The Counterfeit Consul

By JR Rogers

1916 – Gerard Le Caillec, a French intelligence officer with the Foreign Intelligence Section is trying to rescue his moribund career. In a calculated move he applies, and is selected, for an assignment his superior warns could become a career enhancing proposition or quite possibly the end of his career.

It is April 1916 and Le Caillec is sailing to New York City to take over the position of overseas resident officer. His mission hatched in Paris is to set in motion a sabotage operation, the destruction of armament warehouses on a Hoboken, New Jersey pier.

Set against a portrait of prewar New York City, WWI is raging in Europe but America is still neutral. The spymasters in the French capital want to pressure the Americans to put an end to their highly profitable practice of manufacturing munitions for the Germans, which are in turn being used against them on the battlefields of Europe. Operating out of the Upper East Side French consulate on Fifth Avenue, Le Caillec has his sights set on recruiting a bankrupt young French-American investment banker named Armand Barsoum to place the explosives on the docks.

Recently immigrated to New York from Paris, Barsoum is an inveterate handicapper and crippled by a crushing debt owed to a notorious bookie known as the ‘meanest man in New York.’ Le Caillec extorts Barsoum’s help by agreeing to pay off his markers and to stand behind any further losses. But Barsoum balks. He wants to become an American citizen but worries his extorted cooperation by French intelligence will lead to his discovery as a saboteur and jeopardize both his immigration application and his employment in the ‘white shoe’ firm that employs him.

But just as the plot is finally taking shape the Military Attaché at the Imperial German Consulate learns of it from a romantic interest of Barsoum’s, and makes immediate plans to deal with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Rogers
• Release date: Jun 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458122155

JR Rogers

J.R. Rogers is a literary historical thriller novelist. He has written eight novels of espionage, intrigue & romance. His latest is To Live Another Day. He also writes short stories a number of which have been published in various soft cover and/or online publications. He lives in southern California.

Book preview

THE COUNTERFEIT CONSUL

a novel

J.R. Rogers

The Counterfeit Consul

J.R. Rogers

Copyright 2011 by J. R. Rogers 2011

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced in any form without written permission

from the author, except that brief quotations embodied

in critical articles and reviews are permitted.

Cover design by Dave Fymbo

This is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people,

living or dead; and real events, business, organizations,

and locales are intended only to give the fiction a

sense of reality and authenticity.

All names, characters, places, and incidents either are

the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts

is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Gerard Le Caillec, short in stature, dark-haired and urbane, arrived by taxi early Monday morning for work at a Paris address on the Quai d’Orsay. The last few moments of the trip had been uncomfortable as usual, the dilapidated Berliet rattling its way over the cobblestones of the narrow, one-way street. Halfway down the quai the driver pulled over in front of a Haussmann-inspired, six story sandstone building. Ornate wrought-iron balconies fronted each high window that faced out over the grey, frigid waters of the river Seine.

The unmarked building occupied a quarter of the block between the Pont d’Iena and the Passerelle Debilly then wrapped itself around the corner and up the avenue de la Bourdonnais. It stood dwarfed in the shadow of the iconic Eiffel Tower that loomed massive, dark, and gargantuan over the quays of the seventh and adjoining arrondissements. Before he left the cab, and exposed himself to the bitter cold and windswept morning, Le Caillec had thrust some coins at the driver. He told him to keep the change and left the drafty taxi behind. He heard the engine roar then accelerate as the cab pulled away and disappeared down the street. It was December 1915.

Le Caillec clutched a slim and worn dark leather satchel as he stepped onto the frost-covered sidewalk and passed through a wooden double door into the dim, dreary lobby of an overheated, institutional building. After Gerard tugged off his calfskin gloves and had begun to unbutton his overcoat, he heard the guard call out to him.

Monsieur. Your identification card.

