A few weeks had passed since Sara had sailed, the leaves now turning a brilliant mix of hues in the Central Park sun. As September turned to October, Mac concentrated on work, as he was being asked to go to court more. Mac still loved the courtroom, particularly as he found it easier to put all his efforts into his legal career, minimizing other distractions. And yet, it no longer seemed to be enough. He found himself craving more, particularly after his rousing experiences of late. Perhaps, it was his and Sara's brush with danger. Perhaps, it was breaking bread with the family in Little Italy. Court was great, but he was very restless; he was more alive. It was no longer enough just being the best lawyer; he wanted more. Hallie called from time to time, but he always claimed he was busy with work.
The New York Times ran an expose in the Sunday edition in early October about the New York waterfront, and how it seemed to be less chaotic. The report indicated the general sentiment among the union workers that it was patriotic to work to build up their country, and that it was necessary to keep things under wraps, lest the fruits of their labors be sent to the bottom of the sea, quite literally. “Lose Lips Sink Ships,” became the saying on the tip of everyone's tongues, with posters being put up all over to that effect. The bars on Sand Street, the report said, were even going along with it. There were no loose lips anymore. There was plenty of work now, and that was a big boost to city morale. Even the specter of organized crime seemed to be on board. It was remarked that the new District Attorney to be, Frank Hogan, had been involved in negotiations with underworld bosses to make all this happen.
Mac smiled to himself when he read the article, knowing full well who was responsible for the results being cheered. More importantly, although Mac was not mentioned in the story, Frank Hogan, and Mac's boss, John Foster Dulles, knew who was responsible for this milestone, and the resulting flattering publicity. Mac decided that the story was probably planted by Frank Hogan, or by Dulles seeking the good graces of the new District Attorney to be, to bolster Hogan's November election bid, particularly among the Italians. Mac further understood that his silent participation was appreciated, and that he would be rewarded. That was the way things worked on Wall Street. The name partners take the credit for the victories secured by the hard-working associates, but eventually, the appreciation would trickle down.
The week after the elections in November of 1940, given the events transpiring in Europe, and the hostile interactions on the part of the Japanese, no one was surprised when Congress required that all men between twenty-one and twenty-five register for the draft. Mac went down to the local draft office on lower Broadway, where he submitted his name. He was sure he would be committing to Naval Intelligence, given his mentor's periodically mentioning it, but that had yet to happen. Mac was led to believe that he was being put in for a commission to the United States Navy, which would happen when the time came.
While he was pouring over legal papers at his desk, Mrs. Appleton knocked on his closed door one day, coming in without specifically being invited, as was her custom.
“Mac,” Mrs. Schlipp called. “Mr. Dulles wants you to join him for lunch today at Delmonico's. Apparently, his brother will be joining you as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Appleton. Did they give you a time?”
“They will buzz you when they are leaving, but they are getting ready.”
Mac nodded and resumed the writing of a legal brief. Allen Dulles, the younger brother of John Foster Dulles, was also a partner at Sullivan & Cromwell. It was known throughout the firm that Allen was involved in the burgeoning field of espionage, maybe even more so than the practice of law. Rumor had it that he was a spy during the Great War, and that he never came in from the cold. He was closely aligned with Naval Intelligence, going back and forth to Navy Hill in Washington, D.C., and collaborating with other private citizens to establish a fledgling peacetime intelligence community in the United States.
Mac arrived at Delmonico's, the historically significant steakhouse located in lower Manhattan at Beaver and William Streets. Although Mac had never eaten there, as the menu was not particularly affordable to a young man of modest means, he had read all about their more famous invented dishes, such as the Delmonico steak, the wedge salad, and the baked Alaska dessert. He was salivating as he entered the frosted glass panel door a few blocks from his office on Wall Street.
