The Proxy Assassin (6 page)

Dulles wore gold-rim spectacles and a little feather duster mustache. He shook my hand and said he had heard so much about me. I blushed seven shades of crimson and dug my toe in the dirt. Then I asked him what he'd heard from our mutual friend General Donovan.

Dulles gave me a quick ‘not too much' and changed the subject. I took this to mean that Allen Dulles, a Republican and a prime candidate for CIA Director if Dewey got elected, considered Wild Bill more rival than friend.

I didn't much like Allen Dulles to start with and his answer didn't improve my opinion. I didn't like him because he was snug as a bug in Bern while I was hiding behind hedgerows in Nazi Germany. I didn't like him because he was a Wall Street lawyer who, unlike Wild Bill, never tasted battle. Mostly I
didn't like him because he was one of those posh gents who sail through life on a smooth line of patter and a wry smile.

I was jealous maybe.

Dulles carried me along to an imposing Englishman of about thirty-five. I'm not sure how I knew the man was a Brit exactly. The equine face perhaps. I read a quote somewhere about how to spot a British aristocrat. ‘He'll either look like his dog or look like his horse.'

Dulles introduced me to the Englishman. It was Harold ‘Kim' Philby, MI6's liaison to OSS in London in '42. I'd heard tales of young OSS staffers gathering in Philby's office after hours, sitting at his feet, inhaling g&t's and the great man's wisdom.

“Mr. Philby did brilliant work against the
Abwehr
early on, in concert with the Soviets,” said Dulles. “Top notch, schooled us well.”

Dulles gave Philby some softsoap about my important mission behind German lines but we didn't buy it, Philby and me. I was transmitting weather reports while Philby was running a Continental spy ring that broke Nazi codes and foiled sabotage that targeted Great Britain's all important lifeline. Shipping.

We chatted a while till Dulles and Philby inclined their heads. Time for the chiefs to powwow. I excused myself, grabbed a glass of bubbly from a passing tray and headed off to the kitchen to mingle with the help.

A man of middle years wearing Royal Navy ducks hovered above a tray of popovers fresh from the oven. He snagged a morsel between long fingernails and popped it into his mouth, steam leaking through his gappy teeth. “It's only hot if you think it is,” he said, chewing.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

The man washed it down with very tall Scotch and soda. “You don't recognize me,” he said in a proper British accent.

“No, I don't. Give me a hint.”

“
Ernstrasse.”

Oh yeah. He was one of the ‘handsome lads' who flocked to Col. Norwood's salon in Berlin in '46, though he looked like he'd aged ten years. He asked me if I'd heard from the Colonel.

“Not a word.”

“Pity. His wife and daughter are bereft.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

Col. John Norwood was Berlin Bureau Chief for MI6. He was also a double-dealing rat I foolishly allowed to flee to the South Seas. I turned to go but the young-old man stuck out his hand.

“Guy Burgess, Second Secretary, British Embassy,” he intoned, snootily. His breath was hundred proof.

We exchanged a handshake. His hand suited him. Hot and greasy.

“Hal Schroeder,” I replied, snootily. “The hero of Muhlendamm Bridge.”

I fought my way back into the fray, looking to make a quick exit. My hosts stood in a corner to my right, by a table that had been pushed against the wall. On the table were three silver chafing dishes wafting meaty aromas that made my nose twitch and my mouth water.

The Conklin's were chatting with Allen Dulles and a ruddy man with a mane of white hair who had Chief Justice or Treasury Secretary written all over him. I sidled up to the chafing dishes while I waited for a lull in their conversation.

The third dish looked promising. Swedish meatballs swimming in a dark tomato sauce. I tried to spear one with a toothpick but they were tough little buggers. I'm not a man who's easily discouraged when it comes to meatballs, however.

I was about to enjoy the fruits of my labor when I noticed that I had attracted the attention of the august group in the corner.

I hoisted my
meatball in salute and popped it in my mouth. It didn't taste right, but damned if I was going to spit it out in front of Allen Dulles and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. It took a good deal of chewing but I managed to get it down, then ankled over to say goodnight.

