Flowers From Berlin (25th Anniversary Edition) Read online

  "Tell me, Mr. Hoover," Roosevelt asked rhetorically, "how does a saboteur, particularly the one whom your Bureau is searching for, creep onto a religiously guarded vessel, plant a bomb, and sneak off again?"

  Hoover was about to answer, but Roosevelt kept talking.

  "There is a man at large somewhere in America," Roosevelt postulated, "who is both an expert at espionage and high-level explosives. He is costing us lives and he is robbing precious war materiel from the democracies of Europe. But he is an unnaturally clever man. Your F.B.I. cannot arrest him because you do not know whom to arrest. You cannot look for him because no one knows for whom to look. Indeed, the local police departments in the cities and towns of the Northeast cannot be used because we haven't the faintest idea which ones should even be contacted."

  Hoover sat in silence. The President looked him up and down. "Well, what do you think, J. Edgar?" Roosevelt asked at length. "Have you been struck dumb? You've barely said a word since you walked in here."

  "The Bureau," Hoover replied quickly and defensively, "is working on this precise case day and—"

  "What has been accomplished?"

  Hoover groped. He mentioned a Portuguese network that could be closed down at any moment. And he spoke of a man named Fritz Duquaine who was believed to have entered the country from Vancouver some months earlier and who the F.B.I. had good cause to believe was operating in the Northeast.

  "But you have no proof?"

  "No, sir."

  "And you have no suspects who are so enormously gifted with explosives?"

  "No, Mr. President." Hoover verged on mentioning that no fewer than 43,000 immigrants had filtered into the United States from Germany since 1929. Sorting through them for a gifted bomber was not easy. But Roosevelt was speaking again.

  "Tell me," said the President. "Do I misunderstand the situation or am I correct? What we need is a face. A name. Or a past. We must find out who this man is, where he came from, and what his background might be. All this is even more important than a current identity because this man would certainly be gifted also at changing identities."

  "That's all correct, sir."

  Roosevelt continued to lead the conversation. "So what we are talking about is a bit of detective work. Identifying this particular man and locating him is the first task, without which any other plans are meaningless. And, of course, this work must proceed without alerting the suspect. Otherwise he will disappear and move elsewhere. Or return to Germany, perhaps."

  Mrs. LeHand buzzed the intercom again and notified the President that the secretaries of State and Interior were awaiting the President in the downstairs dining room. Roosevelt selected a fresh cigarette from the tin of Camels on his desk, placed it into a tortoiseshell holder, and slipped the holder between his teeth. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, leaned back slightly, and lit his cigarette.

  "Now, Mr. Director," Roosevelt concluded, "who is the best detective in your Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

  Hoover considered it for a few seconds. "The best detective within the F.B.I.," answered J. Edgar Hoover, "would be Frank Lerrick. Special Agent Lerrick is director of personnel as well as my own chief assistant. He's currently employed at Bureau headquarters on Constitution Avenue."

  Roosevelt pursed his lips and waited impatiently. He glanced downward to the papers on his desk. Hoover shifted his weight slightly in the armchair.

  Then Roosevelt looked up again. "Tell me, J. Edgar," the President said, "weren't we successful several months ago in infiltrating a man into Germany? A man who returned some good intelligence for us? He was a linguist and a financial man of some sort. Even had explosives training in the United States Army."

  "Yes, Mr. President. That's entirely correct."

  "I believe he's returned home, has he not?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Now the President cleared his throat.

  "Yes, of course," said Hoover, as if to suddenly remember. "Naturally, the man is still employed by the Bureau. I believe his name is--"

  "Cochrane," Roosevelt said. "I recall. William Thomas Cochrane. Where is he?"

  "He's currently assigned to Baltimore."

  "Baltimore?" The President arched an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

  "He's in the Mid-Atlantic States Banking Fraud Division," Hoover said.

  Roosevelt added nothing for many seconds. "Really?" he finally breathed.

  "I can reassign him this afternoon," Hoover volunteered.

  The President smiled widely and extinguished his cigarette, carefully removing the stub from the holder. "Very good, J. Edgar," Roosevelt concluded. "I was confident that you would know exactly who should head this investigation."

