Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 28

  “Do you have any contacts who deal in international undercover work?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need the best person you can find,” I said.

  “Talk to me.”

  “While you and Dorene were living in Moscow, we all knew about the arrests that were taking place, but they are much worse than anyone who hasn’t been inside the labor camps can imagine. A great man, a Trotskyist named Commander Koskinen, told me that in 1934 there were approximately five hundred thousand people in the prison camps. But, he told me that beginning in 1937 at least one in every twenty people in the Soviet Union was being arrested.”

  “Good Lord,” said Bobby.

  “He referred to it as the ‘Great Terror.’ Just before I left Magadan, Commander Koskinen claimed that their census showed that, as of the end of 1938, approximately two million people were in the prison camps. And the number of people who’d already been executed by then was even greater. Ambassador Bullitt couldn’t have known of the earlier number, and Ambassador Davies certainly must not have known of the latter.”

  “I would think not,” said Bobby.

  “In fact, I read where Ambassador Davies reported back to Washington that he’d seen some of the show trials. He claimed they were legitimate, and that only real criminals were being tried and convicted. Davies seemed all too keen on kissing Stalin’s ass. I guess Davies simply didn’t want Americans back home to know what was happening in the Soviet Union. But he did the president a disservice. His ambassadorship was an absolute embarrassment, and I believe he has blood on his hands. Son of a bitch!”

  “My head is spinning, Press,” said Bobby. “Those numbers are astronomical. This is a fucking extermination.”

  “It involves a company called the Dalstroi, and Stalin’s plan to do a myriad of things, which I’ll explain later. But it’s insanity. And somehow, someway, I managed to get out. I don’t for a second expect you or anyone else to negotiate my family’s release, as the politics—”

  “Screw that!” said Bobby. “We’re going straight to the embassy to cable the president.”

  “No! We absolutely can’t! If our government even broaches the issue, I’ve been told they will execute Loretta and the kids. Besides, Roosevelt can’t open that can of worms. There are many Americans in the prisons, Bobby. And I’m smart enough to know where securing the release of American expatriates ranks on Roosevelt’s long list. He got reelected in ’36 to handle the Depression. And he’s also got this monster named Hitler to deal with. Hell, you spoke of extermination earlier. Koskinen says Hitler wants to exterminate everyone on earth who isn’t part of the Aryan race. I’m sure the president sees the value of having Stalin on his side as Hitler threatens the world. I understand the politics.”

  “I don’t want Loretta and the children to spend another second in prison,” said Bobby, wiping his wet eyes. “And just how did you manage to magically talk your way out—”

  “I agreed to spy for Stalin. I told the Kremlin I would gather information from within the U.S. Embassy and have it delivered via train on the first Monday of every month. I have a contact here, a German communist who’ll deliver a briefcase to Valga. But, of course, I have no intention of gathering legitimate intelligence. I just need to buy time until I can execute my plan.”

  “What plan, Press?”

  “That’s where your international man comes into play. But first, can you help me buy time? Can we manufacture some plausible intelligence to hand over to Stalin?”

  “Of course,” said Bobby. “We can send them some fabricated shit every month that will be solid enough to keep the waters calm. Just tell me your plan.”

  “It involves trying to track down some targets in Riga, Latvia. I’ve written it all down while I was on the train. I’m still working through the logistics of the entire idea, but I know I need help finding these Latvians. If memory serves me correct, I recall the U.S. having good relations with Latvia. Has anything changed since ’37?”

  “No,” said Bobby. “We have an Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary there now named John C. Wiley.”

  “Who is your international man?” I said.

  “I’m thinking of an old Military Intelligence veteran named Dallas Conrad. He does off-the-books intelligence work for high-paying clients.”

  “I’ll pay you back. Just make sure—”

  “Don’t you dare say that,” said Bobby. “I will take care of this, and I will spare no expense. Just tell me what you have in mind.”

