11

WE DIDN’T LEAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT. There LOOKED TO BE DIFFICULTIES IN refueling. Harvey did not wish to use any of the U.S. Military gas stations on the route since some—particularly at night—were manned by civilian Germans, nor did he take to the idea of an impromptu stop at some army base where we’d have to wake up one or another Supply Sergeant to get the key to the storage tank. “Last time, I lost an hour that way,” he grumbled. “The goddamn key was in the Sergeant’s pants, hanging on a hook in a whorehouse.”

“Bill, must you make a history out of everything?” asked C.G.

The problem was that we couldn’t fit enough five-gallon jerricans into the trunk of the Cadillac, and Harvey wouldn’t strap any to the outside of the car. “A sniper could hit us with an explosive bullet.”

“Bill, why don’t we go by airplane?” she asked.

“We have a couple of German mechanics at the air base. It’s too easy to sabotage a plane. I ought to know.”

Maintenance welded a bulletproof auxiliary tank into the trunk, and with two hours lost to that, and an hour waiting out some last-minute papers, we took off with Mr. Harvey riding shotgun, while C.G. and I were in the rear.

It was, as he had promised, a fast-moving trip. The checkpoint on the Brandenburg Autobahn offered no trouble to our entering East Germany, nor did the second checkpoint an hour later when our southern route took us back into West Germany. We drove through flat black fields while he drank his martinis and told a tale of a captured Soviet agent who had a microdot message installed beneath a gold inlay filling. “I was the one to spot the son of a bitch,” he informed us. “‘X-ray the lying bastard,’ I said, and sure enough there was the faintest line between the inlay and the bottom of the cavity. ‘Either the dentist is no good,’ I told my gang, ‘or the microdot is there.’ So we unplugged the fellow’s filling. Eureka: the microdot. The Russians never stop working at this job. Ever hear of their prussic-acid pistol? Shoots a spray. Nifty. The operator comes up to you on the street, fires it in your face, and blap! You’re dead. Delay the autopsy even a few hours, and there are no signs of poison. That’s why I won’t walk the streets of Berlin. I want my friends to know I was terminated by the Sovs, rather than have them wondering if I popped a blood vessel from too much booze.” He refilled his martini glass. “The antidote for this kind of attack, Hubbard,” he said, “assuming, that is, that you are expecting some such take-out maneuver on your person, is to swallow a little sodium thiosulphate before going out. Look up the dose in the Medical Shelf at GIBLETS, Classified Manual 273-AQ, or, which is more likely, because you do have ten or fifteen seconds at your disposal before nepenthe welcomes you, is keep some amyl nitrate capsules handy in your jacket pocket. Pop them fast as you can after an attack. I always keep a few handy,” he said, punching the glove compartment open, pulling out a bottle and pouring a handful. “Here,” he said, passing back a dozen capsules to C.G. and to me, “keep these around. Hey, watch for those wagons, Sam!” he added to the driver without missing a beat, “give a wide berth to any wagon you see,” and Sam swerved to the left at one hundred miles an hour to keep a good distance between us and a horse and wagon trundling along, step by step, on the shoulder. “I don’t trust any farmer out on these roads at 2:00 A.M. with a cart,” he stated, and went back to the poison pistol. “I saw a demonstration of it once down at Pullach, which is where we’re going, Hubbard, in case you didn’t guess.”

“I guessed.”

“The Heinies killed a dog for our benefit. The BND man performing the stunt just walked up, fired, and out the door. The dog did a four-legged split. Dead inside a minute. All behind glass.”

“I’d like to get to the people who killed the dog,” said C.G.

“One poor dog less, okay,” said Harvey, “but one image seared on our retina forever. No length the Sovs are not prepared to go.”

“The BND enjoys that sort of thing too,” C.G. insisted.

“Now wait a minute,” said Bill Harvey, “you’re maligning Mr. Herrick Hubbard’s friends who invite him down to Pullach for the weekend.”

“Chief, I swear to you, I don’t know what it’s all about,” I said.

“Here, take a look at this,” he said, passing over a five-by-seven index card covered front and back with single-spaced typing. “This is the way I want my research presented in case I ever drop a comparable assignment on you. Skip the heavy history. Just the nuggets. Quick things. Like a box in Time magazine.”

