“Sounds like Dewey essentially had him tossed in the slam for life and thrown away the key,” Canidy said.
“That’s what everyone thought,” Donovan said. “But then the ONI came calling. They were desperate—are desperate—for information on spies, saboteurs.”
“Navy intelligence in New York,” Gurfein said, picking up the next part of the story, “was having trouble—”
Canidy held up his hand to stop him. “Excuse me, Murray. Hold that thought, please, and pardon me for a moment. I’m going to make a quick visit to the gentlemen’s facilities.”
“Good idea,” Donovan said.
He surveyed the table, now little more than a collection of dirty dishes and glasses, and there followed the sound of his foot tapping the floor. After a moment, Canidy realized that Donovan was pressing the service call button.
“We can have our coffee in the library,” Donovan said. “Say, ten minutes?”
[ TWO ]
A silver coffee service tray was on the coffee table between the couches nearest the fireplace. Three china cups, each emptied of coffee at a different level, were on the table, as was a heavy wooden humidor.
Colonel William “Wild Bill” Donovan was seated on one couch and had leaned forward to open the lid of the humidor and dig out a cigar. His fingers found one, and, after he pulled it out, the heavy wooden lid fell shut with a resounding bang that carried well through the large room.
As Donovan went through the ritual of unwrapping the cigar, sniffing its length, then snipping the closed end and putting flame to the other end with an engraved, gold-plated lighter, Major Richard Canidy and Major Murray Gurfein stood at the rollaway cart of liquor.
Gurfein held fat snifters in each hand while Canidy poured into them from one of the VSOP cognac bottles, the brand of which he earlier had not recognized.
A third snifter was on the cart, and Canidy poured into it as Gurfein went to the couches, where he handed one glass of cognac to Colonel Donovan.
“You’re saying that Navy intel in New York was getting reports of U-boats in the Upper Bay?” Canidy asked, incredulously.
“Yeah,” Gurfein said, opening the lid of the humidor and digging out a cigar for himself. “But only reports. No sightings. Considering all the ships getting sunk not far offshore, and those saboteurs we caught last June who had come in at Long Island by U-boat, it’s understandable that people would make that leap of logic. Especially after the Normandie went down in the Hudson, moored there at Pier 88.”
“The Normandy?” Canidy said.
Gurfein, puffing deeply on his cigar as he held a match to it, nodded.
“The French luxury ocean liner SS Normandie,” he explained, “was the world’s largest ship when launched at St. Nazaire in 1932. She had crossed the Atlantic a hundred or so times when, after arriving in New York, the Coast Guard took her into custody.”
“How could they do that?”
“Rather easily. France had been occupied, and they were not about to let the Krauts have her back. So, instead, the U.S. War Department then seized the ship, renamed it the USS Lafayette, and began converting it into a troop carrier. That process was nearly completed when, on February 9, 1942, she began to burn. The fire quickly spread, there were explosions and more flames, and the great ship turned on her side and without ceremony sank.”
“Jesus Christ,” Canidy said. “Incredible.”
“Yeah,” Gurfein said, sipping cognac. “After that, you would not believe what kinds of reports came in from the public. Everyone who looked even mildly suspicious suddenly was considered a spy or saboteur. One guy was convinced he’d seen der Führer’s personal Mercedes—but the FBI, ever quick on their toes, discounted that one when two of their agents arrived to question him at the bar, on East Seventh.”
Canidy chuckled. “McSorley’s?”
“McSorley’s Ale House indeed. They couldn’t do anything with him, though. He was dusty as everything else in that hole, half in the bag, and adamant that he’d seen what he’d said he’d seen. He’d slurred, ‘Why the hell can’t you guys just do your jobs. The goddamned Krauts are right under your noses!’”
Now all three men chuckled.
“Have you seen her?” Gurfein said, his tone now serious. “The Lafayette, I mean. She’s still there. It’s an incredible sight. Bigger than the Queen Mary, but now just a burned abandoned hulk. That’s a real signal for someone to send.”