The request was direct and strict and Gerard looked up surprised. He expected to see the usual, friendly uniformed guard up in his box several feet off the floor. They often exchanged pleasantries. Annoyed at the new man calling him to task, he rummaged inside the breast pocket of his suit. He approached the inspection post and handed up a tan identity card with a tacked on photograph. After he was told to remove his hat, so the guard could make a more complete identification, the card was dangled back over the side of the high desk and Gerard was passed through.

As he returned the card to his wallet, he marveled again, as he did periodically, at all of the lies that had come with the job. He was Gerard Le Caillec all right, though everything else on the card was pure nonsense. To his parents, his friends, his landlord, the police, and even to the government taxing authority, he was a manager with the Paris-based import-export firm, the Société Générale d’Outre-Mer. In fact, Le Caillec was not a businessman at all, any more than anyone else in the empty building that morning. He was a government employee and, for the last six years, he had been attached to the Foreign Intelligence Section, whose international focus was to collect, by whatever means, strategic information necessary to safeguard the French Republic.

Minutes later, Gerard exited the elevator on the third floor, thanked the sleepy operator, and walked down a long, empty corridor where the wood floor shined from its weekend polishing. A cheerless winter light struggled to penetrate the tall window at the end of the hall. It overlooked the spray of jewels that was the city of Paris and, in the distance, the round, brick colored concert hall of the Palais du Trocadéro with its elaborate Moorish towers. Le Caillec arrived finally at door number thirty-nine. The darkened suite was a warren of claustrophobic passageways and dismal small offices, each with its own ground-glass door. He was the first one in so he switched on the lights. After he hung his coat, scarf and hat on the central coat rack, Gerard was soon behind his desk in his cramped office with his jacket unbuttoned. He had just placed his satchel on his lap when he heard a voice in the reception area calling his name.

Monsieur Le Caillec? Bonjour? Are you in?

Yes. I’m here. Give me a moment, said Gerard as he called out to the unseen voice. Mystified, he hurried toward the front. Waiting for him was a tall, thin man in a dark suit whom Gerard had noticed in the building, but had never been introduced to.

Bonjour Monsieur, I’m Philippe. He used only his first name, a requirement at headquarters. The man extended his hand. His expression, eager with professional interest, suggested meeting Gerard that morning meant more to him than the dozens of other hands he might have clasped that week.

Hello, Philippe." Gerard moved to shake Philippe’s hand.

So, Gerard, Marcel, and I would like to meet with you upstairs for a little while, if you don’t mind. It’s about the New York City assignment in which you were interested. I wanted to take a moment to stop by and meet you first.

Of course, yes. Thank you for coming by. Give me just a moment. His mind leapt at once to the long memorandum he had sent weeks earlier. He had written to Marcel, the chief of the division, asking to be considered for the new posting as Overseas Resident Officer in New York City. As he returned to his office to lock his door, Gerard remained puzzled by Philippe. He had never seen the man anywhere near the department, nor for that matter on the third floor. Gerard shrugged to himself and reasoned he was probably a member of Marcel’s staff.

Out in the hall with Philippe on their way upstairs, Gerard locked the outer door then made a show of tugging and pushing on the doorknob to ensure it was closed. It was not an insincere effort to display his concern for security. Then they turned left and walked as far as the elevators. Gerard found it awkward to keep up with his escort who strode quickly ahead of him. In the elevator he watched the operator move the bronze handle over to send them up to the fourth floor. He had just enough time to straighten his cravat and brush off his lapels. When the cage door slid open, Gerard could see a corridor that he had seen no more than a half a dozen times. He remembered the chief’s well-appointed office suite was situated halfway down on the left. The hall door was identical to his downstairs, though as they crossed inside all resemblance ended.

It was a large anteroom, carpeted in dark green, paneled in faux mahogany, and decorated with framed reproductions on the wall. A stern receptionist sat behind a desk as Philippe waved Gerard toward a leather sofa and turned to the older woman.

Will you tell him we’re here?

She nodded primly, got to her feet and disappeared down a passageway.

