They wanted full credit.’
‘Good God I What did you say to the Azores peopleT
‘I bought you a day, general. I instructed Hollander to minimize any
connection, keep it away from Spaulding. Frankly, to imply coincidence if
the subject got out of hand. The Haganah
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is independent, fanatic. Most Zionist organizations won’t touch it. They
call it a group of savages.’
‘How could it get out of hand?’ Swanson was disturbed on another level.
GI’m sure you’re aware that the Azores are under British control. An old
Portuguese treaty gives them the tight to military installations.’
‘I know that,’ said Swanson testily.
:The British found the medallion.’
What will they do?’
:Think about it. Eventually make a report to Allied Central.’
But you know about it now.’
‘Hollander’s a good man. He does favors; gets favors in return.’
Swanson got out of the chair and walked aimlessly around it. ‘What do you
think, Ed? Was it meant for Spaulding?’ he looked at the colonel.
The expression on Pace’s face let Swanson know that Pace was beginning to
understand his anxiety. Not so much about the project – that was out of
bounds and he accepted it – but that a fellow officer was forced to deal in
an area he was out-of-sync with; territory he was not trained to cross. At
such times a decent army man had sympathy.
‘All I can give you are conjectures, very loose, not even good guesses….
It could be Spaulding. And even if it was, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s
connected with your project.’
‘Whaff
‘I don’t know what Spaulding’s field activities have been. Not
specifically. And the Haganah is filled with psychopaths – deadly variety.
They’re about as rational as Julius Streicher’s units. Spaulding may have
had to kill a Portuguese or Spanish Jew. Or use one in a “cover trap.” In
a Catholic country that’s all a Haganah cell would need…. Or it could be
someone else on the plane. An officer or crewman with an anti-Zionist
relative, especially a Jewish and-Zionist relative. I’d have to run a
check. . . . Unless you’d read the book, you couldn’t possibly understand
those kikes.’
Swanson remained silent for several moments. When he spoke he did so
acknowledging Pace’s attitude. ‘Thank you…. But it probably isn’t any of
those things, is it? I mean, Spanish Jews or “cover traps” or some pilot’s
uncle. . . it’s Spaulding.’
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‘You don’t know that. Speculate, sure; don’t assume.’
‘I can’t understand how.’ Swanson sat down again, thinking aloud, really.
‘All things considered . . . ‘ His thoughts drifted off into silence.
‘May I make a suggestionT Pace went to his chair. It was no time to talk
down to a bewildered superior.
‘By all means,’ said Swanson, looking over at the colonel, his eyes
conveying gratitude to this hard-nosed, confident Intelligence man.
‘I’m not cleared for your project, let’s face it, I don’t want to be. It’s
a DW exercise, and that’s where it belongs. I said a few minutes ago that
you should consider alternatives … maybe you should. But only if you see
a direct connection. I watched you and you didn’t.’
‘Because there isn’t any.’
‘You’re not involved – and even I don’t see how, considering what I do know
from the probe and Johannesburg -with the concentration camps? Auschwitz?
BelsenT
‘Not even remotely.’
Pace leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. ‘Those are Haganah concerns.
Along with the “Spanish Jews” and “cover traps.” . . . Don’t make any new
decisions now, general. You’d be making them too fast, without supportive
cause.’
‘Support. . . .’ Swanson looked incredulous. ‘A plane was blown up. Men
were killed!’
‘And a medallion could be planted on a tail assembly by anyone. It’s quite
possible you’re being tested.’
‘By whom?’
‘I couldn’t answer that. Warn Spaulding; it’ll strike him as funny, he was
on that aircraft. But let my man at Mitchell Field tell him there could be
a recurrence; to be careful …. He’s been there, general. He’ll handle
himself properly . . . . And in the Meantime, may I also suggest you look
for a replacement.’
‘A replacementT
‘For Spaulding. If there is a recurrence, it could be successful. He’d be
taken out.’
‘You mean he’d be killed.’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of world do you people live inT asked Swanson softly.