  “I’ve actually said all I want to say about my plan at this juncture. Saying anything more today is pointless, because if the targets don’t exist, the plan is dead. If they do exist, I simply need this Dallas fellow to locate them.”

  “What if they don’t exist, Press?”

  “I have a plan B, but I don’t want to even discuss it until we exhaust this one. I’m afraid if I tell you anything more about either idea, you’ll try and stop me. And I can’t afford a moment of delay.”

  “Done,” said Bobby. “I’ll track Dallas down through some Military Intelligence friends of mine. I’ll cable them today. I believe the old veteran works out of Paris now. But once I make contact with Dallas, I’ll have him meet us in Brussels. We can do no communicating regarding the specifics of this via cable or telephone. The Nazis have all modes of communication under surveillance. Besides, Dallas knows that anyone from a U.S. embassy contacting him about a sit-down is code enough for it to be worth his time.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I know that you are here to do a very important job at the embassy. Try to focus on it. Try to be present with Dorene and the children, too. Tell them the divorce story and I’ll play along. I’m here to be your interpreter and assistant as planned. I just need something in that briefcase every month.”

  “There is nothing in this world that could stop me from exhausting every option possible to help you, Press.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Judging from how Loretta and Ginger looked, and how sick James has been, I don’t think they’ll make it much longer. Plus, I don’t believe the head of their camp, a man named Colonel Ivan Zorin, will treat them well. Zorin is the head of MR4 Labor Camp where Loretta and Ginger have been all this time. James is there now, too. And he’s having trouble with his lungs, something that truly has me worried . . . but back to Zorin. He is an animal of a man, the worst—a notorious executioner. I don’t think he cares if my family lives, even though the Kremlin sees them as leverage. They have every reason to believe I will do legit spy work based on this. Why wouldn’t they? They know I can’t have you all negotiate anything.”

  “True,” said Bobby. “As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got you by the balls.”

  “But back to Zorin,” I said. “He knows that even if my family dies because of his inability to keep from being a monster, he’d just lie and tell me they were still alive. And let’s say they do live, and I complete this job, and Stalin releases us, he’d never let us leave the Soviet Union. We’d be monitored for the rest of our lives. He wouldn’t want me, an embassy employee, to tell the world about his death camps. I know I’m risking it all with this move, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m desperately trying to hold on here for dear life and the big clock is ticking.”

  * * *

  When February 6th arrived, I sat outside on the patio at the Golden Café sipping my coffee and finishing up a plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and cold salami. The entire block was busy, just as Colonel Zorin had predicted, and across the way at the Blue Lion, I assumed, sat my contact, Dieter. Wherever he lived wasn’t far from me. I had secured a tiny, furnished apartment just up the block.

  Taking a bite of toast, I looked down at my German-made Aristo stainless-steel watch, a gift from Bobby, and made note of the time: 7:30. I then eyed my briefcase and imagined how the Kremlin would react when they opened it to find notes I’d written regarding a fictitious correspondence that had taken place between U.S. Secretary of State Cordell Hull and
Bobby.

  The fabricated lines by Hull that were certain to feed Stalin’s massive ego were the following: “President Roosevelt was most disturbed to see Time magazine list Adolf Hitler as its 1938 Man of the Year and feels that the editor’s rationale for doing so remains unpalatable. As a result, folks within his administration are pressuring the magazine to make sure Stalin is named 1939’s Man of the Year.”

  Bobby had typed up the fictitious note from Hull on U.S. State Department letterhead and had signed the Secretary of State’s name on it. Then he’d had me photograph the letter, as if I’d stolen it from his desk. The idea worked because actual mail was indeed being sent back and forth between D.C. and Berlin, and embassy couriers had been hired to both pick up and receive it directly from our American ships. Such precautions were required due to German officials combing through the regular mail.

