# War's Dark Frame/The Grim Game of Intelligence

CHAPTER XIX
THE GRIM GAME OF INTELLIGENCE
THE quiet of Paris, however, did not make it seem as remote from battle as I had expected to find it after such experiences. You looked upon the men in uniform with a new sympathy, a broader comprehension, and you talked of nothing but the war.
It was about that time, I remember, that a German spy was caught under dramatic circumstances and shot with a deserved despatch. Of that case it is impossible to write, but it reminded me that when I had sailed for Europe I had planned to find out something about these men and women—not so much their ciphers and signals and mathematical routine, rather the kind of people they are, and the type of drama they play continuously behind the lines. So I reviewed my own contact with them, and the stories I had heard of their daring.
In the first place, officially in Europe spying has ceased to exist. One speaks of Intelligence, yet it doesn't make much difference under what label a man faces a firing squad or feels the noose ​ tighten about his neck. For, as a matter of fact, there are more spies than ever, better spies, spies with a lack of fear nearly superhuman.
There is, of course, a good deal that can't be publicly told, but it isn't all tragedy, as you'll learn from the curious case of the near-sighted London clerk. Nor do these men perpetually work in the shadow of death. You may not know that an Entente intelligence officer assigned to New York informed London of the approaching Irish excursion of Sir Roger Casement, but you must have guessed the presence of the spies of both sides in America; you may have suspected that, often in a legitimate way, they are not uninterested in you. Have you ever smiled at a German waiter's bored expression during an after dinner discussion of the war? Since hostilities commenced have you tried to visit England or France? In the latter case you may be sure that both sides know enough about you and your sympathies to exalt your own importance and to justify your admiration of the system.
After docking on the other side, for instance, as I told you in an early chapter, the passengers are virtually imprisoned in the dining-room until the chief alien officer has had his fling. He appears to possess a dossier of each person. In my own case he asked me to fill in a blank, largely ​ repeating the information on my passport. He attached this to the passport. On the London train I asked other passengers if they had been similarly decorated. Enthusiastically they denied it. It seemed definite, since I was a correspondent, that a check had been placed upon my movements. The American embassy offered that doleful interpretation. When I applied at Bow Street for an identity book the clerk admitted that the slip was a code for the police. So I went to an acquaintance in the intelligence department and threw myself on his mercy.
“What in the name of heaven," I demanded, is this soiled piece of paper?'
He smiled.
"They gave you your identity book at Bow Street, didn't they? You know it might be a recommendation on information from America."
I explained patiently that I had sailed on two days' notice. His smile didn't alter, and from all that happened afterwards I know he was right. It isn't simple to elude a system that works so quickly, and that's the reason the Germans early in the war ceased getting many spics to England or France through New York. They turned, as a consequence, to Spanish America. That menace, too, a distinguished officer of the intelligence corps told me, was well under control. A few ​ days before, he said, a clever attempt to get a man through had been defeated, partly by accident, for the fellow captured had had a genius for make-up. He had looked like a Latin. He had talked like one. On the long journey from South America he had hoodwinked the crew and all the passengers except one woman who had known him for years and who had penetrated his disguise. Still she had been friendly, and he had had unlimited confidence in his masquerade.
When the boat reached England he was one of the first hailed before the alien officer. He went jauntily because he knew his passport was in perfect order. The alien officer found it so, but he glanced suspiciously at the man and told him to stand aside for a few minutes. That was really only his compliance with recent orders to be careful with Spanish-Americans. As a matter of fact he suspected nothing out of the way. But the fellow hadn't forecasted anything like that. It appeared to threaten more than the fact. In a panic he scribbled a note requesting the woman not to speak to him in any language except Spanish.
When he slipped it to her the sharp eyes of the intelligence men saw. They drew the woman outside and got the note from her. They went back and took the man into custody. He laughed at ​ them, showing no fear, declaring his innocence with a tolerant air. They hurried him to London and before the official who told me the story.
"I spoke to him in German," the official went on, and at odd times—suddenly. I couldn't trap him. He said he was a South American merchant on a peaceful commercial enterprise. He didn't know a word of German. I began to doubt, because when I spoke the language his eyelids never moved. It seemed to me he must show some response if he understood. As a last resort I simply shouted out, 'Achtung!'"
The official smiled a trifle sadly.
"His heels," he went on, clicked together. His chin came up. His hands straightened at his sides. He tried with a convulsive effort to check that mechanical response, but it was too late. I had him and he knew it. He broke down and took his medicine. He was a German reservist. A military command was the one thing to which his whole nature had to respond."
