“Aunt Peggy’s” reply was two pages long and took over one hour to decrypt it had a dramatic sounding conclusion,
“Leave current residence immediately. Castillo and Vickers identities compromised. Destroy code books and documents. All further communications by special procedures only.”
The key words, “special procedures” indicated that a serious security crisis existed and only the most stringent precautions were to be used. Fred wasted no time in following instructions and all code books and one-time pads were burned and flushed down the toilet. In a few minutes he had swept the apartment clean, packed two suitcases and left through the garage entrance of the Croydon Hotel. He left his keys in the room with a note that he was going on a business trip and to please hold his mail. He hailed a cab on Fifth Avenue to the Vanderbilt entrance at Grand Central Station. On the way he told the driver that he was in a hurry to catch the next train to Chicago, the Twentieth Century. He checked his luggage at the baggage claim and looked at the train schedules, browsing through the magazines at the newsstand. He had lunch in the Commodore Hotel cafeteria and spent another half-hour making sure no one was following him. Then he retrieved his bags and took the subway to Lafayette Street and Canal finally reaching the sixth floor loft on Great Jones Street rented to one ‘Vincent Chapman.’
Fred knew that all this meant he was cut off from direct contact with the “Castle.” His orders would take a slow circuitous route making his mission much more difficult and for the first time he felt gripped by an intense anxiety. He thought that war with America still had to be many months away and was hoping therefore that his cover would hold until then. He further reasoned that if Germany went to war Italy didn’t necessarily have to follow. But another voice told him that as with Russia Mussolini would jump into any war between Germany and the United States.
Later that afternoon he was ostensibly placing a call from a public phone booth at Second Avenue and 12th Street. To the left of the receiver he saw a white thumbtack stuck in the wooden frame. He quickly took three buses and two subways to reach the west side of Central Park making sure each time that he was not being followed. A dead drop was hidden behind some cobble stones under an archway near the park entrance at West 89th Street. A newspaper page folded four ways was stuck between two loose bricks and he quickly extracted the envelope that was carefully pasted inside. Four pages of instructions ordered him to proceed immediately with the second part of “Operation Neptune.”
It took him some twenty minutes to alert the two others and around six that night he took the bus across the 59th Street bridge to Long Island City where Barone and Rossi were already waiting. The equipment had been checked and tested regularly for the last two weeks. Rossi was excited about going on a mission with Fred and knew that they were pressed for time since the convoy was scheduled to leave as early as nine the next morning if not sooner.
“How many mines are we carrying?” asked Rossi.
“Twenty, ten targets would be the most we can cover.”
Barone armed the detonators on the twenty mines and checked the timers. Fred jokingly said:
“Barone, make sure the timers are clearly marked …no surprises please!” for the first and only time they all laughed at the black humor.
Barone secured the mines with heavy canvas straps in the compartments under the ribbed surface of the SLC. Fred noticed that Barone’s hands were trembling, but he attributed it to nervousness or fatigue and consciously forgot the detail. He couldn’t stop the operation for someone’s sudden loss of ‘guts.’ Barone’s nervousness would have to wait until after the operation. There was no moon and the sky was consistently black as ink with a very low hanging dark grey cloud cover and a steady cold rain: perfect attack weather. They would begin very early, at precisely 2000 hours.
The plan was to navigate underwater in a straight line down to the Battery, surface under the pontoons of the Staten Island Ferry then dive again across the harbor emerging midway to Liberty Island where some twelve ships were already at anchor neatly lined up to form the convoy. The whole operation would be wrapped up by 0300 hours at the latest. Barone carefully eased the SLC-III-A into the water once more as Fred slowly surveyed the area with his binoculars. There were no lights showing anywhere in neither the immediate vicinity nor any cars traveling just then on the bridge. The streets lined with warehouses were dark and deserted. On the Manhattan side just across the water the buildings displayed only occasional yellowish lights and the rain, now whipped laterally by a cold wind, made it a particularly dreary night.
The diesels bubbled for a few seconds and then went silent as the divers, in their thick thermal wetsuits and gloves, fastened their breathing gear and settled into the cockpit. With textbook accuracy they navigated down the East River to the Battery at goggle level, buffeted by the strongest swells Fred had experienced until then. They were ready for an emergency dive to five or ten meters underwater and had rehearsed the signals during training hundreds of times. Even in that kind of weather navigating on the surface took exactly seventy two minutes with no surprises.
