Authors: Robert Conroy
One vast area was conspicuous by its lack of data and that was what remained of the Soviet Union.
Of course, FDR thought grimly, the Russians never had shared anything with their allies. He would try to get more information from their ambassador, Andrei Gromyko.
He wondered if Gromyko’s masters in Siberia let him in on any of their secrets.
Probably not, he realized.
The second area of concern was the eastern half of Canada.
Significant German units of division size were indicated in a number of places in Ontario, with an infantry brigade stationed at Halifax to protect the port.
Altogether, they represented more than a quarter of a million German soldiers.
Roosevelt lit his cigarette and smiled at his four guests – General George C. Marshal, Admiral Ernest King, OSS Director William Donavan and Clyde Tolson, the Associate Director of the FBI.
At other times they would be rivals.
Now, however, they would have to cooperate whether they wanted to or not.
The danger confronting the United States was just too imminent and the enemy too close.
However, it was annoying that the Director of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, didn't think a presidential summons was sufficient reason for him to show up in person.
Arrogant prick, thought Roosevelt.
He would tolerate the man because he didn't want rumors of his own transgressions leaking out to the public.
In particular, he didn't want his mistress, Lucy Mercer, hurt.
He would tolerate Hoover.
Perhaps someday he could verify the rumors about Hoover's personal sexual preferences and even things out by exposing the obnoxious bastard as a faggot.
Roosevelt forced a smile.
"We have a date, gentlemen.
On Sunday, April second, the Germans will launch a multi-pronged attack on the United States."
"How reliable is the information?" asked Tolson.
The others looked away.
Obviously, Tolson had not been informed about America's code-breaking abilities.
"Extremely," said Roosevelt.
"Now all we have to do is decide how to handle this prize.
As I see it, we have several options.
The first is obvious, we inform the Nazis that we know of their plans and that will leave them with several options of their own.
First, they can cancel the attacks altogether."
"Fat chance," snapped Donovan.
As an old friend of the president he was given latitude to be blunt.
"They might delay, but they will not cancel altogether."
"Agreed," said Marshall and King concurred.
Tolson sat impassively.
"Could they accelerate their timetable?" asked Tolson, earning looks of mild respect from the others with his prescient question.
Perhaps he was more than just Hoover's flunky.
Marshall answered.
"We're about two months away from the target date of what has to be an extremely complex operation.
A number of widely separated and disparate pieces must all come together and at the same time in an extremely complicated dance. They might be able to shave a few days off their schedule, but nothing more."
Again, there was agreement.
Marshall had first earned his reputation in World War I by organizing a massive shift of the American armies in the face of the Kaiser’s armies that others thought was impossible.
Logistics ruled the battlefield and Marshall was a master of logistics.
Roosevelt took a deep drag on his cigarette.
"Gentlemen, do we want war with Germany?"
King answered.
"Only a fool wants war, but if war is inevitable, and I think it is, it should be on our terms.
Since they could and might just change their plans, I suggest we prepare as fully as we possibly can."
Donovan looked somber.
"What about a pre-emptive strike, say a couple of days before the scheduled attack?"
FDR winced and shook his head.
"Lovely as it may sound, it would still brand us as the aggressor, which is something that would be very difficult to swallow.
I have hinted at such a possibility with the Speaker of the House, the very grumpy Sam Rayburn of Texas, and he says our political opposition would crucify us, as would many in our own party.
One war at a time is more than enough.
I might even be impeached.
No, the Germans must fire the first shot."
"Then we will prepare for war," said Marshall.
"My staff and I have made some command decisions and will quietly implement them."
"As will the navy," said King.
"For our part," Tolson said proudly, "the FBI has identified about a hundred German aliens who might be possible saboteurs or even assassins.
When the time comes we will take them in."
Donovan laughed harshly, startling them, "A hundred?
Is that all?
How many haven't you identified?
For Christ sake, my OSS has sent far more than that into Canada to gather info and cause trouble when the time comes.
You say you know about a hundred, but what about the ones you don't know about?
Are you watching the border crossings?"
Tolson bristled, "Of course.
I assure you we have the situation well in hand."
"I hope so," Donovan continued.
"If I was Canaris, I would send my people in at a number of places along the whole continental border and not just at Buffalo or Detroit, which is what we've done to get our people across.
Then I'd have them rent rooms a hundred miles away from their targets and wait for orders.
I'm quite certain the FBI wouldn't find them until they emerged from their lairs and struck."
Tolson had begun to sweat.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was the head of the Abwehr, Germany’s intelligence gathering apparatus, and was likely in charge of sabotage as well.
