up. I don’t have any excuse for this kind of cowardly behavior except to say that sometimes I get a little nervous when there’s a dumb, trigger-happy Okie pointing a loaded rifle at my head. I’d seen the metal hole at the end of the wooden part. It looked like the Washington Street traffic tunnel.
“ You try to turn it off,” I yelled. “This isn’t my radio and I don’t know how.”
The MP sergeant spat copiously onto the dirt floor, took a step forward, and fired, twice, at the radio, which ended the German broadcast, forever.
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” I said. “Shoot the radio. Let me find you a German newspaper and you can shoot that, too.”
“You’re under arrest, mister,” said the MP, and, grabbing hold of one of my wrists, he handcuffed me roughly.
“Do they train you boys to think when you’re standing up?” I asked.
The two MPs frog-marched me outside the radio hut toward a group of jeeps that were now parked in the middle of the airbase. In the distance, surrounded by more MPs and oblivious of what had just happened, the president was inspecting Colonel Roosevelt’s recon squadron. But as we neared the first group of jeeps, I saw Agents Rauff and Pawlikowski throw down their cigarettes and walk toward us.
“Tell these two clowns to uncuff me,” I told them.
“We caught this guy using a German radio,” said the MP who had fired the two shots.
“He makes it sound like I was telling Hitler the president’s telephone number.”
“Maybe you were at that,” sneered the sergeant.
“I was monitoring a German news broadcast. On a shortwave receiver. I was not transmitting a message. As an OSS officer that’s my job.”
“Show us,” Rauff told the MP, and, still handcuffed, I found myself marched roughly back into the radio hut.
“This is a German radio, all right,” said Rauff, examining the equipment. “Be easy to send a message to Berlin on this.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “Not since Davy Crockett here put a couple of bullets into it. Listen, Rauff, there’s a radio operator somewhere around here named Miller. And a lieutenant named Spitz. I expect they’re on the other side of the airfield getting a look at the president. They’ll tell you that the Germans left all this equipment behind when they pulled out. And as I was trying to explain to these two a minute ago, one of my jobs is to monitor German radio broadcasts. That is a proper function of intelligence, which is something I imagine still has relevance in the world of the Secret Service.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rauff. “Which is how I come to be thinking that it is a hell of coincidence that it should be you who suggested a German spy was sending radio messages from the Iowa. ”
“Hey, that’s right,” agreed Pawlikowski, lighting a Kool. “It was him, wasn’t it? Might be a good way of covering up the fact he’s the German spy. Like a double bluff.”
Liking his theory a lot, Rauff added, “And let’s not forget that fellow Schmidt. He shared a cabin on the Iowa with you, didn’t he? Could be he found out that you were a German spy and was about to tell us. Except that you killed him first.”
“Listen to me,” I said. “According to the German news broadcast I just heard, the Germans know all about this Cairo conference. And it sounds to me like they’ve got some pretty good ideas about the one after that. Now, if I were a Luftwaffe commander in North Italy with fifty Junkers 88 bombers at my disposal, I would already be planning to bomb Mena House in Cairo. Yes, that’s right. Mena House. The Germans even know that that’s where the conference is going to be held. Under the circumstances, it would seem that even an elementary level of prudence demands a change of location. So why don’t you tell that to Hopkins and we’ll see what he has to say about all this?”
Rauff searched me and found my automatic. “Well, well, the prof is concealing some iron here.”
“That’s standard issue for all OSS officers. Surely you must know that.”
“I’d say you’ve got some explaining to do, Prof,” said Rauff. “And I’m not talking about the meaning of life.”
“The meaning of life? Tsk, tsk, Agent Rauff. You’ve been reading a book again.”
XVII
It was Mike Reilly, the head of the White House Secret Service detail, who decided that I was telling the truth. But it took him a lot of frowning and several fingernails to arrive at the conclusion that if I really had been a German agent then I’d had ample opportunity to take a pop at Roosevelt while I was on the Iowa; or in the president’s study back in Washington. I was beginning to see why the U.S. Treasury wanted to keep the service a secret. It wouldn’t have done to let the Germans know that the president’s safety depended on cheeseheads like Rauff and Pawlikowski.
“I’m sorry about that, Prof,” Reilly told me when his two men had gone. “But they’re paid to be overzealous.”
“I understand. So am I.”
We were meeting on Saturday evening in the magnificent dining room at La Mersa. As soon as Rauff and Pawlikowski left for La Casa Blanca, Reilly had the Joint Chiefs join us, and I told them what I had heard on Radio Berlin.
“Is this confirmed?” asked Admiral Leahy, who was FDR’s personal representative on the Joint Chiefs.
“Yes, sir,” said Reilly. “I took the liberty of radioing the American legation in Cairo and was told that while they had no knowledge of what the Germans were broadcasting, the president’s imminent arrival in Cairo is an open secret. They would be very surprised if the Germans didn’t know about it.”
“So what are the British saying?” General Marshall asked. “This is supposed to be their sphere of influence.”
“They’re saying that eight squadrons of fighter aircraft have been concentrated in Cairo for the protection of the president and Mr. Churchill,” said Reilly. “And that there are more than a hundred antiaircraft guns on the ground, to say nothing of three infantry battalions.”
“And Churchill? What’s his opinion?” asked Admiral King.
“Mr. Churchill is still en route from Malta aboard the HMS Renown, ” Reilly said. “He’s not due in Alexandria until tomorrow.”
“And Eisenhower?”
“General Eisenhower is well aware that security in Cairo has not been the best, sir.”
“That’s a considerable understatement,” General Arnold said.
“If you remember, it was Ike who proposed the conference be moved to Malta.”
“No, Mike, Malta’s no good,” Arnold answered. “There are no decent hotels in Malta.”
This was the kind of diplomacy I could understand. Good hotels made for good foreign policy.
“There’s no decent food and not much water,” Leahy added.
My mind was made up. I didn’t want to go to Malta any more than Arnold.
“Maybe we’re making too much of this,” said Arnold. “Okay, the secret’s out. We were aware of that on the Iowa. All that’s changed is that we know for sure that the krauts are in on the secret. If they were planning a surprise bomber attack, then they’d hardly tell the world on Berlin Radio that they know all about the conference. I mean, that would just put us on our guard. No, they’d say nothing at all about it.”
“What do you think, Prof?” asked Reilly
“I think General Arnold makes a good point. But at the very least, we should be even more vigilant. Deploy a
