talking
about? You said that the Germans were attempting to ship their entire supply
back to the Fatherland."
Dulles thanked Ruckelman for his contribution before
responding. "Allied bombing and commando raids destroyed most of it. All
that remained was in that one crate." There being no follow up, he went
on. "Julian, I want you and Kent to put your heads together and start on
an operational plan. Bill, my aide, will give you access to all the info we
currently have. Let me know what you need that's not there and I'll see what I
can find out. At some point you'll also have to meet with Schroeder. I'll set
it up when you're ready. We'll meet again in one week; we've got to move this
along. If you have anything else on your desk, put it aside or, if it can't
wait, give it to Bill and he'll reassign it."
"Who's the agent in the field on this one?" asked
Julian.
"Don't have one yet. It's not exactly easy to get
volunteers for this. Any suggestions you have would be appreciated, but I'll
take the responsibility for this part of the operation. That's it for now. Next
week at nine."
A feeling of melancholy washed over him. It was an emotion
that was coming to be an old friend, a despondent visitor that came uninvited
and slipped into quiet moments. He knew that he had to send young men into
dangerous situations, that many of them would die or be tortured before
succumbing, that they did this willingly out of loyalty, patriotism or a belief
in the freedom they thought was threatened, and that few of these brave young
men would ever fully know what their sacrifice meant to the allied cause. This
op, though, was different. Always, in the past, Dulles had hoped that the agent
would both succeed in his mission and return safely. This time he could hope
only for success. And what of the agent? No matter how dangerous or difficult
their assignment was thought to be, they always expected they would make it.
Whether this was because of the immortality with which all youth believed they
were imbued or merely a defense mechanism of the mind to allow it to function
under the most severe stress, Allen Dulles did not know; nor did he expect that
he ever would, for how could he ask someone why they expected to live when the
odds were so against them. Nonetheless, it bothered him and he knew it would
continue to do so.
Kent stayed behind a moment to talk to Ruckelman before
leaving. Julian was talking to the receptionist just inside the entrance as
Kent walked down the stairs, his hand tapping the banister absent-mindedly
during the descent. The sides of the banister, as well as the evenly spaced
supports, bore intricate carvings, the edges of which were worn smooth by
decades of waxing and polishing. Figures of men sporting the traditional
Bredzon, the delicate decorations on the puffed sleeves visible through the
artistry of a long dead carver, young women in pigtails wearing their Mandzon,
grazing sheep and dogs prancing on their hind legs, all danced their way down
the stairs accompanying Kent. Julian interrupted his conversation with the
attractive fair skinned, red headed woman who sat behind the desk. Her name was
Victoria, and anyone who chose to call her "Vickie" soon found out,
in no uncertain terms, that a proper English woman was not to be addressed by
any type of slang American appellation. He turned to Mallory and called,
"Hey, Kent, hold up a minute. I'll walk out with you."
"All right. I'm just going to check my mail; be right
back."
From where Julian stood, which happened to be leaning over
the desk with a clear view of the top of Victoria's breasts extending well
above her bra, certainly a size too small, he wasn't sure just how proper she
really was, notwithstanding her disdain for any sobriquet. She came from
Swindon, an old railroad town two hours west of London and a bit east of
Bristol. Julian had stayed there for about eight weeks in 1940, as an informal
and discrete liaison between the U.S. State Department and
about? You said that the Germans were attempting to ship their entire supply
back to the Fatherland."
Dulles thanked Ruckelman for his contribution before
responding. "Allied bombing and commando raids destroyed most of it. All
that remained was in that one crate." There being no follow up, he went
on. "Julian, I want you and Kent to put your heads together and start on
an operational plan. Bill, my aide, will give you access to all the info we
currently have. Let me know what you need that's not there and I'll see what I
can find out. At some point you'll also have to meet with Schroeder. I'll set
it up when you're ready. We'll meet again in one week; we've got to move this
along. If you have anything else on your desk, put it aside or, if it can't
wait, give it to Bill and he'll reassign it."
"Who's the agent in the field on this one?" asked
Julian.
"Don't have one yet. It's not exactly easy to get
volunteers for this. Any suggestions you have would be appreciated, but I'll
take the responsibility for this part of the operation. That's it for now. Next
week at nine."
A feeling of melancholy washed over him. It was an emotion
that was coming to be an old friend, a despondent visitor that came uninvited
and slipped into quiet moments. He knew that he had to send young men into
dangerous situations, that many of them would die or be tortured before
succumbing, that they did this willingly out of loyalty, patriotism or a belief
in the freedom they thought was threatened, and that few of these brave young
men would ever fully know what their sacrifice meant to the allied cause. This
op, though, was different. Always, in the past, Dulles had hoped that the agent
would both succeed in his mission and return safely. This time he could hope
only for success. And what of the agent? No matter how dangerous or difficult
their assignment was thought to be, they always expected they would make it.
Whether this was because of the immortality with which all youth believed they
were imbued or merely a defense mechanism of the mind to allow it to function
under the most severe stress, Allen Dulles did not know; nor did he expect that
he ever would, for how could he ask someone why they expected to live when the
odds were so against them. Nonetheless, it bothered him and he knew it would
continue to do so.
Kent stayed behind a moment to talk to Ruckelman before
leaving. Julian was talking to the receptionist just inside the entrance as
Kent walked down the stairs, his hand tapping the banister absent-mindedly
during the descent. The sides of the banister, as well as the evenly spaced
supports, bore intricate carvings, the edges of which were worn smooth by
decades of waxing and polishing. Figures of men sporting the traditional
Bredzon, the delicate decorations on the puffed sleeves visible through the
artistry of a long dead carver, young women in pigtails wearing their Mandzon,
grazing sheep and dogs prancing on their hind legs, all danced their way down
the stairs accompanying Kent. Julian interrupted his conversation with the
attractive fair skinned, red headed woman who sat behind the desk. Her name was
Victoria, and anyone who chose to call her "Vickie" soon found out,
in no uncertain terms, that a proper English woman was not to be addressed by
any type of slang American appellation. He turned to Mallory and called,
"Hey, Kent, hold up a minute. I'll walk out with you."
"All right. I'm just going to check my mail; be right
back."
From where Julian stood, which happened to be leaning over
the desk with a clear view of the top of Victoria's breasts extending well
above her bra, certainly a size too small, he wasn't sure just how proper she
really was, notwithstanding her disdain for any sobriquet. She came from
Swindon, an old railroad town two hours west of London and a bit east of
Bristol. Julian had stayed there for about eight weeks in 1940, as an informal
and discrete liaison between the U.S. State Department and
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