Sustenance (12 page)

“Sure,” she said, and twisted the handle to crank the window up the last few inches.

The engine purred as Szent-Germain drove off into the shining night.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM EUGENE STIRLING OF
THE WASHINGTON POST
IN ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA, TO RUSSELL MCCALL IN PARIS, FRANCE; DELIVERED BY AIR MAIL THREE DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

137 Ashtree Lane

Alexandria 4, Virginia

Nov. 16
th
, 1949

Russell McCall

7, Rue des Cinq Jardins

Paris, France

Dear Russ,

Good to hear from you. I was beginning to think you’d gone underground and were making it your business to keep away from your friends back home. This isn’t going out on the paper’s letterhead; I’ll drop it in a box here in Alexandria. So far none of the HUAC’s minions have done any snooping around me, or most of the reporters, so I’ll assume this will reach you safely without causing more difficulties for you, or any for me.

Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain is unknown to me, and as much as I want to say that I have records of him in the morgue, so far as I can tell, I don’t, at least nothing current. There is something about a visiting Hungarian with a similar name who was taken for a lot of money, but that was a century ago, and in London. Whoever this guy is, he either has done nothing criminal or clandestine, or he’s flying well under the radar—way under—which is a smart thing to do. Maybe he’s just looking out for himself and who can blame him? I can tell you that his shipping company is doing fairly well, all things considered, and his publishing company has been able to keep going for a couple of decades here in the US. Judging from the
Szent,
he’s Hungarian, like the guy a hundred years ago; could be a relative of some sort, which might explain his exile, given how the Russians are acting these days—not that I trust Army Intelligence or the CIA to be wholly candid with the press; both of those groups have too much to gain from keeping secrets. There is a lot of speculation going around about how HUAC chooses its subjects for investigation, not all of it too reassuring. I’ve assumed all along that they went for you because of your opinions, and to scare the bejesus out of any journalist who is inclined to cover the Leftist point of view honestly. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open about this Szent-Germain, and I’ll drop you a line if I find out anything that looks important. For the time being, figure he’s legit, but keep an eye out for anything cloak-and-dagger; some of those Eastern Europeans have strange commitments and alliances.

Thanks for asking about the family. Randy started high school last September, and is getting his sea-legs. Nina and I have arranged for him to continue his music lessons with a teacher from the local orchestral society. Randy tells us he loves the French horn and is thinking of it as a career. It’s true that many orchestras were short of musicians during the war, but that seems to be changing, and Nina and I want him to have every chance, but we’re telling him not to put too much into it until he finds out what kind of life he would have to lead if that becomes his career. His grandfather—Nina’s father—isn’t in favor of him playing the French horn professionally, and that’s led to some clashes. Linda takes her brother’s side, and I try to stay neutral. Nina’s been volunteering at the local VA physical therapy facility three days a week. She wants to do her part, she says.

The paper is sending me on assignment to Hawaii next week, so it’s a good thing you wrote when you did. I won’t be back for ten days, and you said you needed to hear from me ASAP. This is the best I can do, and I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.

Sincerely,

Gene

5

B
ALTIMORE WAS
coming out of the last of a blustery winter; the weather was doing its part to confuse everything: temperatures had been almost balmy the day before, with occasional flocks of woolly white clouds grazing through the cerulean sky. But there was a nip in the frisky wind today that promised winter had not quite left. On the streets, overcoats and jackets were standard dress still; a few pedestrians were wearing fur hats instead of felt, and had mufflers wrapped around their necks. The women out on errands had on shawl-collar coats with the collars turned up, and hats that were warm as well as fashionable; almost everyone wore gloves.