Mac informed the maître d’ that he was lunching with Mr. Dulles. He was immediately shown to a table near the windows overlooking Beaver Street, where three men, including his mentor, were already seated. Mac was impressed when he saw Fiorello LaGuardia, “the Little Flower,” sitting at the next table with a group of distinguished Centre Street jurists.
“Mac, you know my brother Allen; you met at the India House,” said his mentor, as the brother held out his hand towards Mac. “And this is my good friend, William Donavan, who is a renegade Wall Street lawyer, unfortunately not associated with our fine firm,” chuckled Foster Dulles. “He has his own firm which competes with us, but we are still close friends,” said Foster, while Donavan laughed.
Mac shook hands with both older gentlemen, and all took their seats. Mac was well aware who William Donavan was, “Wild Bill” as he was known on the Street. Donavan had been a hero of the Great War and was the senior partner in a rival law firm. Rumor had it that he too was involved in the world of espionage, both during the Great War, and now, attempting to start America on its way towards the world of intelligence. Mac had heard that Donavan had established an office in the newly completed Rockefeller Center, along with other private, wealthy, connected Americans, to open the world of intelligence and espionage.
Bill Donavan, with his rumpled suit and rimless glasses, did not cut the figure of either of the Dulleses, but he was known for his tenacity, on the tennis court, and in the courtroom. A Catholic, like Mac, he was still welcome in the Protestant Wall Street circles in which he traveled. More importantly, he had the ear of the president, who regaled in his stories of espionage and intrigue.
“Well, Mac, Allen and I wanted you to meet Bill. We see you getting involved in intelligence matters, and you could have no better mentor.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, I am very interested in serving my country in the best way I can.”
“Mac, my brother has told us much about you,” said Allen Dulles. “He thinks very highly of you. We have big plans for you.”
Allen Dulles was as polished as his older brother, finely dressed, well-toned from being an avid tennis player. He was distinguished, graying at the temples, a big brush of a mustache, and rimless glasses. He frequently had a pipe in his hand, whether or not it was lit.
“We’ll get to that, Allen. Let's order first. I am famished,” said Donavan, clearly wanting to get to know Mac a little better before jumping into more delicate matters.
The four gentlemen had the Delmonico Steaks and the wedge salads, along with, most likely, a bottle of scotch between them. The conversation was lively, and most entertaining, particularly to Mac. The young man could listen to stories of intrigue surrounding the Great War forever. They certainly had his attention, and they were obviously gauging his interest in such matters. Mac shared his stories of Mulberry Street, and the boss of all bosses, Frank Costello. The gentlemen were not only intrigued, but also delighted by his story telling prowess. Mac made the scene come alive with his descriptions of the food and the pinkie rings, along with the hugs and kisses the men bestowed upon him.
“This sounds like the kind of life you might enjoy being a part of, this intelligence stuff?” asked Donavan, finally cutting to the chase. “You can certainly tell a good story. Must be the Irish in you.”
“You are obviously a mind reader, Mr. Donavan. I would love to be involved in something so exciting, and so rewarding.”
“Call me Bill, Mac. It's a dangerous life, not for the faint of heart,” replied Donavan. “But you certainly seem to have the penchant for it.”
“I am aware of the danger, Bill. I am more than willing to put my life on the line for something I believe in, and I most certainly believe in my country. I am ready for whatever comes my way.”
“Mac, tell us about your family,” asked Allen Dulles. “I understand that your family name is actually Martini. But, your mom, she is Irish?”
“That's right, sir,” replied Mac, sounding somewhat uncomfortable.
“So, you are used to living an existence that is not all it appears to be, clearly,” Allen Dulles pushed on, less than delicately.
“I suppose, sir. I am very proud of my heritage, but a man does what he needs to do to fit in where he would not normally be invited.”
“Touché, I’m sorry Mac. I did not mean to suggest anything bad by this. It is a plus that you can fit in so comfortably wherever you are needed,” continued Allen Dulles, unperturbed by Mac's reaction. “So, tell me about your family.”
