The Saboteurs

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I like it,” Cremer said in an even tone. “That beer baron—”

  “A traitor to our country, if you ask me.”

  Cremer shrugged. “So you keep saying. Busch began making beer in America in the middle 1800s. I don’t think it is fair to judge him now, almost a hundred years later, using your standards for this war.”

  Grossman grunted. “You are either German or you’re not.”

  “Remind me of your family background again?” Cremer said.

  Grossman had confided during the long train trip from Birmingham to Dallas that his mother was French.

  He glowered at Cremer.

  “All I know for sure,” Cremer went on, “is that he built a very nice hotel in a place that is not very nice. It has none of that cowboy nonsense we’ve seen everywhere else.”

  Adolphus Busch, as might be expected of one so named, saw to it that the hotel bearing his name was heavily influenced by European design. He built a bit of Bavaria on the north Texas prairie, creating an oasis of elegance in a town that was otherwise rather rough around the edges.

  The guests Grossman and Cremer had seen clearly were wealthy, though the two noticed that their dress was not necessarily always up to the standards of what might be expected of, say, the German upper class attending functions at the Hotel Berlin.

  Granted, almost without exception the women of the Adolphus dressed quite fashionably, and many practically dripped in diamonds.

  The clothing of the men, though, covered a wide range.

  Some of them wore well-fitted suits with pointed-toe, Western-style boots, their black leather skins buffed to a deep shine. Instead of a necktie, a few had on a bolo, a finely braided leather cord that was clasped at the shirt-collar button by an elaborate slide fashioned by craftsmen of silver and gems.

  Most of the other men at the Adolphus, however, were not concerned with such niceties. They had the weathered look of ranchers—hardworking and honest men—and it reflected in their clothes. If they happened to have on suit coats, the garments were not freshly pressed—one had even showed dirt—and their boots, whether the toes were pointed or rounded, went unpolished.

  As it happened, this worked in the favor of Cremer and Grossman.

  Cremer said, “No one has looked twice at us here, proving no one would expect to find a couple of German nationals suspected of blowing up things hiding in an expensive hotel.”

  Cremer flipped the pages of the Dallas Daily Times-Herald, found what he was looking for, then folded the paper.

  “Especially,” he added, “when those agents appear to be blowing up things on the East Coast.”

  He held out the folded paper to Grossman.

  “Here. Read this.”

  Grossman walked over, took the paper, and found the article.

  * * *

  POWER OUTAGES SPREAD

  Baltimore Latest to Lose Power;

  3 Cities in 3 Days Go Dark

  Governor Calls for Calm

  By Michael B. Goldman

  Daily Times-Herald Washington Bureau Chief

  WASHINGTON, D.C., Mar. 5—The mayor of Baltimore, MD, last night called his entire police department on duty after more than half of that port city’s downtown area lost electrical power.

  The outage began at 6 o’clock and lasted for more than five hours.

  Confusion struck commuters the hardest, with busy train stations coming to a halt and city streets gridlocked until well after midnight.

  Hospital emergency rooms were reported to be operating at peak capacity with record numbers of injured being admitted. A hospital representative who would not speak officially put the figure at “hundreds.”

  “It is important to have a strong police presence at such times,” Mayor Sean MacDonald said, explaining his emergency action. “The public expects it.”

  By this morning, power and calm had returned to downtown Baltimore.

  But, according to some, there was anything but calm among the general population.

  “People are scared,” said Maryland state representative Silas Rippy, a Democrat whose district includes downtown Baltimore. “This is exactly hat happened on Tuesday in Carolina and on Thursday in Virginia. They’re calling it a ‘coincidence.’ This is no coincidence. We want—and we deserve—real answers.”

  Downtown areas of Charlotte, NC, and Richmond, Va., lost electrical power this week, causing injury and panic.

  According to Baltimore Power & Light, the cause of the Maryland power failure also was faulty equipment.

  “It is an unfortunate coincidence,” said Carl Hemple, BP&L Director of Public Relations. “This particular power grid happened to have the same equipment—indeed the same series of manufacture—as the others that went down. It appears that all of the grids were weakened by what we all know has been a worse than usual winter season. It’s just that simple.”

  Agents from the Federal Bureau of In vestigation, who had been looking into the event in North Carolina and Virginia, and now are reviewing this one in Maryland, agreed.

  “The fact is that it is similar equipment failing under similar conditions,”said Special Agent Mark Davis of F.B.I. headquarters here in Washington. “All grids are being inspected, and any weak nesses found are being corrected.”

  That explanation, Representative Rippy said, was not good enough.

  “Hundreds upon hundreds have been hurt,” he said. “First it was the train stations. Now this. Who and what is next?”

  Maryland Governor Harold Clarke called on citizens to remain calm.

  “Let’s all exercise good judgment,” he said from his office in the capitol. “And please join me and pray for those injured in this unfortunate event.”

  * * *

  Grossman handed the newspaper back to Cremer and said, “The cover story of the government is good. But it does not seem to be believed.”