  As if by magic, two Secret Service men appeared and moved to a position behind the President of the United States, preparing to wheel him to the luncheon for which he was already five minutes late. Hoover instinctively rose. The Secret Service agents, employees of the Treasury, ignored him completely.

  "I think," Roosevelt said in parting, "that you and I should meet again, J. Edgar. In about a month. I'd like to know how this saboteur has been captured."

  Hoover thought his ears were failing. "A month?" he asked.

  "Good Gracious, Mr. Hoover!" Roosevelt suddenly roared, his chair halting, his face florid. "There's a war breaking out in Europe! You don't think we have all year, do you?"

  TWO

  Franklin Roosevelt and J. Edgar Hoover: the aristocrat from Hyde Park and the ambitious self-made Washingtonian who in 1917 had landed a twenty-five-dollar-a-week job as a file clerk in the crime bureau. They were never the best of friends. Frequently, during the overlapping years of their careers, they were political adversaries. Extraordinary events were essential even for the two men to sit cordially in the same room with each other.

  But extraordinary events had already occurred— with no distinct pattern at varying times on two different continents. At their center were three principals: a dedicated spy serving Hitler's Germany, a young Englishwoman, and a widowed American banker in the employ of his own government. Certain events reached as far back as two decades. Others were recent.

  For example, late in June of 1939, the spy who called himself Siegfried had again traveled to New York. He had been at Fritz Duquaine's apartment in Manhattan's East Eighties when a third man, one whom both Duquaine and Siegfried expected, knocked on the door. It was past 11 P.M. Duquaine recognized the knock and admitted his visitor, a naturalized American named Wilhelm Hunsicker. Hunsicker, as Siegfried sat in an armchair and studied him, was a hulking, heavy, thick-browed blue-jowled man who was the head butcher on the passenger liner SS Panama. Duquaine often used Hunsicker for special assignments. The Panama had been in port for twelve hours and would be sailing again that next evening, bound first for Cork, in Ireland, and ultimately Genoa, Italy.

  But Hunsicker was also a courier who brought with him an urgent message from the Gestapo. Siegfried was no longer to use the old route for messages—the diplomatic dispatch route through the Portuguese Consulate in New York, via Lisbon to Berlin.

  "Instead," said Hunsicker in German, reciting without curiosity the message he had memorized in Genoa, "you are to begin radio communication directly with the Third Reich at 1900 hours, Eastern Standard Time, July 15. By that time you will have your receiving set ready. You will listen for the call letters assigned to you."

  Hunsicker opened his wallet. He handed Siegfried a coded scramble of letters which had been handwritten on the back of a baggage receipt from the ship. From these letters Siegfried broke down the code and determined the call letters that German intelligence, the Abwehr, had assigned to Siegfried's radio set---- CQDXVW-2. Siegfried would be communicating with radio station AOR-3 in Hamburg.

  Siegfried showed no emotion whatsoever. "It's about time," he finally answered. "When you get back to the Reich, Wilhelm, you can ask those incompetents in the Gestapo what took them so long."

  Hunsicker was surprised at the reproach. His eyes s
kipped to Duquaine. But Siegfried held his attention. "Now," Siegfried said, "you have something else for me, don't you?"

  Hunsicker nodded, then handed Siegfried a small green envelope, the type a jeweler might use. Siegfried pocketed it.

  A tall, spare man with a cadaverous face, Duquaine stood to one side and watched the transaction. A skilled spymaster, the graying Duquaine had been in the employ of Germany since 1913. Unlike the other two men in the room, he was a Boer, born in the Transvaal in 1890. He harbored a deep hatred for England and America, the two Anglo-Saxon superpowers, and if pressed would explain his passion by citing atrocities inflicted upon his parents by the British Army. He stood near the apartment's fireplace and watched Siegfried finish a cherry brandy. Despite his decades of experience, Duquaine was still perplexed by Siegfried. The man was an enigma.

  "There is nothing else, is there?" Siegfried asked the courier, who was strangely silent.

  "No," answered Hunsicker, suddenly ill at ease.

