knew that there were no other agents who had infiltrated the Abwehr and actually met with them. The radio traffic from GARBO* and BRUTUS* was helpful, but the Germans wanted in-person confirmation of wireless messages, which were often conflicting and obtuse. They wanted sources, names, places, dates. If Dusko didn’t go, it would be a serious blow to British Intelligence and the Allied war effort.
But he also knew that if he returned to Lisbon, the SD and Abwehr III would be on him like buzzards on a dead carcass. If they caught him in one lie, one piece of inconsistent information, one flubbed FBI radio message, he was a dead man. Problem was, if he didn’t go he was already dead. Dead to his cause. Dead to his conscience. Dead to his freedom.
He insisted on returning.
Tar Robertson, who had seen the German intercepts, gave Popov the blunt truth, pulling no punches. Ewen Montagu remembered the warning:
He could end his double agent work with our gratitude or he could come back via Lisbon and try to explain away his failures in America and rehabilitate himself with his Abwehr masters. Tar Robertson warned him that his chances were nothing like even money. How was he to explain his complete failure in America in spite of having spent the large sum that they had given him? Even more difficult—how to explain his complete failure to do any of the things that he had been told to do? Worst of all, how to cover up his complete ignorance of anything that he had sent on the radio?
The odds must be at least two to one that he was blown. And, if he was, it was pretty certain that he would be tortured to squeeze him dry of information about our system, and then there was equally probable death awaiting him at the end.
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Hemingway once wrote that the bravery demanded of a bullfighter was the “ability not to give a damn for possible consequences; not only to ignore them but to despise them.” Such disdain of consequences, Dusko believed, was critical to his success. “I think I survived because I didn’t take anything too seriously. I learned—if this makes sense—to be lighthearted without being superficial.”
But disregard of danger, of death itself, never eradicates fear. “Nearly all bullfighters are brave,” Hemingway wrote, “and yet nearly all bullfighters are frightened at some moment before the fight begins.” The same held true for Dusko. “There is always the feeling of danger,” he would say after the war. “Fear can never be eliminated. You can throttle it, hold it down, but you can never get rid of it until the thing that causes it has disappeared.”
Dusko would have much to fear in the days ahead. The game would soon play its final hand and, as with Pascal’s Wager, he was betting his life.
17
INCOMPLETE CANVAS
If John Donne was right—that every man’s death diminishes me—the thousands of bells tolling across Europe justified Dusko’s decision to return to Lisbon. But his life, valuable as it was, was not MI5’s only consideration in his re-engagement. If his cover was blown, or might be blown by an errant answer, other agents would be affected, as well as the overall deception game. Beyond that, they would be flying in the dark. MI5 had little idea what the FBI put over the radio to Berlin, and one contradictory message might compromise the entire TRICYCLE network. In an effort to discover what the FBI had sent, and also to assure that the Bureau was giving Popov adequate cover if he re-engaged, Wilson interceded. He asked the FBI for a log of what messages had been sent in Dusko’s name, and for assurances that the Bureau was preparing the following: a story for how Popov acquired his wireless set and operator; the sources for the information and documents he acquired; and new material to take to Lisbon.
In a memo to the MI5 file, Wilson noted his disappointment in how the American agency responded: “I expected . . . that before I arrived in the U.S.A. the necessary stories would already have been prepared; or at least that the F.B.I. would have designated one of their officers to co-operate with me in preparing these stories. In fact, I found that the F.B.I. had taken no action on my note. . . . I was not supplied with any history of POPOV’s stay in the U.S.A.”
The Bureau’s negligence—which endangered the life of his agent and the viability of the net—Ian found appalling: “I would be lacking in frankness if I did not record that I was deeply shocked by the failure of the F.B.I. to obtain for POPOV, to take with him to Lisbon, information deemed to have been acquired by him between June and October 1942. . . . Only two items were supplied—one a negative answer and one a re-hash of an item given by another agent. It was less than three days before his departure that I learnt that this was the extent of the information which the F.B.I. had obtained for him.”
Dusko understood his options and risks. If he returned and could not convince the Germans of his loyalty, he’d be tortured for details and executed. On the other hand, he could retire with Britain’s blessing and enjoy the fall and the holidays with Simone. She was back in California and her current film, Cat People, was being released on Christmas Day; the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to escort a leading lady down the Fox Theater red carpet was hard to give up. On top of that, Simone had secretly introduced Dusko into the film: She played a Serbian girl named Irena Dubrovna Reed, a less than subtle nod to her Serbian boyfriend from Dubrovnik. It was the least he could do.
