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BERN, SWITZERLAND. 12 FEBRUARY, 1945.

Allen Dulles sat and looked out the window onto Herrengasse,
the narrow street in which, at number 23, was housed the headquarters in
Switzerland of the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, occupying portion of
the United States embassy in Bern. Its presence in the embassy quarters was not
public knowledge for ostensibly it didn't exist, but in reality it was really
more a matter of the right heads turning the other way. The building, a light
colored stone town home from an elegant era long since past, was one of a dozen
or so that lined both sides of the street and, from the outside, was rather
nondescript as were it's neighbors on either side. Inside, while hardly
nondescript, it did not appear at all opulent, but for those with a discerning
eye, the quality of the materials and the care with which it was built stood as
a lasting testimony to the wealth and good taste of its former owners.

Rising above the stone buildings across the street, the
tower of the Cathedral of St. Vincent stood silhouetted against the blue sky,
and as the thin white clouds passed by, it seemed like the tower was moving,
always about to fall over but never actually doing so. Sometimes Dulles felt
like that, and it was that similarity that now held his gaze fixed on the centuries
old tower as he stood and walked to the window.

Allen considered himself to be thoroughly versed in the
history of spying, but having just read "The Art of War" by Sun Tsu,
he was surprised to find that over two thousand years ago the Chinese general
had realized the importance of spying for a successful military campaign.
Dulles had read volumes too numerous to mention, had immersed himself in
operational data and histories culled from secret files of multiple agencies
and had personally interviewed dozens of agents; but all of his knowledge did
not fully prepare him for the emotional rigors of his craft nor protect him
from the assaults on his conscience. He was cursed with a memory that did not
let him forget the names of any of the agents, operatives, informers or
partisans that had been killed in operations that he had authorized or
directed. And because of his position, Allen often knew the details —
perhaps a merciful bullet while fleeing, or days of torture and humiliation, a
barely breathing, broken human unable to resist the onslaught against their
body and kept alive only long enough to know how the Germans had taken
advantage of their forced betrayals. Often, of course, the operative was simply
never heard from again. They came, these pangs of emotion and despair, at all
times of the day and night, sometimes while he was sleeping. He would wake up
in the middle of the night and even before he was fully awake he would feel it
descend upon him like a too thick blanket. When this happened the night's sleep
was lost to him and Dulles had learned not to try to go back to bed. Sitting at
the kitchen table in his apartment with a cup of hot chocolate he would think
of all of the atrocities being played out all over Europe and the rest of the
world under the direction of Adolph Hitler and his thugs. He would think of all
the deaths, the torture, the complete disregard for human life or dignity. Then
there began a long mental inventory of the various operations that played a
part in the long arduous fight against this disease that was infecting the
world. Not all of them were successful, but enough were, so that by the time he
had proceeded through the long file he created in his mind, he felt justified
in what he had done. Their banner had been advanced, the sacrifices he had
demanded of others brought the world a little closer to safety, and by the time
the first signs of dawn were visible through the east facing window of his
kitchen, Allen Dulles could once again live with himself.

He stared out his office window a moment longer, watching
the clouds float by, and with an anthropomorphism he didn't really believe,
envied them there distance and detachment from the human race, watchers who
were serene in their total inability to do anything to alter the course of
history or affect the world of man, other than to make it wet. His eyes
wandered from the sky to the street below his office, men and women hurrying
along the Herrengasse a reality check bringing him back to his daily world of
espionage, data collection and the all too numerous meetings and reports to be
filed.

He turned away and slowly stepped off the few feet to his
desk, where he picked up the phone. "Send them in now."

His aide opened the door and stood aside as he ushered three
men into the large wood paneled room that was once the second floor study of
the wealthy merchant who built the house so many years ago. He nodded to the
men as they entered and motioned them to sit down at the round, elegantly
carved table that occupied most of the center of the room, remaining standing
until they all sat. Turning to the window, his back toward them, he began.
"Seven weeks ago, by way of a wealthy Italian businessman, we were
contacted by a General in the Wehrmacht who made a most interesting proposal. As
you may know, Hitler has been driving his staff to develop an atomic weapon,
and they were making significant progress, which was why, last February, a
joint British Norwegian operation destroyed a Norwegian ferry carrying the
entire remaining Nazi supply of plutonium and sent it to the bottom of a deep
lake in southern Norway." Always somewhat of a showman, Dulles paused for
effect, before continuing. "Except, that's not where the plutonium ended
up!"

Allen Dulles turned and looked at each of the men sitting at
the table before continuing, "Our general seems to have pulled a switch
and removed the plutonium before it was loaded on the ferry. He transported it
himself to Germany where he has it hidden. Now he wants to use it as a
bargaining chip." He walked to the window and opened it slightly, an
excuse to gaze outside one more time. How he envied the clouds in their
detached remoteness.

The men at the table looked at each other, waiting for
Dulles to continue. Julian Templeton, although not a field agent himself, often
ran agents as director for most of the operations out of the Switzerland OSS.
He was the oldest of the four, and the best dressed. In his mid forties, and
the only professional politico among the group at the table, his take on any
situation included an evaluation as to how it might help or hinder his postwar
career in the State Department. Nonetheless, he had a quick, analytical mind
that was very adept at planning operations, especially where much of the
scenario could not be known in advance and where contingencies had to be built
in to cover a myriad of unforeseen possibilities. Julian was patriotic. He
loved his country, believed in the freedom it offered and was eager to help in
advancing its cause. But he was also a cynic and whenever patriotism and his
own self-advancement clashed, he made no bones about his allegiance. It was,
first and foremost, to himself.

