The Saboteurs

by W. E. B Griffin

  Roosevelt liked the idea of his own full-sized War Room and quietly had one drawn up.

  Now fiberboard covered the walls of a onetime ladies’ cloakroom, and maps of the world, in large scale, were affixed thereon. As intel came in, the officers continually updated the maps, marking with pins, coded by color and design, everything from the locations of ships (destroyers had round red heads) to the locations of political leaders (Stalin was a pipe, Churchill a cigar).

  Donovan knew that early every morning, Roosevelt would come to the physician’s office for his daily checkup and massage, then slip undetected into the War Room next door to be briefed on the overnights.

  And Donovan was a member of a group that was even smaller than the one that knew about the War Room: those who had actually been in it.

  Not even Eleanor Roosevelt was allowed inside.

  Clearly, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover—who, as they awaited FDR’s arrival, had idly wondered aloud why they were meeting in the physician’s office—not only had not been in the War Room but also did not know about it.

  And, at least as far as tonight was concerned, would continue to be kept in the dark.

  And that answered question two.

  “I appreciate you gentlemen coming on such short notice,” Roosevelt said, sounding more energized than he appeared.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” they said, almost in unison.

  “Can I get anyone a drink or coffee?” the President asked, motioning toward the service on the desk. “Or perhaps one and the same?”

  “Not for me, sir,” Donovan said.

  “I would love a taste, sir,” Hoover said. “But, no, thank you. I have to get back to the office tonight. And I’ve had more than enough coffee for one day.”

  “Can I get you something, Mr. President?” Donovan said.

  Roosevelt shook his head, rubbing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose. “I can wait, Bill. Thank you.” He then lit the cigarette in his holder, exhaled a blue cloud, and said, “Then let’s get on with it—Edgar, any news?”

  FBI director J. Edgar Hoover nodded as he reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and scanned it.

  “According to our labs,” Hoover began in an officious tone, “the residue taken from the crime scenes at the train terminals in Florida and Georgia and from the electrical transformer stations in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland tested to be from the same family of explosive: cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine.”

  “In layman’s terms?” the President said, puffing deeply on his cigarette.

  “The Germans call it hexogen—” Donovan offered, earning him a glare from Hoover.

  He now had Roosevelt’s attention, and finished, “—the Brits call their version Royal Demolition Explosive, or RDX. Here it’s just cyclonite. Very common. Very effective.”

  Roosevelt looked back at Hoover.

  “So,” the President went on, “then all of the East Coast attacks can be linked?”

  “Well, as Bill says, it is a very common compound—”

  “You’re telling me that you don’t know, Edgar?” the President interrupted.

  “No, sir, not that I don’t know. I’m telling you that it’s possible—if not likely—that some of these attacks could be sympathetic ones.”

  “Sympathetic?”

  “Copycats,” Hoover explained. “People who either have some ax to grind with America—or your politics, sir—or who simply like seeing things go boom and the public’s reaction.”

  Roosevelt considered that a moment.

  “What about the German pistol that was found in Atlanta?”

  Hoover nodded. “We do have that. And we have had it tested for ballistics and we pulled the fingerprints. Right now, the prints are being run, but so far there has been no conclusive match.”

  The President looked off across the room as he thought that over.

  Hoover added, “Mr. President, if you’re wondering if the pistol is the key clue that these are German agents responsible, know that there could be thousands of Walther PPKs in the United States, ones imported before the war. It is not an uncommon firearm, despite being of German manufacture. We simply do not have enough evidence to determine beyond any doubt that this is all the work of German agents.”

  The President looked at Hoover. “What about Dallas? What have we found out from there?”

  “We do not have those details yet, sir,” Hoover began. “As you know, the explosions at the department store and train station took place just last night—”

  “Of course I know!” the President interrupted, his voice rising. He pointed at a copy of the Washington Star that was on a side table. “The whole damned country knows.”

  “Yessir,” Hoover replied softly but evenly. “Mr. President, please understand that I have every man available on this. We will have answers. And we will get those responsible.”

  Roosevelt suddenly made a toothy grin behind his cigarette holder.

  “Just as you did the first ones?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Hoover began strongly, but then his voice faded as he finished, “Mr. President.”

  Roosevelt knew that the capture of the German agents had absolutely nothing to do with the FBI’s ability to root out foreign agents on U.S. soil and bring them to justice.

  What had happened in June 1942 was that German U-boats in OPERATION PASTORIUS deposited eight agents trained in sabotage onto the shores of the United States, four on New York’s Long Island and four near Jacksonville, Florida.

  The ones in Florida infiltrated with no problem.

  The four in New York, however, were almost immediately discovered by a coastguardsman walking the seashore. They told him that they were fishermen, gave him a cash bribe, and he left—to alert his superiors.

  A manhunt for the agents began on Long Island, but too late, and the agents were able to board the Long Island Railroad and make it into the city.

