Altmifller wondered if the Americans had the stomach for such decisions.
He doubted it.
DECEMBER 19,1943
“I
14-1
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
Swanson stood silently in front of the heavy steel door inside the Quonset
structure. The security lieutenant was on the wall intercom for only the
length of time it took for him to give the
-general’s name. The lieutenant nodded, replaced the phone, saluted the
general for a second time. The heavy steel door clicked and Swanson knew he
could enter.
The Fairfax commander was alone, as Swanson had ordered. He was standing to
the right of his table-desk, a file folder in his hand. He saluted his
superior.
‘Good morning, general.’
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‘Morning. You worked fast; I appreciate it.’
61t may not be everything you want but it’s the best we can come up
with…. Sit down, sir. I’ll describe the qualifications. If they meet with
your approval, the file’s yours. If not, it’ll go back into the vaults.’
Swanson walked to one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the
colonel’s desk and sat down. He did so with a touch of annoyance. Ed Pace,
as so many of his subordinates in Clandestine Operations, functioned as
though he were responsible to no one but God; and even He had to be cleared
by Fairfax. It struck Swanson that it would be much simpler if Pace simply
gave him the file and let him read it for himself.
On the other hand, Fairfax’s indoctrination had at its core the possibility
– however remote – that any pair of eyes might be captured by the enemy. A
man could be in Washington one week, Anzio or the Solomons the next. There
was logic in Pace’s methods; a geographical network of underground agents
could be exposed with a single break in the security chain.
Still, it was annoying as hell. Pace seemed to enjoy his role; he was
humorless, thought Swanson.
‘The subject under consideration is a proven field man. He’s acted as
independently as anyone in one of our touchiest locations. Languages:
acceptable fluency. Deportment and cover: extremely flexible. He moves
about the civilian spectrum facilely, from embassy teacups to bricklayers’
saloons – be’s very mobile and convincing.’
:You’re coming up with a positive print, colonel.’
If I am, I’m sorry. He’s valuable where he is. But you haven’t heard the
rest. You may change your mind.’
‘Go on.’
‘On the negative side, he’s not army. I don’t mean he’s a civilian – he
holds the rank of captain, as a matter of fact, but I don’t think he’s ever
used it. What I’m saying is that he’s never operated within a chain of
command. He set up the network; he is the command. He has been for nearly
four years now.’
:Why is that negativeT
There’s no way to tell how he reacts to discipline. Taking orders.’
‘There won’t be much latitude for deviation. It’s cut and dried.’
‘That is important V Swanson spoke harshly; Pace was wasting
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his time. The man in Buenos Aires had to understand what the bell was going
on; perhaps more than understand.
‘He’s in a related field, sir. One that our people say primes him for crash
instructions.’
‘What is itT
‘He’s a construction engineer. With considerable experience in mechanical,
electrical and metal design. His background includes full responsibility
for whole structures – from foundations through the finished productions.
He’s a blueprint expert.’
Swanson paused, then nodded noncommittally. ‘All right. Go on.
‘The most difficult part of your request was to find someone – someone with
these technical qualifications – who had practical experience in
“dispatch.” You even conceded that.’
‘I know.’ Swanson felt it was the time to show a little more humanity. Pace
looked exhausted; the search had not been easy. ‘I handed you a tough one.
Does your nonmilitary, mobile engineer have any “dispatches” of recordT
‘We try to avoid records, because . .
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes. He’s stationed where it’s unavoidable, I’m sorry to say. Except for
the men in Burma and India, he’s had more occasions to use last-extremity
solutions than anyone in the field. To our knowledge, he’s never hesitated
to implement them.’
Swanson started to speak, then hesitated. He creased his brow above his
questioning eyes. ‘You can’t help but wonder about such men, can youT
‘They’re trained. Like anyone else they do a job for a purpose. He’s not a
killer by nature. Very few of our really good men are.’
‘I’ve never understood your work, Ed. Isn’t that strangeT
‘Not at all. I couldn’t possibly function in your end of the War
Department. Those charts and graphs and civilian double-talkers confuse
me…. How does the subject sound to youT
‘You have no alternates?’
‘Several. But with each there’s the same negative. Those that have the
languages and the aeronautical training have no experience in “dispatch”.
No records of … extreme prejudice. I worked on the assumption that it was
as important as the other fa
‘dors.,
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‘Your assumption was correct…. Tell me, do you know hirnT
‘Very well. I recruited him, I observed every phase of his training. I’ve
seen him in the field. He’s a pro.’
‘I want one.’
‘Then maybe he’s your man. But before I say it, I’d like to ask you a
question. I have to ask it, actually; I’ll be asked the same question
myself.’
:1 hope I can give an answer.’
It’s within bounds. It’s not specific.’
‘What is itT
Pace came to the edge of the desk toward Swanson. He leaned his back
against it and folded his arms. It was another army signal: I’m your
subordinate but this puts us on equalfooting right now – at this moment.
‘I said the subject was valuable where he is. That’s not strong enough.
He’s invaluable, essential. By removing him from his station we jeopardize
a very sensitive operation. We can handle it, but the risks are
considerable. What I have to know is, does the assignment justify his
transferT
‘Let me put it this way, colonel,’ said Swanson, the tone of his voice
gentle but strong. ‘The assignment has no priority equal, with the possible
exception of the Manhattan Project. You’ve heard of the Manhattan Project,
I assume.’
‘I have.’ Pace got off his desk. ‘And the War Department -through your
office – will confirm this priority?’
,it Will.,
‘Then hem he is, general.’ Pace handed Swanson the file folder. ‘He’s one
of the best we’ve got. He’s our man in Lisbon. … Spaulding. Captain David
Spaulding.’
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11
DECEMBER 26,1943
RIBADA VIA, SPAIN
David sped south on the motorcycle along the dirt road paralleling the Minho
River. It was the fastest route to the border, just below Ribadavia. Once
across he would swing west to an airfield outside Valenga. The flight to
Lisbon would take another two hours, if the weather held and if an aircraft
was available. Valen4ga didn’t expect him for another two days; its planes
might all be in use.
His anxiety matched the intensity of the’spinning, careening wheels beneath
him. It was all so extraordinary; it made no sense to him. There was no one
in Lisbon who could issue such orders as he had received from Ortegal!
What had happened?
He felt suddenly as though a vitally important part of his existence was
being threatened. And then he wondered at his own reaction.He had no love
for his temporary world; he took no pleasure in the countless manipulations
and countermanipulations. In fact, he despised most of his day-to-day
activities, was sick of the constant fear, the unending high-risk factors
to be evaluated with every decision.
Yet he recognized what bothered him so: he had grown in his work. He had
arrived in Lisbon centuries ago, beginning a new life, and he had mastered
it. Somehow it signified all the buildings he wanted to build, all the
blueprints he wanted to turn into mortar and steel. There was precision and
finality in his work; the
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results were there every day. Often many times every day. Like the hundreds
of details in construction specifications, the information came to him and
he put it all together and emerged with reality.
And it was this reality that others depended upon.
Now someone wanted him out of Lisbon! Out of Portugal and Spain! Was it as
simple as that? Had his reports angered one general too many? Had a
strategy session been nullified because he sent back the truth of a
supposedly successful operation? Were the London and Washington brass
finally annoyed to the point of removing a critical thom? It was possible;
he had been told often enough that the men in the underground rooms in
London’s Tower Road had exploded more than once over his assessments. He
knew that Washington’s Office of Strategic Services felt he was encroaching
on their territory; even G-2, ostensibly his own agency, criticized his
involvement with the escape teams.
But beyond the complaints there was one evaluation that overrode them all: