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.”