“Yes, sir,” she said without much conviction.
He looked up from the sheet of paper and added, “Don’t be surprised, however, if you suddenly find yourself the subject of a thorough FBI investigation.”
Mrs. Fishburne looked momentarily stunned.
Donovan grinned. “I’m only half kidding. If the FBI had decided you were a threat to the domestic security of the United States, Mrs. Fishburne, there’d already be an ample file on you. And they’d just be waiting for the Hoover Maxim on Criminality to work its magic.”
Fulmar glanced at Douglass and could see he was trying not to grin too obviously.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fishburne said, clearly not at all comfortable with the explanation.
“That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Fishburne,” Douglass said. “Thank you.”
She turned and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Well, this appears to be both good and bad news,” Donovan said, leaning forward to pass the letter to Douglass, then picking up one of the steaming china mugs.
He looked at Fulmar and nodded at the coffee. “Help yourself.”
Douglass sat back in his chair and his eyes fell to the message.
* * *
Federal Bureau of Investigation WASHINGTON, D.C.
Office of the Deputy Director
*** STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL ***
March 7, 1943
Colonel Donovan:
As an update to the previous information provided by the F.B.I. to your office on the most recent acts of sabotage, Director Hoover has asked me to inform you of the following:
1. That our F.B.I. agents in Texas believe with a confidence factor of 90 percent that at least two (2) German saboteurs were responsible for the Mar. 5 bombing of the Dallas department store that killed two (2) citizens and injured five (5) others;
2. That our F.B.I. agents in Texas believe with a confidence factor of 90 percent that at least one (1) German saboteur was re sponsible for the bombing of the Mar. 5 Dallas Union Station train depot and the U.S.O. therein, killing five (5) soldiers and injuring twenty (20) others;
3. That our F.B.I. agents in Texas and Ok lahoma believe with a confidence factor of 70 percent that at least one (1) German saboteur was responsible for the bombing on Mar. 6 of the Red Rock Rail Line train en route Dallas to Kansas (casualties unknown at this time); and
4. That our agents in Oklahoma believe that in the train bombing:
(a) with a confidence factor of 50 percent at least one (1) German saboteur died in the explosion, and
(b) with a confidence factor of 100 percent two (2) F.B.I. agents in the defense of their country lost their lives in the explosion.
On behalf of the Director,
And with warmest personal regards,
Clyde
C. A. Tolson
* * *
Douglass’s eyebrows went up.
Donovan saw that and said, “Wondering why Tolson sent that, are you?”
As deputy director of the FBI, Clyde Tolson was nearly inseparable from Hoover. Both on and off the job. Their relationship was so close in fact that rumors of homosexuality circled regularly, though Donovan dismissed the dirty tales as more of the vicious undercurrent that was Washington politics.
“A little,” Douglass said as he leaned forward and passed the paper to Fulmar, and added, “Your mission’s most recent intel, Lieutenant. Word to the wise: Don’t take it at face value.”
“Yes, sir,” Fulmar said, and began reading the confidential message.
Donovan explained, “While the President told the director to keep us—the OSS—informed of any and all updates, he did not say that the director had to do so personally.”
“Then using Tolson is his way of following what he considers a distasteful order,” Douglass said, “without bringing himself to the level of a lowly field operative.”
Douglass caught Fulmar’s eyes dart at him.
“No offense, Lieutenant. No one in this room has anything but the highest regard for field ops.”
Fulmar knew that that certainly was the case with Wild Bill Donovan—his reputation as a first-rate battlefield commander was above reproach, made all the more so by his Medal of Honor from the First War—and while Douglass’s history was not necessarily as well known, Fulmar had to believe (a) that Donovan would not tolerate anyone but a true believer as his number two, and (b) that with Doug Douglass being one competent fearless sonofabitch, he had had to have learned that from someone and that someone most likely was his father.
“None taken, sir,” Fulmar said.
“That crack about not taking Tolson’s update at face value was not entirely facetious,” Douglass said.
He looked at Donovan. “I am somewhat suspicious as to why they have provided that information to us so quickly. We usually have to pry the weather report from them.”
Donovan nodded. “Just take that into consideration as you review the file, Lieutenant.”
“I will, sir.”
“How are you fixed for a place to stay here?” Douglass asked.
“I need something, sir, but I don’t anticipate for long, maybe a night or two. I’d like to get on the trail of these guys as soon as possible.”
Douglass looked at Donovan, who nodded.
“We have a place on Q Street,” Douglass then said. “I’ll have Chief Ellis make arrangements for that, as well as anything else you’ll need.”
Douglass stood, then Donovan followed.
“Good luck,” the director of the OSS said, offering his hand.
Fulmar quickly got to his feet and shook the director’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“Grab that file,” Douglass said, “and a sticky bun, if you like”—he nodded toward the door—“and we can be on our way.”