“My parents are both language professors at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie. They have been since before I was born. My father, Giuseppe Martini, was born in Italy, immigrating to this country as a young child. His parents, and family, are from Palombara Sabina, just north of Rome, in Italy. My mother, Margaret McCabe Martini, was born here. Her family is from County Clare, in Ireland. Her father came here as a young man, to get away from the Potato Famine, and he became a New York City police detective. I am an only child, the pride and joy of my parents.”
“Well, I see where you get your good looks from, Mac,” said Donavan, laughing. “Irish lasses make beautiful children with Italians,” he chuckled, somewhat inappropriately. “So, where do they stand politically, Mac?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir, but they are both New Deal Democrats, devoted to President Roosevelt. They appreciate what our president has done to get this country moving again.”
“They are not fascists, Mac, are they?” asked Donavan more pointedly.
“No,” said Mac, now really annoyed.
“Nor are they communists?” went on Donavan, undeterred.
“No, sir. They are American, through and through.”
“I’m sorry, Mac. We must ask these questions. You never know. If you are going to represent the United States of America, we must ensure that your leanings are not inappropriate with regard to the path of this country,” said Donavan.
“I understand, sir. I want to represent my country, and my leanings, as you call it, are in the right direction.”
“Good. We have big plans for you, young man,” said Allen Dulles.
“Mac, I have been working on something since we first spoke about Naval Intelligence,” said Foster Dulles. “What would you say to the possibility of being awarded a commission in the Navy, while retaining your position here at Sullivan & Cromwell? You would be paid by the firm, doing firm business, while at the same time serving in Naval Intelligence.”
“That sounds very interesting, sir. And, obviously, I appreciate the most generous opportunity to retain my firm position. What would be expected of me?”
“Do you have any problem with travel, Mac?” asked Allen Dulles, taking over the conversation as had undoubtedly been planned.
“Where would you like me to go, sir?”
“We are proposing that you go to work in the firm's Rome office, serving the legal needs of the Vatican, and our American business clients doing business in Italy. While you are there, you will send back reports through Naval Intelligence, outlining what you are seeing and hearing over there,” continued Allen Dulles.
“We will train you, of course,” said Bill Donavan, “but understand that there is no formal training here in America for this kind of work. The Neutrality Act prevents us from using British MI6 training facilities, as well. We will send you to Naval Intelligence in Washington for a week or two, where you will be taught the rudimentary things involved in espionage, like writing reports, photography, diplomatic procedures, and the use of diplomatic pouches to transmit your reports. Then, off to Rome you would go.”
“I would be thrilled, sir. When would this happen?”
“Within the next couple of weeks, after I secure your Naval Commission,” said Foster Dulles. “I’m sure you will want to tie up any lose ends here, in the meantime.”
“I would need to go see my folks before I leave. I could probably go this weekend. But I am good to go, otherwise. What kind of things would I be reporting on over there in Italy?”
“You will be trained in all that, Mac,” said Bill Donavan. “You will be given a contact in the State Department in Rome, who will get your reports back to us here in the States in diplomatic pouches.”
“I am probably going to Switzerland myself,” said Allen Dulles. “We will be able to interact on a fairly regular basis, I would think. Unless war breaks out between the Axis powers and us, which is most likely going to happen. Then we will have to play it by ear.”
“I am honored by your trust, sirs. And I am thrilled to be able to serve my country at this point before we are in a war. I did sign up for the draft, already. Is that a problem?”
“No, Mac, we’ll take care of it,” Foster Dulles replied. “Your commission will supersede any draft status that might arise if there is a war. Which we all know there will be. The Germans are already sending U-boats outside of New York Harbor to blow the stuffing out of our shipping. It is inevitable.”
“What will I be doing for the law firm in Rome?”