What Donovan was saying had the ring of truth.
How many could they have missed?
Hoover would not want to hear this.
Tolson forced a smile.
"I repeat, we have the situation under control."
FDR smiled benignly.
"I'm sure you do.
It would be a shame for such a marvelous organization as the FBI to have its reputation tarnished."
Roosevelt's mind was racing.
He had handed Hoover a weapon to use in the future by ordering the U.S. to prepare for war but to do nothing to halt it.
That people would die because of his inaction was a given.
The conspiracy theorists who already blamed him for the disastrous Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor would have a field day if they found out.
On the other hand, with his assertion that the agency had everything under control, Tolson had just doomed the FBI to failure.
The FBI could not possibly have everything under its control.
It had the makings of a nice quid pro quo.
Roosevelt smiled for an instant and then turned grim.
"Then let us all prepare for war on April second.
And let us all pray that the German attacks do not cause too many American casualties."
Chapter Seven
It occurred to Tinker that he was lately spending a lot of his time crawling on the ground and watching Germans.
It was better than being in jail and he was helping to hurt the Germans which he thought was a good idea.
During these snowy damp days, he had been observing a lot of civilian workers and contractors building what looked like a good-sized military facility located north of Toronto and between the towns of Barrie and Newmarket.
Barracks for several thousand soldiers had been constructed and the large compound was protected from intruders by several barb wire fences.
Watchtowers were beginning to go up.
Tinker was proud of the fact that he'd managed to get inside on a couple of occasions by hiring on as a day laborer.
That had given him the opportunity to look around and he'd discovered some things that were disturbing.
First, the barracks were very poorly made, with gaping holes in the walls and floors that would permit the winter wind to blow through without interruption.
The same held true for the roofs which, his co-workers laughed, would leak on a sunny day.
He'd never been in the army, but he felt sorry for the poor buggers who would have to live in such miserably constructed places.
When Tinker mentioned it, his foreman had shrugged.
"It's what the Germans want and it's what they're paying for.
They don't want to pay for quality, so we're not going to give it to them."
Another concern was the lack of sanitation.
The toilets were little more than the crudest latrines and it seemed like there were too few of them.
The same held with kitchen facilities.
It looked like the troops would be expected to either eat outdoors or take their mess kits back to their miserable barracks and eat there.
"Penny for your thoughts," said Sandman, the OSS agent who was with him.
Sandman wasn't his real name, of course, and he'd given his own name as Felon, which was close enough to the truth. They were on a knoll a couple of hundred yards away and covered with a tarp which was itself covered with foliage.
"I don't get it," Tinker had said the day before.
"Nothing makes any sense.
Why would they build more barracks when they have perfectly good ones, better ones, a few miles to the north?"
Sandman took a look through his own binoculars.
"You can't see the forest for the trees, can you?"
Tinker had bristled.
"And you can?"
Sandman was in his early twenties and looked like he should still be in college.
Tinker generally didn’t like know-it-all college boys, but Sandman was an exception.
He was willing to take personal risks and seemed willing to learn.
"Yes.
You're making the assumption that those buildings are barracks.
Maybe they're for something else."
Tinker had been about to say what, when it occurred to him. The thought was like a punch in the stomach.
The buildings weren't poorly constructed barracks, they were meant to be a large prison camp.
Jesus, he realized, not a small prison like the Gestapo camp outside Toronto, but a fucking concentration camp.
Later that night the first trucks arrived.
Dozens and then hundreds of confused and dazed men, women, and children were pushed off and left to fend for themselves.
The pattern continued during the day.
It began to snow heavily so the two men crawled closer to the wire.
The watchtowers weren't completed, but armed guards, Black Shirts, prowled the perimeter.
"Hey!
What the fuck are you guys doing?"
Fuck, Tinker thought.
They'd been so engrossed in what they were looking at that they forgot to check their rear.
Three Black Shirts were racing towards them.
One got close enough to grab Tinker before he could pull his revolver.
They tumbled to the ground and rolled over.
Tinker was small but he was tough and well-schooled in street fighting and the Black Shirt wasn't. Tinker grabbed the guy's balls and squeezed with all his might while the Black Shirt howled maniacally.
The Black Shirt let go and Tinker got up, pulling his pistol.
Two Black Shirts were fighting Sandman and several others were coming on fast.
"Run!" yelled Sandman.
Tinker didn't want to leave the American, but he knew he had to.
The man he'd hurt chose that moment to grab Tinker's leg.
Tinker put the pistol to his head and fired.
Blood and brains sprayed out and the others were stunned, but only momentarily.
One of them pulled out his gun and fired wildly.