“If I do my job, his career won’t last any longer than a month from now.”
“I figured it was something like that. The storm’s building, isn’t it? We’ll be in it pretty soon. And I’ll be back, too.… Where do you want to use him?”
“Lisbon.”
David Spaulding pushed himself away from the white studio wall. He held up the pages of his script as he approached the microphone, preparing for his cue.
Pace watched him through the glass partition, wondering how Spaulding’s voice would sound. He noticed that as Spaulding came closer to the group of actors clustered around the microphone, there was a conscious—or it seemed conscious—parting of bodies, as if the new participant was in some way a stranger. Perhaps it was only normal courtesy, allowing the new performer a chance to position himself, but the colonel didn’t think so. There were no smiles, no looks, no indications of familiarity as there seemed to be among the others.
No one winked. Even the obese woman who screamed and chewed gum and goosed her fellow actors just stood and watched Spaulding, her gum immobile in her mouth.
And then it happened; a curious moment.
Spaulding grinned, and the others, even the thin, effeminate man who was in the middle of a monologue, responded with bright smiles and nods. The obese woman winked.
A curious moment, thought Colonel Pace.
Spaulding’s voice—mid-deep, incisive, heavily accented—came through the webbed boxes. His role was that of a mad doctor and bordered on the comic. It would have been comic, thought Pace, except for the authority Spaulding gave the writer’s words. Pace didn’t know anything about acting, but he knew when a man was being convincing. Spaulding was convincing.
That would be necessary in Lisbon.
In a few minutes Spaulding’s role was obviously over. The obese woman screamed again; Spaulding retreated to the corner and quietly, making sure the pages did not rustle, picked up his folded newspaper. He leaned against the wall and withdrew a pencil from his pocket. He appeared to be doing The New York Times crossword puzzle.
Pace couldn’t take his eyes off Spaulding. It was important for him to observe closely any subject with whom he had to make contact whenever possible. Observe the small things: the way a man walked; the way he held his head; the steadiness or lack of it in his eyes. The clothes, the watch, the cuff links; whether the shoes were shined, if the heels were worn down; the quality—or lack of quality—in a man’s posture.
Pace tried to match the human being leaning against the wall, writing on the newspaper, with the dossier in his Washington office.
His name first surfaced from the files of the Army Corps of Engineers. David Spaulding had inquired about the possibilities of a commission—not volunteered: what would his opportunities be? were there any challenging construction projects? what about the length-of-service commitment? The sort of questions thousands of men—skilled men—were asking, knowing that the Selective Service Act would become law within a week or two. If enlistment meant a shorter commitment and/or the continued practice of their professional skills, then better an enlistment than be drafted with the mobs.
Spaulding had filled out all the appropriate forms and had been told the army would contact him. That had been six weeks ago and no one had done so. Not that the Corps wasn’t interested; it was. The word from the Roosevelt men was that the draft law would be passed by Congress any day now, and the projected expansion of the army camps was so enormous, so incredibly massive that an engineer—especially a construction engineer of Spaulding’s qualifications—was target material.
But those high up in the Corps of Engineers were aware of the search being conducted by the Intelligence Division of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the War Department.
Quietly, slowly. No mistakes could be made.
So they passed along David Spaulding’s forms to G-2 and were told in turn to stay away from him.
The man ID was seeking had to have three basic qualifications. Once these were established, the rest of the portrait could be microscopically scrutinized to see if the whole being possessed the other desirable requirements. The three basics were difficult enough in themselves: the first was fluency in the Portuguese language; the second, an equal mastery of German; the third, sufficient professional experience in structural engineering to enable swift and accurate understanding of blueprints, photographs—even verbal descriptions—of the widest variety of industrial designs. From bridges and factories to warehousing and railroad complexes.
The man in Lisbon would need each of these basic requirements. He would employ them throughout the war that was to be; the war that the United States inevitably would have to fight.
The man in Lisbon would be responsible for developing an Intelligence network primarily concerned with the destruction of the enemy’s installations deep within its own territories.
Certain men—and women—traveled back and forth through hostile territories, basing their undefined activities in neutral countries. These were the people the man in Lisbon would use … before others used them.
These plus those he would train for infiltration. Espionage units. Teams of bi- and trilingual agents he would send up through France into the borders of Germany. To bring back their observations; eventually to inflict destruction themselves.
The English agreed that such an American was needed in Lisbon. British Intelligence admitted its Portuguese weakness; they had simply been around too long, too obviously. And there were current, very serious lapses of security in London. MI-5 had been infiltrated.
Lisbon would become an American project.
If such an American could be found.