Gerard checked his watch again and saw it was now almost seven-thirty. He was nervous as he anticipated meeting Marcel to discuss with him the American assignment. Tense, and unable to focus, his mind wandered. He wondered about the telephones ringing somewhere behind the paneled walls. The suite of adjoining offices he knew were the nerve center of all operations in the Americas. Given the time differences, he knew they were manned twenty-four hours a day. He calculated it would still be the middle of the night on the North American continent. The call for them came moments later, the receptionist standing at the entrance to the passageway.

He’s ready now, she said gesturing toward an unseen door.

Gerard and Philippe rose together. Gerard tugged at his suit coat to make sure his jacket was buttoned as he passed first in front of the woman, followed by the man in the dark suit. There was an open paneled door at the far end as the three walked over the green carpeting toward it. Gerard remembered the door from his first meeting with Marcel and how nervous he had been the day he was hired. The man who sat behind the large mahogany desk as the two walked in was bent over a thick file. Gerard watched him look up, his expression full of concern, as the secretary closed the door behind them. It had been many months since he had sat in the chief’s office and Gerard thought Marcel looked tired that morning.

He was older and taller than he was with a narrow, thin face that labored to support an oversized pair of horn-rimmed glasses with thick frames. Most everything about Marcel always reminded Gerard of a former university professor, if he discounted the three-piece sack suit with the wide lapels. What was missing, remembered Gerard with little effort, were the chalk covered fingers and the untrimmed nails.

Bonjour, Gerard. How’s it going? said Marcel.

There was the same wry, cautious smile Gerard remembered from their last meeting. It was a smile that masked a mind as sharp as a cutthroat razor. Marcel reached across his desk to shake hands.

Very well, thank you, sir, said Gerard as they shook.

Marcel nodded at Philippe, and then waved them both toward a beige, button-backed sofa that faced his desk.

Good.

He sounded pleased.

You look well this morning, Gerard. I assume Philippe told you why you’re here?

Yes sir, he did. It’s about my request to be considered for the New York City assignment.

Yes, Monsieur understands why he’s here, Marcel, said Philippe.

Alright. By the way, Gerard, Philippe here is our chief of Special Plans, said Marcel. He gestured toward him.

Gerard nodded his head in disbelief. He was so stunned by the revelation he turned to glance at Philippe to confirm it. He knew of Special Plans, just as any intelligence officer in the building would have, though he wondered why the man was there. Special Plans was the most secretive of all the departments. They planned foreign operations and ensured, both during and after, they were executed per internal directive. It was unheard of for someone to acknowledge they even worked there because their work was so secret. Gerard had met a few Special Plans men in his career, every Overseas Resident Officer had at some point, though they hardly made themselves conspicuous. As he re-arranged himself on the sofa, Gerard concluded Philippe’s presence at the meeting could only serve to confirm he was a serious contender for the New York City assignment.

I have your dossier here, Gerard, began Marcel as if reading over a warrant. He tapped for emphasis a page with his index finger then glanced over at him.

It was quiet in the chief’s office as Gerard, uneasy in his presence, listened and watched. Outside, in the corridors of the secret building it would be different by now, he knew, as legions of tight-lipped intelligence officers and their noisy staffs reported for work.

Marcel settled back into his seat and adjusted his glasses then glanced back down at the file. I was just going over your history again, he began. You joined us six years ago. Then, let’s see. He turned some pages. Yes, here we are. Two field assignments, Prague and Frankfurt. Commendable reviews, he read. Good tradecraft, good instincts, no security issues, no personal matters.

Gerard wondered whether it was all for show or whether the chief, after having read his memorandum, had forgotten who he was and had just now found time to bring himself up to date.

Marcel looked up all of a sudden. Still not a married man? he asked, clearing his throat, the cautious smile very much in evidence.

No, sir. Gerard couldn’t decide whether he cared, or was being polite.

Just as well in this business, he muttered as he shook his head. Frankly, there are way too many lies to tell. Marcel went back to his reading. His right hand moved back and forth as he flipped pages over in the dossier. Occasionally something would catch his eye and he would stop to read before moving on. And you’ve studied English, speak it well and passed our examination with flying colors, he commented without expecting an answer. Commendable, under the circumstances, for a former central European officer.