By the illumination of the rear seat light in the Cadillac, I read:

REINHARD GEHLEN

Now President of BND formerly known as the Org. Headquarters in Pullach, on the banks of the Isar, six miles south of Munich. Originally a small compound of houses, huts, and bunkers. Built in 1936 to house Rudolf Hess and staff. Later the residence of Martin Bormann. After WWII U.S. Military Intelligence appropriated it for Gehlen. General established his combined office and abode in “The White House,” a large two-story edifice at the center of the original estate. In the ground-floor dining room of the White House, wall murals are unchanged from Bormann-Hess era. Big-bosomed German ladies braiding ears of corn into garlands. Sculptures of young men in gymnastic stances surround the fountain in the garden.

At present, Pullach has added many modern buildings. 3,000 officers and personnel work there at present.

Gehlen is 5'7", nearly bald. Appears slim in earlier photographs. Now putting on weight. Often wears dark glasses. Has very large ears. Wears noiseless rubber-sole shoes. Is highly family-oriented.

Cryptonyms: The only one available to us is Dr. Schneider. No first name available. Gehlen is reputed to wear various wigs when traveling as Dr. Schneider.

Could this be the man I had met at the canal house? Dr. Schneider? The little man with the large ears who had crooned over Harlot’s every move on the chessboard? My mind was agog. Now, I knew the meaning of agog.

“Gehlen’s boys used to have a swan,” said Harvey, “who was trained to swim toward an ultrasonic signal. Under its wings, the Org sewed a couple of waterproof plastic pouches. The swan would glide across Glienicker Lake from Potsdam to West Berlin, carrying papers in the pouch, take on new instructions, and sail back under an East German bridge where the Russian sentries used to toss it pieces of bread. That’s what I call a courier.”

“Love the story,” said C.G.

“On the other hand,” said her husband, “in the old days when Gehlen’s Org was expanding every month, the Krauts suffered from chronic lack of funds. Gehlen used to cry big tears to us. He’d claim he’d given up all that U.S. Military lucre to sign a contract with CIA, and now we weren’t forking over the gold fast enough to suit him. Well, in fact, we were paying out a fortune, but it wasn’t enough. Greedy bastard. Not to enrich himself, you understand, but to build up the Org. So, Gehlen got word out to his General Agencies.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“About the equivalent of our Stations, only situated in every major German city. ‘Enrich yourselves,’ Gehlen told the General Agencies, and then he would get on the phone with some of his old friends in the U.S. Army. When it comes to a study of American corruption, go back to the chicken and the egg. Which came first? The U.S. Army or the U.S. Mafia? Anyway, Gehlen and our boys cook up this fiduciary maneuver. The General Agencies hand over a couple of petty SSD agents to the American Military Police who otherwise wouldn’t know an enemy spy if he was confessing. Now, in return for feeding our boys with a few doormen on the Soviet payroll, the MPs pay back the local General Agency with truckloads of American cigarettes. The Org promptly sells these cigarettes on the black market to get the funds to meet their Friday payroll. Then, as soon as the Org has walked off with the cash, the MPs confiscate the truckload and return the cigarettes to the Org, who promptly sell them again to other black marketeers. The same ten thousand cartons of Camels get resold five or six times. That, my friend, was in the late forties, before I got here. The good old days.”

“Tell the story about General Gehlen and Mr. Dulles,” said C.G.

“Yeah.” He grunted and was silent. I could feel him resisting the impulse to tell me one more tale. Had he just remembered that I was in disfavor?

“Tell it,” repeated C.G.

“All right,” he said. “Did you ever hear of Major General Arthur Trudeau?”

“No, sir.”

“Trudeau was the head of U.S. Army Intelligence a couple of years ago. When Chancellor Adenauer visited Washington in 1954, Trudeau managed to get a word with him. He unloaded on Gehlen. Trudeau had the moxie to tell Adenauer that the CIA should not be supporting a West German organization run by an ex-Nazi. Should it hit the world press, that could be very bad for all concerned. Ja, says Adenauer. He’s no lover of Nazis, he tells Trudeau, but in German politics, you can’t make a three-egg omelette without one being rotten. One of Adenauer’s people now passes this conversation on to Gehlen who thereupon complains to Allen Dulles. Our Director takes it over to the White House and informs President Eisenhower that General Trudeau is kicking American interests in the chops.