“Did you enjoy Danny's legendary concoction?” said Dulles from behind his spectacles.

“Delicious.”

“Most people prefer them fried,” said Mrs. Conklin, “but the Senator likes them stewed.”

“Them?”

“Sheep testicles,” smiled Senator Conklin.

I cringed, tasting the spongy texture on the back of my tongue, feeling the eyes of my betters upon me. They were awaiting a snappy comeback.

“I suppose it's customary to eat two.”

My poor quip drew hearty laughter. Which must have caught the attention of Guy Burgess because he stumbled up and flung his arm around my shoulder.

“Is this our debutante's coming out party? I feel so underdressed!”

Burgess wasn't wearing a jacket with his navy whites and his tunic looked like a crime scene.

“Not that Harold ever seemed to mind,” he leered.

I slipped my finger inside his belt and gave him a quick backward tug as I twisted out from under his arm.

Guy Burgess fell flat on his back and stayed there. We stood around and looked at him, his eyelids fluttering like moth wings. Mrs. Conklin wondered if we oughn't do something.

“Don't concern yourself,” I said, “he does this all the time.”

I thanked my hosts for their hospitality and, with the briefest possible nod to Allen Dulles, walked out the front door and down the steps. I waited at the northwest corner, across the street, behind a street lamp. Out of habit. Guy Burgess would
get the heave-ho soon enough. It wouldn't hurt to know where he went next.

Imagine my surprise when, a short time later, prim and proper Kim Philby helped the drunken Burgess down the steps, and walked east with him on P Street. I followed.

They walked a long while, not stopping to hail a cab on busy Wisconsin Ave. Drunk or sober the Brits love their constitutionals.

They turned south on a quiet residential street. I crossed to the far side and darted from one parked car to the next, startling a young couple who were steaming up the windows of a Studebaker.

I scurried down the sidewalk, wishing I was that lucky bastard in the back seat of the car, burying my face in perfumed mounds of…oh, can it, Schroeder. Your surveillance targets just disappeared!

I beat feet down the sidewalk, head low. I almost raced past them as I scanned the intersection ahead.

Philby and Burgess had climbed the stoop of a four flat across the street and were standing by the first floor unit on the right. The light-reflecting marker was easy to read.
4001 Nebraska Avenue
.

Guy Burgess was a happy drunk, honking with laughter at his botched attempts to fit his key in the lock.

Philby showed no reaction. Was this the elder statesman frog marching his misbehaving subordinate home? Or a homosexual tryst?

I was pretty sure Kim Philby was married, not that it mattered. Being married hadn't bothered Col. Norwood much.

I had my answer in short order, down on my knees behind a Dodge coupe, squinting across a waxed hood that splintered the light from the streetlamp. Philby elbowed Burgess aside and opened the door with his own key. They went inside and shut the door.

Kim Philby and Guy Burgess were roomies.

I'm a
Kraut, I'm supposed to be good at directions. But it took me almost an hour of wandering downtown Washington's circular maze to find my way back to the Mayflower. I washed up in the men's room and made a beeline for the Towne and Country Lounge. I was in luck, Winston was in residence.

“And what will you have this fine evening, Mistah Schroeder?”

“Oh, I think you know, Winston.”

He flashed his blazing grin and got busy with the cocktail shaker. I suppose it's a courtesy to recognize hotel guests by name but it made me twitchy. Why was I so all-fired important all of a sudden?

Winston served me a perfect Manhattan. My mood improved. I was about to order another when a young lady took the stool to my left. We made a show of ignoring one another.

She asked Winston for a glass of rosé. He grabbed a bottle from the cooler. She asked me a question.

“Did you have a good time at the Conklin's party?”

“Why? Were you there?”

She nodded. I hadn't seen her. I would have remembered a tall shapely girl with auburn hair and Betty Boop eyes.

“My name's Julia Hammond. I'm what they call a ‘stringer'.”

“What's that?”

“A freelance reporter. I sell items to papers and wire services.”

“That pay well?”

“Five bucks a pop.”

“You make five bucks at the Conklin party?”

She
shook her head. “Just another G-town shindy. You were the only one I didn't recognize.”