Gerard looked over at the bald pate on his lowered head and said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Philippe seated next to him begin to stir as he waited for the chief to come around to the point of their meeting.

So, Gerard, he said at last as he looked up. Now you wish to try your hand at something new, am I correct?

Yes, very much, said Gerard. He sat up sharply on the edge of the sofa and, as if to assert his impatience, shot his cuffs and wished the man would get on with it. He glanced as he re-arranged himself at the two, large yellow oilskin maps tacked on the wall behind Marcel. There was a tall, paned window in between them, the flax-colored curtains drawn and muting the wintry morning light. The corner view down the quay, he remembered, was unremarkable and not the dramatic view of the bridges and the river he would have wished for himself. The map on the left was of North America, the other a combined Central and South American one. In the right-hand corner of the room stood a French flag in a bronze stand that looked as if it had not been unfurled in years. Tucked out of sight, was a narrow door with a brass doorknob he guessed led to a washroom.

Very well. Before I begin let me inform you that you are on the short list for this posting. Having said that, and before we make a final decision, I want you to understand what you’re getting yourself into. Of course, Gerard, you’ll forget everything you hear this morning if you are not the successful candidate. Do I make myself clear?

Gerard nodded. Of course, Monsieur.

Good. There was a moment of silence as if Marcel was setting up the facts in his mind. Then, he began. You see, Gerard, he said, as he made himself more comfortable in his chair, we have a problem with the Americans. This war with the Germans, as you know, threatens to consume us. It is a conflict spreading across Europe and it threatens to become a world war. It threatens our Republic, but also our way of life as well, and perhaps even that of our children. The Germans will stop at nothing until they have reached Paris and destroyed us. Nothing. I’m sure you have read about their atrocious behavior toward civilians in Belgium and northern France. It’s all ghastly and simply horrible. However, you see, our American friends, Woodrow Wilson, his Vice-President Monsieur Marshall, Monsieur Lansing with their Department of State, all seemed inclined to continue their bull-headed policy of neutrality. This leads me back to our problem. For some time now, the Germans have been busy buying war materials from the Americans: ammunition, explosives, shells, and things of that nature. In private, I’m certain Wilson realizes these materials will be used to kill our soldiers on the battlefield, but he remains inclined to keep the United States out of this conflict of ours in Europe. Are you with me, so far? asked Marcel.

Oui. Absolutely, said Gerard. His readings into the American situation over the past several months has been quite thorough, though he was certain he hadn’t read anything about the Germans buying munitions in America. Gerard knew about their purchases of agricultural commodities, raw materials, blankets and boots, but munitions? It was an interesting revelation and one that began to worry him at once. He recognized right away that his closeted, unassigned position in the North American branch had insulated him from the hard, actionable intelligence that flowed from the two French intelligence offices in Washington and New York.

Marcel grunted, reached for a packet of Caporal supérieur, shook one out, and lit it with a square-shaped yellow gold lighter. He reached out his arm over the desk with the pack in his hand, offered one to Gerard and when he declined, dropped the cigarettes back on his desk. He took a long moment to think as he puffed with satisfaction behind a cloud of smoke. Then, all at once, came to the point of the meeting.

Gerard, we have developed a plan that we hope will help to change the minds of the Americans. Philippe, seated next to you, and his staff, have put together an operation that others who are higher than I am and I, have approved. This is a plan that calls for the sabotage of German ammunition manufactured in America and paid for by the Germans. These munitions sit, sometimes for weeks, on a dock in the New York harbor where they wait to be transported to Germany. As approved, this clandestine operation is to be a one-time action on our part. Our intent here, Gerard, is to awaken the American public to the carnage being perpetrated in Europe. It is carnage, I might add, that grows worse by the day and all with the help of our American friends who proclaim themselves a neutral nation. You see, our goal is simple, Gerard: have the United States enter the war, or stop manufacturing German munitions if they won’t. We want to pressure Wilson to join the Allies. It should have happened already, but that’s another story. Most Americans, you see, have no idea they are already helping Germany in this fashion. Our feeling here is that once the results of this sabotage operation are reported in the press, and the American public and the politicians learn about the situation, they will ask themselves why. After all, if they are a neutral country, why is this sort of thing encouraged and allowed? We know, of course, there are American companies who profit from this arrangement. There will be an outcry and all sorts of objections if this source of income dries up. The capitalists from Wall Street will be the most vocal, of course. The manufacturers may converge on Capitol Hill, and God-knows who else will demand to be heard. So, as you can imagine, this is an important and strategic assignment. He was quiet for a moment, he drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched Gerard, and considered whether the man was up to the task.