David Spaulding’s preapplication forms listed the primary requisites. He spoke three languages, had spoken them since he was a child. His parents, the renowned Richard and Margo Spaulding, maintained three residences: a small, elegant Belgravia flat in London; a winter retreat in Germany’s Baden-Baden; and a sprawling oceanside house in the artists’ colony of Costa del Santiago in Portugal. Spaulding had grown up in these environs. When he was sixteen, his father—over the objections of his mother—insisted that he complete his secondary education in the United States and enter an American university.
Andover in Massachusetts; Dartmouth in New Hampshire; finally Carnegie Institute in Pennsylvania.
Of course, the Intelligence Division hadn’t discovered all of the above information from Spaulding’s application forms. These supplementary facts—and a great deal more—were revealed by a man named Aaron Mandel in New York.
Pace, his eyes still riveted on the tall, lean man who had put down his newspaper and was now watching the actors around the microphones with detached amusement, recalled his single meeting with Mandel. Again, he matched Mandel’s information with the man he saw before him.
Mandel had been listed on the application under “References.” Power-of-attorney, parents’ concert manager. An address was given: a suite of rooms in the Chrysler Building. Mandel was a very successful artists’ representative, a Russian Jew who rivaled Sol Hurok for clients, though not as prone to attract attention, or as desirous of it.
“David has been as a son to me,” Mandel told Pace. “But I must presume you know that.”
“Why must you? I know only what I’ve read on his application forms. And some scattered information; academic records, employment references.”
“Let’s say I’ve been expecting you. Or someone like you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, come. David spent a great many years in Germany; you might say he almost grew up there.”
“His application … as a matter of fact his passport information, also includes family residences in London and a place called Costa del Santiago in Portugal.”
“I said almost. He converses easily in the German language.”
“Also Portuguese, I understand.”
“Equally so. And its sister tongue, Spanish.… I wasn’t aware that a man’s enlistment i
n the army engineers called for a full colonel’s interest. And passport research.” Mandel, the flesh creased around his eyes, smiled.
“I wasn’t prepared for you.” The colonel’s reply had been stated simply. “Most people take this sort of thing as routine. Or they convince themselves it’s routine … with a little help.”
“Most people did not live as Jews in tsarist Kiev.… What do you want from me?”
“To begin with, did you tell Spaulding you expected us? Or someone.…”
“Of course not,” Mandel interrupted gently. “I told you, he is as a son to me. I wouldn’t care to give him such ideas.”
“I’m relieved. Nothing may come of it anyway.”
“However, you hope it will.”
“Frankly, yes. But there are questions we need answered. His background isn’t just unusual, it seems filled with contradictions. To begin with, you don’t expect the son of well-known musicians … I mean …”
“Concert artists.” Mandel had supplied the term Pace sought.
“Yes, concert artists. You don’t expect the children of such people to become engineers. Or accountants, if you know what I mean. And then—and I’m sure you’ll understand this—it seems highly illogical that once that fact is accepted, the son is an engineer, we find that the major portion of his income is currently earned as a … as a radio performer. The pattern indicates a degree of instability. Perhaps more than a degree.”
“You suffer from the American mania for consistency. I don’t say this unkindly. I would be less than adequate as a neurosurgeon; you may play the piano quite well, but I doubt that I’d represent you at Covent Garden.… The questions you raise are easily answered. And, perhaps, the word stability can be found at the core.… Have you any idea, any conception, of what the world of the concert stage is like? Madness.… David lived in this world for nearly twenty years; I suspect … no, I don’t suspect, I know … he found it quite distasteful.… And so often people overlook certain fundamental characteristics of musicianship. Characteristics easily inherited. A great musician is often, in his own way, an exceptional mathematician. Take Bach. A genius at mathematics.…”
According to Aaron Mandel. David Spaulding found his future profession while in his second year in college. The solidity, the permanence of structural creation combined with the precision of engineering detail were at once his answer to and escape from the mercurial world of the “concert stage.” But there were other inherited characteristics equally at work inside him. Spaulding had an ego, a sense of independence. He needed approval, wanted recognition. And such rewards were not easily come by for a junior engineer, just out of graduate school, in a large New York firm during the late thirties. There simply wasn’t that much to do; or the capital to do it with.
“He left the New York firm,” Mandel continued, “to accept a number of individual construction projects where he believed the money would grow faster, the jobs be his own. He had no ties; he could travel. Several in the Midwest, one … no, two, in Central America; four in Canada, I think. He got the first few right out of the newspapers; they led to the others. He returned to New York about eighteen months ago. The money didn’t really grow, as I told him it wouldn’t. The projects were not his own; provincial … local interference.”
“And somehow this led to the radio work?”
Mandel had laughed and leaned back in his chair. “As you may know, Colonel Pace, I’ve diversified. The concert stage and a European war—soon to reach these shores, as we all realize—do not go well together. These last few years my clients have gone into other performing areas, including the highly paid radio field. David quickly saw opportunities for himself and I agreed. He’s done extremely well, you know.”