“We have a full office in Rome, Mac,” said Foster. “You speak the language, so you should not have any problems. We do some work for the Vatican, and we represent the interests of several American companies doing business in Italy. You will be working with a partner of the firm, following his directions with respect to the legal work. He is an Italian from Italy, so you will keep your intelligence work to yourself. Your work for the firm should bring you all over Italy, so that will help.”
“You will be getting back to us on the mind set of the Italian people with respect to Mussolini, and the fascist government,” said Allen Dulles. “You will also report back on what you see in terms of military preparedness, locations of defenses, and such.”
“Just do your job as a lawyer, and take in what you can,” continued Donavan. “Don’t be obvious about it. Use your senses, and tell us what you see, hear, and feel about what is going on over there. No doubt we will need to know, sooner or later. Italy is the soft underbelly of the Axis, and it could be the weak link. We want to know what we are dealing with over there.”
“I understand. I am excited to be in Rome, and to be doing something important for my country. Where will I live?”
“All of that will be arranged before you go, Mac,” said Foster Dulles. “I will have Mrs. Schlipp call the Rome office to find you a place to live, and to get you set up once you get there.”
“Sounds great, sir. I appreciate your confidence in me. What about my current work here?”
“We will transition it off to other associates in the next few days,” said Foster Dulles. “Anything you need to finish up yourself, let's get it done. For the most part, we should be able to get someone to jump right in, I would think. We will pay your rent and keep things going here for you. Get all the information to your secretary, and she will get it done with Mrs. Schlipp. Your pay will be raised as well, to compensate you for the cost of living over there. You were due for a raise anyway, based upon your work performance.”
“Thank you, sir. That is most generous.”
“Thank you, Mac,” said Foster Dulles. “Your country thanks you as well. That is the least we could do.”
“Well, now that you are completely vetted, and on board, I have your first assignment for you, Mac,” said Allen Dulles. “Tomorrow night, I want you to come with me to a meeting, up on East Sixty-Second Street.”
“Sure, what kind of meeting? What will I be doing?”
“This is a meeting of a very select club, a secret society of rich and powerful men with an interest in intelligence matters concerning our country. We meet clandestinely once a month at what we call “The Room.” The Room's key holders all come from recognizable families, and the finest boarding schools and Universities. Your Harvard degree will get you in the door, accompanied by me, of course. Vincent Astor, you know of him I presume? He runs the show. I want the group to give you some background on what we know about Italy, the fascists, and the people. They will also tell you what you should be looking for while you are there.”
“Yes, Mr. Dulles. That sounds very interesting,” exclaimed Mac, realizing that his life was about to become much more exciting, as he had wanted.
“Apparently, there will be another guest, a woman named Betty Pack. She started out like you, and now she is a great asset to the Anglo-American resolve. Hopefully, she will be willing to teach you the ropes some, so to speak, before you go away,” said Allen Dulles.
“Sounds great, sir. Is there anything I need to know about her beforehand?”
“That is an excellent question, young man,” said Allen Dulles. “Always do your reconnaissance before you undertake a mission. But, quite frankly, we do not know a lot about her. She has been a tremendous help to the British MI6. She comes highly recommended by this fellow Stephenson, who runs the British Intelligence community here in this country, operating out of Rockefeller Center, right near where we have opened shop. He ostensibly oversees the British Passport Office, but we all know his real function here in the United States. Stephenson wanted Betty Pack to meet us in The Room. Says she is very interesting, and a good storyteller. You will be there to meet her as well.”
“What time is the meeting? Will I be meeting you there?”
“Be there at seven o’clock sharp. Thirty-Four East Sixty-Second Street, right off Madison Avenue. Meet me outside. We will go in together.”
“Yes, sir. Seven o’clock sharp. I am looking forward to it, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I am counting on that,” said Allen Dulles.
The men finished their lunch, split a Baked Alaska, and headed back to their respective offices. Donavan told Mac that he wasn’t sure that he would be in Washington with him for the training, but that he could stay at his apartment on Dupont Circle, indicating that his secretary would call with the details.