Four weeks later the eight agents went before a military tribunal, and then that same day to the electric chair. Except for two: the ones who had turned themselves in to the FBI and betrayed their comrades only got prison sentences. But that too Josef only read about years later. Back then it was supposed to look like Hoover and his clever men at the FBI had done it all on their own, without the help of any defecting agents.

Another article. He’d felt a bit sick after reading this one. Three American sailors and one British sailor offered to shoot the condemned agents to spare the US government the cost of the electricity needed for the execution. But the government wasn’t about to let this opportunity get away.

24

New York, July 1939

HE STOOD IN FOLEY SQUARE, AND LIKE A SHIP IN A ROUGH sea he was buffeted by the people surging past him, while the stock-still buildings seemed to accept him as one of their own. Before him stood the white, broad courthouse building with columns and stairs leading up it—a grand majestic temple. The FBI had its offices here. He tried to seem like a tourist, opened up a map, looked at the small park just north of the square, folded the map up again.

His life too could be folded up like a piece of paper and tucked into someone’s pocket, some officer, some agent. He had decided he would come down here, but this time it was only to look, no pressure. As a result he was very calm. He took breaths, felt the sun on his nose. He would start working for Arthur again next week, would get to print things like AMERICA FOR WHITE PEOPLE again. He did, after all, need a job that the IRS considered legit—manning a radio terminal for German intelligence didn’t fit that bill.

He turned his gaze toward the entrance. Imagined himself climbing the wide front steps, being intercepted by a doorman.

How can I help you?

I’d like to report something to the FBI.

He didn’t want to think any further than that. He turned away from the building. No, he thought. Not today.

He started walking south through flickering sunlight. Extravagant summer hats floated past, the smell of perfume and suntan lotion. He walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, feeling its heavy vibrations, while below him a sailboat plowed through the water. Arthur had spoken once of secret offices just north of Red Hook. He had mentioned names, but Josef couldn’t remember them. They could set you up with new papers. A new name and everything. He left the bridge and turned down Old Fulton Street, past rows of identical brownstones.