A Despicable Profession Read online

  I settled in, hung my clothes in the empty closet, put my socks and underwear in the top dresser drawer and checked the larder for grub. Someone had provided a little taste of home, cans of Dinty Moore beef stew and Campbell’s pea soup. There was even a can opener. And a box of kitchen matches on the stove. They had gas in this building? I fired a kitchen match and lit the range. Yes they did. Electricity too? I flipped a wall switch. Well, one out of two ain’t bad.

  I heated up a can of stew and searched the larder some more, came up with a pack of Zwieback. Would have to do, though a crusty heel of rye bread is the perfect complement to canned beef stew. Trust me, I’m an expert on canned grub.

  I dug up a tin spoon and stirred the pot and remembered something I had said to the CO at the Bierstube. ‘What a sideways setup.’ A group of Russian émigrés as field agents, an NKVD Major as counterintelligence officer and our CIG liaisons cozily clipping newspaper articles ‘out in Zehlendorf wherever that was. Looked like Jacobson and I were all alone here in central Berlin, our Doctor Denton’s unbuttoned and our fannies flapping in the breeze.

  I crumbled the crackers into the pot and ate the stew standing up.

  Gas. The building had gas. Meaning hot running water, if it had running water, meaning I could shave. I went to the dank bathroom and turned the spigot. Pipes groaned, coughing out brown water that got clear after a time. Clear but cold. I tried the tub. Same deal. Kitchen too. Puzzled, I opened a closet next to the stove and saw the tank of propane. The building didn’t have gas, I did.

  I gave the stew pot a quick wash, filled it with water, boiled it up and hauled it to the bathroom. I grabbed my blue blade and shave mug and made myself presentable for my noon meet. I washed up and gave myself the once over in the pitted mirror above the sink. Handsome as a hog, though I should’ve cleaned the pot better. My mush smelled of beef stew.

  I no longer wear a wristwatch. My constant time checking got me into trouble in Cleveland, and helped The Schooler get dead. So I took the pledge. But this was no way to run a railroad. It felt well shy of noon but I changed my shirt, locked up, tripped down three flights and left by the back door.

  The Berlin street grid was worse than Cleveland. Streets on the bias, dead end alleys, Straßes that bent one way and became Allees when they bent the other. I spent half an hour winding my way to Konstanzerstraße, a north-south thoroughfare. All of the building damage in this section of Westen Berlin had come from above. The facades of the buildings had been spared the Red Army tank rounds and machine gun fire visited on Ost Berlin.

  The facades with their caved in roofs reminded me of something, reminded me of the expression of a baggy pants comic - goofy, grinning, wide eyed - in the split second after his partner smacks him on the head with a pig bladder.

  I smiled at the image despite myself. Okay, I laughed. I laughed in the face of the tide of solemn silent pedestrians moving along the sidewalk as if every step were an effort, their eyes turned inward, or outward in the thousand yard stare. Anywhere but here and now.

  Yeah, I know. I am a completely degenerate human being. When did I say different?

  ----

  A bell tower tolled noon shortly before I did a quick 360 and pushed open the stout door of the Café Gestern, tinkling its entry bell. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the gas lit dim. I saw why they called it Café Yesterday. Hummel figurines along a ledge, lace curtains with tablecloths to match, sprays of edelweiss in crystal cruets. And a Victrola playing a scratchy recording of, for some reason, French songbird Edith Piaf.

  I sought the spy table, far wall, left hand corner. No CO. But a small, very well dressed man acknowledged me with a glance. Leonid, the Soviet Major? The CO said we had a noon meet with our CI. We, as in you and me. Where was Jacobson?

  The dapper little man did not stand up when I approached. Or did he? Hard to tell, guy was a midget. And almost pretty. Not what you’d expect a Soviet Major to look like. He nodded toward the chair facing him. I knew instantly that he thought me a rube, knew instantly that we would be adversaries. So I sat with my back to the front door, confirming his opinion.

  “Victor will be along shortly,” he said in lightly accented English.

  “And you are...?”

  “Leonid Vitinov.”

