Mac had awakened the next day to the sweet smell of Hallie's hair. She was wrapped around him like a pretzel, her eyes closed, her breathing even. He felt her warmth down the entire length of his body.
She is truly a fine woman, Mac thought, as he took in the smoothness of her alabaster skin. The age difference is not that important.
Hallie stirred, smiling at Mac as she saw him looking at her body. She stretched, more for his benefit, than to rejuvenate.
“You like what you see, Mr. Martin?”
“You know I do, Hallie Fitzgerald. You are one beautiful woman.”
Hallie kissed him on the cheek, as she gave him a squeeze.
“You are nice to look at too, Mac. How long I wanted to see you like this, just for me. Do you think less of me for wanting you so much, a man half my age?”
“Of course not. My not being with you before now had nothing to do with age. I have always been so turned on by you. Do you think less of me?”
Hallie giggled.
“Of course not. You are all man. I know you are in love with someone else, but I don’t care. I respect your loyalty. But we are all adults, including Sara. She would not only approve of this, but she also obviously anticipated that this would happen. She expects you to live your life. Hopefully, your paths will cross again, but who knows what will happen in this crazy world of ours. I am here and now, Mac, all flesh and blood, all heart and soul. I want to be yours.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m here for you as well, at least until I have to go away. We have some time together, for now. If this is what you want?”
“Mac, I will die a thousand deaths when you leave, but until you do, I fully intend to shamefully throw myself at you. I swear I will make you happy, and make you want to come home to me.”
Hallie put her head on Mac's chest, as she lit two cigarettes from the pack of Lucky Strikes on the night table. Mac grabbed the ashtray from the other night table, putting it on his naked stomach. He took the time to take in her womanly bedroom, with flowered yellow wallpaper, the delicate Wilton carpet, and her antique dressing table.
“Your room is lovely, Hallie. It's so you. Hey, when are you going to help me decorate my place?”
“Leave me your key while you’re gone. It will be done by the time you get back. It will give me something to do.”
“All I would need is you being there to make my place special.”
“You are such a charmer,” Hallie laughed, as she pinched his rear end.
“Hey!” Mac laughed, as he turned and tickled her naked ribs.
“No!” Hallie roared, as she jumped out of the bed, running for the bathroom, giggling all the way.
When she returned, with her teeth clean, they made love again, before Mac had to leave for work. She put on her silk robe as Mac dressed, and she walked him to the door. He kissed her sweetly on the lips, as he reached inside her robe, for a parting squeeze. She playfully smacked his hand away, kissed him once more, and pushed him out of the door, while telling him to call her.
Mac spent the day in his office, cleaning up his files, while highly anticipating the meeting at The Room later that evening. He dressed in his best blue suit, his most expensive silk tie, his matching braces, and his conservative wing tip brogues. At lunch, he went out to get a haircut, and his shoes shined. He was meeting with Vincent Astor, after all, and his rich and powerful friends.
Mac made sure he was outside of Thirty-Four East Sixty-Second Street a few minutes before seven o’clock. The brick and sandstone building was somewhat non-descript in relation to the others on the street. Yet, no one was supposed to know that the birth of American Intelligence was happening right under their noses in the middle of Manhattan.
Allen Dulles turned the corner from Madison Avenue, his taupe fedora pulled down, almost covering his eyes. He gave Mac a little wave when he saw him standing in front of the building.
“Good to see you, son,” said Dulles, as he approached, holding out his right hand, his pipe in the other.
“Nice to see you, sir,” replied Mac, giving Dulles a good firm grip.
“Let's go in, they are waiting for us,” said Dulles, as he walked towards the black painted door.
Dulles lifted the heavy brass knocker, just as an older man in a butler's uniform was opening the door.
“Good evening gentleman,” said the butler, inviting them into the world of the rich and powerful.
“Good evening, Walter,” said Dulles, handing him his hat and camel hair overcoat.
“The others are already in The Room, Mr. Dulles. I take it that this is Mr. Martin. May I take your hat and coat sir?”
As Walter handed the garments to a second, Mac took in the decorated foyer, with its marble floors and detail. The large vase of fresh cut exotic flowers sitting on a pedestal in the center of the huge space reminded him of the Oak Room. Old oil paintings, apparently of someone's ancient relatives, adorned the deep red walls. The huge matching oriental carpet in the middle of the entryway gave the cavernous room a surprising feeling of warmth and welcome.
The men were shown through a pair of heavy oak doors on the left side of the foyer, which were opened by the manservant. They were brought into an equally cavernous room, with high ceilings, the red walls and carpet carried through, along with more paintings of family members long forgotten. There were four older gentlemen in The Room, who had all stood up when they entered the doorway. Dulles, upon shaking each man's hand, introduced young Mac Martin to each. Vincent Astor, J.P. Morgan, Harry Hopkins, and Enrico Fermi, all seemed delighted to make Mac's acquaintance, or so they said.
