possible, his antenna facing Europe. He waited. He could feel sweat begin to form on his hands and on his back. Then his receiver crackled and his scalp crawled with nearly adolescent excitement.
He could hear Hamburg! Not as boldly he might like, but he could hear his Gestapo counterpart! Hitler's Reich itself!
The message was in uncoded German. Siegfried wrote it down in pencil on a note pad as he measured off the dots and dashes.
REGRET PORTUGUESE CONTACTS SEVERELY COMPROMISED. SEND ONLY ONE TIME PER WEEK. FURNISH DAY YOU EXPECT TO SEND. WE ARE PREPARED 700, 1300, AND 1800 HOURS ALL DAYS. FURNISH SECOND FREQUENCY OUTSIDE AMATEUR BAND. REGARDS. AOR-3
To which, Siegfried immediately replied:
YOUR SIGNAL VERY WEAK. IMPROVE IT. I WILL SEND WEDNESDAYS AND SUNDAYS 2300 HOURS. WILL LISTEN SATURDAYS, SAME TIME. SUGGEST CODE ON ALL FUTURE TRANSMISSIONS. AWAITING. CQDXVW- 2
Siegfried leaned back from his work and removed his hand from his telegraph key. He massaged the cramping muscles of his neck. He stared intently at his receiver, listening to the thin haze of static that encroached on the AOR-3 frequency.
Several long minutes drifted by. He wondered if he should retransmit. What was wrong with those bastards on the other end? Did not they understand? Were they not pulling in his signal? Why didn't --?
In the midst of his curses the frequency came alive again with a simple command: CODE UNNECESSARY TONIGHT. USE NAVAL CODE IN FUTURE. MESSAGE TONIGHT? AOR-3
Much more like it, thought Siegfried. With satisfaction, he began his transmission. LYCOMING AIRCRAFT IN LONG ISLAND HAVE ENGINE DESIGNED TO FIT INTO WINGS OF FIGHTER AIRCRAFT LIKE A SANDWICH. HAVE STOLEN A BLUEPRINT. CONDENSED SAID BLUEPRINT AND HAVE SENT IT VIA SS PANAMA BOUND IN COVER BINDING OF HOLY BIBLE. ALSO: HMS WOLFE WAS TAKING MUNITIONS AND BOMBSITE CARGO FROM BROOKLYN TO CHERBOURG APRIL FOUR LAST. BOARDED SHIP BEFORE DEPARTURE. PLANTED HEAVY FLOWERS FROM BERLIN. MOST LIKELY SUNK WOLFE. CQDXVW-2
Barely taking his eyes off his receiver or his telegraph key, Siegfried used his sleeve to mop the sweat rolling down his temples. Curse this small, cramped room, he thought. These bloody secretive working conditions! The almost nonexistent light! Being a spy meant working in spaces with the size and charm of an oak casket. Siegfried shuddered.
He waited. Come on, you morons! he thought. Don't you know it's a matter of time before the Roosevelt administration sets up listening and tracking stations? Come on! Respond!
Then in another five seconds his receiver was again alive with dots and dashes.
Siegfried could 'read' the Morse code as it came off his receiver. But he transcribed it onto paper, anyway.
BRAVO, SIEGFRIED! AOR-3
'Of course, 'Bravo, Siegfried,' you idiots!' he said aloud to himself. 'You're safely in Hamburg, I'm here in America, and who do you think is going to win your war for you?'
REQUEST NEW ASSIGNMENT. CQDXVW-2 Siegfried tapped out.
He waited for a moment. This time Hamburg was ready.
BROWNING MUNITIONS CORPORATION OF CHICAGO DEVELOPING LINE OF ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS FOR EXPORT TO U.K. MUST KNOW: WEIGHT OF GUN IN FIRING POSITION-4-LEGGED CROSSMOUNTING-CALIBER, WEIGHT OF SHELL, WEIGHT OF CARTRIDGE, MUZZLE VELOCITY, HIGHEST ELEVATION, RANGE VERTICALLY AND HORIZONTALLY, FIRING SPEED, ESTIMATED DELIVERY DATE -
Siegfried angrily broke into the German signal.
STUDY YOUR MAPS! HAVE NO ACCESS TO BROWNING FACTORY. AM NOWHERE NEAR CHICAGO. SEND ASSIGNMENT IN EASTERN U.S.A. OR FIND ANOTHER AGENT, YOU HALF-WITS. CQDXVW-2
Siegfried glared at his equipment. He reached to a pack of Pall Malls and pulled one out with his lips. He waited for a response. The wait was painful. He smoked two cigarettes. His anger grew. Then he heard a signal, grabbed his pencil, and transcribed: BRITISH VESSEL HMS ADRIANA SAILED TO U.S.A. UNDER STRICTEST SECURITY. DOCKED AT U.S. NAVY YARD AT RED BANK, NEW JERSEY. DISCOVER: MISSION, CARGO, DESTINATION. AOR-3
Siegfried smiled. At last they began to understand. He tapped back: PERFECT. END. CQDXVW-2
As his forefinger came to a rest, the spy leaned back in his wooden chair. He blew out a long breath and felt his pulse subside. He glanced at his watch. Seven and a quarter minutes of transmission time. He shook his head. Did Hamburg think he was playing games?
Certainly the Americans wouldn't think so if they traced him. He cursed profanely as he took down his antenna. Piece by piece he sealed his station into the walls of his transmission chamber. He replaced the wallboards, panel by panel, using his left thumb to push nails into their proper grooves. Siegfried admired the way his nails slipped perfectly in and out of the holes he had bored for them.
If only people behaved as diligently, he thought. He looked again at the notations he had made from the messages he had received. Then he crumpled them into an ashtray and set fire to them. He stirred the ashes when the paper was completely consumed. Next, he poured the ashes into a wastebasket that he would empty later that evening.
He tucked his Pall Malls into the breast pocket of his shirt and was finished. His location was so ingenious, Siegfried was convinced, that in a century of searching, only he could find his station. As long as his signal escaped detection and tracking, he would never be caught.
Moments later, the spy was out in the open air, enjoying the peaceful evening. He was quite content with himself, having completed his last assignment with unparalleled brilliance. Now he looked forward to his next mission. The Adriana, whatever that was.
He passed someone he knew on a quiet country lane and exchanged a greeting in perfect English. And the spy who would win the war for Adolf Hitler used his most insidious weapon, his anonymity, to disappear quietly into the vast population of middle-class America. For Siegfried on July 15, 1939, everything was that easy.
PART TWO
1935-39
THREE
Laura Worthington’s earliest memories were of her own room in her father's mansion overlooking Kensington Gardens. She must have been about four years old back then, she one day realized, because her father was home from the war and that was in 1918.
On the brown uniform of the British Expeditionary Force he had worn an assortment of ribbons and medallions. They were pretty to a little girl. He had hoisted her in his arms, and after she had joined her mother in embracing Papa, her fingers had wandered to the bright colors and the gleaming brass and silver. She was fascinated by them.
'Want them?' Major Nigel Worthington asked his daughter.
The little girl nodded excitedly.
He took them off his uniform, to the dismay of his wife, and removed the pointed ends of the pins. Then he placed them in a small ivory box that he had brought back from France for her. He set them on the floor and sat by