Kent Mallory sat next to Julian and was eleven years his
junior. He admired his abilities, the knowledge he had in so many disparate
areas, but mostly he envied the ease with which Julian navigated the confusing
military and political currents of the OSS. Before the war, Mallory had an
entry level job in the State Department and was considering making a career of
it, especially since his first posting was overseas, Berlin to be exact, and
the charm and excitement of being abroad were somewhat intoxicating to a young,
naïve man from East Rutherford, New Jersey. However, neither the charm nor the
excitement were sustainable to a man of his sensibilities in pre-war Nazi
Germany, and when the personnel from State were evacuated in the face of what
seemed an inevitable war, Kent resigned his position and, in a burst of
indignation and patriotism, enlisted in the Army, only to be transferred, after
several years of holding a desk job in procurement, to the OSS and sent abroad
again, in a position that to him seemed not unlike the one from which he had so
recently resigned. His life seemed to be in an eddy and he had yet to feel that
he was really taking part in the war effort. With the way things were going,
the war would soon be over and, by his way of thinking, Kent would neither have
advanced his career nor aided the war effort. Stateside, his wife had moved
back in with her parents in New York, but as her letters attested, she was not
happy with the situation and she constantly harangued him about their financial
situation and her inability to take care of herself in a manner that she
thought appropriate. As these thoughts revolved in Mallory's mind, Dulles once
again faced the group at the table.

"There are problems, however," he continued.
"General Schroeder, Heinrich Schroeder, that's the name of the officer
that contacted us, has been transferred to Northern Italy and because of the
success of our bombing in knocking out Hitler's infrastructure, he can't
contact his friends in Germany, and even if he could, it might be impossible
for them to get the plutonium out of Germany. He was going to have it shipped
by rail, but with him being in Italy, unable to commandeer the necessary
resources, and most of the rail lines out of commission or very risky, that is
no longer an option. However, Schroeder says there is another way."

Julian could tell by his eyes that this "other
way" would be dangerous and would entail a significant risk to one of
their agents — a loss of life or capture, which amounted to essentially
the same thing. He had seen Dulles look this way before, almost as if his eyes
turned inward, either hesitant to face those to whom he gave such news, or lost
in his own remorse and guilt about sending men to risk their lives while he
remained behind. The two men sitting to Julian's right fidgeted and he wondered
if they too sensed the turmoil that was building in Allan Dulles' conscience.

The agent sitting next to Julian was new to Bern, having
arrived only two weeks before from stateside, and he didn't know much about
him. He wore a suit and seemed to be a contemporary of Kent's, that same eager
look on his face. A look that combined subservience and a desire to do
something tangible to help the war effort, with a certain feeling of awe that
he was actually privy to these behind the scenes machinations. David Ruckelman
had been recruited from the civilian arena only recently, bringing resources
that were needed by the OSS for this particular project.

Ruckelman was a chemical engineer, or at least that's what
he was trained as, but aside from a brief period on the faculty of the
University of Chicago, he really hadn't done very much at all in what he
considered to be his field of expertise. When he was honest with himself, he
admitted that even his time at U of C was more babysitting grad students than
any kind of useful research. It was not surprising, therefore, that when he was
offered a position working with a team of scientists being assembled by
professor Fermi for a secret wartime project, he accepted without even asking
for any of the details. In point of fact, it wouldn't have mattered if he did
ask, because no one would have told him anyway. He had hoped, nonetheless, that
this would be his chance to prove his worth as a chemical engineer and to do
something to help his country. In the latter he was successful, but
unfortunately, the former remained a more elusive goal, for after a mere six
months on the Manhattan Project it was the opinion of Fermi that David was much
better at engineering people than at engineering fissionable elements. He
became the project personnel manager and liaison with the military. Still
unable to feel fulfilled in his work, he readily agreed to be put on loan to
the OSS, hoping that some new endeavor might provide him with the
self-justification that he so needed. Therefore, he sat at the table with hope
in his heart and tried to look attentive and capable while waiting for Dulles
to continue his explanation.

"It is possible that an agent can cross into Southern
Germany by way of Lake Constance, retrieve the plutonium from where Schroeder
hid it and make his way back the same way."

"Where is it hidden?" Julian asked, his mind
already thinking about possible routes and methods of transportation.

"He hasn't exactly told us although we believe it is in
the vicinity of Munich."

"When is he 'exactly' going to tell us?"

Kent thought that Julian was getting too close to sarcastic
with Dulles but felt comfortable with Templeton's ability to deal with these
kinds of exchanges with his superiors without seriously ruffling anyone's
feathers.

"Actually, Julian, he's not."

"Well sir, with all due respect, if we don't know where
we're going it's unlikely that we'll get there."

"He's afraid that if he tells us now, he gives up his
only bargaining power."

"Just what is it that he's bargaining for?"

"He wants immunity and safe passage to South
America." Dulles puffed slowly on his pipe and was about to continue when
Julian interrupted. Kent noticed the brief flicker of irritation that crossed
Dulles' face.

Julian plunged ahead, "Can't we set up some sort of
guarantee that will make him trust us?"

"If he tells us," Kent interjected hesitantly,
"can't we just bomb the shit out of it so the Nazis can't use the
plutonium?"

Allan looked at Kent first. "We would have no way of
knowing for sure if we succeeded, plus which, to hit a target that small we'd
have to have personnel on the ground anyway." He now turned to face
Julian, his eyes narrowing just perceptibly, and went on, "As I started to
say," and the phraseology was not lost on anyone, "he feels he needs
to hold an ace in his hand because whoever we send in has to bring out his ward,
a young woman in her twenties. To insure that that happens, she is the one who
will take our agent to the plutonium."