[ FOUR ]
Room 909
Robert Treat Hotel
Newark, New Jersey
0115 7 March 1943
After Kurt Bayer had agreed to an all-night date with Mary by circling the “30” that she had written on the inside of the matchbook cover, Kurt had said that he had to make a couple of quick arrangements.
The first he said was that he had to go to his room and leave another note for his traveling partner.
He asked Mary about a hotel room, and when Mary replied that she did not have one—wasn’t allowed to have one, she added—Bayer realized that meant he had to take care of that, see if he could get one in the Robert Treat, and, if not, then try to find one elsewhere, preferably very close by, before writing the new note.
He had considered the idea that they could have taken a chance and used the room he already had access to. But he instantly dismissed that, because they wanted the room for all night, and he told himself he’d be damned if he and Mary were going to be interrupted by Richard Koch storming into the room at whatever late hour—possibly drunk, and possibly suddenly interested in sharing Mary.
So Bayer had gone to the front desk, found that they had plenty of available rooms, put down a cash deposit to secure a nice one with a view on the ninth floor for three days to start, and then returned to the lounge with two keys.
At the bar with Mary, he had ordered them both fresh drinks—doubles, and in highball glasses, so on their way upstairs they would not risk spilling liquor from the tricky-shaped martini glasses—then paid the tab, signing it to Koch’s room, and gave Mary her room key, saying that he would meet her there after he went by his room and either told Koch that he had plans for the evening or left him a note to that effect.
Bayer had found the notepad with his first note untouched on top of the bedspread and no sign that Koch had ever returned. He wondered where in hell Koch could have gone for so long—ditching a car was not that difficult—then decided he’d probably found his own fun.
He had then torn off the old note from the pad and written a new one:
* * *
R—
Starving. Couldn’t wait any longer. See you in t
he morning.
K
* * *
He had grinned at that.
Starving? Absolutely. But now it’s a whole different hunger.
Mary had already been in the bed when Bayer finally reached room 909, though in the darkened room it had taken him a moment to notice the human form under the covers. She had all the lights turned out, the radio quietly playing some big band music, and the curtains on the big window pulled back to show the sweeping view over Newark.
As his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he noticed the tidy stack of her clothes in a chair by the window, with her shoes beneath on the floor. And he could see that she had the sheets pulled up to her nose—and that her eyes twinkled.
Aroused, Bayer had not been able to pull off his clothes fast enough.
Literally.
No sooner had he jumped naked between the sheets—at the same moment noticing Mary’s wonderful warmth and sweet scent floating out—than his first attempt at coupling turned disastrous.
Bayer had been very excited—too excited, it turned out—and they had had to wait thirty minutes—despite Mary’s very creative and energetic attempts to breathe life, so to speak, back into his libido—before they could again try making the beast with two backs.
They now lay on their backs in the bed, sweat-soaked and exhausted, looking at the ceiling, the music from the radio softly masking the sound of them trying to catch their breath.
After a moment, Mary inhaled deeply and let it out.
“That was worth the wait,” she said, and giggled as she reached over to stroke his chest.
“Yeah, it was.”
“You’re very nice, you know.”
He turned to her and was amazed at how much she glowed, her face soft and warm, her blonde hair bright in the night.
“Thank you,” he said. “And you’re amazing.”
She looked back at the ceiling and giggled.
The music ended, and an announcer came on and said that that had been the melodic sounds of Glenn Miller and his orchestra and that the news was next.
Bayer instantly turned to look at the radio, then padded naked across the room and tuned in another station.
“Something wrong with the music?” Mary said, admiring Kurt’s body.
“Oh, it’s not the music. I’m just tired of news. And it doesn’t seem right for now.”
Mary giggled.
She said, “Somehow I don’t think the news is going to slow you down.”
Bayer crawled back in bed and kissed her on the lips. “Me, either.”
“Especially if it’s about those…explosions.”
“Explosions?”
“Yeah, bombings is what they’re saying in the news. They’re scary, but at the same time they’re kind of exciting—you know?”
What the hell? Bayer thought.
“How old are you?” he said all of a sudden.
“Twenty-two,” she shot back.
He reached over, cupped her breast, and squeezed very gently as he kissed her ear.
“No, really,” he whispered.
“Twenty-two.”
“C’mon…”
“Why’s it important?”
“Just curious.”
“Okay. Twenty.”
“Mary…” he whispered and squeezed again.
“Eighteen, okay? Why?”
Jesus Christ. A hooker at eighteen?
“How long have you been doing…this?” he said.
She sat upright. “Doing what?” she said defensively.
Bayer looked up at her. “What we’re doing.”
She looked out the window a long moment. She sniffled, and Bayer saw her eyes were now glistening.
“I think I’d better go,” she said finally and threw back the sheet.