Canidy shook his head.
Donovan said, “I have, and you’re right. It’s sad. A magnificent ship burned right before it was ready to sail. You can see why rumors circulated about how it happened.”
“Rumors?” Canidy repeated.
“ONI’s Third Naval District,” Gurfein said, “is responsible for securing the waterfront in New York, Connecticut, and part of New Jersey—”
“And,” Canidy interrupted, “it reports to…?”
“The Office of Naval Intelligence here in Washington,” Donovan offered, “which means just about directly to Frank Knox.”
Colonel Frank Knox was secretary of the Navy.
Gurfein went on: “—their key job being to see that nothing interferes with troop shipments and with shipments of supplies and ammunition. In that capacity, and in the capacity of ensuring the general safety of the waterfront, they’re looking for subversive activities both in the harbor and on the coast.”
“Okay,” Canidy said.
“And because of that, they received all sorts of suggestions as to what happened to the Lafayette.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the ship was sabotaged by the mob as a very clear way of saying they controlled the waterfront and could do the same to any other ship—or ships—if Luciano wasn’t looked upon favorably for early release.”
“Any truth to that?”
“None whatsoever,” Gurfein said, somewhat defensively.
Canidy wondered what that was about.
Gurfein went on: “There have been suggestions that those with sympathy toward the Axis, particularly Fritz Kuhn’s followers in the German-American Bund, set it afire to keep it—and the troops and matériel it would carry—out of the war.”
“That’s plausible,” Canidy said.
“Yeah, it is. But so far, no one has turned up any proof. Just a lot of tips that go nowhere. Since she sank, it seems that every time someone sees a bluefish break the surface of the Hudson or East River he’s convinced it’s a U-boat periscope and the phones ring off the hook.”
Canidy said, “And when the guys from ONI check it all out—”
“They come up with next to nothing,” Gurfein said matter-of-factly, then chuckled. “Except maybe the occasional FBI agent lurking in the shadows quote undercover unquote.”
“Part of why no one was getting any information,” Donovan put in, “was because the mob does control the waterfront. You could put Navy guys everywhere—and they pretty much did—but then nobody talks, nobody answers questions, never mind provides leads, good or bad.”
Gurfein took a puff of his cigar and let out a big blue cloud.
“It’s like this,” he said. “You could be standing in the middle of Fulton Fish Market and pointing to a table stacked high with tuna and asking one of the union boys, ‘What kind of fish is that?’ Now, if he suspected you were a Navy guy, or working for one, he’d look you square in the eye and say, ‘Fish? What fish? I don’t see no fuckin’ fish,’ then grin like he knew he had you.”
“Meanwhile,” Donovan said, “ships were going down in record numbers. In March ’42, fifty were sunk, another fifty in April, more than a hundred in May, and on and on.”
Gurfein was nodding knowingly.
“Which suggested,” Donovan continued, “at least two grave situations: One, somehow information about when and where ships sailed was apparently reaching U-boats waiting, like sharks before a feeding frenzy, just offshore. Two, these U-boats seemed to have unlimited fuel; that is, they somehow were being refueled to
stay on station. There simply were too many being too successful.”
“So,” Gurfein said, putting his cigar in an ashtray and picking up his cognac, “ONI, being in charge of the waterfront, was under great pressure to get information. And because they were in charge of the waterfront, they knew that the mob ran it and that the mob controlled the fishing boats—if not directly, then had considerable influence indirectly, because the mob controlled the Fulton Fish Market, where catches from Maine to Florida—the entire eastern seaboard—were sold. And the fellow who controlled the fish market was—is—Joe ‘Socks’ Lanza.”
Canidy sat back in his seat. “So ONI approached this guy Lanza?”
Gurfein shook his head.
“Not directly. No way he’d talk,” he said, then took a sip from the glass before going on: “Joseph ‘Socks’ Lanza, age forty-one, a real brawler, an in-your-face kind of guy from the Lower East Side—oldest of nine kids—fought his way to be what’s called the business agent of local 124, United Seafood Workers union. A long history of charges—theft, homicide, coercion—that never stuck. No witnesses, no worries. Go figger, right?”