  What gave this particular briefcase delivery a hell of a lot of credibility involved some notes I’d taken regarding an actual meeting that Stalin was trying to organize between his man, Maxim Litvinov, and Germany’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Joachim von Ribbentrop. But Hitler was only willing to consider the meeting if Litvinov was replaced. His reasoning? Litvinov was Jewish.

  I figured Stalin would love finding out that his desired meeting just might happen if he were to simply replace Litvinov. And once said meeting did take place in the future, I’d have all the more credibility. Stalin would wonder how the hell I’d found out about this, but unless or until he asked, I wasn’t going to worry about it.

  I was, however, impressed with how Bobby had actually found out about Stalin’s desired sit-down with Germany. He’d been receiving messages from a top-level informant who was embedded within the German government, a man who was part of a team of folks who wanted to oust Hitler. Bobby had learned of the informant from another anti-Nazi, German diplomat who’d been stationed in Argentina with him.

  “Don’t think for a second,” Bobby had said, “that the United States doesn’t have its own spies in many nations, including Germany and the Soviet Union. And they’re not Americans, but rather, locals who oppose their country’s politics. Our German spy is an anti-Nazi.”

  “How does he communicate with you?” I had said.

  “There’s a certain dry cleaners that has the most amazing owner. He would poison Hitler if given the chance. Our mole and I love having him clean and press our suits. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “Fair enough,” I had said.

  “We can thank President Roosevelt for realizing the importance of America’s need to begin matching Britain, Germany, and the Soviet Union when it comes to international spying. During his time as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Roosevelt’s interest in the spy business was born. And now, I believe he only intends to grow his global, covert apparatus. Maybe he could use you and your multilingual abilities, Press. But that’s certainly a story for another day.”

  Again I looked at my watch and then the briefcase. The Kremlin would also find two fictitious lines about Poland of interest, the first in which Hull says, “The President understands that Hitler anxiously wants to attack Poland from the west, and he’s hoping like hell that they won’t, all the while, remaining steadfast in his belief that the U.S., Britain, France, and the Soviet Union will continue to show that they are the real world powers.” The second in which Hull says, “We believe Hitler is envious of Stalin’s calm and resolve, and rightfully so.”

  The following information was not going to be put in my briefcase, but one thing I had come to learn since arriving at Bendlerstrasse 39 was that the U.S. was already keenly aware that Stalin and Hitler were preparing some sort of an alliance, one in which they would share in the carving up of Poland. In fact, we had no intentions of stopping them from attacking Poland, even if our allies, Britain and France, decided to defend them.

  The two countries had not signed any official pact yet that made official their intentions of protecting Poland; still, embassy folks could smell one coming. But again, zero information I’d ever send would make this known to Stalin. Bobby and I only intended to nibble around the edges. Nothing sent would affect Stalin’s decisions, one way or the other. Whatever he intended to do, he was going to do.

  I’d also included in my briefcase a letter requesting that the Kremlin look into having Lovett transferred from Magadan to MR4 so that he could eventually be released with my family. I was looking forward to their response.

  When the clock hit 7:45, I stood and walked toward Friedrichstrasse Street, leaving some money behind on the table. Waiting for the traffic guard’s signal, I stood amongst the crowd of suited men and we finally crossed over and stationed ourselves in front of the Blue Lion. Then, just as planned, I sat my briefcase down, and before we began to move, Dieter approached, setting his next to it. I casually looked at him, his black fedora similar to mine and the many others who were hustling off to work. He was my height, thin, fair-skinned, with a sharp nose and chin.

  The traffic guard finally stopped the vehicles and the throng began to walk again, Dieter and I following protocol. Not a word needed to be spoken. The first delivery had been set into motion.