  Cremer nodded. “Possibly. But the good news is that the public is reacting just as we had hoped. Bayer and Koch are doing a good job. Steady, small attacks. Let the people cause their own problems.” He looked directly at Grossman. “That’s what we need to do, too. No more big blasts.”

  Grossman glared back.

  “Okay,” he said. “Enough. I told you that it was a mistake to use so much explosive in the Atlanta train station lockers.”

  He looked at the coffee table, where there were two identical sets of explosives and primers laid out.

  “These should be just enough to cause the necessary confusion,” he said.

  Cremer nodded, then looked at his watch. He put aside the newspaper.

  “Okay. It’s close enough to time. Let’s go.”

  Grossman went to the table, picked up one set of the explosives, and put it in a small black leather case.

  They took one of the five massive elevators down to the first floor, then crossed the richly carpeted lobby and went down the steps to the entrance.

  A doorman opened one of the large beveled-glass-and-bronze doors, tipped his hat, and said, “Good day, gentlemen,” as they passed onto the busy sidewalk.

  They walked up Commerce Street, keeping pace with the crowd of businessmen and secretaries who appeared to have just left their offices.

  Ahead of them, a couple of men in suits and ties went through the revolving door of the fancy bar and grill that was a part of the Adolphus. The bar had large, inviting windows overlooking the sidewalk. Cremer looked inside as they passed and watched the two men who had just entered join an animated crowd of businessmen and -women standing at the long, classy brass bar for Friday happy hour.

  At the street corner, after waiting for the light to change, Cremer and Grossman crossed Akard Street—dodging an automobile running the red light—and continued along Commerce.

  About halfway up the block, a series of department store windows began. The goods in the large displays looked very much like what they had seen all week on guests at the hotel—very fine and expensive clothing and jewelry.

  Alm
ost at the end of the block, they came to a large elaborate entrance into the department store itself.

  Grossman glanced at Cremer, who nodded, and they followed four attractive young women through the doors under shiny metalwork that read: NEIMAN MARCUS.

  Inside, Cremer followed one of the women—a blonde—to the right while Grossman continued straight, behind two brunettes.

  The store was full of customers, mostly women, but more than a few men. An off-duty Dallas policeman, in uniform and armed, working as store security, was riding the escalator to the second floor, scanning the first-floor crowd as he ascended, and then was gone.

  The blonde walked slowly past one of the brightly lit glass display cases, admired the earrings there, then continued walking. Cremer stopped and feigned interest in the jewelry while keeping an eye on Grossman.

  As planned, Grossman was approaching the counter in the corner that displayed leather goods—wallets, purses, belts, and more.

  After he casually looked at the contents of one case, a nicely dressed, dark-haired salesgirl behind the counter walked up and began speaking to him.

  Grossman nodded, pointed to something in the display, and the salesclerk took out a key, unlocked the back of the display, and pulled out a wallet.

  Grossman casually put the small leather case with the explosives on the counter beside an open black box containing leather key rings and took the wallet.

  “Can I help you?” a young woman’s voice asked, startling Cremer.

  He turned and now saw a pretty redheaded salesclerk standing behind the display with the earrings.

  “Oh, no,” he said and smiled. “Thank you, but no. I just got distracted.”

  “These can do that,” the redhead said, looking at the earrings.

  “Yes, yes they can,” Cremer said and started walking toward the leather goods section.

  When he reached it, Grossman was at the end of the counter, shaking his head and frowning as he handed back the wallet to the salesclerk.

  Cremer heard him say, “Not quite what I need. I’ll just keep looking.”

  “Very well,” the salesclerk said, then saw Cremer and turned to help him. When she had reached him, she asked, “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, please,” he said and pointed to a purse at the end of the counter farthest from Grossman. “I’m thinking of something for my girlfriend.”

  As the salesclerk showed Cremer a large brown purse, he saw Grossman in his peripheral vision walking away from the display—without the small black leather case.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cremer held a small brown paper bag with vertical stripes and the store logotype on it. In it was a half pound of warm salted cashews.

  He put a handful in his mouth, then, chewing, went out the doors on the opposite side of the store that he and Grossman had entered, turned left on the sidewalk, went down Main Street for two blocks, made another left, onto Field, then came back to Commerce, turned, and went through the glass-and-bronze doors of the Adolphus.

  Grossman had his suitcase in hand when Cremer reached the room.

  Cremer looked to the coffee table; the second set of explosive and primer was no longer there.

  “Okay,” Cremer said, nodding, “you go on. I’ll see you at the station.”

  Cremer guessed that it was maybe six hundred meters from the hotel to Union Station and so far every step of the way he had half-expected the explosive to go off in that fancy department store with the Jewish name.

  Grossman had set the fuses too short in the train stations in both Jacksonville and Atlanta. He had almost blown himself up in Atlanta.

  Cremer had told him to set up the trigger—an ampoule of acid that caused a slow burn until it activated the fuse—so that it would not fire for at least an hour.

  But with Grossman having again been so anxious, Cremer knew that there was a good chance he had screwed that up and so half-expected the bomb would go off at any moment.

  He came to South Houston Street and made a left turn.