Bayer reached out and wrapped his arms around her, then pulled her back beside him on the bed.
“I’m sorry I asked.”
She sniffled again and nodded.
Bayer thought, I need to turn this back around….
“Tell me what you find so exciting about those explosions?” he said.
“Nothing, really.”
“C’mon…”
She shrugged loose of his arms and sat up.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” she said, looking down at him, her voice hard. “I see power in them.”
“Power?”
“Yeah, like if I could do what they’re doing I would have power.”
“What would you do with the power?”
She looked out the window again, deciding if she should answer…and answer truthfully.
“Look,” she said, her tone softened. “I like you. A lot, you know? Like I said, you’re very nice.”
She paused, then swallowed hard.
“Not every guy is,” she went on.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was fifteen, my boyfriend—he was twenty. And he had an older buddy who ran a club over on Route 17 in Lodi, and they said I could make some really sweet money by dancing. Just warm-up stuff. No nudity, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And at first that’s what it was. The money was great. But then I began having a drink or two while dancing, and then more, and my boyfriend said he didn’t mind if I tried it topless—said he liked that customers knew I was his girlfriend and how they had to pay to see what he got for free….”
She stopped and looked toward the bedside table. Her glass from the bar was there, mostly melted ice, and she took a sip.
“And then the money got better,” she went on, “and the audience, you know, the rush you get from them, so I was doing more and more. And then—I guess I’d just turned seventeen—I started doing private dances and couldn’t believe the money. My boyfriend said he didn’t mind the private dances and I found out why—the bastard had gotten himself a new girl….”
“Jesus,” Bayer said softly, stroking her hair.
“So next thing I knew, with my boyfriend out of the picture, his buddy said that I owed the club so much for my drinks—which I had always paid for—and half my tips. And he said there was a way to make up the difference….”
“This way.”
There was a long silence. “I didn’t do it till they beat me up pretty good. Lots of bruises, and I couldn’t work for a couple months. So I still owed the money but couldn’t pay it off. But then I healed up….”
Now Bayer took a sip of his watered-down drink.
“I can see why you’d want that power,” he said softly as he put the glass back on the table.
“Uh-huh.”
There was a long silence, and then she said, “Let’s forget about all that and you and me just have some fun.”
She rolled over and draped her right thigh over his belly.
He enjoyed the weight and the warm, soft feel of it, and when she moved it and her leg brushed his groin he liked that even more.
Bayer grinned in the dark.
Do I tell her?
He said, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure,” Mary whispered.
“You could not tell anyone else.”
She snuggled up to him.
“What is it?” she whispered seductively.
“I know who’s causing them.”
“Causing what?”
“The explosions.”
She inhaled deeply and audibly. “No!”
Ach! I shouldn’t have said shit.
“Who?” she pursued.
“Well…”
“Do you know,” she said, “or—”
She reached down with her right hand and grasped his genitals. The warmth of her hand caused him to stir.
“—are you just full of it?”
She squeezed gently.
He groaned appreciatively.
“Hey,” she said, “it’s like a miracle.”
He was ready again and broke free of her grasp, and rolled onto her as she started to giggle.
[ ONE ]
Suite 601
Gramercy Park Hotel
2 Lexington Avenue
New York City, New York
0801 7 March 1943
Lit by a full moon, Ann Chambers came in and out of Dick Canidy’s view as he chased her up the narrow, winding grassy drive that was lined with mature magnolia trees in full bloom. She was wearing the silk pajamas that he had bought for her at the boutique on Broadway, the pj top half unbuttoned, and every now and then Dick could hear her playful laugh float back on the cool, humid night air.
This was the Plantation, a vast tract of timberland that the Chambers family owned in southern Alabama, and the natural drive wound from a paved macadam country road past the dirt airstrip—where the Beech Staggerwing biplane was tied down—and ended a mile later, opening onto a large hilltop clearing that highlighted the property’s main building, a Gone with the Wind antebellum mansion that had been named the Lodge.
Dick saw Ann finally dart out of the shadows of themagnolias, glance at him over her shoulder—her long blonde hair catching the moonlight—and laugh as she went to a side entrance of the Lodge.
As Dick approached, he could see that she was pulling on the wood-frame screen door but that it would not open. The flimsy door was being held shut from the inside by a small hook-and-eye latch, and every time she pulled, the hook gave only a half inch or so—and the door then slammed back into its frame.
Dick came closer, and the bam, bam, bam became louder with Ann repeatedly pulling at the door—and laughing hysterically. The top of her silk pj’s slid off her right shoulder.
Dick grinned mischievously, his heart beating rapidly as he closed in on her.
Ann laughed, and the door slammed bam, bam, bam….
And a man’s muffled voice called, “Mr. Canidy?”
Canidy shook his head, trying to shake off the fog that clouded his thought.
Bam, bam, bam.
The Saboteurs Page 24