I adjusted the pillow behind me. “I thought we might have this conference,” I said. “It would be easier if someone else could fill in the blanks.”
Ian Fleming looked surprised. “You expected us?”
“Mr. Phillips at least,” I said. “Although I thought someone from your group might be here, Ian. After all, it was your secrets that were being traded.”
“Which secrets?” said Hemingway. “You mean the British convoys and Dieppe?”
Mr. Phillips steepled his fingers and smiled again. “Why don’t you go ahead with your hypotheses, Joseph? We shall add what we know when it is appropriate.”
“All right,” I said. I took a drink of water from the glass on the tray. Outside, the palms rustled in the warm trade wind. I could smell the hydrangeas in Gellhorn’s garden. “All right, I think it went something like this.
“The SD obviously made some deal with American counterintelligence… almost certainly with the FBI, probably with Mr. Hoover personally. On the surface, there was this joint SD-Abwehr intelligence operation going on in Brazil, Mexico, and Cuba. Teddy Schlegel and the other Abwehr operatives, including the poor soldiers they killed on the beach, didn’t have any idea what was really going on.”
“Which was?” prompted Fleming, posing with the cigarette holder and smiling slightly.
“Which was the SD—Becker, Maria, Delgado, Kruger, and their masters—selling out the entire Abwehr network in this hemisphere, and possibly in Europe as well.”
Hemingway touched his bandage. His beard was longer now. “One Nazi spy agency selling out another?” he said. “That doesn’t make any sense. They’re fighting us.”
“Mr. Phillips,” I said, “you could probably explain this better than I can.”
The bald man tapped his steepled fingers and nodded. “Actually, Mr. Hemingway, the SD almost certainly puts the United States and all of its various intelligence and counterintelligence apparati far down on its list of enemies.”
“You mean Britain and the Soviet Union come first?” said Hemingway.
“They have greater priority in the international scheme of things, yes,” agreed Phillips, “but the Sicherheitsdienst’s greatest enemy is… the Abwehr.” He paused to take a sip of his whiskey. “As I am sure Joseph has explained to you, Mr. Hemingway, the SD AMT VI intelligence group is a subset of the Nazi RSHA, the same agency which contains the Gestapo and the SS and which is, even now, creating and administering concentration camps and death camps throughout occupied Europe.”
“Himmler,” said Hemingway.
Mr. Phillips nodded again. “Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler. Perhaps the single most evil man alive on the face of the earth today.”
Hemingway’s dark eyebrows rose slightly under his crown of bandages. “More evil than Adolf Hitler?”
Ian Fleming tapped ashes and leaned forward. “Adolf Hitler dreams nightmares, Mr. Hemingway. Reichsführer Himmler turns these nightmares into realities for the Führer.”
“We have reliable information,” said Mr. Phillips, “that even now, Jews are being fed into death camps… not concentration camps, mind you, but huge institutions administered by the SS for no other purpose than the destruction of the Jewish race… in numbers that the civilized world will not believe.”
Hemingway looked interested and sick. “But what does that have to do with Delgado and Maria and the Crook Factory and me?”
“On the surface,” said Mr. Phillips, “Admiral Canaris of the army intelligence Abwehr and Reichsführer Himmler of the Nazi RSHA and the late Lieutenant General Rienhard Heydrich of the SD all got along marvelously and cooperated in the name of the future of the Thousand-Year Reich. In private, of course, Canaris loathed these particular Nazis, and Himmler and Heydrich had been planning for some time to destroy Canaris’s agency and reputation.”
“By transmitting all this Abwehr information to the FBI,” I said. “Before that, the local SD strongman—Becker—destroyed the Brazilian and South American Abwehr networks. Then he and Delgado arranged to ship all of the classified Abwehr documents through us to the FBI. Or at least through us to Delgado and then to Hoover.”
Hemingway shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. If Delgado already had a pipeline to Hoover… worked for him, for Chrissakes… then he didn’t need the Crook Factory or us as a way station for those documents.”
