The Secret Agent (3 page)

To fool the enemy, Erickson needed two things: acting skills and entree. A Brooklyn-born Nazi wasn't going to be an easy sell. He'd attended one of America's finest universities, his brother had fought the Germans during World War I, and most of his wife's family spoke out against the Nazis. Erickson was going to have to convince the people of Stockholm and beyond that he'd sincerely converted to fascism. His survival depended on it.

In the early 1940s, Stockholm was an insular city whose social life still revolved around age-old traditions. Local worthies wore silk top hats to public gatherings, and it was almost
de rigeur
to own a boat and sail the archipelago. But the capital was undergoing a schizophrenic reaction to the war. Pro-Nazi parties openly advocated for a Hitler-friendly government, their rallies in the local concert halls drawing thousands of supporters. At the same time, many Swedes were firmly against Hitler and the Nazis. The country had given asylum to some 8,000 Danish Jews destined for Berkinau and Auschwitz, and did its best to protect them throughout the war. King Gustav V sent letters to Berlin, pleading with the Reich to treat its Jews more humanely. Many Stockholmers wanted England and its allies to win the war. One popular joke said that “when it rains in London, Stockholmers immediately pull out their umbrellas.”

There were clear social and political boundaries between the two camps, and in the early ‘40s, Eric Erickson was inching farther and farther across the invisible line that separated the liberals of Stockholm from the Hitlerites.

In the beginning, to build his new identity and to spread his name among the German expat community, the spy orchestrated several small deals with Berlin businessmen living in Sweden. He attended receptions and parties at the German embassy—glittering affairs where he chatted up luminaries like Wilhelm Kortner, a high-ranking official who was rumored to be the personal representative in Sweden of Heinrich Himmler. Before long Erickson could be spotted at Stockholm's best restaurants, giving Hitler salutes to his new friends as they joined him for dinner. He was heard laughing at their viciously anti-Semitic jokes (including the ones that referred to Jews as
Judesvin
, or “Jewish swine”) and making unconscious “slips” where he revealed a growing enchantment with
Mein Kampf
. Erickson always made sure that these slips happened with one or more Germans in earshot.

It was not until one of his new Berlin friends sponsored him for membership in the German Chamber of Commerce that Erickson's pro-Nazism became more than a rumor. Erickson showed up at every meeting. He listened intently to the speeches and tried to understand how Nazis saw the outside world; how they spoke and flirted and did business; what they valued and what they despised. He was especially fascinated by the Gestapo men that came through Stockholm and enjoyed long, leisurely dinners with their fellow Germans. “Some of the SS men were rather decent people,” Erickson remembered, “except for the fact that they believed in Hitler and all that he stood for: murder and treachery.”

Though entry into German circles came relatively easy, Erickson sensed there was something missing in his performance. Every imposter needs a prop, not just to fool his enemies, but for his own immersion in the role—a kind of psychological totem. One afternoon, Erickson went shopping at an art store in Stockholm, browsed the aisles, and returned home with a package under his arm. He unwrapped his purchase and carefully mounted it above the fireplace in his study, where his new friends were sure to see it. Once it was up, Erickson stepped back to eye it from across the room. The edges were straight. The glow of the fire flickered across the oiled surface, lending the object a lambent warmth. Erickson smiled. It was perfect.

The portrait of Adolf Hitler would hang in his study until the end of the war.

As Erickson made progress in his transformation into a Nazi, he was failing miserably as a secret agent. Talk at parties and Chamber of Commerce meetings was spiced with references to Göring and Hess, but no introductions were forthcoming. There were tantalizing references to new oil plants being built in Germany, but few specifics. Erickson tried to pursue the leads but got nowhere; the diplomats and businessmen who'd become his friends turned out to be too far from the action. Erickson realized that his real work was in Berlin and not in this distant, frozen capital.

It became increasingly difficult to keep up the charade of being a Nazi. Erickson had already destroyed his good name, and for what? He was a non-factor in the war. He hadn't passed a single bit of actionable intelligence to the Allies. He traveled to Germany occasionally, but met only with his old contacts, who let him tour the same refineries over and over again. He couldn't get meetings with the officials who controlled the major oil contracts. Without those contracts, he had no excuse to visit the factories. And without those visits, he couldn't tell the Allies where to bomb.

Erickson didn't give up. He showed up religiously at pro-Nazi dinners at popular Stockholm restaurants, where he soaked up the latest Wehrmacht gossip—who in the High Command was up and who was down, whose wife had a drinking problem or difficulty keeping her dresses on—while trying to ignore the disapproving gazes of former friends. The American had time on his hands to parse the reactions of his ex-pals, and he found the varieties of disgust fascinating. Some Swedes looked at him in horror, believing he'd fallen under the spell of
Mein Kampf
. They spotted him and quickly looked away, the blood draining from their faces. But the more sophisticated of his former friends would often catch his eye and offer a discreet smile or a nod. It took a few weeks for Erickson to figure out what was happening; eventually, he heard a piece of gossip that explained those lingering glances. These men weren't fooled. Erickson was no National Socialist. Instead, they believed, Erickson was carrying out the long-range plot of ingratiating himself with the Hitlerites in case of a German invasion of Sweden, or a Nazi victory in the war. If either of those things happened, not only would Erickson be protected, he would vault to the top of the Swedish oil business. Erickson found the stares of these highly intelligent men–which said,
I almost wish I could do what you're doing, old man
–harder to take than the stricken looks of those who considered him a monster.

He grew depressed. His mission felt spectral; he seemed to be an actor in a one-man play with no audience. More than once he thought of quitting.

Tikander and the American handlers were carefully monitoring his progress, but they had other pressing business, sources that were actually producing information. Erickson followed his own instincts, receiving little guidance from the OSS as he built his cover identity. He wondered why he'd received no specific instructions. At one point, months into his mission, a letter did arrive by messenger at his Stockholm apartment, with no return address. Erickson opened the envelope:

“Erickson:

The deal you discussed with Laurence seems to be going nicely. The commission arrangement you suggested is acceptable: five per cent to yourself and two percent to each of your two associates. This is to assure you that we have been moving ahead at our end and are keeping track of all developments with keen interest. We expect it to prove profitable for all concerned. Keep up the good work and count on our full cooperation …

Best wishes,

Richard”

The American smiled, feeling a surge of gratitude. The message appeared to be an ordinary note from a business contact, one of the dozens he received monthly as the owner of his company. But he'd never met “Richard,” and doubted he even existed. The letter was a cleverly-worked message from the OSS, telling him they approved of his work. If it had been intercepted, no one except Erickson and the man who sent it would be able to glean its true meaning. Erickson read the note again, then took it to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. For a brief moment he felt like a genuine spy.

Every few months, he received another note from Richard, telling him that “the deal” was progressing nicely. Twice his phone rang and a man with an American accent identified himself with the same code-name. He told Erickson to proceed, and to remain patient.

To catch Berlin's eye, Erickson needed a partner, someone who could provide entree to the powerful cliques that controlled German business. Soon he and the OSS settled on a possible candidate: Prince Carl Gustaf Oscar Frederick Christian Bernadotte, nephew of King Gustav V and brother-in-law of Belgium's King Leopold, the bloody-minded imperialist of the Congo. The prince was a striking young man in his late 20s, already making a name for himself as a bit of an oddball, a thrill-seeker, and a libertine (many of Erickson's friends were playboys in the old-world, “I-own-a-chateau-in-the-Côte-d'Azur” sense).

Prince Carl—his family called him
Mulle—
was the youngest child and only son born to Prince Carl of Sweden and Princess Ingeborg of Denmark, scion of a family that had ruled Sweden since 1818. He stood fifth in line to the throne. Carl was almost but not quite movie-star handsome, with a long aquiline nose and slicked-back hair in the style of Errol Flynn. In school, he studied business, became fluent in Esperanto, and served as an officer in a cavalry company. In his teens and early 20s, Carl developed a reputation for wildness. “There were traditional princely incidents of motor accidents following erratic driving,” said the UK
Telegraph
diplomatically
,
implying either that Carl liked to drink or was just plain reckless. He was impulsive, perhaps a little spoiled, and not afraid of stirring up controversy. Later in life, he and a friend marched into the headquarters of the Stockholm Criminal Investigation Department to report they'd just seen a “flying saucer.” Carl and his friend, a film director, were driving along when the UFO lit up the sky with a burning light. The prince immediately stopped the car and opened the door to listen. His report, which caused a sensation, was “instantly classified” and the Swedish General Staff launched an investigation into the matter. They concluded that the prince and his friend had seen a fireball, if they'd seen anything at all.