  That they had managed to get that far was not good enough for one of the agents. George Dasch was having serious doubts about his role in the mission, as well as its overall success, and in the hotel room that he shared with another agent, Ernest Burger, he convinced Burger that they should give themselves up.

  The two took a train to Washington, and at the Mayflower Hotel—blocks from the White House—they called the FBI. They asked to speak with J. Edgar Hoover.

  While Hoover did not personally respond—it’s not clear if he had been given the opportunity—FBI agents did arrive at the room at the Mayflower and Dasch and Burger were taken to FBI headquarters.

  They gave their statements and turned over the U.S. currency they had brought, as well as maps of the places that they were supposed to have bombed—power plants, water supplies, train stations, factories, and more.

  And they gave details of the other agents’ missions.

  Within two weeks, all eight agents had been arrested.

  When Hoover made the announcement that the manhunt for the German agents was over, that the FBI had them in custody, the part about Dasch and Burger having surrendered and then giving up the other teams was not mentioned.

  The reason for the omission, he had privately explained, was that he wanted the enemy to believe that U.S. counterintelligence had rooted out their agents.

  Left unsaid: And if anyone should happen to believe that once again the FBI Super Cops have saved the day, so be it.

  “Do you remember what those German agents told us last year?” Roosevelt said. “About Hitler sending them because he wants to bring the war to American’s backyard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would say that he’s done it,” Roosevelt said. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Hoover did not reply. He shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling the sweat in his palms.

  Roosevelt looked at Donovan, who was more or less intently studying a fixed point on the finely polished hardwood floor.

  “Bill, I apologize to you and to
Edgar about how this discussion has transpired. My intention was not to put anyone on the spot.”

  Donovan looked at him and said, “No apology necessary to me, Mr. President.”

  “Nor to me, sir,” Hoover added. “You have every reason to be concerned.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “The headlines are bad enough, but every time a light flickers in the White House, Eleanor thinks it’s the end of the goddamned world!”

  Hoover looked at the President, saw the toothy smile, and found himself grinning, too.

  Donovan chuckled softly.

  “Mr. President, it isn’t that we’re not pursuing the German agent angle,” Hoover offered. “For example, we have agents reinterviewing Dasch and Burger.” He paused. “Very simply, sir, we are checking and rechecking everything.”

  Roosevelt nodded solemnly. “I understand. But we have to do more. Which is why I asked you both here. Edgar, I want you to know that Bill’s agents will be working on this, too.”

  “In my area of operations?” Hoover asked, glancing at Donovan.

  Hoover saw that the look on Donovan’s face could have shown that this was the first that he had heard of this plan. Or it could have shown that he was expertly hiding the fact that he had heard of this plan a day or a week ago.

  Roosevelt went on: “They will be using their network of agents to see if they can uncover any intel as to who is making these attacks. Your agents will share any information that is asked of them.”

  Like hell they will, Hoover thought.

  Hoover said, “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “As I said, we have to do more. This cannot continue. Especially now that it has become personal.”

  Donovan and Hoover looked at the President.

  “In Dallas,” Roosevelt explained, “they bombed the USO lounge.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hoover said, but it was more a question than a statement.

  “They have come into our country,” the President explained, “and now are targeting our soldiers on our land. It is difficult enough dealing with U-boats off the coast. We cannot have every American thinking there is a German agent on every U.S. street corner.”

  He looked for a long moment at Donovan, then at Hoover. “Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Donovan said.

  “None, Mr. President,” Hoover said. “And if that is all, I’d like to be excused in order to get back to the office.”

  “Thank you for coming, Edgar.”

  Hoover stood, and Donovan followed his lead.

  The FBI director shook the President’s hand, then the OSS director’s.

  “I’ll let you know—both of you—as soon as I hear from the labs about the Dallas results.”

  “Please,” Roosevelt said. “And anything else that Bill should know.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  As soon as Hoover went out the door, the President looked at Donovan and said, “I think we can both use a belt right now. I’m done with the room for tonight.”

  “Allow me,” Donovan said and went to the wooden tray with the crystal. The ice in the pitcher was about half melted.

  “Should I call for more ice?” Donovan asked.

  Roosevelt looked. “What’s there will be fine. We’ll just pretend we’re students roughing it at Columbia.”

  “Then I’d better call for more ice,” Donovan said. “As I recall, you never suffered one second in school.”

  “You can go to hell, Colonel,” the President said, laughing. “Pour me a damned martini. A double. I think Eleanor is checking lightbulbs; we should be out of her sights for a while.”

  Donovan put ice in two of the crystal glasses, then poured a healthy four ounces of gin on top. He carried the glasses back to the couch and chairs and handed one of the glasses to Roosevelt.

  “Victory,” Donovan said, holding up his glass in a toast.

  “Victory indeed,” Roosevelt replied and touched his glass to Donovan’s.

  After they took a sip, Donovan said, “Is it just me or does anyone else suspect that Edgar does not want to believe there are German agents blowing things up in our country?”