As they edged closer to the Manhattan tip on the East River at the Battery, Rossi suddenly tapped Fred on the shoulder to make sure he’d seen a Coast Guard cutter with a powerful search beam probing just behind the right side of the pier. Fred signaled an emergency dive and Rossi acknowledged. The boat plunged straight down responding perfectly to the instruments and sinking quickly and silently. Fred was delighted with the way it handled in this first real operational emergency. The Coast Guard patrol boat was cruising directly above them just thirty seconds later and they could see the thick yellow beams piercing the cloudy waters. Fred cut the engines and used the stabilizers as the sub came to a complete standstill.
He turned and signaled Rossi who acknowledged. A few seconds later as Fred turned again to signal that he was ready for emersion he suddenly saw that Rossi was slumped in his seat his arms floating helplessly at his sides. He touched him but there was no response as his head kept bobbing ominously left to right in the heavy current. Fred understood that he must surface immediately and attempt to save his team mate who could have suffered a seizure or a heart attack as they had been instructed in training.
Fortunately the beams of light quickly disappeared and he was able to bring the sub slowly back to the surface keeping it hidden among the pillars of the dock. He stabilized the craft and slipped out of the cockpit toward Rossi who now looked completely lifeless. He took his mask off and noticed that he was barely breathing. He untied Rossi’s gear and placed him flat on his back on top of the boat as he pressed hard against his chest. Rossi immediately vomited what looked like a mixture of blood and water and gasped for air for a few seconds, as he opened his eyes looking desperately at Fred. But within a few seconds he had once again lost consciousness and his heart stopped. Fred touched his pulse and neck. Rossi was no longer breathing and Fred concluded that he had suffered a second massive and fatal heart attack. He punched the steel cage of the craft in rage and helplessness: there was nothing he could do to save his teammate. Rossi was dead, probably poisoned by the crystals used to enhance the oxygen and prevent the bubbles from showing on the surface of the water. At Bocca they had been warned about that highly unpredictable mix that could cause serious hazards. Fred concluded that Rossi had been poisoned by the crystals that had triggered a massive heart attack; it was one of the remote dangers inherent to the breathing system in the event of a crash dive.
Fred had to decide whether or not to abort the mission or carry on under the circumstances but at tremendous risk. First he had to strap Rossi’s inert body tightly face down on the deck of the boat. That operation took some twenty minutes and he used most of the available canvas straps to hold him down. Once he felt it was secure enough to withstand navigation, Fred decided against the odds to keep to the mission as planned. To hell with caution he said to himself, this is war, and anyone could die at any time without warning. He felt a special anger to carry on even more relentlessly now that Rossi was dead.
He fired up the diesel engines and went into a deep dive almost scraping the bottom as he sailed directly toward the assembled fleet of merchant ships lined up at anchor half a mile ahead, ready to cross the Atlantic in a tight convoy. The coast guard patrol was close by once again and beams of yellow light were sweeping the surface periodically as he kept on a steady course. The competitive athlete in Fred Spada was now in charge, he felt challenged to a race against impossible odds, his team mate was dead in combat and the target was right in front of him within reach, just minutes away. He was determined not to allow the opportunity slip him by.
It was simply too fantastic an event to walk away from and if he survived, few people would believe that he had actually carried it through! That idea alone fired up his adrenaline: to have carried out a feat of arms in such impossible circumstances … he’d be the equal to the warriors of antiquity! None of his comrades in arms were even remotely close to such a moment in the middle of New York harbor, thousands of miles away from home base, in enemy territory and now completely alone! In minutes he came up against the anti-submarine net that had been lowered tightly around the anchored vessels.
Once again the lights roaming the sea above predictably disappeared. The sailors on the patrol boats were creatures of habit, and wouldn’t dream of altering their established course unless something very unusual forced them to do so. Furthermore the neutral United States was just beginning to strengthen its port defenses were still not even remotely comparable to what he’d seen at Malta, Alexandria, Port Said or Gibraltar. Rossi was dead, that was a sad fact, and the future of the entire operation would be seriously affected by that accident. The SLC would probably have to be scuttled and there was a simple contingency plan for that possibility. But now the sword was about to be drawn underwater in New York Bay.