  "Then Herr Duquaine and I wish to speak privately." Siegfried's eyes indicated the door.

  Hunsicker wavered for a moment. His eyes flirted expectantly with the bottle of brandy. Then Duquaine interceded.

  "Thank you, Wilhelm," Duquaine said. "I will see you tomorrow when we sail."

  The huge man glowered for a moment at Siegfried, retrieved his hat, and departed. Siegfried reached for a paper bag beside his chair. "Now I have something for you," he said to Duquaine.

  He produced a German-language version of the Holy Bible, an edition old enough to have been printed in the last century, which made it several years older than Siegfried.

  Siegfried thumbed the book a final time, ran his fingers across the binding, and then flicked it closed. The book was ornate and looked like a family heirloom.

  "My gift for those in Hamburg and Berlin," Siegfried announced. He handed the Bible to Duquaine, who accepted it. "How long is the Panama's voyage to Europe?”

  "Seven days."

  Duquaine poured himself a brandy and angled the conversation in a different direction. "You're capable of building this transmitter yourself?"

  "I've been ready for several years," Siegfried said. He glanced at his watch, then raised his eyes to Duquaine again. "You know," Siegfried added, "I can win their whole war for them if only Berlin will let me. You'll tell them that, too."

  It was more of a statement than a request.

  "I will stress your enthusiasm."

  Siegfried gave Duquaine a mildly contemptuous look and again changed the subject. "Your ship sails at eight in the evening?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll be wise to be on it. Your organizations here are filled with traitors and amateurs. It's a wonder any information of any value at all gets back to Berlin. Even through the channels of the Gestapo itself."

  Siegfried fingered the bottle of brandy, then decided against any more. "If the Lisbon route is compromised, my dear Duquaine,” he said, “it's a matter of time before you are, too."

  Duquaine pursed his lips and gazed at the younger man. Walking the streets or going to a movie was exactly what he had planned for the next day, for exactly the reason cited. In three decades of intelligence work on three different continents, he had never seen anything quite the equal of this thirtyish, dark-haired man. Siegfried was brilliant, but excessive beyond words.

  "Which leads us to this," edged Duquaine. "Berlin insists on a system of contact."

  "Of course." Siegfried allowed a silence.

  "You have devised one?"

  "When you return to America," said Siegfried, "you will go to Battery Park, across from the Statue of Liberty. You will go on Tuesdays and Fridays and appear in front of the Sailor's Monument at noon when the park is most crowded. You will carry an umbrella and an attaché case in your left arm. In your other hand you will have a New York Journal-American, folded. You will then go to a bench at the south end of the park and sit for fifteen minutes. Watch the ships in the harbor. If I care to contact you that day, I will find you as you leave the park. For what I am doing, I must be certain that there is no surveillance."

  "And I notice that there is no way you wish us to contact you?"

  "I can be contacted by radio. From Germany. By the High Command only."

  "And this sitting in the park, these orders you are giving me . . . what if it rains?"

  Siegfried stood and reached for his own coat and hat. "You're supposed to be brilliant, also, Herr Duquaine. If it rains, use your umbrella."

  Duquaine watched Siegfried pull on the overcoat and depart. Duquaine was enough of a professional himself to genuinely understand the danger—and the value—of such a man. Siegfried worked alone, with no immediate allies. He was impossible to control; orders could be issued only as requests. Duquaine wondered if Siegfried could even control himself.

  Duquaine, in fact, had been in the espionage game long enough to reduce certain aspects of it to a science. The first thing he wanted to know about a man was his motivation. Why did a man become a spy?

  He could answer that question about himself. Hatred of the Anglo-Saxon world. He could answer it about most of the men he had encountered over his lifetime. Political zeal. The sense of danger. Anger. Vengeance. Money. Sex. Every man had his motivation. Yet with Siegfried, motivation was invisible. Siegfried, Duquaine had decided one rainy evening long ago, was pursued by certain inner demons. And only heaven and hell knew what they were.

  It was well after midnight, but not yet 1 A.M., as Siegfried walked down the three flights of Duquaine's tenement. He paused in the doorway and scanned the street. He lit a Pall Mall and began to walk.