By the time he was being considered for the Erickson plot, Carl had managed to get himself barred from any consideration of becoming king, due to his misadventures in love. In 1933, the prince had set out on a trip around the world. During his port of call in the Netherlands, he was rumored to have fallen for Princess Julia, heir to the Dutch throne, whose family was desperate for a Protestant male groom to take the reins of state. The feeling was mutual. But something broke down, either the romance itself or negotiations between the two families. The relationship ended and in 1937. The prince then sealed his fate by marrying a divorcee, the daughter of the Master of Ceremonies at the ancient Swedish court. Because his bride was a commoner, Prince Carl had to relinquish his claim to the throne. Like King Edward VIII before him, Carl had traded the crown for love. He would go on to divorce his wife and remarry twice more: once to a builder's daughter, and finally to a maid.

Despite his eccentricities, Prince Carl was widely admired by the Swedish people. His “adventurous spirit and total lack of pomposity” was a relief from the remote, austere figures of King Gustav V. In recruiting him, the OSS must have reasoned that a more sober and well-established royal might not have been available to impersonate a Nazi.

The prince quickly agreed to join the plot, and the OSS began spreading rumors that he was not only a black sheep of the King's family, but a Hitler sympathizer. They carefully chose the time and place for the prince's coming-out party: one afternoon at the veranda cafe of the imposing five-star Grand Hotel that looks out over the Prussian blue waters of Lake Mälaren. Erickson invited Carl for lunch with a group of his German friends. Stockholmers gaped as the prince sat down with the crème de la crème of the city's pro-Nazi elite and began chatting about some of his favorite things: horses, sailboats, skiing. It was, for right-thinking Swedes, an omen and a disgusting spectacle. One man at a nearby table called over a waiter and asked to be moved away from the Prince's group.

In one stroke, Erickson become not only a collaborator, but a corrupter of Swedish nobility. But in espionage terms, it was a coup.

Together, he and the prince began courting local Germans, looking for a way into Hitler's inner circle. Watching the Nazis mingle, boasting loudly of what was happening back in the home country, the spy realized something that would prove essential to his mission: The Nazis were very, very vain. “I wouldn't have been able to do it without Carl,” Erickson said, “because we found out quickly that the Nazis loved the idea of dining with royalty. They were snobs, but most of them didn't come from the fine Germany families. When I helped them get their names in the papers, saying they were seen with So-and-So, they were very happy. So they fell for Carl straight away.” To that end, Erickson began playing to the Nazis' egos, inviting them to the city's hotspots, where he arranged for the prince to drop by their table for a glass of whiskey. “It always seemed that when we had these lunches, some photographer would always come by at the right moment, and a picture was taken showing the prince with his new friend.” The SS man would hurry back to Berlin with the photo tucked in his leather suitcase: The prince, the charming American businessman and the Nazi, their smiles loosened by several glasses of Glenlivet.

But the masquerade came at a price. With every German friend he made, another Swedish one dropped away, muttering curses. When he showed up at his favorite restaurant, Bellmansro's on DjurgÃ¥rden Island, people turned their backs on him. “When we went out, nobody wanted anything to do with us.” Stockholm was tense. Norway and Denmark had been occupied, an invasion of Sweden was a real possibility and reports of atrocities involving Jews and political prisoners trickled in over the radio waves. So Erickson and his royal consort were, understandably, snubbed wherever they went. “It was very unpleasant,” he remembered. Especially for a bon vivant like Erickson who could never resist a party.

Perhaps the biggest obstacle to Erickson's transformation into a pseudo-Nazi was his best friend, Max Gumpel. Gumpel was a wealthy, two-time Olympian who'd twice medaled in water polo before going on to build a sprawling construction empire. Like Erickson, Gumpel was a playboy. He owned several motorboats, and was often seen cruising up and down Stockholm's waterways. He even dated Greta Garbo before she moved to Hollywood. Garbo liked him so much that she would stay with him on trips home to Sweden.

Gumpel thought the world of Eric Erickson. He'd helped Erickson build a refinery for his company, and the two had formed a deep bond. “I had a very real and esteemed impression of your morals and honesty,” he wrote to Erickson. “Your thoughts were always clear and filled with high and honest ideals.” Unfortunately for the spy plot, Gumpel was a Jew.

When Erickson began to inexplicably change into a fascist, heiling the Nazi officers from the terrace of the Grand Hotel, Gumpel was appalled. “I thought he would go crazy,” Erickson said later. The issue came to a head one evening when Erickson invited Gumpel to dinner with an entrepreneur named Lenshoek, a famously stylish man-about-town who also happened to be one of Denmark's most prominent Nazis. Erickson and Gumpel listened as Lenshoek spoke glowingly of the Wehrmacht, how admirable its officer corps was, how unstoppable its momentum. Gumpel went ash-pale. He began arguing with the Dane, who announced that the Nordic countries “could not govern themselves and needed a Führer.” Hitler, he said, “was ordained to be the high ruler of a united states of Europe.”