Fred took the sub as low as possible to avoid the mines and duck under the thick protective net, then, very slowly he returned to the surface and carefully surveyed the situation. There were some twenty prize targets, but he was in too much of a hurry to pick and choose so he opted for the closest ships. He placed two mines at a time with a 36 hour timer on each one. Because of continuous interruptions by patrol boats he had to wait between moves and remain entirely submerged from one ship to the next. Because of Rossi’s death and the delay it had caused every second was now extremely precious. In the end he managed to mine five large cargo ships and head back up the East River underwater almost two hours behind schedule just as the first hints of a grey dawn were piercing the darkness.
The coast guard was diligently pursuing its routine patrols around Manhattan circling to Liberty Island and back up the East River north of the 59th Street Bridge then turning into the Long Island Sound. Fred steered the sub close to the water’s edge until he recognized the hulking shadow of Barone waiting in front of the warehouse. As soon as he saw Fred emerging from the darkness he briskly grabbed the hooks, ready to pull the sub up from the river on the trolley. Slowly the black hull emerged and Barone paused when he saw Rossi’s lifeless body grotesquely strapped to the deck. Fred quickly pushed the craft up the ramp just as the dawn light was making it dangerous to linger and the warehouse doors were slammed shut.
Wet and shivering, Fred peeled off his diving suit and dried himself quickly in silence then slipped into his workman’s clothes. Barone was shaking uncontrollably, emotional and panicky as he unraveled the straps holding Rossi to the boat. Tears were running down his cheeks as he unzipped his teammate’s wet suit and observed the bluish features on his dead comrade’s face.
Fred patted the naval engineer on the shoulder.
“Bad luck for Rossi…just bad luck…for us too!”
Fred was surprised by Barone’s negative reaction a she searched for a rational explanation.
“Heart attack, malfunction of the breathing gear. I tried to do something but he was gone in seconds. Two massive heart attacks one after the other, I’m sure of it.”
“Well we can’t leave him here like this.”
“First we must dress him up again. Then we will have to dispose of the body. That won’t be too difficult once we get him out of here. Where’s your car?”
“Two blocks away.”
Fred took a long swig of bourbon and grabbed Rossi’s clothes. Barone kept on looking at the now completely naked body and could see the huge darkening spot on the right side under the rib cage. Fred caught the horrified look on Barone’s face,
“Come on lieutenant, the dark spot only means that his liver exploded. When you die all your organs give way in one big shipwreck. Help me with this…”
They struggled with the pants, shirt, socks and shoes. Fred was adamant about the body looking absolutely “natural” and he made sure there was nothing in his pockets and that all labels had been carefully removed from every item of Rossi’s clothing. Then they wrapped him up tightly in a burlap bag weighing it down with several heavy bricks.
Barone brought the 1938 Ford sedan around the front and backed it into the garage. It was now six in the morning, way past the dangerous time when workers were on their way to the various warehouses on the street so they worked quickly to tuck the body that would soon begin to freeze into rigor mortis into the trunk. Fred folded the wet suit and packed it tightly in a suitcase with the rest of Rossi’s equipment. He noticed that Barone didn’t look good at all and he concluded that perhaps this tragic accident had triggered a lingering problem with the mechanical engineer.
“I know just the right spot in the Bronx some twenty minutes from here. I’ll drive since I know the way.” Said Fred Spada.
Before locking up, Fred and Barone wired back together the intricate system of booby traps on the doors and windows connecting the detonators to the torpedoes and the remaining mines. Should anyone attempt to force their way in they would blow up the entire city block and probably damage the bridge itself.
Fortunately it was raining hard so many people who would ordinarily be walking around would remain indoors. They shut the garage door and drove across the 59th Street Bridge to Manhattan turning north on Madison Avenue up toward the Bronx. Fred checked the rear view mirror and saw no suspicious looking cars following him. Barone was chain smoking Luckies and rubbing his hands to prevent them from shaking.
Fred knew that Barone was panicking and that his fear was growing as they drove up the avenue in the driving rain. He decided to test the engineer and see how dangerous his state of mind really was.
