Warburg in Rome by James Carroll Page A

in the morning air. The fellow was sitting at the writing desk in the window alcove, his pen poised above a sheaf of papers. “You were asleep when I got here last night,” Mates continued. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. Or we , I guess I should say.”
    “Actually, Colonel, I was dead to the world.” Warburg stood. “I’m David Warburg.”
    “Mates. Peter Mates.”
    The men shook hands.
    Mates was just tall enough to dislike being the shorter man. He said, “Sorry if the girl disturbed you just now.” He touched his mustache, a hint of male conquest.
    “She seemed sad,” Warburg said, suddenly aware of the girl as a third female victim—a quick lesson in war.
    Mates grinned. “Not sad last night.”
    Warburg said nothing.
    “You’re from Treasury, I’m told.”
    “Yes. And you are C-A-D, which is why they put us together, I guess.”
    “Civil Affairs Division. Not cad.” Mates waited for Warburg to pick up on the crack. He did not. Mates took in Warburg’s white shirt and gray trousers. “We should get you some tans.”
    “Not necessary. I’m outside the chain of command.”
    “Lucky you.”
    “But I will need some help getting what the chain supplies. General Holton, Clark’s exec, told me I could depend on you.”
    “Christ, Warburg, I just got here.”
    “So did we all, Colonel. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t seen the general’s order yet. I have a copy here somewhere.” Warburg sat, opened a file folder, and picked up a sheet. He handed it to Mates, who read in silence.
    After a moment, Warburg said, “I appreciate your help. I’ll be easier to supply than Marshal Tito was.”
    “Tito? Never heard of him.”
    “General secretary of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia,” Warburg said.
    Mates recognized Warburg’s parry, a show of knowledge he should not have had. Mates wondered if this fellow was OSS, deep cover, as he himself was now. But there were no Jews in the OSS, not that he knew of. “What’s Treasury’s brief in Rome?”
    “Refugees,” Warburg answered. “Join me for coffee downstairs, I’ll lay it out for you.”
    Mates handed Holton’s letter back and made a show of checking his watch.
    Warburg dropped the page on the desk and picked up another. “Here’s a list of what I’ll need.”
    Mates did not move, pointedly declining to take the page.
    Warburg said, “Beginning with a jeep and driver, someone with Italian. Someone who knows Rome.”
    Still Mates did not respond.
    Warburg said, “Today, Colonel. I need it today. This morning.”
    “Forget it, my friend.” Mates produced a pack and withdrew a cigarette.
    “Every CAD resource at my disposal, Colonel. So Holton says, and Holton speaks for Clark. You have a jeep and driver. Let’s start there.”
    “Whoa!” Mates froze, the cigarette halfway to his mouth. “This is deadly. My jeep? My driver? My canoe? My scout? Next you’ll want my squaw.”
    “No, Colonel,” Warburg said, annoyed, “not your squaw.” Warburg stood, and now he was the one to look at his watch. “I have to be at the Swedish embassy at ten-thirty. Why don’t you come? It’ll be the most efficient way for you to get the picture.”
    After a long moment, Mates lit his cigarette, inhaled, waved the match, then said through the smoke, “Who says I need to get the picture?”
    Warburg smiled. “Tito.”
    Mates smiled, too.
    Warburg clapped the colonel’s shoulder. “Come on. We have time for coffee. I’ll buy.”
     
    They arrived at the embassy as a pair. Warburg was not unhappy that a senior American officer at his elbow, like an aide, enhanced his appearance as a man of status.
    The ambassador was a septuagenarian named Urban Sundberg, and Warburg had done the research. Sundberg’s family firm had emerged from a base in Malmö shipbuilding to become a leading manufacturer of marine pumps. When the Swedish Navy appropriated the company early in the war, the Stockholm Admiralty was happy to have Sundberg in Rome—part