But it was more than the leisure of L.A. or the excitement of dating a Hollywood star—he had fallen in love. Grappling with the thought of not being able to see Simone for some time, he began calling more, openly expressing his affection. One evening he told her that he adored her and that his heart was breaking at the thought of leaving. Simone pointed out that they would be no farther apart than they were now, New York or London making little difference in the distance to Hollywood. He mentioned that he had seen Simone’s mother yesterday and that she was a darling, suggesting that she wanted to take care of him while Simone and Dusko were apart. Before hanging up, he asked Simone to be a good girl and not fall in love while he was away; she told him not to worry, that there was no danger. He told her how badly he wanted to kiss her.
A night or so later they spoke again and she asked how he was doing. Very well from a physical point of view, he said, and very well from the mental point, but very bad from another perspective—where she was
concerned. Simone asked if she could do anything for him.
“Yes, every morning after breakfast, say that you adore me.”
Simone replied that she would be very bored if she did not have him to think about, and he said he wished he had a gramophone to hear her when she went to bed at night after speaking with him. Imagining that he could be back in the States for the holidays, Dusko planned their reunion. They would spend Christmas in Hollywood, he said, and then he’d take her skiing. Simone complained that she didn’t ski well, but Dusko said she could do any sport well. She thanked him for his kindness.
“It is not kindness. It is that I am madly in love.”
Over the next few days, Dusko wrestled with what to do. His heart ached to fly to Hollywood, and the choice should have been easy—likely torture and execution, or nights of blissful romance with the woman he loved. Yet the lives of Johnny, Ivo, and his parents still hung in the balance and, as long as Hitler remained in power, so did all of Europe.
He would return to Lisbon.
The British agreed to the redeployment, and in anticipation of his return, Wilson prepared a seventeen-point memorandum for what Dusko would have to overcome and answer. Why, for example, did he send his radio messages in English? How did he obtain a radio transmitter and wireless operator? What was his radio operator’s name and address? What would he say if the Germans wanted to contact him? In addition, he would need intimate knowledge regarding the radio and other correspondence of his sub-agents, BALLOON/IVAN II and GELATINE/YVONNE. He would need a ready story of when and where he handed “Mr. Sand” the Midas money. Finally, he would need to provide a full accounting of his income and expenses, keeping straight fictional (Simon) and actual (Bailoni) loans.
On October 10, two days before his arrival in London and four days before his departure to Lisbon, Colonel Wren sent a telegram to Frank Foley at MI6:
F.B.I. HAVE FAILED TO PRODUCE ANY WORTH WHILE INFORMATION FOR TRICYCLE TO TAKE WITH HIM.
Foley understood the emergency. Even if Dusko’s cover had not not been blown, showing up in Lisbon empty-handed would seal his fate. Frank cabled Tar and asked if MI5 could come up with chicken feed at the eleventh hour. He noted that SIS had viable information on aircraft, and perhaps tidbits which notionally could have come from indiscretions of highly placed persons, but they needed more, much more. And fast.
“Can you at this late hour come to our rescue?” he asked.
Robertson put John Marriott on it, and the assistant worked around the clock. Victor Cavendish-Bentinck said the Foreign Office could supply a few items at six that evening if it was not shared with the Americans. General Robert McClure, military attaché to the American Embassy in London, authorized the disclosure of certain U.S. troop activity in the U.K.:
1st Armored Division
1st Infantry Division (motorized)
8th Air Force
Parachute Battalion
Troops commanded by Major General John C. H. Lee
Commander Ewen Montagu offered naval updates: Three American shallow draft steamers, which were going to England in a trade convoy, were torpedoed and sunk at the end of September; two submarines—one of which was the Severn—had been refitted at Philadelphia; a third submarine, the HMS Queen Elizabeth, had been refitted in Norfolk.
In the meantime, Foley pieced together data on American production that had been made public, outlines of America’s pressure on Brazil, and supposed details on the supply situation in North Africa and Britain’s ability to contain Rommel. The information, however, had to be approved by Colonel John Bevan of the London Controlling Section, a secret department created to coordinate Allied strategic military deception. And even with Bevan’s nod, risk remained.
After a year’s worth of U.S. espionage, what Dusko would bring to Lisbon was meager. It would have to do.
On the eve of departure, Dusko called Simone one last time. Half-joking, he asked her if she’d get married while he was away. She promised not to, and he playfully said if she tried, he’d show up with a cannon. As the kidding waned, he harkened back to the danger he faced. He asked Simone to keep her fingers crossed for him as there were sometimes air attacks on the other side. She asked him to please not have her think of such things. Before saying good-bye, he said he’d seen an article—“The Girl You Like”—in Esquire, and that it had a questionnaire. With her in mind, he completed it.
The result, he said, was that Simone was “one in a million.”