‘It’s complicated,’said Pace.
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15
DECEMBER 29,1943 NEW YORK CITY
Spaulding watched the traffic below from the hotel window overlooking Fifth
Avenue and Central Park. The Montgomery was one of those small, elegant
hotels his parents had used while in New York, and there was a pleasant
sense of nostalgia in his being there again. The old desk clerk had actually
wept discreet tears while registering him. Spaulding had forgotten –
fortunately he remembered before his signature was dry – that the old man
years ago had taken him for walks in the park. Over a quarter of a century
ago I
Walks in the park. Governesses. Chauffeurs standing in foyers, prepared to
whisk his parents away to a train, a concert, a rehearsal. Music critics.
Record company executives. Endless dinner parties where he’d make his usual
‘appearance’ before bed time and be prompted by his father to tell some
guest at what age Mozart composed the Fortieth; dates and facts he was
forced to memorize and which he gave not one goddamn about. Arguments.
Hysterics over an inadequate conductor or a bad performance or a worse
review.
Madness.
And always the figure of Aaron Mandel, soothing, placating -so often
fatherly to his overbearing father while his mother faded, waiting in a
secondary status that belied her natural strength.
And the quiet times. The Sundays – except for concert Sundays – whenhis
parents would suddenly rememberhisexistence
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and try to make up in one day the attention they thought they had allocated
improperly to governesses, chauffeurs and nice, polite hotel managements. At
these times, the quiet times, he had felt his father’s honest yet artificial
attempts; had wanted to tell him it was all right, he wasn’t deprived. They
didn’t have to spend autumn days wandering around zoos and museums; the zoos
and museums were much better in Europe, anyway. It wasn’t necessary that he
be taken to Coney Island or the beaches of New Jersey in summer. What were
they, compared to the Lido or Costa del Santiago? But whenever they were in
America, there was this parental compulsion to fit into a mold labeled ‘An
American Father and Mother.’
Sad, funny, inconsistent, impossible, really.
And for some buried reason, he had never come back to this small, elegant
hotel during the later years. There was rarely a need, of course, but he
could have made the effort; the management was genuinely fond of the
Spaulding family. Now it seemed right, somehow. After the years away he
wanted a secure base in a strangeland, secure at least in memories.
Spaulding walked away from the window to the bed where the bellboy had
placed his new suitcase with the new civilian clothes he had purchased at
Rogers Peet. Everything, including the suitcase. Pace had had the foresight
to send money with the major who had brought him duplicates of the papers
destroyed in Terceira. He had to sign for the money, not for the papers;
that amused him.
The major who met him at Mitchell Field – on the field – had escorted him
to the base infirmary, where a bored army doctor pronounced him fit but
‘run down’; had professionally criticized the sutures implanted by the
British doctor in the Azores but saw no reason to change them; and
suggested that David take two APCs every four hours and rest.
Caveat patient.
The courier-major had played a tune on the Fairfax piano and told him Field
Division was still analyzing the Lajes sabotage; it could have been aimed
at him for misdeeds out of Lisbon. He should be careful and report any
unusual incidents directly to Colonel Pace at Fairfax. Further, Spaulding
was to commit the name of Brigadier General Alan Swanson, DW. Swanson was
his source control and would make contact in a matter of days, ten at the
outside.
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Why call Pace then? Regarding any ‘incidents.’ Why not get in touch
directly with this Swanson? Since he was the SC.
Pace’s instructions, replied the major – until the brigadier took over;
just simpler that way.
Or further concealment, thought David, remembering the clouded eyes of Paul
Hollander, the Az-Am agent in Terceira.
Something was happening. The source control transferwas being handled in a
very unorthodox manner. From the unsigned, high-priority codes received in
Lisbon to the extraordinary command: out of strategy. From the mid-ocean
delivery of papers from Az-Am agents who said they had to question him
first, to the strange orders that had him reporting to two civilians in New
York without prior briefing.
It was all like a hesitation waltz. it was either very professional or