I was halfway out the door of my Mayflower Hotel room the morning after I returned from Frank Wisner’s farm, looking forward to a day of sightseeing, when the phone rang. The hotel operator wanted to know if I would take a call from Senator Daniel Conklin’s social secretary.
“Sure. I guess.”
Senator Conklin’s social secretary wanted to know if I was indeed Harold Schroeder.
“None other.”
“Please hold.”
I held. Another lady got on the blower. “Mr. Schroeder, this is Winifred Conklin. I’m sorry to be so last-minute but the Senator and I are hosting a cocktail reception this afternoon and we would be ever so pleased if you would accept our invitation to attend.”
Not one to turn down free food and drink, I accepted Mrs. Conklin’s invitation.
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Georgetown is hilly, with brick sidewalks and two and three story shoulder-to-shoulder, 19th-century homes painted in bright yellows and pale blues. A pleasant change from the limestone monoliths downtown.
Senator Conklin’s house on P Street didn’t rub shoulders with its neighbors, however. A three-story white colonial with a red door and black shutters, it stood alone on a double lot, with a narrow circular driveway and a tall flagpole in front proudly flying the stars and stripes.
I looked up at the big handsome house. There were powerful people inside who wanted to make my acquaintance. It would be interesting to find out why. I wasn’t nervous. If my debut on the Georgetown circuit was a flop I would take the bus back to the Mayflower Hotel, pay a lengthy visit to Winston at the Towne and Country Lounge and charge it to my room. I walked up the driveway.
Senator Conklin hailed from the Northern Plains. Why else have a snarling, eight-foot stuffed grizzly bear in your entry hall? Though the bear’s head and paws did serve as a handy hat rack for those tall enough to take advantage.
On the wall to my right hung a framed and matted photo of Teddy Roosevelt on horseback, leading mounted men into battle. It was signed by TR himself. Had Senator Conklin been a Rough Rider?
You’d never know it to look at him. The Senator was a bald, gaunt old gent with one foot in the grave and the other wrapped in gauze and stuffed into a quilted house slipper. He didn’t want to be seen hobbling around on a cane apparently so he used his wife’s shoulder as a crutch as he stumped forward to greet me. His hand was soft, and cold as ice.
“You must be Harold Schroeder.” I said that I was. “Meet Harold Schroeder, Winnie. The hero of Muhlendamm Bridge.”
The what?
Mrs. Conklin looked as if she had stepped out of a 1920s’ tintype in her violet dress ringed with matching fringe, her iron gray hair set in concentric curls. A marcel I think they call it. Age is a terrible thing. No doubt the Conklin’s cut a dashing figure twenty-five years ago.
“Senator, permit me,” I said, offering my arm. “We’ll pretend we’re war buddies from way back.”
The Senator accepted my offer with a dry laugh or cough, it was hard to tell. His wife thanked me with a look. And thus I made the circuit of a jam-packed cocktail reception on P Street with the senior senator from North Dakota on my arm.
Conklin was a tough old bird. His foot was bunged up pretty bad, judging by how hard he yanked on my arm every time we had to step up or step down. Something we had to do often in the sprawling house with all its added-on rooms. But he kept a game smile on his mug as he worked the crowd.
At each stop the Senator would introduce me as Harold Schroeder, the hero of Muhlendamm Bridge. And at each stop the cluster of guests would go Ohhhhh.
The bridge in question spans the river Spree in East Berlin. It’s the place where the Mooney boys and I – and Eva Litinov, God rest her soul – confronted a truckload of duped White Russian freedom fighters intent on attacking a Soviet armory. It was a clever NKVD ruse intended to justify a Soviet invasion of West Germany. A moment both proud and bitter for me. And largely ignored by the American press who, in 1946, still called Stalin ‘Uncle Joe.’
We wound our way back to the high-beamed parlor. At the center of the room was a compact, pipe-smoking gentleman I had never met. Allen Dulles, General Wild Bill Donovan’s second-in-command at the OSS. We stumped over to greet him.
Dulles wore gold-rim spectacles and a little feather duster mustache. He shook my hand and said he had heard so much about me. I blushed seven shades of crimson and dug my toe in the dirt. Then I asked him what he’d heard from our mutual friend General Donovan.
Dulles gave me a quick ‘not too much’ and changed the subject. I took this to mean that Allen Dulles, a Republican and a prime candidate for CIA Director if Dewey got elected, considered Wild Bill more rival than friend.
I didn’t much like Allen Dulles to start with and his answer didn’t improve my opinion. I didn’t like him because he was snug as a bug in Bern while I was hiding behind hedgerows in Nazi Germany. I didn’t like him because he was a Wall Street lawyer who, unlike Wild Bill, never tasted battle. Mostly I didn’t like him because he was one of those posh gents who sail through life on a smooth line of patter and a wry smile.
I was jealous maybe.
Dulles carried me along to an imposing Englishman of about thirty-five. I’m not sure how I knew the man was a Brit exactly. The equine face perhaps. I read a quote somewhere about how to spot a British aristocrat. ‘He’ll either look like his dog or look like his horse.’
Dulles introduced me to the Englishman. It was Harold ‘Kim’ Philby, MI6’s liaison to OSS in London in ’42. I’d heard tales of young OSS staffers gathering in Philby’s office after hours, sitting at his feet, inhaling g&t’s and the great man’s wisdom.
“Mr. Philby did brilliant work against the Abwehr early on, in concert with the Soviets,” said Dulles. “Top notch, schooled us well.”
