For the first time, Danforth appeared profoundly weathered, a landscape raked by wind and rain, part of him deeply furrowed, part of him smoothed and softened.
“It can make a man murderous,” he added. “It can make a man reach for a pistol on a warm tropical day.”
Then I saw it for the second time, the quiet capacity Danforth had for violence, how steady it would be, how carefully calculated and reasonably carried out, the way he would kill.
Some hint of this insight surely appeared in my gaze at that moment, because Danforth reacted to it in a way I’d not seen before. Retreat. It seemed to me he had gotten ahead of himself and knew it, and now he forced himself to step back and back and back, until we arrived in London.
~ * ~
The Savoy, London, 1939
“They once flooded the lobby, you know,” Clayton said in what struck Danforth as a strained effort at his old gaiety. “They filled it with water, and the patrons floated in little gondolas.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to imagine now,” he added. “Such . . . frivolity.”
Danforth found Clayton’s uncharacteristic solemnity worrisome. It was clearly a sign that certain things weren’t going well, though in what way they weren’t going well remained obscure. One thing was obvious, however. Clayton was no longer enjoying his role as lead conspirator; as he sat in suit and tie, dressed as perfectly as ever, he seemed like a portrait darkening at the edges.
“Thank you both for coming,” Clayton began somberly. “This is not something I could say in a cable or letter that might be opened by some curious official.” He appeared quite grave. “It has to do with a report I received not long ago. I want you to know about it in order to calm any doubts you might have.” He looked at Anna. “Or any suspicions.” He took a deep sip from his glass and then began.
“Bannion has a contact in Germany,” he said. “His code name is Rache, and he’s been very good at supplying us with highly reliable information. The latest is that some very wealthy Brits have been regularly making payments to informants in Poland because they expect that country to be invaded. Rache doesn’t know who these Brits are or how many of these informants are on their payroll. He knows only that once the invasion takes place, these informants are supposed to make reports to their backers.” He paused as if truly pained by what he was about to say. “But it’s all a twisted conspiracy, because, according to Rache, these same wealthy men have been turning over the names and addresses of their paid informants to the SS.”
Danforth was a novice in matters of international plots and counterplots, and if Clayton had asked him his opinion at that moment, he would have had to admit that he had not a clue as to the meaning or implication of what he’d just heard.
“Why would they do that?” Anna asked.
“Because these British backers are actually pro-German,” Clayton answered. “They are only pretending to be otherwise.”
Danforth looked at him quizzically.
“The real enemy of these men is the Soviets,” Clayton said. “For that reason, they want the eastern German invasion of Poland to be smooth and fast. The idea is that after the invasion, the Brits will hand over the names of these informants, who’ll be rounded up very quickly, then shot. This will happen immediately, and in a very public way, right in front of neighbors and coworkers. Scores will be killed, but hundreds will be witnesses to their executions. This, the Brits think, will send a shiver through the population and put a stop to any early resistance.”
It seemed a wildly far-fetched scheme, but all Danforth said was “Does this Rache have any proof?”
Clayton shook his head. “No, and Bannion suspects the whole thing is just the usual Communist paranoia.”
“Rache is a Communist?” Danforth asked.
Clayton nodded. “In the underground, yes. Still loyal to his cause, according to Bannion, which is why Bannion doesn’t take this plot seriously.” He looked at me. “But he insisted that I warn you and Anna anyway.” His smile was anything but cheery. “And so I have.”
“What do you think of this report, Robert?” Danforth asked.
“That it’s probably absurd,” Clayton answered. “Or at least exaggerated. Bannion doubts that it would even work. If the Germans carried out these executions, it’s possible that instead of squelching resistance, they would actually intensify it.”
“Then why tell us about it at all?” Anna asked, a question Danforth would consider many times over the coming years, sometimes convinced of its sincerity, other times equally convinced that she had always known the larger plot and her question was meant only to conceal that fact.
“Well, suppose you heard about it later,” Clayton answered. “Wouldn’t you wonder if a similar game was being played on you and Tom? Of course you would. So Bannion and I thought you should be informed.” He looked from Anna to Tom. “If either of you has any doubts about the Project, then now’s the time to pull out.”
Anna leaned forward slightly. “How much does Rache know about us?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Clayton assured her. “He’s focused entirely on Germany, on resistance to the Nazis in the homeland.” His smile was weak, but pointed. “And he may be quite paranoid at the moment. An underground Communist in Germany? Who wouldn’t be paranoid?”
There was an odd, suspended moment during which no one spoke, and it later seemed to Danforth that it was here that each of them had fully committed him- or herself to whatever lay ahead. It was as if they had been driving down a smooth road and had hit a bump; it might have diverted them, but it hadn’t. In a subtle but potentially corrosive way, the challenge had tested their confidence in each other but had not shaken it.
“So,” Clayton said after a moment, apparently reassured that the Project was not in danger, “tell me about Gurs.”