“‘I hear,’ Eisenhower tells Dulles, ‘that this Gehlen of yours is a nasty job.’

“‘Mr. President, there are no archbishops in espionage,’ says Allen. ‘Gehlen may be a rascal, but I don’t have to invite him to my club.’

“Well, a battle royal ensued. The Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were on Trudeau’s side. Yet, Allen won. John Foster Dulles always gets the last word into the President’s ear. Trudeau was sent out to some fly-boy command in the Far East. I think it put a scare into Gehlen, however. He must have concluded that German money was safer than American. A year later, he convinced the Adenauer people to put the Org into German service. Now we have the BND. End of tale. Enough of enriching your mind. Tell me, kid, what do you know about our pal?”

I had been waiting for the question through each of these anecdotes. He had a habit of telling a good story with all the contained force of a lion sitting on his paws. Then—swipe!—you were part of the meal.

“I don’t know much about the man at all,” I said, but through the ensuing silence was obliged to add, “I’ll give you any details I have.”

“Yes,” said Harvey. “Details.”

“I met him at the house of a friend of my father’s. He was called Dr. Schneider. I hardly talked to him. He played chess with the host. I’m amazed that he remembered me.”

“Who was the host?”

“Hugh Montague.”

“Is Montague a good friend of your father’s?”

“I don’t know how friendly they really are.”

“But friendly enough to invite you to dinner?”

“Yessir.”

“What did Montague talk to Schneider about?”

“Not much. Schneider presented himself as a concert pianist. He played one recital, he claimed, for Wilhelm Pieck, the East German President. He said Pieck was a barbarian with low tastes. He liked to leave his official residence in the castle—I don’t recall the name.”

“Schloss Niederschön-something?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Pieck would leave the official Schloss and go to a room in the servants’ quarters where he would take off his shoes, put on slippers and old workingmen’s clothes, and cook his evening meal. Old cabbage soup, cold noodles, pudding for dessert. He’d eat it all off the same tin plate, the pudding mixed up with the noodles. I remember wondering how Dr. Schneider could learn all this by playing an official concert for Wilhelm Pieck.”

“What else did Montague and Gehlen talk about?”

“Chess.”

“By the way, here’s a verified photograph of Gehlen.” He passed me a photostat of a snapshot. “Just to make certain that Schneider equals our man.”

“He was wearing a white wig that night, but, yes, I would make a positive identification.”

“One hundred percent?”

“I’ll go one hundred.”

“Good. Gehlen and Montague talked about chess in your presence. Nothing else?”

“I spent most of the evening talking to Mrs. Montague.”

“Kittredge?”

“Yessir.”

“What about?”

“Chitchat.”

“Expatiate.”

“Sir, if I may say, I feel more comfortable with Mrs. Montague than with her husband. We talk about everything under the sun. I think we were laughing together in the kitchen because of the funny noises Dr. Schneider, I mean, General Gehlen, was making while he played chess.”

“How long have you known Montague?”

“I met him at his wedding to Kittredge. She was close to my family, you see. Her father bought my family’s summer house. Since then, I’ve seen Mr. Montague socially once or twice.”

“What do you think of him?”

“An iceberg. Nine-tenths under.”

“Oh, isn’t that true,” said C.G.

“Well, we now,” said Bill Harvey, “have a general picture that fails to explain why Gehlen asked me to bring you along to Pullach.”

“Kittredge and I are third cousins,” I said. “If she mentioned such a family relationship to Gehlen, he may wish to reciprocate the courtesy. Your briefing says he’s very family-oriented.”

“Are you saying Kittredge requested that he invite you?”

“No, Chief. Just that Gehlen must know who’s working for you at GIBLETS.”

“On what basis do you come to that conclusion?”

“It’s my impression that everybody knows everything in Berlin.”

“Son of a bitch, yes.”

