Dark Invasion: 1915: Germany's Secret War and the Hunt for the First Terrorist Cell in America (5 page)

Chapter 6

Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany, shown here circa 1910–1915.

(George Grantham Bain Collection, Library of Congress)

I
n Europe events unfolded with an increasingly bleak and bellicose momentum. In the shadows, a tense von Bernstorff hurried about Berlin, making the final preparations for his own war.

On July 27 Kaiser Wilhelm abandoned his summer holiday in Potsdam and returned to the steamy streets of Berlin to confer with his generals and ministers. He strode about meetings in the royal palace in military uniform, saber dangling from his belt, as though he expected at any moment to give the order to charge. The prospect of leading the nation into war, of crushing the enemies who encircled the Fatherland, thrilled him.

The following day, Austria, having been reassured of Germany’s “faithful support” even if her actions were to provoke the great Russian Bear, declared war on hapless Serbia. Its booming guns bombarded Belgrade with impunity. In outraged response, armies throughout Europe began mobilizing. The kaiser’s envoys in London, Paris, and St. Petersburg delivered earnest ultimatums, demanding that forces stand down. These pleas for restraint, however, were ignored.

Orders went out for two million German soldiers to begin making preparations for war. “Let your hearts beat for God, and your fists on the enemy,” the kaiser, now a warlord, thundered to his troops. In Berlin crowds swelled the streets, their fervent patriotic voices rising up to sing “Deutschland über Alles.”

Across the map of Europe, the row of dominoes leaned precariously. A wanton push would send them all crashing into one another.

On August 1 a German infantry company crossed the border into neutral Luxembourg. The troops occupied a small cobblestoned town on the slopes of the Ardennes, Troisvierges. In the chagrined parliaments of Europe it seemed clear that the choice of this village was an implicit warning, and that the next two virgins to be violated by German troops would be Belgium and France. The dominoes tottered, and war was a certainty.

VON BERNSTORFF’S WORLD WAS ALSO
tottering. He was having difficulty coming to terms with his mission. He was no stranger to deceit; he was a diplomat, after all. But he could not contemplate the treachery demanded by his new clandestine role without feeling soiled.

Gentlemen were not spies. They did not slink about trying to learn other gentlemen’s secrets. They did not betray friends, and in his six pleasant years in America he had made many friends. He was being ordered to trample over his own Junker concept of honor.

Yet this was war. The Fatherland had asked for his help. In his agonized mind, class and country struggled for his loyalty. He remained unsure which would ultimately win.

On August 2, the same day that German troops completed their occupation of Luxembourg, von Bernstorff left for America on the
Noordam,
a Dutch liner. This voyage would not at all resemble the trip that had brought him to Germany.

The
Noordam
was a creaking relic, old and tarnished, and soon to be retired. Yet von Bernstorff hardly noticed. He traveled furtively and anonymously, having conspired to keep his name off the passenger list. He ate his meals in the seclusion of his tiny stateroom. When he ventured on deck, he scrupulously avoided conversations. And everywhere he went, day or night, he clutched the handle of a black briefcase in his right hand as firmly as if his life depended on it.

Inside was a fortune—$150 million in German treasury notes.

It was the initial funding for his secret mission in America.

A German Empire banknote with a value of twenty marks (
Reichsbanknote Zwanzig Mark
), 1915.

(ullstein bild / The Granger Collection, NYC)

On the count’s last day in Berlin, Nicolai had handed him the package containing the money without ceremony. It might have been a letter he was asking the count to post. His terse instructions, however, left no doubt about its importance.

Under no circumstances, Nicolai lectured, was von Bernstorff to let the package out of his sight. In the event that war was declared before the ship reached New York and British sailors came on board to seize the vessel, von Bernstorff was to toss the package into the Atlantic. It would be better, the spymaster said, to have the treasury notes on the ocean floor than for the British to begin asking questions about why the imperial German ambassador was transporting $150 million to America.

On board the
Noordam
, von Bernstorff remained vigilant. His manner stiffened, and he stayed alert. The briefcase in his clenched hand was a constant reminder of his mission. The habit of caution was taking hold. Apprehension filled his thoughts. As the long days at sea passed, he began to learn what it was to lead a secret life.

ON THE FOURTH DAY OF
August 700,000 German troops, their spiked helmets glistening in the sun, marched in smart, orderly column after column into Belgium. That same morning the kaiser, hand resting on his sword hilt as if he were already posing for a victory statue, stood in front of his throne at the palace and addressed the assembled deputies. “We draw the sword with a clear conscience and with clean hands,” he declared with all the self-righteous piety of a man who had neither.

Hours later, his chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, spoke to a cheering Reichstag, giving a more candid, but equally guiltless, rationale for Germany’s firing the first shots: “Our invasion of Belgium is contrary to international law but the wrong—I speak openly—that we are committing we will make good as soon as our military goal has been reached.”

Europe was at war.