Dulles gave Philby some softsoap about my important mission behind German lines but we didn’t buy it, Philby and me. I was transmitting weather reports while Philby was running a Continental spy ring that broke Nazi codes and foiled sabotage that targeted Great Britain’s all important lifeline. Shipping.
We chatted a while till Dulles and Philby inclined their heads. Time for the chiefs to powwow. I excused myself, grabbed a glass of bubbly from a passing tray and headed off to the kitchen to mingle with the help.
A man of middle years wearing Royal Navy ducks hovered above a tray of popovers fresh from the oven. He snagged a morsel between long fingernails and popped it into his mouth, steam leaking through his gappy teeth. “It’s only hot if you think it is,” he said, chewing.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The man washed it down with very tall Scotch and soda. “You don’t recognize me,” he said in a proper British accent.
“No, I don’t. Give me a hint.”
Oh yeah. He was one of the ‘handsome lads’ who flocked to Col. Norwood’s salon in Berlin in ’46, though he looked like he’d aged ten years. He asked me if I’d heard from the Colonel.
“Not a word.”
“Pity. His wife and daughter are bereft.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
Col. John Norwood was Berlin Bureau Chief for MI6. He was also a double-dealing rat I foolishly allowed to flee to the South Seas. I turned to go but the young-old man stuck out his hand.
“Guy Burgess, Second Secretary, British Embassy,” he intoned, snootily. His breath was hundred proof.
We exchanged a handshake. His hand suited him. Hot and greasy.
“Hal Schroeder,” I replied, snootily. “The hero of Muhlendamm Bridge.”
I fought my way back into the fray, looking to make a quick exit. My hosts stood in a corner to my right, by a table that had been pushed against the wall. On the table were three silver chafing dishes wafting meaty aromas that made my nose twitch and my mouth water.
The Conklin’s were chatting with Allen Dulles and a ruddy man with a mane of white hair who had Chief Justice or Treasury Secretary written all over him. I sidled up to the chafing dishes while I waited for a lull in their conversation.
The third dish looked promising. Swedish meatballs swimming in a dark tomato sauce. I tried to spear one with a toothpick but they were tough little buggers. I’m not a man who’s easily discouraged when it comes to meatballs, however.
I was about to enjoy the fruits of my labor when I noticed that I had attracted the attention of the august group in the corner.
I hoisted my meatball in salute and popped it in my mouth. It didn’t taste right, but damned if I was going to spit it out in front of Allen Dulles and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. It took a good deal of chewing but I managed to get it down, then ankled over to say goodnight.
“Did you enjoy Danny’s legendary concoction?” said Dulles from behind his spectacles.
“Delicious.”
“Most people prefer them fried,” said Mrs. Conklin, “but the Senator likes them stewed.”
“Them?”
“Sheep testicles,” smiled Senator Conklin.
I cringed, tasting the spongy texture on the back of my tongue, feeling the eyes of my betters upon me. They were awaiting a snappy comeback.
“I suppose it’s customary to eat two.”
My poor quip drew hearty laughter. Which must have caught the attention of Guy Burgess because he stumbled up and flung his arm around my shoulder.
“Is this our debutante’s coming out party? I feel so underdressed!”
Burgess wasn’t wearing a jacket with his navy whites and his tunic looked like a crime scene.
“Not that Harold ever seemed to mind,” he leered.
I slipped my finger inside his belt and gave him a quick backward tug as I twisted out from under his arm.
Guy Burgess fell flat on his back and stayed there. We stood around and looked at him, his eyelids fluttering like moth wings. Mrs. Conklin wondered if we oughn’t do something.
“Don’t concern yourself,” I said, “he does this all the time.”
I thanked my hosts for their hospitality and, with the briefest possible nod to Allen Dulles, walked out the front door and down the steps. I waited at the northwest corner, across the street, behind a street lamp. Out of habit. Guy Burgess would get the heave-ho soon enough. It wouldn’t hurt to know where he went next.
Imagine my surprise when, a short time later, prim and proper Kim Philby helped the drunken Burgess down the steps, and walked east with him on P Street. I followed.
They walked a long while, not stopping to hail a cab on busy Wisconsin Ave. Drunk or sober the Brits love their constitutionals.
They turned south on a quiet residential street. I crossed to the far side and darted from one parked car to the next, startling a young couple who were steaming up the windows of a Studebaker.
I scurried down the sidewalk, wishing I was that lucky bastard in the back seat of the car, burying my face in perfumed mounds of…oh, can it, Schroeder. Your surveillance targets just disappeared!
I beat feet down the sidewalk, head low. I almost raced past them as I scanned the intersection ahead.
Philby and Burgess had climbed the stoop of a four flat across the street and were standing by the first floor unit on the right. The light-reflecting marker was easy to read. 4001 Nebraska Avenue.
Guy Burgess was a happy drunk, honking with laughter at his botched attempts to fit his key in the lock.
Philby showed no reaction. Was this the elder statesman frog marching his misbehaving subordinate home? Or a homosexual tryst?
I was pretty sure Kim Philby was married, not that it mattered. Being married hadn’t bothered Col. Norwood much.
I had my answer in short order, down on my knees behind a Dodge coupe, squinting across a waxed hood that splintered the light from the streetlamp. Philby elbowed Burgess aside and opened the door with his own key. They went inside and shut the door.
Kim Philby and Guy Burgess were roomies.