Even if that defence at the ports is overcome, there's an interior net to furnish spies to the executioner. I learned to understand the misgivings of hotel acquaintances that their luggage had been entered although they missed nothing. One man complained that the servants were a badly​ trained lot. They burst into his room at all hours, retiring with the apology that they had not known he was there. I didn't tell him that the refuse of his waste basket and the litter of his writing desk had probably furnished an interesting puzzle for some intelligence officer. Hotel espionage in England and France, however, is a knife that cuts both ways.
It may be indiscreet to call attention to a perfectly obvious fact. The Swiss are a problem for the entente allies. Except for such natives as have been retained through disability for the army the male hotel service is largely in the hands of the Swiss. The sons of this neutral nation must have the privileges, the courtesy, and the protection that other neutrals receive, and because of the nature of their employment and its permanence it is difficult to keep tabs on them. The natives of northern Switzerland often have German names, speak the German language, subscribe, perhaps, to the German idea. It would take unlimited confidence to pronounce one man a northern Swiss and another a southern German. So while the entente gets much valuable intelligence from the hotels, it is safe to guess that the Teutons have found the servants useful too.
I was told that early in the war the top floor of one of London's large hotels had been closed be​ cause of suspected signalling of Zeppelins. That night of which I have written, when the Zeppelins were, in fact, trying to get over us, a British floor valet muttered dark things about the foreign servants as we gazed at the bursting shrapnel and the searchlights. In his less emotional moments, however, he had nothing to say, for it is bad form audibly to doubt neutrals.
But with all that the German spy has ceased to be a terrible and unavoidable curse in Europe. Those in authority have probed his methods and chained his activities. He has even become an object of thoughtful criticism. One day this point was under discussion by some of the men who have made that cheerful situation possible.
"German intelligence is universal," one said. Every German, no matter where he is, feels himself a divinely appointed agent of his government. He sends what he can to the Wilhelmstrasse. He is ambitious to impress the Wilhelmstrasse. Consequently he sometimes hits false trails and puts the real agents off on wild goose chases. In the long run it is a weakness to use amateurs in the intelligence game."
About that time, as if to prove that every rule has its exceptions, the case of the near-sighted London clerk came unsolicited to the department. It was valuable intelligence, because it gave solidity ​ to the many rumours about at that time of Austria's anxiety to make peace. The official who handled the case told it to me with a reminiscent smile.
"It is hard," he said, " to learn just how much is behind these rumours of a nation's desire to make peace. It seemed likely that Austria would be rather better out of it, but you can't place much reliance on newspaper gossip. Then this youth came shambling into my office, white as a sheet, his eyes red beneath huge spectacles, stoop-shouldered, trembling as if he had a chill. His flashy clothing looked absurd. Mourning would have become him better. I fancy he expected to be condemned to death. He tried to avoid that by telling all he knew.
“He worked in a city office—clerical work in an insufficient light that explained his eyes and his shoulders and his bad complexion. You know how little that type gets. You know how destructive to ambition such work is. He plodded along with no bad habits, with no future, an inoffensive, pitiful little chap. Then the great romance came. A visitor was taken through the office one day. The clerk noticed him because he was so big and handsome and prosperous. He was nearly tongue-tied when this impressive figure paused and chatted with him. It developed that the visitor ​ had known the clerk's father. He expressed some interest in the young man.
He took him to dinner. In many ways he was kind to him. The man declared that he was worried about the clerk. He looked underfed and on the edge of an illness. Something ought to be done about that. After a little thought he slapped his knee. He had just the thing. Business was taking him to a neutral country across the channel for a few days.
"’Suppose you get leave of absence,' he proposed, and come with me. I'll pay your expenses because you're your father's son, and because I like you.'
"The young fellow demurred. He couldn't trespass on such generosity,
"It's all right, the older man said. "No charity about it. As a matter of fact I could use a secretary for a few days. There's sure to be a man or two I won't want to talk to myself, and that sort I can shunt off on you. Meantime you'll get a vacation that will give you a fresh start and maybe save you a bad illness. Tell 'em at the office your uncle's going to give you a little holiday.'