“Ah, but he did, old chap,” said Fleming, chuckling to himself. “The fellow you know as Delgado had already made arrangements to move this information through the Cuban National Police, and when your Crook Factory exploit came along this past spring, everyone—Delgado; J. Edgar Hoover; Heydrich; Colonel Walter Schellenberg, in charge of Department VI; Himmler himself—they all saw how perfect it was. An amateur espionage ring in touch with all of the major U.S. counterintelligence agencies, authorized by the U.S. ambassador himself… and only ninety miles from the mainland. A perfect cut-out.”
“Cut-out,” mused Hemingway. “Meaning that we—the Crook Factory, Lucas, me—would be the fall guys if anything went wrong.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Phillips. “As far as we can tell, J. Edgar Hoover was terrified about his slip-up in the Popov affair last winter. The FBI had documented evidence of the intentions of the Japanese to bomb Pearl Harbor many weeks before the actual attack, but Hoover and his men had dropped the ball. William Donovan has confirmed this. Hoover was frightened that President Roosevelt would learn about this and diminish the role of the FBI in intelligence affairs, or, in Hoover’s most nightmarish scenario, remove him as Director of the FBI.”
“Mr. Hoover would rather be dead,” I said softly.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Phillips. “And that’s why he decided to go ahead with the plan that Major Daufeldt… your Delgado… had placed before him. The SD plan. The Himmler plan.”
I raised one hand like a schoolchild. “But who exactly is… was… Delgado? I mean, I know he was Kurt Friedrich Daufeldt, SS major, but who was he?”
Ian Fleming tapped out his cigarette and removed it from the long, black holder. His expression and tone were more serious than usual. “As far as we can tell, dear boy, Daufeldt was the single most able intelligence agent in the entire German war effort.” He smiled wanly at the writer next to him. “Which is not saying much, Mr. Hemingway. The Nazis have been extraordinarily incompetent in the field of gathering and analyzing field intelligence.”
“Which is another reason Himmler and the other SD leaders had no qualms about surrendering Abwehr operations,” said Mr. Phillips. “Most of those operations were and are disasters. They’re a bit more competent in the Eastern Theater of Operations, but they were confident that Director Hoover would never share the Abwehr intelligence about the Soviets with the Russians.”
“Then why did he want it?” said Hemingway. He smiled at his own question. “He’s getting a head start against the Communists, isn’t he?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Phillips.
“I think Mr. Hoover is much more afraid of the Communists than he is of the Japs or the Nazis,” I said.
“This war is a bit of an inconvenience for our friend Edgar,” said Fleming. “He really wants to get it out of the way so he can get on with the real war.”
“Against the Soviets,” said Hemingway.
Ian Fleming showed his crooked, stained teeth in a large smile. “Against the entire International Communist Conspiracy.”
I raised my hand again. “Excuse me, but no one’s answered my question. Who was Delgado?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Phillips. “Who indeed? You remember, Joseph, that I suggested to you some weeks ago that your Mr. Delgado was the mythical Special Agent D? The gentleman theoretically responsible for the actual shooting of John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and some of our other national embarrassments? Sort of a special special agent for Director Hoover?”
“Was he?” I said.
“We believe so,” said the hairless man. “Actually, we have no idea what his real name wa
s. When he came to Director Hoover’s attention in 1933, Delgado was known as Jerry “Dutch” Fredericks, a hoodlum and FBI informant from Philadelphia. But we think now that he was not truly from Philadelphia at all but had been inserted in the United States by Himmler even then.”
“He would have been young,” I said.
“Twenty-six when Director Hoover enlisted him for… ah… his special operations. Your Special Agent D spoke English, German, and Spanish and was quite at home in all three cultures, as well as comfortable with the culture of the so-called Mob and the American criminal underground. In 1937, because of the attention within the Bureau after the Dillinger and other shootings, Mr. Fredericks went to Spain, where he worked for the Fascists and used the name Delgado for the first time. We have evidence that he was in Berlin in 1939 and was known as Major Kurt Fredrich Daufeldt. As I said, whether that was his true name or not is problematical.”
“Busy guy,” said Hemingway.