Mac was told to sit in an overstuffed chintz armchair, as the rest of the gentlemen took similar seats. The men were smoking pipes and cigars, but Mac did not dare pull out one of his cigarettes. The Room was furnished like any parlor one would find in a wealthy home off Fifth Avenue, yet not quite as pristine. In fact, noted Mac, it was surprisingly shabby. Mac looked around The Room as coffee was being served on a silver tray by the manservant. He was impressed with the collection of memorabilia and photographs collected not only by Vincent Astor, but also by the members of The Club. The pictures of presidents, popes and kings with various club members really impressed young Mac.
“Welcome all,” said Vincent Astor, opening the meeting. “I am pleased that young Thomas Martin of Sullivan and Cromwell is joining us tonight. He is Harvard Law School Class of ’38, and he comes from a fine family of educators from upstate New York. Rather close to my Hyde Park country house. We welcome you Mr. Martin.”
“Thank you, sir. My friends call me Mac if you are so inclined.”
“Very well, as you know, Mac is going to be assigned to the Sullivan and Cromwell office in Rome. He has graciously agreed to keep his eyes and ears open while in Italy, and to report back to us as to what is happening over there. We all know how important it is to have eyes and ears on the ground in terms of possible intelligence. Mac will be sending back periodic reports from Italy, keeping us all informed. Harry, here, will be sharing his reports with the president on a need-to-know basis, but we all know how Roosevelt loves this kind of thing. We look forward to your reports, Mac, and welcome you to our little club.”
“Yes, welcome Mac,” echoed J.P. Morgan. “We have heard many good things about you from Dulles, and from others. Apparently, you are very bright, and you have the balls of a Brahmin Bull,” Morgan laughed, along with the rest of the room. “And most importantly, for our purposes, you are quick on your feet. Did you really tell Frank Hogan to wait outside the room while you spoke to Lucky Luciano in Italian? That is priceless. Frank Hogan! How I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one.”
“Thank you, for the wonderful introduction, and for allowing me into your most prestigious club.”
“Mac, we wanted to talk to you before you go off to Europe, so it is we who thank you for being here,” continued Astor. “We want to make some suggestions as to what you should be looking for while over there, in Italy. Others will give you the nuts and bolts. We just want to talk about what we would consider important.”
“Any assistance you could give me would be much appreciated.”
“We are having another guest come tonight, who we want you to meet. Mrs. Betty Pack. She is the American wife of a British Foreign Service officer who has made herself most useful to the British Secret Service, MI6, and by extension, to us here in the United States. She started by just noticing things, hearing things and sensing things, and just passing them on. She, too, had no experience, but now she has turned out to be one of the most important assets in the British Intelligence community. It works that way sometimes, as those with less polish seem to get people with their guard down. She will be here in about an hour, or so, to talk to us about her latest escapades in Poland, and to chat with you about what lies ahead. We will give you time to chat with Mrs. Pack after the meeting.”
“Mr. Fermi, why don’t you fill us in on what is happening in Italy, and how you think we can best use Mac in Rome,” said Morgan.
“I understand your real name is Martini, Mac, is that correct?” asked Fermi.
“Yes, sir, that is my family name.”
“Well, Mr. Martini, get used to using your family name while in Italy,” continued Fermi. “You will fare much better and be more trusted, by using your family name.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“My position puts me among the upper reach of the Italian government. I know Il Duce personally. I am a good friend of his son-in-law, Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian minister of foreign affairs, his right-hand man. Italy had been a Constitutional Monarchy, but even with the rise of the fascists, the King still holds much of the power in Italy. Although he allows Mussolini to run the show, the dictator understands the King, should he choose, could force him out of power at a moment's notice. In any event, my position allows me little opportunity to get a grasp on the pulse of the common Italian folk. That is where you could be most helpful. Talk to the people, Mac. Determine their mood, their resolve. Do they really want to fight? What do they think of America? Are they willing to fight us? These are the kinds of questions we are looking to have answered, the hearts and minds of the ordinary Italian people. Report back to us what you are seeing and hearing.”
“I understand, sir.”
Just as Enrico Fermi went on by boring The Room with his pompous recitation as to what he wanted to tell Mac about Italy, there was a knock at the front door. A short time later, the heavy door to The Room was opened, and in sauntered the most beautiful, radiant, and confident woman Mac had ever seen.
“Mrs. Elizabeth Pack,” announced the old butler. “May I bring you some coffee, Mrs. Pack?”
“No, thank you. Perhaps a glass of water,” replied Mrs. Pack, in the voice of a nightingale. “Good evening gentlemen, I hope I am not late. Call me Betty if you like.”
“We have a fine wine cellar, if you are interested, Mrs. Pack,” announced Vincent Astor rather formally.
“No, no thank you. Water will be fine.”
Mac guessed Betty Pack to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her golden hair hugged the side of her head like a soft helmet; her green eyes were devilishly mesmerizing. Her clothing appeared to be the best Paris had to offer, and she certainly knew how to dress to please. Her long beige overcoat, which was being taken by Walter, had wide lapels, and a sash that tied around her slender waist. She wore a fine beige woolen suit, appropriate for the occasion, which had clearly been tailored to accentuate her magnificent figure. Her silk covered legs gracefully turned down to her ankle-strap matching Dior shoes.