For whatever reason, that caused him to cease speaking. He had the ability to end a conversation as effectively as if he had turned off a light. We drove in silence while he drank alone from the jug of martinis. Flatlands gave way to rolling country but the highway curved little and there was no traffic. At Braunschweig we left the Autobahn and drove along two-lane roads, the driver reducing his speed to ninety miles an hour on the straight, seventy through the curves, and down to sixty through each village we traversed. Gonorrhea and fast car trips, I was discovering, did not accommodate each other. Yet my desire to urinate was overcome by my lately acquired knowledge of the price. Near Einbach we picked up the Autobahn again and went along at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. At Bad Hersfeld, the back roads began once more, and an endless series of turns in hill and forest and village took us to Würzburg where a better road went on to Nürnberg and the beginning of the last stretch of Autobahn to Munich. There, at an all-night gas station, 4:30 in the morning, Bill Harvey spoke again. “I need a pit stop,” he said.

We parked in the shadow behind the gas station.

“Check out the men’s room and the ladies’ room, Sam,” he told the driver. When Sam came back, and nodded, Harvey got out and motioned to me. “How about you?” he asked C.G. “Long trips never bother me,” she said.

He grunted. His breath came across the night air on a riser of gin. “Come, kid,” he said heavily, “just you and me and the shit-house walls.” He picked up his attaché case and handed it to me.

Although Sam had presumably scouted the premises, Harvey withdrew one of his guns from the shoulder holster, turned the knob on the bathroom door and threw it ajar with one smooth pass, sighted in from that angle, crossed the open door space too quickly to be hit by any but the fastest trigger, sighted from the reverse angle, and satisfied, now entered, wheeled, squatted to scan the floor, threw open the stall doors, then smiled. “Sam is good at checkout, but I’m better.” He did not settle, however. He carefully lifted the cover on each water tank, peered into the inside, took a coiled wire from his pocket, ran it a foot up the flush tunnel of each bowl, and finally let out his breath. “I have one bad dream,” he said as he washed off the wire. “I’m trapped in the men’s room when a satchel bag full of demo goes off.”

“That’s a bad dream.”

He burped, unzipped his fly, turned his back to me and unleashed a urination worthy of a draft horse. I took the next stall, waited like a dutiful inferior for my own laggard waters to enter their small sound against his heavy one, and did my best not to wince as a hot wire went up my urethral passage in compensation for the pus-laden stream going out. I do not think the paucity of sound accompanying the urine I ejected was lost on him.

“Kid,” he said, “your story is weak.”

“It’s weak because it’s true.” I almost cried out from the pain of my urination. My member was swollen abominably.

“That’s one hell of an instrument you have there,” he said over his shoulder.

I did not explain why it was twice its normal size.

“Speak softly and carry a big stick,” he said.

“Theodore Roosevelt,” I replied. “I believe that was his foreign policy.”

“I happen to have a little dick,” said Harvey. “Luck of the draw. But, boy, there were years when I knew what to do with it. Guys with little dicks try harder.”

“I’ve heard about your rep, sir.”

“My rep, hell. I was merely a cunt-lapper of the most diabolical sort.” But before I had time to be prodigiously embarrassed by this, he said, “It’s your reputation I want to know about. Did you ever fuck Kittredge?”

“Yessir,” I said, lying right through the pain of wire-thin piss.

He lifted his free hand and clapped me on the back. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope you gave it to her good. Was she a cockeyed wonder in bed?”

“Fabulous,” I muttered. My gonorrhea served me an undeniable lightning bolt.

“I might have had a whack at her myself if I hadn’t given up on all that. Loyalty to C.G. mit lots of hard work—that’s how the operation runs these days. So, I’m glad you laid the wood to her good. I hate that son of a bitch Montague.”

I was discovering the secret of an escape route. You found it by making the effort to escape. “I hate him too,” I said. To myself, I added, “Forgive me, Hugh.” I did not, however, feel that much disloyalty. Harlot, after all, had encouraged me to find my own route through the crux.

“Have you talked to Kittredge lately?” Harvey asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few days ago. After you lost confidence in me. I guess I called to complain about my troubles.”

“That may be forgivable.” He gave a last thwack to his penis, put it back in his pants, even as I was concluding my small torture, and said, “Do you think she could have been the one to call Gehlen?”