  And when it does blow, it will certainly cause a curious new twist for the Americans to consider.

  First it had been train stations and power plants on the East Coast.

  And now Neiman’s—a Jude Speicher—in Texas?

  How will officials explain this as a “coincidence”?

  He joined the crowd making its way to and through the front doors of Union Station.

  Especially when the train station down the street from the store gets hit, too.

  Inside the terminal, half a dozen Dallas policemen watched the people walk through.

  He saw a freestanding sign that read TO TRAINS and had an arrow with U.S.O. above it. He snugged his hat down on his head, and as he headed for the sign he heard the keening of fire-engine sirens down the street. Three of the cops went running out the door.

  He looked at his Hamilton and shook his head in disgust.

  Only thirty minutes.

  [ ONE ]

  Pier 10

  Fulton Fish Market

  New York City, New York

  2025 6 March 1943

  Dick Canidy stood on the dock on the East River and watched the taillights of the taxicab with the fishmonger at the wheel disappear into the distance.

  He sniffed, then groaned.

  Jesus, that’s raw.

  The massive timbers of the dock reeked of dead fish, despite the cold temperatures, and this was on top of the heavy odor of diesel fuel that over the years had been spilled and then soaked into the wood. He idly wondered how bad the assault on the senses must be in the summer heat.

  Canidy saw that the dock had piers about fifty yards long jutting into the river, most with boats moored to them, and longshoremen on and around the boats.

  He looked at the activity out at the end of the wooden finger with the PIER 10 sign. He could make out the shapes of the cargo truck and the big boat there but not much detail.

  There was light shining from across the river—from the Brooklyn Terminal, where a line of Liberty ships was being loaded—but there were almost no lights here on the dock and those few that were burning had been masked or otherwise dimmed. Even the Brooklyn Bridge looming in the distance was mostly darkened.

  There was of course a reason for this. It had been almost a year since the order had come—in April 1942, as the vicious U-boat attacks off the East Coast continued to escalate—for all unnecessary lighting on the New York waterfront to be turned out.

  The wind gusted, and Canidy buttoned up his jacket, then pulled the woolen knit cap from his pocket and pulled it on his head, grateful that he now was dressed for the winter woods of Maine, or at least the New York City equivalent.

  As he moved toward the boat, he began to pick out details. What from the distance had been a great bulk of rusty black-painted steel hull rising from the river now had rigging and winches and cables and crew—and a name.

  ANNIE was painted in tall, white block lettering high on the black bow.

  She was an ocean fishing vessel. Three-quarters of her seventy-foot length, from the stern to just shy of the white pilothouse on the bow, formed a large, flat, open working area with heavy-duty fishing equipment for long-lining (running out miles of baited hooks for hours at a time) and a series of hatches above deep cargo holds. A steel mast towered behind the pilothouse, and its boom, controlled by a series of steel cables, reached from the foot of the tower almost to the back of the boat.

  Canidy stopped beside the cargo truck and watched as a guy in a thick, dark woolen sweater and black rubber overalls operated levers that were connected to the winches that moved the boom.

  The boom was in the process of lifting a crate—Canidy could now see that it held the iced-down carcasses of large billfish and sharks—from one of the ship holds. Two other men were standing on the back of the cargo truck, waiting to guide the crate onto a stack of other crates already there.

  “Watch it, there!” the taller of the two guys on the truck called out
to Canidy.

  Canidy turned and looked at him.

  “That crate’s gonna swing right over your head,” the guy went on, “and you really don’t want to be there when it does.”

  Canidy looked at the crate hanging from the boom cable and saw that a steady stream of what looked like water flowed from its lowest corner. He then took a closer look at the crates on the truck; they were dripping wet, and a slimy liquid ran in rivulets from them, down the truck bed, then drained onto the dock and through the cracks between timber, making, he thought, as it hit the river, a sound similar to the taking of a massive leak.

  He stepped back some twenty feet, what he thought was a sufficient distance, and now stood next to the gangplank that led aboard the Annie. From there, he watched the crate swing right over where he had been standing—leaving a very wet trail as it went—and then with a different whine from the winch, be lowered to the truck, where the two men manhandled it into place on a stack of other crates before the cable went slack.

  The cable was unhooked and the winch operator manipulated the levers. The winches made a high-pitched whine as the cable was recovered and the boom swung back aboard.

  The taller man jumped down from the truck and walked toward the gangplank.

  “You Canidy?” he said as he approached.

  The thick accent clearly was Italian—probably Sicilian, Canidy guessed.

  The man, a head taller than Canidy, looked to be about thirty-five and solidly built. He had an olive complexion, thick black hair that was cut close to the scalp, a rather large nose, and a black mustache.

  “Yeah, I’m Canidy.”

  “C’mon aboard,” he said, brushing past.

  As Canidy followed him to the rusty pilothouse, the truck on the dock started its engine and with a grinding of gears began to pull away with the crates of fish.

  Canidy saw that the deckhand who had been working the boom was now securing it and the cable, and the guy who had been on the truck had moved down the finger of the dock and was beginning to untie the starboard bowline from a cleat.