From his handsome office around the corner from the Coast Guard Central Atlantic Administration Building, Lydell Gerold Broadstreet watched the street out the tall windows for a short while, then switched his attention to the oversized green blotter on his rosewood desk and the morning’s workload; he opened the latest file of international cables, arranged the way he liked them—not by operative but by country of origin—put on his glasses, smoothed his fine, butter-blond hair, set his foolscap notebook open at his elbow, placed his fountain-pen above it, picked up the top cable, and began to read, breaking the codes as he went, one of the few advantages of his photographic memory. Bishop in Dublin stated that he needed to get a replacement soon; the Free Irish Army were becoming suspicious of him, and although they were a small group, they were expert in making bombs, and were known for blowing up suspected informers. He scribbled a note to himself, shuffled the cables, and took up the cable from Fletcher, who sent his travel plans that would bring him to Alaska on a British ship in ten days and would need a covert pick-up; then from Vane in Istanbul where he had managed to get his network going without incident and would need a local contact to handle encoded communications. Nothing much new in any of them, Broadstreet told himself with a sigh. The self-congratulations from some of his station-chiefs were becoming oppressive: the war had been over long enough for vast numbers of uniforms to disappear from the general population, but not so long that the celebrations were completely over, particularly for those who had worked in the shadows—and still ought to do so, he told himself.

He picked up a fourth cable, this one from D. Philetus Rothcoe, who asked for permission to put an agent or two on the Grof Szent-Germain, a fellow known to be an exile, but with a great deal of money, and a number of international businesses; rumor said he had spent the war in southern France, possibly aiding the Resistance, or one of the covert groups operating in Savoie and the Piedmont. But there was no confirmation of this to be found. Rothcoe said there was something fishy about the Grof, who ran a number of publishing houses and had been in contact with some of the American academics in Paris, but there were no provable connections to either the Reds or the Nazis.
Letter of particulars to follow in diplomatic pouch
was appended to the coded message. Broadstreet tapped the page with his index finger, wondering what would be best to do; Rothcoe was a dedicated coordinator, but inclined to get overzealous with present and former aristocrats, a group the CIA was not inclined to antagonize. He wanted to get through his morning work so he could reward himself with a pipe of rum-soaked tobacco and a cup of coffee. But this business with Rothcoe needed to be resolved shortly if the surveillance of the self-proclaimed Ex-Pats’ Coven was to continue, undetected this time or so he hoped. Thus far, those assigned to infiltrate the group had been discovered, and there were hints that another approach was needed to gain the intelligence sought. Perhaps a decoy of some sort would work; someone they would accept without having to admit him—or her—to their numbers. Maybe there was a way for this Grof Szent-Germain to be useful.

His ruminations were halted when the intercom on his desk clicked into life. “Mister Broadstreet?” said the voice of his secretary, Florence Wentworth.

“What is it, Florence.” He made it a statement instead of a question; Florence did not often interrupt his work.

“There’s a gentleman in the office. He says you’ll want to speak to him. I don’t know why he’s come; he refuses to tell me. He says only that it is essential to see you, and that he is unwilling to disclose his identity.” She stood expectantly and uncomfortably, waiting for Broadstreet’s decision.

“That makes it all suspicious,” said Broadstreet a long minute later, with slight fatigue at this interruption. Probably someone from the red press, or the yellow press, which was almost as bad, he thought, looking to get a lead on a story. Or one of Hoover’s boys, snooping. That was more likely.

“It might be worth talking to him,” Florence suggested a bit tentatively.

“Why is that?” Broadstreet grumbled.

“He has a pin on his lapel, a veteran’s pin,” she said, and waited, then added, “Thunderbirds.”

Broadstreet clicked his tongue, then said, “Oh, very well. Show him in.”

The man who came into Broadstreet’s office was in his late twenties, of medium height, wearing a dark-brown suit with a white shirt, a sharkskin tie patterned in dark turquoise and dull gold. His pocket-handkerchief was also dull gold; he was carrying a tan fedora: certainly not FBI with a tie and a hat like that, Broadstreet thought. The newcomer smiled. “Mister Broadstreet. Thank you for seeing me.” He held out his hand with a nice combination of bravado and humility. “I know you’re a busy man, but this is—”

“—important, you say. My secretary informed me.” He could see the shine of sweat on his visitor’s forehead, and slightly relented. “Convince me you won’t waste my time if I hear you out,” said Broadstreet, taking up his fountain-pen after he managed a hint of a handshake. “Begin by telling me how you decided to come to me.”