“Quite,” agreed Mr. Phillips. “We were naturally concerned when Delgado/Fredricks/Daufeldt showed up in Cuba this spring. Or I should say, Mr. Stephenson, Commander Fleming, MI6, and the BSC were concerned. They tipped us to our friend Delgado’s presence and activities.” He nodded in Ian Fleming’s direction.
The British agent smiled. “We weren’t actually sure what Daufeldt and Becker were up to, you understand, but we did not anticipate that it would be overly beneficial to our side.”
“Which it wasn’t,” I said. “It was classified information about British convoys and troop movements that Director Hoover had sold them.”
Hemingway looked at me, then at the two other men, and then at me again. “The FBI was trading British secrets for the Abwehr documents?”
“Of course, old boy,” said Fleming with a phlegmy laugh. “You don’t think the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation would pay off his German informants by revealing American secrets, do you? Good God, man, the fellow’s a bloody patriot.”
Hemingway folded his arms and scowled. “It’s hard to believe. And why would Hoover want to kill me?”
“Delgado wanted to kill both of us,” I said, feeling the pain medicine begin to wear off. What I gained in mental clarity tended to be canceled out by the distraction of the agony in my side and back. “But I don’t think Hoover had decided that we had to die.”
“Not his style, actually,” murmured Ian Fleming. “You chaps served as a cut-out… a collective fall guy, as it were, should the intelligence transfer be discovered… but I suspect that Edgar rather balked at killing one or both of you. Rather more his style to haul you up in front of a Senate committee investigating Communist infiltration and discredit you or send you to jail.”
“There’s no such thing as a witch-hunt committee like that,” said Hemingway.
“There shall be, dear chap. There shall be.”
“It was the SD that decided that we had to die,” I said. “Himmler and Hoover could trust each other, because both their positions and power depended on maintaining secrecy about the arrangement. But we knew too much. Once we had received the Abwehr documents and passed them on to Hoover via Delgado, our role as patsies was completed.”
“But we didn’t pass them on,” said Hemingway, his arms still folded. He was scowling.
“No, we didn’t. But that didn’t matter all that much. We had been in the right place at the right time. Delgado could duplicate most of the Abwehr information if he had to. And the Cuban National Police would continue to act as the pipeline after we were gone. We just had to look guilty if there was ever an investigation.
Mr. Phillips set down his empty glass. “And you certainly would have looked guilty, both being found dead, apparently at each other’s hands, with the dead German lads buried nearby. Especially after Joseph’s brutal attack on a hapless Cuban police lieutenant.”
Ian Fleming lighted another cigarette. “What we hadn’t actually anticipated was that Delgado would murder two of his own chaps.”
“So it was definitely Delgado who shot the German boys on the beach?” said Hemingway.
“Oh, almost without a doubt.” Fleming smiled. “Some of our chaps followed Mssrs. Delgado and Becker from Havana to the town of Manatí that evening, but then lost them on what we now know is the abandoned rail line to Manatí Bay. I rather suspect that the young German soldiers had been told to expect Hauptsturmführer Becker, and it sounds as if the gentleman illuminated himself by lantern light to allay their anxiety a scant few seconds before Delgado gunned them down with his busy little Schmeisser. Best way to make sure the documents fell into your eager hands, don’t you know?”
I shifted to make myself more comfortable. It did not help. “As long as we’re tying up loose ends,” I said. “What about Maria? Who was she?”
“An SD agent, dear boy,” said Ian Fleming between puffs on his cigarette. “Half of the so-called Todt Team dedicated to eradicating you and Mr. Hemingway when your part of the scenario had been completed.”
“Goddammit, I know that, Ian,” I said, feeling the pain get my nerves on edge. “I mean, who was she?”
Mr. Phillips crossed his legs, running his fingers down the perfect crease in his trousers. “That’s perhaps the most puzzling part of this, Joseph. We simply don’t know who she was. A German national perhaps, raised in Spain. Or a very fine linguist. Very successful, deep cover. She is every counterintelligence director’s nightmare.”
“Was,” I said. “Unless you know something that I don’t about her getting off Cayo Puta Perdida alive.”