  “Hal Schroeder, pleased to meetcha.”

  I held out a paw. Leonid did likewise. I wiped my palm on my pants leg when we were done.

  “I thought it best that we make each other’s acquaintance, man to man,” said Leonid, permitting himself a taut smile at the American idiom.

  I nodded and said what young men say to older men when they want to polish the apple. And have a couple hours to spare. “I’m here to learn.”

  A waitress appeared, a stern Grossmutter with pulled back hair. She poured Leonid more black coffee, I ordered a beer.

  “What is your experience?”

  I told him I was good at hiding in hedgerows and counting truck convoys, not so up-to-speed on the polite skullduggery practiced at embassy cocktail parties. Leonid nodded his understanding, then spent time tutoring me in the fine art of espionage. Here are the highlights:

  - The job description of a spy is contradictory - a person of impeccable integrity who is an accomplished liar.

  - Do not use gadgets - dart guns, mini-cameras and such. If you are detained with them they cannot be explained.

  - Never pry, let the conversation come to you. If a secret is revealed act dubious, and wait for more.

  - Valuable information should be sliced very thin, and served sparingly.

  I found this all very instructive. Especially the last part about info being sliced thin. Leonid didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask but I took it to mean that...well, I’m not sure what I took it to mean but it sounded right.

  His lecture concluded, Leonid leaned back and plucked a cigarette from a gold case. He offered me one. It was plump, oval. Turkish. Probably worth 100 marks on the black market. I declined. Leonid tapped his cigarette against the table, turned it over, tapped some more.

  I had only one question. Why had Leonid Vitinov volunteered his services to the cause of freedom? I used his own words.

  “So, Leonid, how did you become an accomplished liar?”

  Leonid plucked a string of tobacco from his lip and examined it. I drained half my beer and suppressed a belch. No sense overdoing the rube routine. He kept one eye on me and one on the front door as he spoke. They were dark and liquid, his eyes. Deeply set with long lashes. Women would go for this guy.

  “I am an only child, from a privileged Moscow family. We were what they call the White Russians though we never used those words. We were Russian, that is all. Russian. My father worked in the Ministry of Trade and we revered the Tsar. When the Bolsheviks took power we tried to flee to Germany. We were captured in Minsk. My father was taken away, he is long dead. My mother and I were permitted to return to our home, which now housed three families. Three families which hated us. We had to pretend happiness and contentment at the triumph of the proletariat. I was able to do this,” said Leonid, his fat British cigarette sitting unsmoked between thumb and forefinger. “My mother was not.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Beria took her. To the Lubyanka. That is why he trusts me. If he thinks I am a traitor my mother will be executed.”

  “Then why are you? A traitor?”

  Leonid’s piercing stare softened, his eyes shone, his smooth voice roughened.

  “Because she would want me to be.”

  I’ll tell you one thing for certain. They should never recruit undercover agents from the Midwest. We’re too damn trusting. Leonid Vitinov was an NKVD officer who was either a double agent for Bill Donovan and Global Commerce or a re-doubled agent who was playing us like a violin and yet here I was practically blubbering into my hankie.

  “That’s an amazing story.”

  Leonid looked up as the entry bell tinkled. Victor Jacobson entered the Café and didn’t look at us.
He ordered something at the bar and carried it to the rear of the building. Leonid lit his cigarette and paid the bill. He stood up.

  Okay, he wasn’t a midget. With stacked heels he might have cleared five foot. He patted my arm, pretending to make a congenial farewell as he instructed me to ask the barkeep for directions to the men’s room, then enter the left-facing door at the end of the hall. He left by the front entrance.

  I asked the big jolly bartender for directions and wondered why. Was this standard procedure, or had der sheisse haben der fannen gehitten? I stopped at the left-facing door and did a quick over the shoulder. All clear. I ducked in.

  Leonid entered the small windowless room a minute later. The stern Grossmutter came in to take our drink orders, leaving the door open behind her. She left the same way. I got up and closed the door. Christ. This was poor tradecraft even by my standards. The CO read my mind.