“And that's why you're here?”

She sipped her wine and didn't answer. I wasn't going to give her a five buck item but it was pleasant to have company. Washington D.C. is a lonesome town.

“I heard you introduced as the ‘hero of Muhlendamm Bridge.'”

“But my so-called heroics were more than two years ago. Why now?”

Miss Julia regarded me as if I had said something very stupid. “We're in the final weeks of a fierce campaign, the Red Menace is issue number one. And you're the blue ribbon hog at the County Fair that every pol wants to pat on the haunches while he gets his picture took.”

“I didn't get my picture took.”

“And how do you feel about having your haunches patted?”

I lowered my voice. “That depends?”

She lowered hers. “On what?”

“By who and how hard.”

She laughed. I asked a question. “Any particular reason Allen Dulles was at the party?”

Julia hesitated. She was not in the business of giving away free information. “Winston, Miss Hammond is on my tab. Bring her another glass of wine when you get a chance.”

“Yessuh.”

Winston took his sweet time. Ten seconds.

Julia plucked a Salem from her purse. Winston leaned over to light it with a gold Ronson. She appreciated the attentive service. I could tell by the contented little sound she made as she feathered her hand through her long hair. Did I mention it was auburn?

“That was a Dewey crowd,” she said. “Allen Dulles wants Senator Conklin to head the National Security Council in the Dewey Administration.”

“Why? Conklin's
an old man, just hanging on.”

“That's why.”

We kicked it around for a while. She was a farm girl from southern Virginia who lost her mother to cancer. She fled to the big bad city because her daddy and three younger brothers expected her to cook, clean, do the wash and milk the cows.

“I didn't fancy being Ma Kettle.”

I sat back and surveyed her, north to south. “Not the least resemblance.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Miss Julia kept her notepad in her purse. I liked her for that. Hell, I plain liked her. She was smart and good lookin', kicking her slender strapped ankle under the bar and smelling like a hay ride through heaven.

A burst of rowdy laughter broke the spell. I looked around.

“That's the men only bar.”

“Men only?”

Julia ticked her head to the left. “Over yonder. There's a sign above the mirror.”

“I'll be damned.”

“You don't have men only bars where you come from?”

“Sure, we have men only bars in Cleveland. But we don't need a sign.” I hesitated. Would she laugh at a crude joke? “Green cigars and beer farts work just fine.”

She would.

I asked Winston for a second Manhattan. We watched him work. Two jiggers of Jack, a half jigger of sweet vermouth, dash of bitters. Shaken in ice and served in a chilled martini glass with a maraschino cherry.

We made pleasant conversation as I made Winston's Manhattan go away. She didn't talk too much or laugh too loud. I was in a mellow mood when she asked me who I liked for President.

“Not Truman.”

“Why not?”

“Because
Truman disbanded the OSS in late '45, with ten days notice. He thought spying was un-American. And we've been at the back of the parade marching through horse flop ever since.”

“So we're losing the Cold War?”

I told myself to shut my yap. But I was drunk and smitten enough to tell the truth.

“If this were a prizefight the ref would've stopped it two rounds ago.”

-----

Room service woke me the next morning at an ungodly hour.

“I didn't order room service,” I croaked.

“Roomey service, Meester Schroeder, roomey service!” insisted the high-pitched voice.

I got up and padded to the door, expecting my Jack Daniel's hangover to catch up to me. But Winston, bless him, had let my ill-advised third Manhattan mellow in the ice of the cocktail shaker.

I threw open the door. “I did not…oh shit.”

Bill Harvey bulled his way past me carrying a white bag and a folded up newspaper. He handed me the bag. “Heller's Bakery, best doughnuts in town.”

I grabbed a warm cruller from the sack and took a bite. Delicious, but no coffee. Who eats doughnuts without coffee?

“I hope you're good with a dueling pistol, Schroeder, because you just spit a wad of tobacco juice in the eye of a Southern gentleman by the name of Frank Wisner.”

He handed me the newspaper, folded to page three.
Uncle Sam a Punch-drunk Pug, says Cold War Hero.