"The clerk, unable to believe in this sudden stroke of luck, arranged it. His friend gave him a new suit of clothes. His studious expression ​ went well with this new prosperity. They sailed. On the other side there were some aristocratic-appearing men who paced the dock. When the clerk and his host landed these men came up with bows and words of welcome. For the first time the youth realised what an important person his benefactor was. But the men paid an incomprehensible attention to his insignificant self. They were solicitous about his health. They apologised for the poor comforts he would find in this town, The best available had been prepared for him. He had a vague idea that all this was really meant for the other man.
At the first opportunity he asked who these people were.
"’They talked to me so strangely, as if I was a lord or something.'
“’You be nice to them, my boy,' his host said. "Treat 'em well. Let 'em give you anything they want, and you act as if that was what you were raised to. They're friends of mine, and I'd hate to have 'em offended. If you think they're crazy, keep it to yourself and give 'em their way.'
"There was a private suite at the hotel, a solitary dinner, more grandeur than the clerk had ever imagined existed outside the covers of a novel.
"The next morning a servant appeared, an​ nouncing that the gentlemen awaited the clerk's arrival in a remote parlour which they had reserved.
“’Go along, sonny,' his host said, yawning. "I can't be bothered with these people. You go sit down and have a nice chat with 'em, and let 'em get whatever they have on their minds out of the way.'
"’But what do you want me to say to them?'
"’Say as little as possible, I tell you. say, "I must return for further instructions to England.” Yes. That's a nice answer. That can't offend 'em. You say just that, and now and then you might put in, “Gentlemen, you interest me.’"
"Go on.
"The clerk looked at him appealingly, but his host waved him away.
"’Don't ask so many questions. I hired you to talk to people like this. Do as you're told, and you'll be all right.'
“So the clerk went to the remote parlour, and at his entrance the elderly, aristocratic gentlemen arose, bowing most profoundly.
​ "The bewildered clerk leaned his elbows on the table. He wanted to smoke a cigarette, but he thought it might offend the old men. He wanted to say, 'What does bring us together?' Instead he murmured:
"’Gentlemen, you interest me.'
"They smiled at that. They bent closer to him genially. He realised he had made a hit. He determined to use that phrase as often as possible. He had had no idea any one phrase could be so successful. Then his ears tingled. He felt confusion sweep him. He was like a man lost in a deep woods. Some one had said pleasantly:
"’Then perhaps, you will give us your government's terms.'
For a long time he kept his head bent. He didn't answer.
"’Of course we understand,' he heard a voice drone, 'that this conference is quite informal, and that the terms you mention must, to an extent, be considered tentative. Still it is a beginning, an encouraging one. We must begin somewhere. The tentative terms, please.'
"The drumming in his ears increased. He scarcely heard his own voice murmur: Gentlemen, you interest me.' "
This time there was no good-natured response. ​ The others stirred and made no effort to hide their surprise. Clearly something else was demanded off him, so he took courage and completed the recital of his lesson.
"’I must return for further instructions to England.'
"’The others sprang up and paced about the room. They gathered in a corner, evidently consulting. One greybeard approached him with an air of timidity.
“’What has occurred, your excellency? We have heard of no great victory. Yet since you left England something must have occurred. Something must have happened since you arrived last night, when we all spoke of your cheerful attitude.'
"The clerk shook his head. He had only one thought, to escape from that conference about which he knew nothing, yet which was clearly of grave import, concerning matters in which he could have no honest share. He was ready to burst into tears. He arose and made for the door, combining his two phrases in a desperate effort to explain his retreat.
"’Gentlemen, you interest me, but I must return for further instructions to England.'
"He was aware of consternation and whispered astonishment behind him. He stumbled into the ​ private suite and with a'trembling voice demanded some explanation. But his host was more curious as to what had happened at the conference.
When he had got all that from the clerk he rubbed his hands and smiled with satisfaction.
"Just the thing,' he grinned. You did well, my boy. You've got 'em guessing. Now you go on home just as you said you would, and we'll arrange another conference a little later.'
"’Who are these people?' the clerk burst out. ’They treat me as if I was the King or Lloyd-George.’
"’Friends of mine,' his host said airily, 'and they're giving me a pleasant experience. I'd hate to have it lapse.
“So the clerk came back to England, but he couldn't wait to hear from the impressive man. He didn't want a repetition of his glittering holiday. The cold chills were running up and down his back. He came here and told the whole story.