  “He’s embarrassed, Bill. He knows they’re out there and wants to bag them as much as anyone—probably more than anyone. But until he can, he’s protecting his image like that prefect in Casablanca—”

  He paused, mentally groping for the character’s name.

  “Captain Renault,” Donovan supplied. “Played by Claude Rains.”

  Donovan and his wife, Ruth, had been among those whom the President had hosted in December in the White House theater under the east terrace for a showing of the new hit movie starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

  Donovan had found the event somewhat ironic—considering that the love story was set in war-torn, present-day North Africa and that shell casings spent there in OPERATION TORCH barely a month earlier were damned near still warm—but then decided it was in fact Roosevelt relishing the irony.

  “—Yes,” the President picked up, enjoying himself, “Captain Hoover declaring, ‘I’m shocked, shocked, to find German agents here!’”

  Roosevelt made his toothy grin, then took a good sip of his martini.

  “I’m damned lucky,” he went on, “in the absence of this ‘evidence beyond a doubt,’ that he hasn’t just rounded up the usual suspects and called a press conference.”

  Donovan chuckled.

  Roosevelt, after a moment, said in a deeply serious tone, “Unfortunately, this is a humorless situation.”

  He looked at Donovan to make his point.

  “This problem, it has to go away. As in, it never happened.”

  “Say that again, Frank,” Donovan said softly.

  Roosevelt did not make a point of reminding Donovan that he preferred to be addressed formally as “Mr. President.”

  “Bill, this problem on our turf must disappear. I need America’s attention and energies focused on Europe and the Pacific. These German-agent headlines need to go away.”

  “I agree.”

  “And if Hoover bags these guys, he’ll make sure that not only are there more headlines, but that he’s pictured on every front page.” He paused. “So it’s up to you.”

  “The U.S. is not my area of operations—”

  “Bill,” Roosevelt interrupted. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be. You do what you have to do. Do it fast. Do it quietly.”

  Donovan looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes, Mr. President,” then took a long sip on his drink.

  [ THREE ]

  Newark, New Jersey

  2010 6 March 1943

  Kurt Bayer and Richard Koch had made good time getting to downtown Newark in the 1940 Ford sedan that they had taken from the parking lot of the Jacksonville Terminal Station.

  In the course of the past week, they had put far more than a thousand miles on the car. They had also put on a succession of different license plates, stealing ones off of cars in South Carolina and Delaware, then carefully disposing of the old ones.

  The car had thus blended in well with so many other average sedans as they made their way toward New York City. It had served them well—far better than that horrendous yellow plumber’s truck would have—and they had been very fortunate indeed.

  But with all of the news reports, Koch felt their luck was in danger of running out.

  Ever since they had blown up the electric transformer station in Baltimore, every town that they had passed through seemed to have a heavier and heavier police presence.

  The Reading Terminal in Philadelphia had been crawling with cops, as was Trenton’s and even little Princeton’s.

  Koch thought that it could be the result of an active imagination, but damned near every power pole along U.S. 1 seemed to have a cop parked next to it.

  And it was no different here in Newark.

  It was hard not to notice the squad cars lined up outside Penn Station and, as they drove down East Park Street, the paddy wagons parked on t
he curb of the north side of the Public Service Bus Terminal.

  Koch looked away from the cops and saw something across the street from the bus terminal that caught his interest. A restaurant sign hung from a pole on the dark brick building. Lit in bright red neon was: PALACE CHOP HOUSE.

  A steak and a couple beers sounds really good right now.

  But not there. Too damned many cops across the street.

  “After we get our room at the hotel,” Koch said, “I’m going to get rid of the car. Then we can eat.”

  “Okay,” Bayer said.

  They had already discussed ditching the car at great length during the drive. They still had more missions, but now it was time to cool it, to hide out. Especially after Rolf Grossman and Rudolf Cremer’s latest in Texas. The radio stations—every one since Wilmington, Delaware, that morning, till they got tired of it and turned it off after noon—had had some news about the explosions in the Dallas train station and that expensive department store.

  After making it though the heavy traffic at the intersection of Market and Broad, Bayer drove a number of blocks, made a couple of turns, and finally came to Park Place.

  “There,” Koch said, pointing.

  The Robert Treat Hotel was just down the block.

  “I see it.”

  “Drop me here,” Koch said, “then go all the way down and park around the corner. I’ll get the room key, then come find you and we’ll walk in. That way the car’s out of sight and not linked with us.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Bayer and Koch carried the suitcases that contained their duffel bags through the front doors of the hotel.

  Bayer saw that it was a nice hotel, not anything like the motor hotels that they had been staying in all week. The lobby featured impressive large columns, and there was marble and polished tile everywhere.

  They walked to the elevators, passing two young women, a well-built blonde and a petite redhead, both about twenty, relaxing in richly upholstered chairs beside a line of lush palms.