“But he’s not a trained professional.”
“No, he’s not. He has something else, however.… Think. Most children of well-known performers, or leading politicians, or the immensely rich, for that matter, have it. It’s a public confidence, an assurance, if you will; no matter their private insecurities. After all, they’ve generally been on display since the time they could walk and talk. David certainly has it. And he has a good ear; as do both of his parents, obviously. An aural memory for musical or linguistic rhythms.… He doesn’t act, he reads. Almost exclusively in the dialects or the foreign languages he knows fluently.…”
David Spaulding’s excursion into the “highly paid radio field” was solely motivated by money; he was used to living well. At a time when owners of engineering companies found it difficult to guarantee themselves a hundred dollars a week, Spaulding was earning three or four hundred from his “radio work” alone.
“As you may have surmised,” said Mandel, “David’s immediate objective is to bank sufficient monies to start his own company. Immediate, that is, unless otherwise shaped by world or national conditions. He’s not blind; anyone who can read a newspaper sees that we are being drawn into the war.”
“Do you think we should be?”
“I’m a Jew. As far as I’m concerned, we’re late.”
“This Spaulding. You’ve described what seems to me a very resourceful man.”
“I’ve described only what you could have found out from any number of sources. And you have described the conclusion you have drawn from that surface information. It’s not the whole picture.” At this point, Pace recalled, Mandel had gotten out of his chair, avoiding any eye contact, and walked about his office. He was searching for negatives; he was trying to find the words that would disqualify “his son” from the government’s interests. And Pace had been aware of it. “What certainly must have struck you—from what I’ve told you—is David’s preoccupation with himself, with his comforts, if you wish. Now, in a business sense this might be applauded; therefore, I disabused you of your concerns for stability. However, I would not be candid if I didn’t tell you that David is abnormally headstrong. He operates—I think—quite poorly under authority. In a word, he’s a selfish man, not given to discipline. It pains me to say this; I love him dearly.…”
And the more Mandel had talked, the more indelibly did Pace imprint the word affirmative on Spaulding’s file. Not that he believed for a minute the extremes of behavior Mandel suddenly ascribed to David Spaulding—no man could function as “stably” as Spaulding had if it were true. But if it were only half true, it was no detriment; it was an asset.
The last of the requirements.
For if there were any soldier in the United States Army—in or out of uniform—who would be called upon to operate solely on his own, without the comfort of the chain of command, without the knowledge that difficult decisions could be made by his superiors, it was the Intelligence officer in Portugal.
The man in Lisbon.
OCTOBER 8, 1939, FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
There were no names.
Only numbers and letters.
Numbers followed by letters.
Two-Six-B. Three-Five-Y. Five-One-C.
There were no personal histories, no individual backgrounds … no references to wives, children, fathers, mothers … no countries, cities, hometowns, schools, universities; there were only bodies and minds and separate, specific, reacting intelligences.
The location was deep in the Virginia hunt country, 220 acres of fields and hills and mountain streams. There were sections of dense forest bordering stretches of flat grasslands. Swamps—dangerous with body-sucking earth and hostile inhabitants, reptile and insect—were but feet from sudden masses of Virginia boulders fronting abrupt inclines.
The area had been selected with care, with precision. It was bordered by a fifteen-foot-high hurricane fence through which a paralyzing—not lethal—electrical current flowed continuously; and every twelve feet there was a forbidding sign that warned observers that this particular section of the land … forest, swamp, grassland and hill … was the exclusive property of the United States government. Trespassers were duly informed that entry was not only prohibited, it was exceedingly dangerous. Titles an
d sections of the specific laws pertaining to the exclusivity were spelled out along with the voltage in the fence.
The terrain was as diverse as could be found within a reasonable distance from Washington. In one way or another—one place or another—it conformed remarkably to the topography of the locations projected for those training inside the enormous compound.
The numbers followed by the letters.
No names.
There was a single gate at the center of the north perimeter, reached by a back country road. Over the gate, between the opposing guard houses, was a metal sign. In block letters it read:
FIELD DIVISON HEADQUARTERS—FAIRFAX.
No other description was given, no purpose identified.
On the front of each guard house were identical signs, duplicates of the warnings placed every twelve feet in the fence, proclaiming the exclusivity, the laws and the voltage.
No room for error.
David Spaulding was assigned an identity—his Fairfax identity. He was Two-Five-L.
No name. Only a number followed by a letter.
Two—Five—L.
Translation: his training was to be completed by the fifth day of the second month. His destination: Lisbon.
It was incredible. In the space of four months a new way of life—of living—was to be absorbed with such totality that it strained acceptance.