“This is war, Barone! Just because we’re in peaceful America we shouldn’t forget the bitter realities. Imagine what’s going on outside Moscow right now! The Germans very close, the city is within reach but they still have one hell of a fight ahead of them, those Russians are very tough …”
“Y..yes, you’re right Spada, of course…But I can’t get over the fact that we lost Rossi in a stupid accident like that! I can’t get his face out of my mind! I also can’t help thinking that maybe you did something wrong…”
“He died in action, he’s a war hero! Lucky him! There will be avenues and stadiums named after him! We were told that poisoning was always possible and there wouldn’t be much you could do to prevent it. Nothing I did or could do could change the outcome. Get a hold of yourself we can be stopped and searched at any moment and our military careers and most certainly our lives will then become part of history as well.”
Barone was now shaking uncontrollably and Fred regretted his poor attempt at black humor. He was increasingly worried that the mechanic was about to crack under stress and do something silly, such as walk into the first police precinct station and turn himself in, a common occurrence of spies losing their nerve on undercover operations. The car turned into Fordham Road. The last bridge over the Harlem River was reduced to a single lane with a police car blocking the far end. It was too late to turn back without attracting the attention of the cop directing traffic. Fred drove slowly across as a motorcycle cop in his rubber slick, leather boots and tilted cap under his hood, waved them across. Then near the top he suddenly signaled for them to stop because an oncoming truck was moving too slowly in the opposite direction over to the bridge. There was only one other car behind them. Fred knew the traffic cop could suddenly order them to park on the side and ask Barone to open the trunk. Fred didn’t feel at all comfortable with that thought.
In such circumstances he imagined various scenarios. Turn around and attempt to run? The outcome would almost certainly end in disaster. Unless deliberately opting for suicide, shooting it out was not an option either. No, the only way was to play it low key, and even be reasonably brash, he thought. The rain had suddenly stopped and he pulled the hand break, asked Barone for a cigarette and got out of the car walking casually up to the cop and asking for a light. The cop smiled and promptly produced a Zippo lighter.
“Goin’ far?” asked the cop.
“No, just downtown, got some maintenance work.”
“Well drive carefully the pavement is very wet and slippery.”
“You bet. Thanks for the light.”
The cop smiled again and nodded as Fred slowly returned to his car. Barone with his mouth open and holding his head in both his hands was trembling with fear. Fred kept smiling, got behind the wheel and drove by with the cigarette hanging from his lips waving at the cop who waved back. Barone pretended to close his eyes. When Fred reached the pillars of the elevated train he turned left and said:
“Now listen to me Barone, if you show you’re frightened shitless you don’t stand a chance. Can’t show fear, you understand? It’s a dead giveaway. At a minimum you have to maintain your outward indifference at all times.”
Barone nodded and lit up a cigarette as the car turned into a series of small streets dotted with potholes that took them closer to the river. There was a metal dump site on the left with the wrecks of old cars piled high, sticking out in every direction. The street ended abruptly on the banks of the Harlem River and Fred turned the Ford around backing it up sideways so the trunk was at an angle and couldn’t be seen from the road. He pretended to stretch his legs as he surveyed the surroundings for any unwelcome onlookers. On the bridge some distance away the traffic cop was still stopping the few cars that were driving slowly across. There was no one else around and the buildings were too far removed for anyone to see them. It suddenly began to rain hard again.
“Ok Barone, let’s get this dirty business over with quickly and in one clean sweep.”
He pulled open the trunk and they both grabbed the body and settled it on the grassy shoulder on the river bank. Then they rolled it quickly into the water where it immediately sank among a few reeds.
Fred saw the distraught look on Barone’s face, his jaw was shaking and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Could he pull himself together or was he going to become overtly dangerous? Barone looked like he was about to crack up and that at any moment he could spill the whole story to anyone willing to listen. Clearly the man was too weak to operate behind enemy lines for whatever reason, and the officers at the Castle hadn’t detected that side of his personality. Fred walked back to the car. He had reached a fateful decision. Barone had to go right then and there. Fred took the .38 from his briefcase, slipped it into his belt and slowly looked around. The immediate surroundings were deserted and it was raining steadily. Even the cop had disappeared from the bridge. Barone was holding an umbrella and smoking nervously as he kept looking at the river. Fred walked up behind him and without a word of warning shot him once at the base of the skull killing him instantly. The body slumped face down with his arms crossed under his chest. In seconds Fred removed every item from Barone’s overalls, and pushed him into the water where he sank very quickly. He drove directly to Coney Island where he left the car in a side street near the subway station, no one would pay any attention to it for weeks and then it would be traced to a barber shop owner on Long Island.