“Cayo what?” said Ian Fleming, looking shocked.
Mr. Phillips shook his head. “Sorry. No intelligence to that effect. Of course, our few OSS operatives on this island are too few and too overworked. We shall certainly keep a sharp watch, should the lady ever reappear.”
“Delgado called her ‘Elsa’,” I said.
“Ahh,” said Mr. Phillips, and took a small leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket. He opened a silver fountain pen and made a notation.
“And what about the Abwehr documents?” I said.
Mr. Phillips smiled. “Mr. Donovan and the OSS would be most pleased to take those off your hands, Joseph. Obviously we would never share them with Mr. Hoover or the FBI… unless, of course, we were forced to, in private, should the director ever again attempt to destroy our agency as he has worked so hard to do in recent months. And we would love to have copies of the photographs you took of the dead German couriers, of Delgado’s and Kruger’s bodies, and… if it would not be too inconvenient… notarized, dated, and sealed affadavits from both of you describing the events you have suffered and witnessed.”
I looked at Hemingway. The writer nodded. “All right,” I said. I had to smile, despite the pain in my arm, shoulder, back, and side. “You’re putting the director in a small box, aren’t you?”
Wallace Beta Phillips returned my smile. “Yes, but with the security and interests of the United States of America our foremost priority,” he said. “It might be best in the future if the OSS handled all foreign intelligence gathering. And it might also be best if the director of so powerful an organization as the FBI had some… ah… discreet checks and balances put on his power.”
I thought about this for a moment. I could not disagree.
“Well, well, well,” said Fleming, stubbing out his second cigarette, downing the last of his whiskey, and generally looking as if he was ready to leave. “We seem to have everything tied up in the appropriate knots, as it were. All conundrums and solutions present and accounted for.”
“Except for one,” said Hemingway.
Both visitors waited attentively.
“What the fuck do Lucas and I do now?” said the writer, glowering from beneath his bandages. “Joe doesn’t have a job. Christ, he doesn’t even have a country to go home to. I can’t imagine that Hoover wouldn’t find some way to make Joe’s life a living hell if he tried to stay in his job or return to the States. Imagine the problems with th
e IRS.”
Ian Fleming frowned. “Well, yes, there is that….”
“And what about me?” continued Hemingway. “The Infernal Revenue Service is already eating me alive. And if what you say is true about Hoover’s favorite method of infighting, he’ll be accusing me of being a Communist as soon as the war is over and the Russians aren’t our allies any longer. Hell, maybe he’s already started gathering information.”
My gaze met that of Phillips and Fleming. We had all seen Hemingway’s file. The earliest documents there were ten years old.
“Excellent points to consider, Mr. Hemingway,” said Mr. Phillips, “but I can assure you that Mr. Donovan and a few others of us in… ah… influential positions within the OSS will not allow Director Hoover to vent his spleen on you. Another reason to prepare those affidavits for us.”
“And you are an internationally respected writer, after all,” chimed in Ian Fleming. “Hoover craves celebrity in himself but he fears the power of it in others.”
“And your primary residence is in Cuba,” I said to Hemingway. “That should give him pause if he ever sees an opening.”
“Not to worry,” said Mr. Phillips. “As Joseph so cleverly put it some minutes ago, Director Hoover is back ‘in his box.’ And our agency will do everything in its power to keep him there. In fact, Mr. Hemingway, should you ever require a favor…”
Hemingway only looked at the little man. After a minute, the writer said, “Yes, well, it all sounds good. But as soon as my wife is finished finding out what’s beyond the little cross on the empty map, I’m going to see if she’ll fly up to Washington to have dinner with her buddy Eleanor and chat with the old lady in the wheelchair about putting a leash on this particular dog.”
“Cross on the empty map?” said Fleming, looking from Hemingway to me as if we had suddenly begun transmitting in cipher. “Old lady? Wheelchair? Which particular dog?”
“Never mind, Ian.” Mr. Phillips chuckled. “I shall explain it to you on our drive back to the airport.”
Everyone except me stood to go. I looked up at them and wished that it was time for my pain medication.