  A few restaurants were still open in Yorkville, but the last patrons were starting to emerge. The kitchen staffs and dining-room employees were starting home. A handful of bars remained open, though none were crowded. Much of the joy of the German-American beer halls had disappeared over the last few years. The mood was more somber, even occasionally tense. Some had taken Swiss names as the international situation grew cloudier. The Bremen had changed its name earlier in the year to the Zurich. And the München Bar, the fixture at the northwest corner of Eighty-ninth and Second Avenue, was now the Fondue Chalet. Why, Siegfried wondered, did not anyone in America understand the wonderful things that Adolf Hitler was accomplishing on behalf of the German people? Why did the American press spread such insidious lies about the Fuehrer's National Socialism?

  Siegfried was intoxicated by everything that currently transpired in Germany. The enormous proud rallies! Handsome blond boys in uniforms! Laughing, healthy women! The powerful, fearsome black, red, and white flag everywhere! The degenerates and undesirables finally on the run! Siegfried accepted totally this New Order for the final two thirds of the twentieth century. This was how the world should be!

  On this particular night in Yorkville, Siegfried could hear his own footsteps. That suited him perfectly. He preferred to move at this hour. Anyone suicidal enough to follow him would be conspicuous and would suffer the consequences. Idly, and with some pride. Siegfried recalled the first time he had murdered for the Third Reich.

  Siegfried had been in England in the city of Birmingham four years earlier. A coalition of Communist-led unions had shut down every factory in the city and had called for a massive May 1 rally. The strikers—textile, auto, chemical, and electrical workers—congregated at Hockley Circus and on the roads west. Then at 10 A.M. on a Friday, they had moved in a rowdy, rambunctious, singing, cheering legion down Hockley Road, across Great Hampton Street, and toward the center of the city. As they started up Constitution Hill, their voices came together in The Internationale.

  Siegfried, not long out of university, passionately hated that mob of ten thousand. The Marxists were the vilest force in the twentieth century: out to destroy churches, nations, and Aryan culture. It was bad enough that they had taken over peasant Russia and butchered the Czar. Now the industrialized West was their target, and weak-kneed liberal democracies like England and France si
mply stood by.

  Only Adolf Hitler could stop them. And Siegfried—Hitler's loyal, anonymous, brilliant acolyte— was intent on doing his part.

  The cheering throng surged into Colmore Circus and filled the mall. Police waited in a long, tense, blue line, not liking what they saw, but watching. Watching. Like the limp-wristed government of Neville Chamberlain.

  At twenty-two minutes after ten, as the workers moved into St. Chad's Circus, one stick of dynamite --- crudely but securely attached to a cheap Swiss alarm clock—detonated beneath the gas tank of a Triumph four-door. It blew fire and automobile parts toward the head of the crowd. The mob abandoned its flags and slogans and turned back upon itself. Pandemonium reigned, but the marchers could move neither forward nor backward. That's when, at the foot of the mall, Siegfried's second bomb detonated: three sticks of dynamite encased in iron piping and sparked by a remote-control signal. The device blew iron shrapnel out of a trash can for fifty yards in every direction. It was Siegfried's masterpiece.

  At the end of the day, in what would become known as the Birmingham May Day Bombing, nine lay dead and forty-seven other marchers were wounded. Some lost fingers and hands; other lost feet or eyes. Those closest were deafened. One policeman was blinded. Siegfried left England two days later while Scotland Yard was still chasing its tail. He traveled on an American passport, of all things, and when he arrived in New York word reached him through Fritz Duquaine that Hitler himself was elated.

  Now, America was next. The most dangerous individual bomber in the world, dedicated to his Nazism, was at complete liberty in a slumbering America, intent on changing the course of history.

  Intent and confident. All he needed now was the specific orders from Berlin.

  New York City was peaceful this evening, Siegfried observed. The contrast with the magnificent bloody scene in Birmingham was never far from his mind. This was a perfect night for thinking or relaxing, even for indulging in a man's simple sexual pleasures, if time permitted. Siegfried liked quiet nights. The atmosphere aroused him.