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On Monday, October 12, Dusko returned to London, and two days later he left for Lisbon. That he did so in the face of probable arrest didn’t go unnoticed by the Double-Cross Committee. “The greatest instance of cold-blooded courage that I have ever been in contact with,” Ewen Montagu wrote after the war. Popov “had the steel within, the ruthlessness . . . that enabled him to go back to the German Secret Service Headquarters in Lisbon and Madrid time and again, when it was likely that he might be ‘blown’; it was like putting his head into the lion’s mouth. Bravely, in cold blood, he risked torture and death to reestablish German confidence in him so that he could continue to make his great contribution to the Allied victory.”
Despite the peril, Dusko was exhilarated. “My reaction disturbed me in a way,” he recalled after the war. “I was enjoying the game, the duel of wits, the aura of undefined danger. Yet that wasn’t the reason I was there. I had a fierce hatred of Hitler and the Nazis to begin with, more so with my family and country under their oppression.”
Around eight o’clock on Wednesday evening he arrived by Clipper in Lisbon. He checked into the Palácio and then headed to the casino with three officials from the U.S. State Department he’d met on the way. At midnight he slipped out to a public pay phone, called the embassy, and asked for von Karsthoff. The operator gave him another number, saying that Elisabeth wanted to speak with him. The “second’s hesitation” in Elisabeth’s voice, Dusko remembered, revealed her surprise that he’d returned. They agreed that she’d pick him up on the Rossio the following day.
Thursday morning the chauffeured sedan arrived at eleven. Elisabeth was in the front, but another man, not von Karsthoff, was in the back. He was Lieutenant Kammler*—six feet tall, clean-shaven, dark hair and eyes, and well dressed. He was around twenty-eight but appeared to have aged quickly—his eyebrows were speckled with white hair.
The car sped northwest up Avenida da Liberdade and then headed due north on Republica. They were not traveling toward von Karsthoff’s villa in Estoril, Dusko realized, but to where? And why was the other man with them?
A few minutes later they arrived at Avenida Berne 8, a modest apartment building with interior parking. Von Karsthoff met him at the door and formally introduced Kammler, who he said was from Abwehr I and would be assisting with debriefing. Dusko apologized for the midnight call the prior evening, saying that he was in the company of three State Department officials who took him to the casino.
“I know,” von Karsthoff said. Before Dusko could process that he had been followed, Ludovico cut to the chase: “Now, what happened?”
Dusko stiffened. It all came down to this. His demeanor and composure in the next two minutes, he knew, might determine whether he lived or died. J. C. Masterman explained the danger: “A lie when it is needed,” the Double-Cross chief wrote in his postwar report, “will only be believed if it rests on a firm foundation of previous truth.” Dusko’s previous truth was that he had financial worries. But would that be enough to explain why he never left for Hawaii, or why he had provided almost nothing of significant value for over a year? And could he remain calm and steadfast with the thin story? “No mortal can keep a secret,” Freud had taught. “If his lips are silent, he chatters with his finger-tips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.”
Dusko would test the theorem. He rattled off the little information MI5 had collected and then went on the offensive. The trip to Am
erica “was a colossal error from beginning to end,” he told the Germans. “In England, I had connections from before the war. Every door was open to me. But in the U.S.—you send me there with no help whatsoever, no contacts, a few miserable dollars . . . and you expect me to produce results in no time.” He was in such financial straits, he said, that he had to stoop to borrowing from a girlfriend.
Ludovico mentioned her by name—Simone Simon—stating that Berlin thought he concentrated more on film stars than his job. Dusko countered that those were the people he knew, and that they provided his introduction in society circles. Besides, he said, it was part of his cover.
The major mulled the rebuttal and reiterated that Berlin was extremely unhappy with Popov’s lack of work product. “Give Berlin a very rude message from me,” Dusko shot back. He had contacts lined up, he said—men like Mr. Bacher from the Aeronautical Chamber of Commerce and journalist Boris Cassini—who could have provided valuable information if he’d had money to pay them. Dusko threw out the MI5 supplied military sources for good measure: Colonel Prime from Mitchel Field, Lieutenant Decker—husband of a girl known to Johnny—Commander Waldron from the U.S. Navy, and Captain Slaatten, a Norwegian Air Force officer in Canada.
Von Karsthoff backed off. Kammler said nothing.
“It is Berlin’s fault and Johnny’s fault,” Ludovico finally said; they’d bungled the finances.
The interrogation continued, but Dusko had sufficiently maneuvered his interviewers that they avoided the sticky issues he was warned about by Wilson. They asked about the Allied invasion and morale in America, but never about Popov’s movements, sources, or why he had not gone to Hawaii. Nothing about the Midas money. They never asked why, after his (fictitious) wireless operator refused to work, Dusko didn’t continue writing in secret ink. They failed to ask about Dusko’s letters before the wireless; he had mentioned in one that he had written the Germans fourteen times when in fact only seven of his letters had been sent by the FBI.