Canidy chuckled.
“It would be funny if it weren’t so true,” the former assistant district attorney said. “But it’s also funny—funny coincidental, not funny ha-ha—that when the D.A.’s phone rang with ONI at the other end of the line asking about a dock boss named Joe Socks, we had the guy under indictment for alleged extortion on the waterfront—your basic kickbacks from workers, and beatings if they didn’t pay.”
“Back to your basic thuggery,” Canidy said. “Wiseguy 101.”
“So we set up a meeting with a couple of the Navy boys and Lanza’s lawyer. We explained that we needed access, we needed answers, we needed tips, we needed anything, and would Lanza be willing to help?”
“What did you offer them?” Canidy said. “Some possibility of a deal on the extortion?”
Gurfein shook his head vigorously. “Not one damned thing.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Gurfein repeated. “We simply appealed to their sense of patriotism.”
He puffed on his cigar two times, heavily, exhaled audibly, then took the cigar into his hand and gestured toward Canidy with it as he made his point.
“You have to keep in mind that these Italians and Sicilians came to the United States for a better life and that many have family back in the old country, where Mussolini and the Fascists are making life a living hell. And keep in mind that Il Duce went after the mafioso in a vicious manner, appointing a special prefect with extraordinary powers to wipe them out; many wound up in penal colonies on those volcanic islands north of Sicily—the Liparis, in the Tyrrhenian Sea—while some of their bosses had to find refuge in Canada and elsewhere. So patriotism, on the surface—it’s not that hard a sell.”
He put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed.
Donovan said, “That’s not to say that they did not think there might be some consideration paid at a later time, especially if their help made a real difference—”
“But,” Gurfein, sitting up stiffly, shot back, “we offered nothing.”
Donovan smiled.
“Yes, Murray, I’m not disputing that. I’m putting myself in their shoes, considering how they might have perceived the situation.”
Gurfein looked at the director of the OSS a moment and realized he’d been overly defensive.
“Of course,” he finally said softly. “My apologies, sir.”
He slumped back in the couch.
“Not necessary but accepted,” Donovan said very agreeably. “There is also the very real possibility,” the director of the OSS went on, looking at Canidy, “that they were open to the idea because the more information collected meant the more they knew about the waterfront. It really was to their benefit.”
“And then there’s that patriotism thing,” Canidy said and beamed at Gurfein.
Gurfein looked at Canidy intensely, then realized he was having his chain pulled. He smiled.
“Okay, okay, I’m not that naïve. So there were possible plusses for both sides. Bottom line is, it worked. Slowly at first. Not every guy on the waterfront opened up immediately…or at all. Then someone—Lanza, I think—got the idea that with the right words said by the right people—the bosses—word would get out for everyone to cooperate. It’d grease the skids. And what better way to get the bosses to agree than to have the boss of bosses agree?”
“And it was off to see Luciano,” Canidy said.
“Polakoff first,” Donovan said, correcting him. “In the hotel bar, remember?”
Canidy’s eyebrows went up. “Right.”
“We got Luciano, without him knowing how or why, moved from Dannemora to Great Meadow,” Gurfein said, “after selling it to Louis Lyons, New York’s commissioner of corrections. His line was, ‘If it saves the life of one American sailor, I’m all for it.’” He looked at Canidy. “That patriotism thing.”
Canidy smiled. “Sure, but he’s supposed to be on our side.”
“A lot of people are supposed to be on our side but don’t always seem to be,” Gurfein replied.
“Some of my biggest enemies,” Donovan added solemnly, “are here in Washington, not in Europe.”
Canidy and Gurfein exchanged glances.
While exceedingly rare, it wasn’t the first time that Canidy had heard the OSS chief complain about having to fight more bureaucratic battles than real ones with bullets. But from the look on Gurfein’s face, it apparently was a first for him to hear such blasphemy.