IN WASHINGTON, PRESIDENT WOODROW WILSON
was informed of the outbreak of fighting as he sat at his dying wife’s bedside. Already in mourning, this emotionally battered, deep-thinking man with a pacifist’s heart and a statesman’s optimistic vision heard the news and offered his help. He quickly wrote out an ardent message and asked that it be sent to the leaders of the warring nations: “I should welcome an opportunity to act in the interest of European peace, either now or any other time that might be more suitable, as an occasion to serve you all and all concerned in a way that would afford me lasting cause for gratitude and happiness.”

Two days later, his wife died. He was bereft. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” he cried out to the heavens as he turned in anguish from her inert body—his heartfelt words an eerie echo of the master actor Muenter’s contrived grief.

A week after his wife’s burial, Wilson reined in his emotions and, wearing a black armband, addressed the American people. It was important, he felt, that the country understand the opportunity that existed, the “great permanent glory” that could be gained if America acted wisely. It was vital that the country not allow itself to be pulled into the fighting. He had come to the podium to preach neutrality.

His neutrality, however, was not a detached isolationism but something more vigorous and, he deeply believed, decidedly more moral. It was an evangelical strategy. America must assume its rightful place in the center of the world stage as arbiter, the one country that could apply the “standards of righteousness and humanity” to the European nations whose ambitions and greed had led them astray. Neutrality was the path to a benevolent destiny—an American-negotiated world peace.

“Every man who truly loves America,” he implored, “will act and speak in the true spirit of neutrality, which is the spirit of impartiality and fairness and friendliness to all concerned.” He begged his countrymen to be “neutral in fact as well as name, impartial in thought as well as action.” The days ahead, he warned, will “try men’s souls.” But a neutral America would give humanity “the gift of peace.”

Chapter 7

F
or months Frank Baldo had been attending meetings, listening with attention to one fervent speech after another either urging the overthrow of the government or denouncing the rapacious greed of the Catholic Church. He’d found a job doing manual labor in a Long Island City factory. He’d rented a sparse room with peeling paint in a building on Third Avenue where the hallways smelled of cat piss, and tried to pretend that it was home. He’d not seen his wife and infant son in the Bronx for so long that their absence tugged at him constantly. Each day in this strange, unnatural world was a lonely struggle.

No less dispiriting, as his daily calls to Tom made clear, was that there was nothing to show for all his painstaking efforts. Only a few members of the Circle had bothered to say more than hello, while the leaders blatantly ignored him. They’d gather in corners whispering intently, and all he could do was keep a respectful distance and fix a disinterested smile on his face.

Be patient, Tom advised, hoping he’d found a steady, reassuring tone. The truth was, though, that Tom was inwardly growing more and more concerned. He was beginning to suspect that this operation too would fail. It was as if he could hear a clock ticking ominously inside his head:
It is getting late. Time is running out.

In November a bomb wedged against the door of the Bronx County Courthouse exploded. Was it the work of the Brescia Circle? Tom had no idea, and neither did his agent. The racing clock in his mind ticked louder and louder.

At last, though, Baldo got his opportunity. One Sunday night, as the more important members of the group huddled secretively, someone, bored and in high spirits, suggested a wrestling match. The men went at it. It was all good fun. But Frank Baldo, the new recruit who was built like Hercules, fought like a champion. He tossed one man after another to the floor as effortlessly as if he were handing out flyers announcing the next demonstration.

Baldo, who’d thoroughly enjoyed the chance to channel some of his frustration, was smoothing his ruffled hair back into place when he felt a tap on his back. He turned to see Carmine “Charlie” Carbone, the short, grim-faced shoemaker—a nasty piece of work, Frank had decided when he’d first spotted him months earlier—who was one of the group’s leaders.

“You’re a strong fellow,” Carbone said, and gave the new recruit a long, appraising look. “I’m glad to see you’re a member of the Brescia Circle.”

Frank smiled, and did his best not to confide how much pleasure it had given him to hurl those men across the room. In other circumstances he’d have gladly broken an arm or two, and could have done it easily and without compunction. They continued talking as they left the basement and walked up Third Avenue.

“The trouble with those fellows,” said Carbone, “is that they talk too much and don’t act enough. They don’t accomplish anything.”

“That’s right,” Baldo agreed, restrained but still playing along.

“What they ought to do is throw a few bombs and show the police something,” Carbone went on. “Wake them up!”

Carbone waved his right hand in front of Baldo’s face. The fingers were short stumps. “I got that making a bomb,” he explained proudly. “Some day I’ll show you how to make ’em.”

AND SO THEIR FRIENDSHIP BEGAN.
They marched shoulder to shoulder at demonstrations, sat together at meetings, and went off for a few beers most Friday nights, and Carbone introduced him to his buddy, Frank Abarno. They became an inseparable trio.

Baldo courted both men carefully. He listened attentively, smiled, but did not talk much. He never asked questions. And in time, Carbone kept his promise and showed him how to make a bomb.

On a wintry Sunday in January when the basement meeting room seemed as frosty as an icebox, Carbone waited until the speeches were finished and then drew Baldo aside. “Come on up to the 125th Street Station,” he said quietly. “It’s warm up there, and we won’t be bothered. I’ll tell you something about making bombs.”