Of course we had to get to the bottom of it. The intelligence department persuaded his flashy host to come here. He's locked up now, but I doubt if we keep him. You see, he's a swindler of international reputation. He was a trifle disappointed to be interfered with, but evidently he'd made something out of his game, and, really, I don't think such a confidence game was ever attempted ​ before. The Austrian government had been his—what do you call it?—his sucker. He had actually approached Vienna, whispering that Great Britain was readier to talk peace than any one knew on the outside. The British government, he said, would discuss tentative terms, but it would have to be done informally and secretly. He was the man to arrange matters, to put the thing through—for a consideration.
“Vienna, to all appearances, actually took that bait. Money was no object. If the swindler would bring the British representative to a neutral country they would send commissioners to confer with him.
"It became necessary for the swindler to find the British plenipotentiary he had agreed to produce. You know how he got him. Poor little chap! He kept his word. He did come to England for further instructions, and he received them—to go back to his desk and forget all about it. I daresay he's there now, bending over figures in a bad light, thinking that a diplomatic career has its drawbacks after all. Meantime the aristocratic commissioners—doubtless they are still waiting."
I knew of two secluded rooms in London about which this business of intelligence centred, and of ​ two men, quiet geniuses, who largely controlled it. If for nothing else than contrast I wanted to see those rooms and those men, for through their inventions England has been pretty completely purged of the spy terror and Germany has been given a spy terror of its own. The thing was arranged. I walked from the smug respectability of the Embankment into the amazing somnolence of Scotland Yard. In the office of a church society one would have found more movement, more irritability, more anxiety. Except for the bobby who strolled away with my card no one was visible.
The man I had come to see sat behind a littered desk. He wore a light alpaca jacket and his necktie was a trifle awry. He had the pleasantest and the sharpest eyes imaginable, which, however, showed something of that strain I was to notice so generally in men's eyes at the front. It was as if, while risking nothing physical himself, he shared the deadly anxiety of his agents at work far from the safety and the quiet of this place. His squarely-cut and powerful features suggested a secretive mind. That at least was in keeping with one's idea of Scotland Yard. The necessity for it, he let me know, was infinitely graver than ever before in the history of British intelligence.
As I talked with the man with the pleasant, ​ sharp, and tired eyes, I had to remind myself that a secret service net covering Great Britain, France, and large portions of the war zone was amenable to his hand.
Sir Roger Casement had been secretly spirited here after that dramatic dawn in Tralee. He had stood there beyond the desk, rather proud than worried. It was impossible not to question how many guilty ones had stood beyond the desk, reading in those tired, quiet, questioning eyes their condemnation to the extreme penalty.
The quiet of the eyes, the quiet of the room, the quiet of the building made such pictures seem incredible. The place offered no appearance of an inquisition, no stagey atmosphere of danger. Now and then a clerk tip-toed in and out, as in any office, leaving more bundles of paper to litter the desk. And yet the room was crowded with shadows. It was full of death.
One thing I carried out of it. In such places there is none of the common contempt for the spy, none of the customary aversion for the degradation of his penalty. Such men find in the stealthy and anonymous heroism of the secret agent something sublime, the most perfect sacrifice.
The Admiralty isn't far from Scotland Yard. That other room was there, that other man who within a few months overcame new conditions ​ and largely laid the foundations for England's success in snaring submarines, in policing the channel, in watching the movements of Zeppelins and Germany's high seas fleet.
One's first impression is quite different over there. The moment you cross the threshold of the Admiralty you face an air of secrecy and mystery. There are policemen to be passed, and you notice civilians who seem to be on some errand, also, but who watch you with too much interest. When your credentials have been examined a guide is furnished, and you need him, for he takes you down steps and up steps, through interminable dim corridors, extricating you from the demands of guards who appear here and there from the obscurity. He leaves you at last in front of a leather-covered door behind which a great silence broods.
The opening of that door alters everything. Dazzling light floods a large room through windows facing the Horse Guards' Parade. A fire burns briskly. There is a solidity about the room and its furnishings that goes with its air of unalterable purpose. Men move about, but immediately one figure catches the attention and holds it. On the padded fender sits a slender, wiry man in the conventional naval uniform. Above his smiling face a broad forehead recedes ​ between fringes of curling hair. Still he looks young, possessed of an abundant vitality. He springs up, smiling a welcome. He lights a cigarette, pacing about the room as he talks. His smile never hides the uninterrupted anxiety of his eyes. That makes him seem at first like the very different figure in the alpaca jacket.