Now, Gerard, as planned by Philippe, this will be an anonymous act of sabotage, he continued. We don’t intend on leaving a calling card behind and the Americans can blame who they want. He shrugged his shoulders. I don’t care, he said sounding like a cross schoolboy. The Boche will make a stink about it, you can bet on that, though I don’t believe they’ll get far with Washington. So, Gerard, I’ll say no more at this point. Frankly, I’ve said all I can. I trust you understand this is a serious business. You should know our current officer in New York had begun to move things along, but he is being recalled. It will be the new man’s job to take over and finish the job. Believe me, Monsieur, when I tell you this will be either a career enhancing proposition or, perhaps, the end of your career.

There was a long, anti-climactic bout of silence. Gerard was uncomfortable, unsure whether to attempt a question or two, or sit in silence and reflect on the enormity of the assignment for which he was qualifying. He was pleased his government was trying to push the Americans into entering the war, though he wondered about the heavy-handed means. It had, as usual, all the distinguishing and disruptive characteristics of a typical intelligence service operation.

Gerard had been reading more and more about the Americans and their vast country with its immigrant populace. Most of all, he tried to understand their belligerent attitude toward entering the war that he knew was tied to their policy of neutrality. His frame of reference was limited admittedly, but he was determined the Americans should become involved in what was becoming a European war. While his opinion touched many sympathetic ears outside of work, he was careful not to let his views come to the attention of management. He feared if they did, that they could jeopardize his position. Now, he was being considered to enable and direct a monumental act of sabotage that might forever change the course of the war. It was way beyond anything he might have imagined for himself. Yet it was obvious the two saw something in him that had captured their imagination. Gerard wrestled with what he knew, and pondered what it was in his background that could have led them to conclude he was the man for the job.

Gerard Le Caillec was thirty-five in 1915, with a diploma in romance languages from a Catholic university. Besides his native French, he spoke fluent Italian, Spanish and Portuguese and, for the last several months, had been busy polishing his English. It was a language that had begun to interest him several years ago after he began a relationship with an English woman in Frankfurt, his last foreign assignment. Over the years, he had continued to study the language and was now almost fluent. Though he believed he was well-regarded as an intelligence officer, he had struggled in quiet desperation for the last six years to have himself promoted to the rank of senior officer. Reflecting on it, as he did increasingly, he concluded that in the often exclusive, and obviously clubby world of French intelligence, one’s pedigree and friendships mattered as much, or more, than education and professional experience.

First, he was not a Parisian, but from Brittany. The former independent Celtic kingdom, with its separatist black and white flag, unofficial Breton language, and superstitious people was not often a recruiting ground for the Foreign Intelligence Section. Nor was he a Sorbonne graduate, the elite institution most favored by bureaucrats destined for higher office in the intelligence world.

During his years with the Central European division Gerard had undertaken two foreign assignments: a first one to Prague and then to Frankfurt am Mein, attached in both instances to the consulates of France. In both cases, he was under official cover as a vice-consul for commercial affairs, posing as a member of the French diplomatic mission. However, secretly he was charged with recruiting agents whose information and insight could be bought or extorted and prove useful to the security of the Republic. Realizing he might have more of an opportunity for advancement, Le Caillec requested, and was granted, a transfer to the North American branch of the North and South American division. Le Caillec had gambled that a change in operational focus might help his stagnant career. Months later, now installed in the branch, but unassigned to a specific desk, he spent his days reading and reviewing dispatches from the American field offices.