  23

  Brussels, Belgium

  February 9, 1939

  BOBBY AND I HAD WANTED TO MEET DALLAS CONRAD EARLIER IN the week, but I’d had to be in Berlin from Monday to Wednesday to make the briefcase exchange. As a result, we were taking the Thursday morning train to Brussels. Bobby had been able to organize the fourteen-hour trip by setting up a meeting with none other than Joseph E. Davies, the current U.S. Ambassador to Belgium. It was too ironic that he’d be visiting with the man I despised for having been a deplorable ambassador to the Soviet Union.

  We arrived at around 10:00 p.m. and checked into two rooms at the Hotel Metropole. Bobby’s meeting with Ambassador Davies wasn’t due to take place until the following afternoon. Meanwhile, our man Dallas Conrad would be joining us for breakfast downstairs at 8:00 sharp.

  Both of us woke feeling well-rested and anxious. We sat down at a corner table in the busy hotel café at around 7:30, each of us ordering coffee and oatmeal. All Dallas had mentioned was that he’d be carrying a little black dog—a Pomeranian to be specific.

  “Thanks again, Press, for trusting me with your entire plan,” said Bobby, stirring some milk into his coffee. “I hope you believe I was never going to try to stop you.”

  “I do,” I said, adjusting my tie. “I just needed some time to think it through a bit more before completely filling you in. I needed to get that briefcase in Dieter’s hands for the first time. That simple act cleared my mind quite a bit.”

  “What else did you send?”

  “I asked Colonel Zorin to give me details on my family’s well-being. And I specifically asked for a doctor’s report regarding James’s breathing issue. Problem is, the medics at the camp are awful. He needs to see a proper physician.”

  “Do you know how fucking handcuffed I feel right now, Press?” He sipped. “I sort of blame myself for all of this. How could I not have been more proactive about looking into the arrests while living in Moscow? All of us diplomats were so damn busy romanticizing about the damn place. Even still, I believe many of our government officials live vicariously through white rebels like the late Jack Reed, along with current so-called Soviet sympathizers like Max Eastman, James Burnham, and Max Shachtman.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself,” I said.

  “I’ve been walking around in a constant state of shock for over a month; in utter awe of not only how you managed to survive the camps, but the specific acts of barbarism you had to endure, the friends you were forced to watch die. I can’t grasp how you had the strength or wherewithal to think up an escape plan in the midst of the entire mess. And again, I can’t help but beat myself up over it.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I’m focused on what’s ahead, on Dallas.”

  “He’s going to stand at the entryway so that we can see him,” said Bobby, opening a
notebook and scribbling something. “I’ll go retrieve him when he appears.”

  “Then you should probably stand up,” I said, sipping my coffee. “I believe that’s our man with the silver head of hair standing next to the maître d’.”

  Bobby took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stood. I watched him walk across the large café, winding his way through the many tables until he reached Dallas, who was standing about twenty feet in the distance. The Military Intelligence vet appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He was average height, trim, finely tailored, his silver hair fashioned like Bobby’s, in the mode of one Clark Gable. The two shook hands and then headed my way. Just before they arrived I stood.

  “Prescott,” said Bobby, “this is Dallas Conrad.”

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said with a deep smoker’s voice.

  “Please,” said Bobby, offering Dallas up a chair, the three of us sitting. “Coffee, Dallas?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said, petting his perfectly behaved dog.

  “I don’t want to waste a second of your time, Mr. Conrad,” I said, taking a file from my briefcase and placing it in front of him. “I think you’ll find the plan clear and concise.”

  “Good,” he said, taking a pen and blank card from his suit pocket before opening my file and beginning to read.

  Bobby and I sipped our coffee and watched Dallas carefully running his finger down my typed outline. I scanned the café and wondered if Stalin had designated someone from day one to shadow me, a person who had perhaps traveled on the same train from Berlin to Brussels. It didn’t matter if Stalin had done such. All this possible spy would be witnessing was my boss meeting with some important-looking official.

  “Anything in Latvia is possible,” Dallas finally said, jotting down a note, his clean-shaven, pinkish, rough-skinned face remaining completely calm.

  “Good,” I said.