  “We need to change our routine. You two get along okay?” he said. To me.

  “Yes sir. We’re thick as thieves.”

  “That’s good. Because, for the moment, we comprise the entire front line staff of Global Commerce, Berlin.”

  “Is there an office someplace?”

  “One desk, one phone. In the Charlottenburg district.”

  And the CO said the CIG was undermanned. At least we had them beat in one department. We had a Russian-speaker on staff.

  “What have you been able to determine?” said Jacobson to Leonid.

  “I do not know Herr Hilde’s location but he is held by the NKVD.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they have not asked if he is held by us.”

  “Is he on his way to Moscow?”

  “No. Our Berlin Bureau Chief is a rival to Beria. He would desire to hold Hilde close so long as possible. To strip him clean.”

  I elbowed my way into the conversation. “So they snatched Hilde in Karlsruhe?”

  Leonid squared his well-tailored shoulders. “They did not, as you say, snatch Herr Hilde. They bought him.”

  “How do you know?”

  Leonid relaxed his posture, smoothed the back of his neck, held up one finger. “The NKVD has the names of our White Russians. In one day. Torture takes time.”

  Jacobson and I looked to one another. What Leonid said made sense. It also made for very bad news. The most knowledgeable living member of the Nazi Abwehr was now in the employ of the Soviet Union. I asked the CO what he wanted me to do.

  “Go find him!”

  Well, it was hard to argue with that kind of thinking. I would. I would go find Brigadeführer Hilde. But I had done enough solo work for one lifetime, I wanted help. And I knew who I wanted that helper to be. A young man with a criminal past and no experience in espionage.

  “This is a two-man job sir. I need a legman out front or a lookout in back. I can’t do it myself.”

  I waited for the CO’s response. He waited for me to stop waiting. Spit it out, Schroeder. You’re Bill Donovan’s fair-haired boy.

  “Does Global Commerce have an office in Ireland?”

  “Yes,” said Jacobson. “Dublin.”

  “Is that in County Cork?”

  “No, it’s in County Dublin.”

  “What’s the biggest town in County Cork?”

  “Cork.”

  Of course. “Tell your Dublin office to send an agent on a pub crawl in Cork, looking for three brothers in their early twenties. They won’t be hard to find. They’re from the States, Cleveland, and they’ll be spending a lot of greenbacks. It’s the eldest I want. His name is Ambrose Mooney.”

  The CO appeared to consider this ridiculous suggestion. Expecting a long list of questions I got, “You swear by this guy?”

  “I do.”

  “He’ll be your responsibility.”

  “I understand.”

  Victor Jacobson nodded. Meeting adjourned.

  Chapter Nine

  Bill Donovan & Co. had Ambrose Mooney, wanted by the FBI for the robbery of the Cleveland Branch of the Federal Reserve, on the macadam at Templehof within 48 hours of my request. I knew this because Victor Jacobson interrupted my conversation with a reporter from Stars and Stripes to say he would be here soon.

  Here was Dahlem, the CO’s residence. A three story white brick mansion on a block untouched by war. The neighborhood was far enough south of the central city that the B-24s hadn’t bothered it. And far enough west that it hadn’t been shelled during the Russian advance. Step out onto the porch it might’ve been Shaker Heights. And me in a cold water flat.

  We were attending a reception, with Fräuleins in peasant blouses serving trays of canapés and an elderly bartender in the kitchen pouring champagne with both hands. The CO was hosting members of the staff of Stars and Stripes for my benefit. My cover job was reporter for S’n’S, but the newshounds didn’t know about my cover so we had to invent a cover so that I could ask them questions about being a reporter so that I could cover my cover. So to speak.

  I had suggested that I could be part of an advance team for a congressional delegation. The CO nixed that, too high profile. So we settled on salesman for Global Commerce, specialty metals division. The reporters didn’t ask any further.

  I made the rounds and asked questions. What I learned was that being a journalist in post-war Berlin was difficult, monumentally difficult. I learned also that their paymaster could squeeze the beard off a buffalo nickel, that the barkeep gave a pour that was all bubbles and no blood and that they couldn’t wait to go back home. I nodded and smiled and waited for Ambrose.