I spoke, I remember, of the trawlers I had seen in St. George's Channel and the Irish Sea—hundreds of tossing trawlers, fishing for submersibles, and, when necessary, making themselves the bait. I had marvelled at the bravery of their sailors. As I watched the smiling, active figure, as I saw the smoke curl from his cigarette, I realised that there are harder tasks, that the assumption of responsibility may be a greater sacrifice, than the risk of one's life. Through the leather door at any moment might slip a tragic reflection of his system; word, perhaps, of many lives lost through a breakdown somewhere.
Certainly this room was too cheerful. It made it more difficult to picture the details of a story I had recently heard—one of those cases about which little is said, because it involves signalling, and the simple word makes any official tongue-tied. Yet it is obvious that the German spies have used that form of communication under favourable conditions. At any rate, not long before a ​ trawler's crew had observed a red flash from a distant headland.
Those who man these filthy craft are largely of the naval reserve class—men out of comfortable homes and convenient clubs. Consequently they bring to their work an exceptional intelligence. They didn't dash in shore in the hope of finding something. The light suggested too many possibilities. Instead, they held their patrol and at the first opportunity reported to the Admiralty. There have been many rumours of a German submarine base hidden away on the shores of the British Isles. The Admiralty, therefore, ordered the trawler to keep about its routine work while an intelligence man with the clothing and accent of the vicinity, appeared in the nearest town. He had to work carefully. Often at night he slipped out and crawled through underbrush and behind the rocks, seeking out that base which the signalling had suggested. He found no indication of a base, no likely cache for supplies. He reported the existence of a cove behind the headland. There was a beach, favourable for the landing of a small boat. The neighbourhood was wild. There was only one house within a radius of several miles. It was occupied by an unkempt old man who had consistently turned back his efforts at an entrance, who had snubbed his attempts to ​ talk. Aside from that there was nothing. Except for the old man, who might be of foreign birth, the people of the neighbourhood were beyond question loyal.
The intelligence officer was recalled, but the trawler was kept on that post just at the edge of the radius of the red light. The commander had a detailed map of the cove and the beach and the headland. He waited.
"That man," he told his crew, can't know his lamp is visible at this distance. Some fine night —"
And one very dark night the red winking came across the water. The clouds were so thick that the commander knew he could sail close to the headland unobserved. He felt, in fact, when he entered the cove that his presence there was quite unsuspected.
This business of waiting in the dark for the shaping of unknown forces into defeat or victory is the hardest portion of the men assigned to intelligence work. The red light no longer showed. Although the boat was not many yards from the beach there was nothing to be seen. There were no sounds beyond the cries of a rising wind. And the minutes lengthened. The commander had reached the conclusion that the affair was founded on a delusion, or else some trick of ​ shrubbery through which the wind permitted an innocent light to gleam intermittently. The men lost their caution, murmuring from time to time. The commander spoke to them sharply. Then a sudden sound aroused the crew. It was magnified in the black silence, suggesting the scraping of a hard object on sand, and after a moment came a guttural laugh, followed by a prolonged hiss for silence.
"Hold that searchlight ready," the commander cautioned. "Not till I give the word. We'll wait a while longer."
A stealthy stroking of oars rewarded him. A small boat was making from the beach for the entrance of the cove. It would have to pass close to the trawler.
"Now!" the commander cried.
And the light flashed out, circling the cove with a white eagerness, catching at last at the end of its ray a collapsible boat filled with men. The men stared up at the trawler open-mouthed. One cursed in German. Another laughed foolishly in a feminine note. The commander couldn't believe his ears, for a third commenced to sing a rollicking chanty.
They knew they were caught. They permitted themselves to be lined up on the deck of the trawler while the commander examined their col​ lapsible. It held nothing except the oars. There wasn't an indication that it had ever been used to carry supplies. The commander turned to the line of prisoners. He noticed that his own men glanced at them with curiosity. He went closer, questioning. He was met by that absurd laugh. The song recommenced.
"What is this?” he asked.
His second in command strolled up to him.
"Most of these men, sir, are drunk. Ah, there goes that light again."
The commander turned sharply. The light didn't flash from the headland. It was far down the beach. It went out. Its purpose was clear. It had warned away a submarine to which these men belonged, to which they had started to row in their boat.
The commander lighted a cigar, relieved to be able to smoke again. He knew, because of the shifting of the light, it might be impossible to implicate the unkempt man on the headland who by this time must have destroyed every evidence. On the other hand the intelligence department would be grateful to the commander for he could say definitely now that there was no submarine base in this secluded cove, that it had never sheltered any serious plot. The amazing truth cried itself from the grinning faces of the line ​