“So,” Gurfein went on, “they swapped eight prisoners from each prison—”
“Wonder what the seven who moved with Luciano thought they’d done right to deserve better conditions,” Canidy thought aloud. “Or what the eight moved to Dannemora thought they’d done wrong.”
Gurfein looked at him a moment, then corrected him. “Eight—because Luciano didn’t know, either. Polakoff and Lansky had made the move as a condition of their getting Luciano to agree. Their reasoning was to have him closer so their commute to and from New York would be short, but ultimately it was, I think, a test to see how serious we were, to see if we could and would affect the transfer.”
“And did he?” Canidy said.
“Agree? Not at first. Ever careful, Luciano said he was not sure who was going to win the war, and he did not want anyone knowing he cooperated. He was also afraid of being deported back to Sicily and having to suffer the wrath of Mussolini or Hitler or—maybe worse—the mafia there. It was only after Luciano considered that he’d been moved to a better place, and there he would be allowed to meet with Lansky and his lawyer whenever he wanted—”
“In the interest of providing information for the war effort,” Canidy said, “and not running any rackets.”
“Certainly the former,” Gurfein said. “As to the latter?” He shrugged. “Regardless, in no time word worked its way down through the ranks that Luciano said to cooperate and they did. They even went so far as to issue union cards to ONI guys to work everywhere from on the fishing boats themselves to behind the counter of the hatcheck rooms in nightclubs.”
Donovan said, “And, Dick, that’s the kind of access you’re going to need in Sicily.”
“From Luciano?” Canidy said. “Do you think patriotism is going to cut it again? It’s a different dynamic.”
“Not necessarily,” Donovan said. “What makes you think Luciano would not want to expand into his home country?”
Canidy considered that. Before he could reply, Gurfein spoke up.
“You can ask him for yourself, Dick,” Gurfein said. “About the patriotism part, that is. I’ve got it set up for you to meet Lanza, then maybe Luciano.”
[ THREE ]
Jacksonville, Florida
1130 28 February 1943
As Richard Koch turned the yellow-and-black 1930 Chevrolet pickup truck onto U.S. 1 and drove toward the St. Johns River, he studied the in
struments on the dashboard.
He saw that the speedometer did not register—its needle rested below the zero on the dial face—and that the mileage shown on the odometer, which was not turning, was 40,348. With the odometer displaying only five digits, he knew that the numbers had to have rolled all zeros, and that meant that the truck really had, at the very least—who knew when the odometer had last worked—140,348 miles, if not 240,348.
He noticed, too, that the oil pressure and ammeter gauges seemed to be registering properly and in a good range. The needle on the gauge labeled OIL/P.S.I. pointed to 50 and the AMMETER needle bounced between 8 and 10.
He glanced at the gauge labeled FUEL. Its needle was flat against the E.
Does that mean it’s broken, too, or we’re out of gas? he wondered. Either way, I have no idea how much gas is in the tank.
He tapped the gauge glass with his right index finger. The needle didn’t respond.
“Damn!” he said.
“What?” Kurt Bayer said.
“We need gas,” Koch replied.
After a moment’s thought, Bayer said, “They didn’t issue us any ration coupons.”
Even if the Abwehr had, Koch thought, they’d probably be the wrong ones. Like that damned twenty they gave me.
Bayer glanced around the truck, then through the back window to the cargo area where Rolf Grossman and Rudolf Cremer were riding, leaning against built-in boxes used for carrying tools and plumbing parts.
“There’s probably a rubber hose back there,” Bayer said. “We could siphon some from another vehicle.”
Koch nodded. “Yeah, good idea.” He looked at the glove box. “Just for the hell of it, check in there.”
Bayer opened the glove box door and wads of discolored papers that had been crammed inside came pouring out.
“What the…?” Bayer said as they fell in his lap and down to the filthy floorboard.
He began picking through the mess. There were handwritten receipts on standard forms from plumbing supply shops and blank invoices imprinted in black ink with STAN’S PLUMBING, MANHATTAN BCH, FLA.
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