You know, Gerard, said Philippe breaking the silence, this is the sort of opportunity that only comes along once in a man’s career here at the Foreign Intelligence Section. I’ve looked back at your tours in Europe, and some of your work. Marcel and I believe this is the sort of thing that might interest you.

Yes, I’m very interested in the United States. It sounds like a challenging assignment, said Gerard at once as he nodded at the chief and turned to Philippe. Anxious, Gerard caught himself nervously rubbing his chin and willed himself to stop because he feared his behavior would betray him. He guessed, without knowing if he was successful in New York that his long, tedious years would be over as a low-level officer. He suspected his promotion to senior officer would become a foregone conclusion; even a double promotion to a department head might be in the offing. Such things, he had heard, had happened before. He wet his dry, chapped lips as he tried to project a thoughtful and professional bearing.

The chief stared at him through thick lenses that amplified and distorted his gaze. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and broke the silence. Alors, Gerard. Do you wish to be considered for the assignment?

Yes sir, he said as he nodded. I very much want to be considered.

Good, he said. Very good. Well, we’ve given you something to think about, haven’t we? He closed the file heavily and proceeded to stub out his cigarette with meticulous detail. Finished, he rose slowly for the first time while his chair rolled back unassisted.

Yes, you have, said Gerard smiling broadly as he stood. It’s really quite an important assignment. He worried he might have overplayed the enthusiasm in his voice. I’m very pleased that you are considering me. He saw Philippe next to him uncross his leg and prepare to stand.

Marcel came around to the side of his desk and removed his glasses. Gerard, it was such a pleasure seeing you again, he said in a patronizing tone. I hear nothing but good things about you. Keep up the good work. We’ll get you overseas soon enough.

Gerard moved toward the chief and they met halfway. Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Monsieur, he said. He shook Marcel’s hand and looked up at him, his face drawn and determined.

Au contraire, said Marcel with his cautious smile as he twirled his glasses down at his side. It is I who should applaud your initiative in coming forward. Then he moved back, slid his left hand into his pocket, and replaced his glasses. We’ll be in touch soon, Monsieur. Philippe, will you show Monsieur to the door?

Chapter 2

After Philippe returned to Marcel’s office, he unbuttoned his jacket and made himself comfortable on the sofa. He watched Marcel pick up the phone, dial the caterer, and order coffee.

Can I get you something? he asked as he placed his hand over the mouthpiece.

Philippe shook his head. Non merci.

After Marcel hung up the instrument, he leaned back in his chair. Well, what do you think?

I think he’s very interested, said Philippe right away. I was trying to watch him. Maybe you intimidated him, too. I couldn’t be sure, it was just an impression.

The chief chuckled, delighted. Intimidate? Nonsense. If he can’t take that, what good will he be to us in New York? I think he wants that promotion so much he’d put on a uniform and go and fight the Germans himself. You read his memo. Not much of a personality, however . . .

Good at hiding his emotions, suggested Philippe finishing his sentence. Valuable trait for a field officer. Someone out at St. Cyr must have trained him well.

But can he be trusted to do the job? asked Marcel? He coughed. He looked over at Philippe, his eyebrows arched. I’m still not sure.

Well, you have my memorandum, said Philippe in an offhand manner. He glanced at his watch. I don’t think there’s much of a risk there. We know whom we’re dealing with. It’s all straightforward in my mind.

Maybe in yours, but not in mine, grumbled Marcel. I’m losing sleep over it. He removed his glasses, dug around until he found his pocket-handkerchief, breathed on the lenses, then polished them with vigor one at a time. You know, Philippe, he said starting up again. It’s difficult for me to accept that in an organization the size of ours the best we can do is Gerard Le Caillec, a lousy Breton at that.

Philippe chuckled accustomed to the chief speaking his mind. He watched Marcel examine his handiwork before mounting the glasses back on his nose.