  He arrived shortly. I don’t know why I was so glad to see him. He didn’t know the first thing about espionage and he’d be worthless undercover with his Irish brogue and Yankee ways. But my face split ear to ear when he sauntered in the front door, pigskin satchel in hand.

  He had grown into himself, chest and neck thickened. Same widow’s peak of copper hair biting his forehead. Sporting a brown tweed jacket and a green silk tie. He was going to be an Irish handful, he was.

  His eyes found mine a moment later. I rubbed my nose lazily with my middle finger. Ambrose grinned. We were back in business.

  We made our way around to each other eventually. He didn’t ask why I had sent for him. I was prepared to introduce him as my associate at Global Commerce Specialty Metals Division but the staff of Stars and Stripes didn’t ask. They were too busy draining glasses and scarfing grub.

  We moved on to little Leonid and his skinny wife. Leonid had dressed down for the occasion, his brown suit and soup-stained tie indicating his station as a hireling. I introduced them to Ambrose.

  “I am Leonid and my wife Anna.”

  I almost laughed. The way he said it sounded like he was both people.

  Ambrose and I exchanged moist handshakes with Leonid. Anna regarded my outstretched hand as if it were another, cruder, appendage. I withdrew it. She stared at her shoes. Did Russian women not shake hands?

  We made small talk with Leonid. Yes, it had indeed been a very rainy May. And so very cold! Anna followed our conversation from beneath long eyelashes. She was fair skinned, so fair-skinned you could count her veins. She opened her mouth to speak just as I felt a quick poke in the back and caught sight of the CO motoring past.

  I asked Leonid if the gentleman’s lounge wasn’t thataway. He said that it was.

  Ambrose gave me an eyebrow. I ran my hand over my head, back to front, indicating he should follow the CO. He spent a moment with Leonid and his wife before he ankled off. I went in the opposite direction. It was as silly exercise in stealth under the circumstances, the newshounds were spilling more than they were drinking. But I liked it that Ambrose understood without explanation.

  I ducked into the hall, saw Ambrose climbing the stairs and followed. At the end of the second floor hall was the Communications Center. The CO was in the first room on the right. A room with a four poster featherbed and pale blue walls. I closed the door behind me.

  Victor Jacobson looked gri
m. “The MPs found another one of our White Russians, what was left of him. Our émigrés don’t sleep in the same bed twice. That they’re being killed so quickly indicates that Klaus Hilde is moving among them, knows where they are at a given time.”

  I asked why the émigrés would trust Hilde.

  “Well, they worked with him before war’s end.” Jacobson ran his hand across his mouth. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “We’ll find Hilde sir, Ambrose and me. Just give us some idea where to start.”

  Jacobson grunted. He sat on the foot of the four poster and looked tired, looked like he wanted to flop backward and sleep for a week.

  “Goebbels primed the pump for years. Russians were Unter Menschen, sub-humans bent on ravaging Aryan womanhood. Then the Red Army invaded and did just that, gang raped every female they could get their hands on,” said the CO, his voice trailing off as he sank deeper into the featherbed.

  We waited. Jacobson continued.

  “Berliners hate their guts. The Soviets’ greatest fear is that the White Russian and Ukrainian émigrés will link up with the locals and attempt to seize the Soviet Sector. They would need heavy weapons to do that,” said Jacobson and yawned. And closed his eyes.

  Ambrose and I swapped a look. The CO put his hands on his knees and stood up, refreshed after his five second nap. “We’ll build you a light legend and send you in.”

  “As what?”

  “International arms dealers. Don’t worry, we’ll provide sample wares, quality stuff.”

  I worried anyway. A light legend meant a half-assed cover story on top of our existing half-assed cover story and no backstopping if further inquiries were made.

  “We have a contact,” said Jacobson. “That is we know of one. A former Gestapo Captain who’s procuring weapons. If you can do a small deal with him the word will spread quickly through the anti-Soviet underground. You’ll be in demand. If you’re lucky you can get a line on Hilde.”