“It might be,” I said. “Dr. Schneider certainly acted like he was crazy about her.”

Harvey yawped suddenly. That is to say, he belched emptily. Under the dangling light bulb, his skin had gone pale, and he was full of perspiration. I think it was an honest spasm of his much abused system. He went on speaking, however, as if physical discomfort were an element of the given, like heavy air in a railroad coach. He nodded. “If she called him, it makes sense. Gehlen would probably do anything for her. Yes, I can live with this one.” Now, he seized me by the arm, and dug each one of his stubby fingers, strong as iron bolts, into my triceps.

“Are you loyal to Gehlen?” he asked.

“I don’t like the fellow,” I said. “Not from what I saw. I assume if I get to know him well, I will like him even less.”

“And me? Are you loyal to me?”

“Chief, I’m ready to take a bullet for you.”

It was true. I was also ready to die for Harlot, and for Kittredge. And for my father, conceivably. I was ready to die. The thought of sacrificing myself was still as large an emotion as I could find. The proctor in my personality, however, that young dean of probity installed by the canons of St. Matthew’s, was horrified at how easily I could succumb to large acts of lying, and outrageous expressions of excessive emotion.

“Kid, I believe you,” he said. “I’m going to use you. I need stuff on Gehlen.”

“Yessir. Whatever I can do.”

He bent over, his breathing heavy, and opened the attaché case. “Take off your shirt,” he said. Before I had time to question his purpose, he removed a small plastic tape recorder.

“This is the best sneaky we’ve got,” he said. “Here, let me tape it on.”

In two minutes, his fingers fast and deft, he taped the recorder to the small of my back. Then he installed a switch through a small hole he slit in my pocket and ran a wire through a buttonhole in my shirt to which was attached a small white button which was, I realized, a microphone. He handed me an extra tape. “You’ve got a total of two hours, one hour each tape. Get everything Gehlen says once we’re there.”

“Yours, Chief.”

“Now leave me alone. I got to throw up. It’s nothing personal. Vomit once a day, you keep the doctor away. But leave me alone for that. Tell C.G. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I got to take my time with this. Oh, Jesus,” he groaned as I went out the door, and I heard the first caterwaulings come up from his belly.

Back at the car, Sam was overseeing the transfer of gas from the reserve tank to the main, and C.G. was alone in the rear seat.

“How long did he say?” asked Sam.

“Ten minutes.”

“It’ll be twenty.” Sam looked at his watch. “Every time we go down to Pullach he wants to break the record, but we’re going to miss tonight. It’s a shame. No ice. No fog. No delays for construction. No detours. He’s going to ask why we didn’t cut any minutes off our last time. I can’t say it’s ’cause he fucks around in the pit stop.”

That was the longest speech I ever heard from Sam.

“Well,” I said, “it’s a crazy night.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, “tell it to the Marines.” He strolled over to the door of the men’s room and stood guard outside.

Back in the rear seat with C.G., it occurred to me that if luck was a current in human affairs, one had to ride on its tide. My hand went into my pocket to activate the switch to the sneaky.

“Is Bill all right?” she asked.

“He will be in a few minutes,” I said.

“If people knew how hard he worked, they would understand his eccentricities,” she told me.

I wanted to warn her not to utter a word; I was eager to manipulate every speech she offered. Bright was the inner light of the last martini on my moral horizon.

“I guess he’s never been understood well enough,” I said.

“Bill has so many gifts. It’s just that the Almighty never provided him with the simple talent not to make needless enemies.”

“I suppose he’s taken on his share,” I said.

“You may well believe that.”

“Is it true,” I began. “No,” I said, “I won’t ask.”

“You can. I do trust you.”

“I’m going to ask it then,” I said.

“I’ll answer if I can.”

“Is it true that J. Edgar Hoover did not like your husband?”

“I would say Mr. Hoover didn’t treat him very fairly.”

“Yet Bill Harvey worked hard for the FBI.” When she did not reply, I added, “I know he did.”