A year earlier, Erickson would have called Lenshoek a fool and cut him dead. But now, with Gumpel watching, he nodded approvingly at the idea of Hitler ruling Sweden and the rest of Europe. Gumpel was speechless. He couldn't believe that Erickson was siding with the Germans.

“Do you know how fucked up this all is?” he whispered to Erickson.

After the dinner, the two friends walked home together and Gumpel promptly tore into the American for his betrayal. But Erickson could say nothing. If Erickson was to be a secret agent, he
had
to horrify Gumpel. Should the American oilman and the Jew remain close, the Germans would never believe that Erickson was on their side. The spy had to sacrifice his Jewish friend in order to convince the Nazis he was genuine.

“Max,” Erickson said, “whatever you hear or think, all I ask is that you believe in me.” It was the most Erickson could say without risking the mission. The two didn't talk for the rest of the war.

The break with Gumpel was painful, but far worse was to come. His wife, Elsa, who thought she'd married a successful, charming, liberal businessman and had expected a life of parties and backgammon in Stockholm, was now living with a fascist. Elsa had no idea why Erickson had changed so drastically. “She didn't know a thing about what I was doing.” Nevertheless, Elsa shared his fate as an outcast. Her friends and family turned on her and she was shunned in the streets and boulevards of Stockholm. Soon she was exhibiting signs of extreme nervous tension. Unable to bear the public hatred of almost everyone she knew, and horrified by Eric's new friends, Elsa was slowly becoming unstable.

The American had no choice but to send his wife to an asylum. Elsa would be in and out of the place for the entirety of the war, and the two would divorce in 1949. After their split, Erickson rarely talked about her. Perhaps it was simple guilt, or maybe the mad wife didn't go with the triumphant nature of the story. Perhaps he knew, if he'd trusted her, she could have come out of the war a different, far healthier, person.

Even as his personal life fell apart, Erickson faced stiff resistance from the Nazis he was trying to bamboozle. Many of them were suspicious of Erickson's sudden transformation. “A few of the higher-up Germans said to me, ‘Erickson, I don't believe a word that you say. You're an American and always will be.'”

The spy looked around for a way in. He was already widely despised in Stockholm. His friends had turned their backs on him. He couldn't possibly make himself any more hated in his adopted country than he already was. How could he convince the Nazis he was one of them?

“It was difficult,” Erickson said of this time in his life. “I began to think the whole mission was all a bit meaningless.”

On his trips to Berlin, Erickson began to notice the scarcity of luxuries in the capital. Due to the economic blockade, there was little but essentials in the shops: meat, wheat, perhaps milk, but little else. He thought about it for weeks and decided to try to use the blockade in his favor. On his next business trip to Germany, he stuffed his luggage with embargoed items unavailable in Berlin and delivered them to the homes of his German friends—not to the husbands whom he was courting, but to their better halves. “I would bring silk stockings, gin, whiskey and champagne and give them to the wife,” Erickson said. “That was the best strategy I ever came up with.”

It wasn't only the Scottish whiskey and the stockings that mattered to the German wives. It was fact that Erickson was willing to risk fines and even jail time for people the West regarded as depraved. By smuggling a few things to brighten his friends' lives, he demonstrated to these women that he genuinely cared about them and their families. Erickson was a link to the outside world, to Paris and London and memories of the things they enjoyed before the war. The manners, the implied concern, as much as the gift, mattered.

“When the husband would come home,” he remembered, “the wife would say ‘That man can be trusted.'” Finally, in late 1942, the work paid off. Erickson was invited to Germany to pitch some oil deals to the Reich. He made reservations to fly from Stockholm to Berlin and notified his OSS handlers about the trip. They were delighted.

The scheme was beginning to take hold. After months of ingratiating himself with the pro-Nazi elite, Erickson's cover was firmly established. He was a leading pro-German businessman in an industry that the Reich needed to win the war: oil. He'd recruited a partner in the scheme who had strong connections to the Swedish royal family. He'd advertised his willingness to get the Germans the hydrocarbon products they needed, no matter the personal cost.

On paper, he was a hot prospect. But Berlin wasn't Stockholm, and the American knew more rigorous tests awaited him.