In the comforting heat of the subway station, the steady churning and high-pitched screeching of the trains making it difficult for bystanders to overhear, Carbone talked freely. He boasted that he could get all the dynamite he needed from his uncle, a contractor. He just needed some ignition caps, each one, say, about two inches long.

“We’ll get some dynamite, and then you and Frank and me will blow up some churches, see?”

“Sure,” Baldo answered evenly. “What church?”

“St. Patrick’s is the best. This time it’ll be a good one too. I’ll make a bomb that will destroy the cathedral down to the ground.”

In the days that followed, they set to work making two bombs. Abarno and Carbone carefully measured the proportions of sulfur, sugar, chlorate of potash, and antimony. Next the mixture was poured into two tin soap cans. A length of strong cord bound strips of iron rod to the can, and this was further reinforced by wrapping copper wire repeatedly around the entire device.

Baldo’s heart galloped as he watched the two men; the memory of the three Circle members who’d been blown to bits while working in a bomb factory on Independence Day never left his mind. But when Carbone picked up a hammer and began firmly banging the fuses into the tops of the devices, his courage abandoned him. He scrambled behind the bed on the other side of the small room, and then, for further protection, dropped to the floor.

“No use to hide there, Baldo!” Carbone teased. “If she goes off, she’ll blow the whole house down.”

The house did not blow up. The two lethal devices were completed, and Carbone gently placed them in the bottom of a steamer trunk. The swirls of copper wire had given them an orangish tint, and they looked like small, very spooky pumpkins. Carbone closed the trunk, and then took a key from his pocket and locked it. As soon as the bombs were out of sight, Abarno shared his plan to destroy St. Patrick’s.

“We’ll meet here in two days, on Tuesday morning at six o’clock to the minute,” he said. “We will get to the cathedral just at 6:20. Then we light the bombs, and the fuses will burn slow for twenty minutes. We can get over to Madison Avenue and then we can all get to work on time. We’ll have a good alibi, all right. Then we’ll get together Tuesday night and go some place and have a good time.”

In high spirits, the men left the bomb factory. Baldo walked with Carbone for a while down Third Avenue and then said he was exhausted. The day’s activity, he confessed, had him still shaking. He wanted to go back to his room and get some rest.

Carbone laughed. He told his friend to get a good night’s sleep. Baldo, he said, needed to be ready for Tuesday.

Baldo went off alone. He walked slowly. But when at last he was certain he was not being followed, he rushed through the early-evening darkness to find a phone booth. He needed to call a private line on Centre Street at once.

WHERE WERE THEY? TOM WONDERED.

He stood in the cathedral, pressed tight against the stone pillar in the semidarkness, and continued his vigil. The Tuesday-morning Mass had begun, yet there was still no sign of the bombers. Had they opened the cathedral door, looked up the aisle, and at once seen through his detectives’ disguises? Had they bolted?

In the next uneasy moment, another thought jumped into his mind: What if they had made Polignani? He would never forgive himself if something had happened to that brave young man. Should he risk summoning one of his men parked in an unmarked car on Fifth Avenue? Should he have the officer rush down to Centre Street in case Polignani was trying to contact him? Six months of exacting, painstaking work was on the line, but Tom was getting very close to putting the entire operation in jeopardy. He owed it to Polignani, to the detective’s wife and baby, to get him out of this alive.

Yet Tom, his stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots, waited. Just one more minute, he decided.

At last he saw them. There were just two men, Abarno and Baldo, and they were walking up the north aisle of the cathedral. Later, Tom would learn that Carbone had had a last-minute case of nerves. At this moment, though, Tom centered all his attention on Abarno and the ominous object protruding from the pocket of his topcoat.

Abarno led the way. Both men held lit cigars by their sides. It was as if they were holstered weapons.

On the altar, a bell rang. The bishop was about to begin the consecration.

At the tenth pew, Abarno gestured to Baldo to stop. He obeyed, and dropped to his knees in prayer.

Abarno continued on. He walked up another four rows, then took a seat. His head and body bent forward as if he too were in prayer.

The scrubwoman had already put down her mop. She moved up the aisle, a rag in her hand. But she made no pretense of dusting as she hurried forward.

Abarno suddenly rose. He darted to a pillar near the north end of the altar.

“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,” the bishop chanted.

Abarno crouched by the pillar. Swiftly, he removed the bomb from his coat pocket with one hand and placed it against the base of the stone column. With his other hand, he flicked the ashes from the coal of his cigar and used the glowing end to ignite the fuse. The fuse started to burn, and he fled quickly down the aisle.

By his third step, the charwoman had grabbed him in an iron grip.

In the same moment, the elderly usher suddenly could not only walk upright but run. He sprinted to the pillar, found the bomb, and pinched out the burning fuse with his fingers.

Tom came out of the shadows to arrest Baldo. It was important to maintain Polignani’s cover until all the conspirators—Carbone and other members of the Circle—were in custody. Tom did his best not to say anything other than a terse “You’re under arrest.” He tried not to betray his pure joy at his realization that with those words, he knew his agent had returned from a very dangerous mission. But as Tom put the cuffs on Baldo and led him out to the waiting police car on Fifth Avenue, he couldn’t help feeling that never before in his long career had he been so happy to make a collar.