“I was told that you were in charge of the investigations of run-away university instructors,” the man said.

“And who told you that?” Broadstreet’s manner stiffened.

“Major Allen Korlles is a good friend. He suggested I deal with you.” The man faltered, looking slightly dismayed.

“I see.” Broadstreet decided he would have to have a word with Major Korlles—Army Intelligence shouldn’t be so loose-lipped. “Did you tell him what you want to tell me, or was it all lucky happenstance?” He sighed once, not loudly, but enough to make it apparent that he was feeling put-upon. How providential this all seemed: Rothcoe’s cable and this informer coming to see him—perhaps too providential.

“No, I didn’t tell him, and I don’t plan to; he doesn’t want to know.” He pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat down, and found himself facing a wall of degrees and recognitions Broadstreet had earned; he did his best not to be impressed. “To begin with, I should tell you I’m related to Hapgood Nugent. I’m sure you must know who he is. He’s from the brainy side of the family, I’m in the commercial side.” He paused to breathe. “You can call me Grant Nugent, if you like.”

“Because it isn’t your name,” Broadstreet interjected, and saw his visitor flinch, showing that he was new to deceptive techniques.

The man nodded, making a quick recovery. “Bingo! You got that right.” He took a cigarette from a gold case, tamped it, and lit it, blowing out a thick stream of smoke. Belatedly he offered Broadstreet a cigarette and snapped the case closed when Broadstreet waved it away. “A year ago, before he left for Europe, Hapgood entrusted a couple of filing cabinets to my wife; against my better judgment, we stored them in the garage. I had a look through them some weeks ago and found out that there’s a lot of correspondence in them talking about economics—”

“Hardly unusual for a professor of economics,” said Broadstreet in a tone that made the other man speak faster.

“But some of them talk about Communism, and not always the way most of us would like. Sure, the Commies were our allies in the war, but not any longer, no matter what the professors like to think, and that goes for Hapgood as well as the rest of them. The professors he was writing to had a lot to say about Communism, most of it favorable to the Communists. Not the kind of things I’d want my kids to be looking into—especially not now. They could stir up all kinds of trouble, these letters. I was startled at how blatant Hapgood was about his theories. I had photostats made of the letters, of the most outspoken ones, and thought I should make them available to you. I found out you handle the investigations of those professors who have left America. Hapgood Nugent is in France just now, and three of his colleagues are also overseas. I thought maybe you can use these letters to find out where they have gone.”

“And who are these professors?” Broadstreet’s pen was poised over his notebook.

“Maynard Lundkin, D. G. Atkins, and Weston Teague.”

Broadstreet wrote down all three names, though he knew where two of the three were and had men assigned to watch them. He circled D. G. Atkins, the one unaccounted for. “And why do you tell me this?”

“My wife sends Happy money. She thinks I don’t know about it, but I do, and it troubles me for several reasons. She says Happy hasn’t done anything wrong, and that it’s all a witch-hunt.” His face grew flushed. “She says we owe him the same kind of loyalty we owe the country.”

So, thought Broadstreet, this man isn’t a Nugent, his wife is; there might be some jealousy here to use. He cleared his throat. “And what do you think? Is Professor Nugent being hounded without cause?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s not my business. But the way things stand, the family’s embarrassed, and the people Happy’s been dealing with are known to be working with the enemies of this country.” He stared at Broadstreet while stubbing out his cigarette in the hammered copper ashtray on the edge of the desk. “If turning over the letters will help put an end to all this, then I want you to have them.”

“Have you brought the photostats with you?”

The younger man shook his head. “I didn’t know if you’d want them, or if they’d be safer here than in the filing cabinets in our garage. We keep them locked, but there are three windows with just latches. If someone broke in, and knew where to look…” He made a gesture of distress.

“An attic or a basement might be better, and a lock on the door,” said Broadstreet, trying to keep from chuckling at this man’s idea of security. He took a chance and added, “You haven’t mentioned where you live.”