This is a spy, thought Mac, overwhelmed by the woman's beauty and grace.
“It is a pleasure to be here, gentlemen. How may I be of assistance this evening?”
“Have a seat, young lady,” offered Harry Hopkins pleasantly.
Hopkins introduced the room and told Betty Pack that Bill Stephenson had told them of her exploits in Chile, Spain, and Poland, and that he thought you could entertain us with some of your stories. We would be delighted to hear all about it.”
“Well, I am sure Mr. Stephenson has exaggerated, gentlemen, as you secretive chaps all really wish to do,” Betty said demurely. “But I am glad to be here, and I will do my best to be the entertainment,” she continued, clearly making Hopkins feel uncomfortable already.
Mac could see what made her so special. Not a fearful bone in her lovely body. She just stood up to Harry Hopkins, the right-hand man of President Roosevelt.
“Mrs. Pack, our objective here is to be an informal group of prominent gentlemen who understand the importance of intelligence to the safety and success of our Country,” went on Vincent Astor, undeterred by the young lady's impudence. “We discuss whatever issues of importance that come to our attention. If we deem it appropriate, we pass on the information to the powers that be, including our president. It is our contention that the United States should be formally involved in the business of international intelligence, on a par with your MI6. These stories of success that we collect are used to push our lawmakers in that direction. They all love a good story, Mrs. Pack.”
“I understand, Mr. Astor. Obviously, there is only so much I can tell you about, but I would be happy to talk on the merits of a strong national intelligence community, particularly one that utilizes an informal network of sources around the world to gather intelligence that the more formal structures would not normally be privy. In other words, gentlemen, ask the man in the street what he sees, what she hears. Then you get to the truth, rather than the sugar-coated diplomatic niceties normally exchanged between foreign powers.”
“Although I was born here in America, I started out as the wife of a mid-level British foreign service officer, which I still am, I suppose. Since I was a little girl, I was known to be a “watcher.” You know, someone who notices things. I saw things that other children didn’t bother to notice. As I matured, and I married, I still had this uncanny ability to see and hear what is important. Given that I was sent to foreign places with my husband, I saw things, and I heard things, that I thought could be very useful for my husband's country to know. So, I found a way to pass on the information. The more I passed on, the more my adopted government became interested in my abilities. To make a long story very short, eventually, my new country, actually my country's intelligence community, recognized my gift, and they utilized my talents to get information that they would not normally have been in on.”
“That is the kind of thing we are hoping from Mr. Martin, here,” said Allen Dulles. “He will be going to Rome shortly, doing legal work there. We are asking him to keep his eyes and ears open, and report back. Something akin to what you have been doing.”
“Something like I was doing,” laughed Betty Pack, accentuating the word “something.” “He is very handsome, but I do not think he will get the kind of attention I had been able to get, because I am not sure he will want to get as close to these men who hold the information as I did.”
The gentlemen in The Room turned all shades of crimson at the young woman's brazenness. Mac was mostly intrigued, however. It did not take much imagination to understand the methods and zeal with which Mrs. Elizabeth Pack brought to her craft.
“Oh, come on gentlemen. Woman have been getting men's secrets out of them since the Garden of Eden. It is not a very hard thing to do. Men want attention. I give it to them. They, in turn, talk to me. Patience is the key. You must have the wherewithal to stick it out, even if it seems tedious; eventually, every man talks. I am there when he does, and I report what is said back to my handlers. Very simple, really.”
“Well, perhaps you can give Mr. Martin some tips after the meeting,” sneered Allen Dulles. “I am afraid the rest of us are too old to make any use of your techniques,” he chuckled, along with the rest of the room.
“Sure, why not,” said Betty Pack, eyeing Mac. “It would be my pleasure.”
Betty Pack spent the next hour entertaining the stuffy old men with her stories of wanton espionage and danger, across Europe and South America. She held them spellbound, every one of them. They could see how this beautiful creature could wheedle out whatever she wanted from whomever she wanted it. She was very special, and everyone in the room knew it.
Of particular interest to Mac, was the story of how she saved her paramour from a certain death in a Spanish prison during the Spanish Civil War. Using her charm, and stunning appearance, she talked the General in charge into letting him go. Not only that, but she also got him to let go another 17 fellow fliers, all on her beautiful say so that they were not guilty of anything. She had neither slept with the General, nor with anyone else. She had matured enough to learn how to use her guile, to be successful, without having to necessarily resort to bedding her mark. Mac could see the benefit of her approach, and he thought he could do it as well. Charm and patience were the tools of her craft, and they went a long way in the world of espionage. After listening to her speak, he was even more intrigued.
As the meeting was breaking up, Allan Dulles approached Mac, telling him to escort Mrs. Park back to the Sherry Netherland, her hotel on Fifth Avenue, a few blocks away. “Take her out to eat on the firm, Mac, and pick her brain,” said Dulles. “You could learn a lot from her, for sure.”
“She is scary, but you know I love the excitement, and the challenge.”