In Enemy Hands

Ken and Erin stepped through an arched doorway. At a corner table sat a man in his late forties or early fifties. He was dressed in black denims, a pull-over sweater, and a brown leather jacket. A pair of goggles lay on the table. Was this Allen Dulles, chief operative of the OSS on the European continent? He rose as Erin entered.

“Ah, Fraulein Finster, I presume,” he said quietly.

“Ilsa Finster, Allen Dulles.” Ken’s tone was equally quiet as his eyes surveyed the room.

“It’s okay,” Dulles said. “That door leads to an alley and it’s locked.”

Ken held a chair for Erin, helped her shrug out of her coat, then said to Dulles, “I’ll wait out front to ensure no one’s overly interested in what’s going on back here.”

“Tell the waiter we’d like a bottle of Riesling please,” Dulles ordered as he pulled a small black leather folder from inside his jacket. The waiter arrived to deliver and pour the wine.

When he had gone, Dulles said, “General Donovan outlined the Hermes mission, I think.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Your own primary mission is extremely important. Critical.”

“More than others?” she asked, surprised.

Dulles smiled. “OSS sometimes operates in hyperbole. But, yes. We believe some highly placed German officers might be willing to negotiate a settlement to the war.”

“Negotiate? News reports from Washington and London insist on ‘unconditional surrender.’ No negotiating. Isn’t that so?”

“It is. Roosevelt and Churchill tend to talk in hyperbole, too. However, both are practical men--and politicians to the core. They’ll negotiate--to save lives.”

Erin nodded. “But what about the third member of the triumvirate? Stalin is not likely to agree.”

“At the moment, he’s too dependent on our aid not to agree--reluctantly or not.”

“And this will affect me how?”

“If the information is true--and I concede we don’t know for certain it is--the officers involved are very high in the Wehrmacht. According to our intelligence, they are fed up with the Nazis and the way Hitler is conducting this war. However, they are extremely cautious.”

“Understandable.”

“Yes. We have just learned--from a reliable source--that they sent a courier to Paris apparently to work with foreign contacts and serve as a go-between for these officers.”

“Obviously German. Military? Or civilian? I’m to contact him, is that it?”

“Possibly. He is German and he is military. We know that much. And we should like to contact him. But we don’t know--my source doesn’t know--who the devil he is.”

“Oh. Then finding him should be easy--akin to finding a needle in a haystack,” Erin said with false brightness.

Dulles nodded and drank from his glass. “Something like that, though we can reduce the size of the haystack a little. This man was transferred to Paris fairly recently--and given the nature of his . . . uh . . . secondary assignment, he is probably a captain or above.”

“‘Fairly recently’ means what?”

“Within the last few months.”

“I don’t suppose we have a list of such transfers?” she asked, her tone facetious.

He smiled and shook his head. “We’re working on it.”

“Oh.”

“We think he may speak Spanish or Portuguese and he may be associated with the office of the military governor of Paris. But we’re not sure.”

“If I should find him?”

“Notify London with the message ‘Jabberwock lives.’”

“Jabberwock lives. And then?”

“Await instructions. But do not--I repeat--do not discuss this assignment, this man’s existence with anyone. No one. We must protect his identity at all costs. He could be our link to an early end to the war.”

She was impressed with the gravity of the assignment, but she was somewhat disappointed. All those lessons in explosives and hand-to-hand combat. . . . She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands on the table, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Well, I guess that’s why they issued us cyanide tablets.”

Dulles shrugged and handed Erin several items. “The documents you will need to get into Nazi-occupied France. A Swiss passport, identification cards, visa, ration book, and so on. Please examine them carefully for any errors or inconsistencies.”

“Now?”

“Yes. If we must have any of them redone . . .” His voice trailed off.

She studied them one by one, afraid she might overlook something. They were forgeries, but extremely well done. They even looked well used. She sipped sparingly of the wine. “They seem to be in excellent order.”

“They have to be. French officials will make a great show of scrutinizing your papers,” Dulles warned. “They must keep up a pretence of sovereignty. But the real danger comes from the Krauts. They are very meticulous about who and what comes and goes in ‘their’ territory.”

She studied the documents closely, but found nothing amiss. Still, she was quiet.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“N-no.” How should she broach what was on her mind?

“Seems to be something,” he pressed.

“Hm. Well. It’s just--I thought I would have a more active role to play in France. You know--sabotage--that sort of thing.”

“Bombing bridges and tearing up train tracks?”

She felt blood rushing to her face as she admitted, “Well, yes.” From him, those ideas sounded naïve now.

“You’ve read too many novels or seen too many movies,” he said, then took the sting out of these words by chuckling. “I told Donovan that library at the Farm was too heavy on shoot ‘em up, blow ‘em up stuff.” His tone sobered. “This war may very well be won with bombs and brawn and bullets, but it will be shortened only with the use of brains and intelligence.”

She was chagrinned. “Yes, Sir.”

“You were specifically chosen for this job because Donovan thinks you have both. Also, you speak both German and French--and you’ve a background in journalism.”

“Yes, sir.”