Her silence was only to control her indignation. “If it hadn’t been for Bill babysitting Elizabeth Bentley all those years,” C.G. said, “you would never have heard of Alger Hiss and Whittaker Chambers and Harry Dexter White, and the Rosenbergs. The whole slew. Bill had a lot to do with exposing that gang. That, however, did not warm Mr. Hoover up toward him. J. Edgar Hoover likes to let his best people know who is the boss. His secretary, Miss Gandy, who is certainly no more than her master’s voice, is perfectly capable of sending a Letter of Censure to a top operator if he happens to come into the Director’s Office with one spot of dust on his shoes. This, mind you, after ten days out in the field.”

“Did that ever happen to Mr. Harvey?”

“No, but it did to two of his friends. With Bill it was worse. Inhuman, I would characterize it. The Company doesn’t ever treat its people the way the Bureau did.”

“Did Mr. Hoover actually fire Mr. Harvey?”

“No, Bill could not have been fired. He was too well regarded. Mr. Hoover wanted to put him in purdah, however, and Bill was too proud. So, he resigned.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story properly.”

“Well, you have to understand that Bill was sort of depressed in those days.”

“About when was this?”

“The summer of 1947. You see, Bill had put in an immense amount of work trying to penetrate the Bentley network, but no dramatic success, so to speak. It would all come out later and Joe McCarthy would get the credit, but in the meantime, Bill was burning the candle at both ends. Which I attribute to his deep unhappiness with his wife Libby. They married awfully young. Bill, you see, was the son of the most esteemed attorney in Danville, Indiana, and Libby was the daughter of the biggest lawyer in Flemingsburg, Kentucky. I know only what Bill tells me, but that marriage, according to him, did contribute to his woes.”

“Yes,” I said. I was beginning to appreciate Montague’s remark that closemouthed individuals, once under way, do not stop talking.

“Bill’s critical troubles with Mr. Hoover go right back to one specific night in July 1947. Bill went to a stag party out in Virginia with a few FBI friends and had to drive back after midnight in a heavy rainstorm. He slowed down for a large puddle in Rock Creek Park, and a vehicle passing in the other direction was inconsiderate enough to race by. Bill’s car was deluged with so much water that his motor conked out. He did manage to coast to the curb, but there was a foot of water all around him, and he was exhausted, poor man. So he fell asleep at the wheel. It was his first good sleep in weeks. He didn’t wake till 10:00 A.M. And no police car bothered him either. Why should they? He was parked properly, and the puddle had receded. Since his car was able to start, he just drove home to Libby. But it was too late. Libby had already phoned FBI headquarters to tell them that Special Agent William K. Harvey was missing. She was hysterical enough, or mean enough, or scared enough—I won’t judge her—to hint at suicide. ‘Bill has been so despondent,’ she told the Bureau. Of course, that went right onto the record. When Bill phoned in a little later to tell the Bureau that he was at home, intact, the Bureau said no, you’re in trouble. You see, the FBI expects an agent to be reachable. If you’re not where they can find you, you’re supposed to call in every two hours. Bill had been out of touch for nine and a half hours during which period the Bureau had mistakenly supposed he could be contacted at home. That was a big point against him. Then there was the potential embarrassment. What if a police car had stopped and questioned Bill while he was asleep? What if he had been arrested? Mr. Hoover sent down the worst memo: Serious reexamination of Special Agent Harvey’s occupational readiness is advisable in the light of wife’s deputation that Special Agent Harvey has been morose and despondent for considerable periods.

“Bill dared to carry the fight right back upstairs. These are the exact words he wrote to the FBI inquiry: ‘My worry is the natural worry that would come to anyone who has dealt as intimately with the Communist problem as I have since 1945.’ The aide from Mr. Hoover’s office who was conducting the investigation actually sent a memo up to Mr. Hoover saying that Bill had always been given a rating of Excellent, and no administrative action should be taken. Mr. Hoover just told the aide to write another memo. This one said: ‘Special Agent William K. Harvey is to be transferred to Indianapolis on general assignment.’”

“Cruel,” I said.

“It broke Bill’s heart. If the Agency hadn’t been there to ask him to come over, I think he might have been truly despondent.”

At this moment, Mr. Harvey returned with Sam, got in the car, and we started out again. I clicked off the sneaky.