Warburg in Rome by James Carroll Page B

salesman, part spy—for as long as the Axis had maintained its winning tilt. Now the Fascist-friendly diplomat was a living reminder of Sweden’s misplaced bet. Warburg was here to collect.
    Entering the ornate drawing room to greet Warburg and Mates, Sundberg was blinking. He stepped gingerly across the fringed lip of an Oriental carpet, maneuvering a gold-handled walking stick. His long, thick silver hair brushed his collar. In his free hand he carried Warburg’s leather credentials folder and the business card that Warburg had presented at the front desk.
    “Mr. Ambassador, I am David Warburg. I am with the United States Treasury Department. This is Colonel Peter Mates.”
    “Greetings, gentlemen,” Sundberg said, but uneasily. He fumbled the cane and credentials to free up a hand to shake. Then he gave the leather folder to Warburg, but slid the business card into his coat pocket.
    “I have asked for coffee to be brought. If that is agreeable.” He gestured at the bentwood chairs flanking a low rectangular table. Without waiting, he took a seat.
    The Americans, too, took chairs. “I’ll come to the point,” Warburg said. “On behalf of my government, I put before the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs a formal request for a diplomatic—”
    Sundberg’s hand shot up. “Mr. Warburg, I have no authority—”
    “You have authority to send a protected cable to Stockholm. I am not asking you for decisions, Mr. Ambassador. Merely for the transmission of adjuration. The United States respects Sweden’s scrupulous neutrality. As a consequence of that neutrality, Sweden has at times been positioned to act in the middle range of diplomacy, the ill-defined region between the sanctioned and the morally imperative. That is the case today. Knowing Sweden’s record as we do, we are here to press a matter of utmost urgency to my government.”
    “But Sir, the Foreign Ministry, surely communication from Washington to Stockholm is the proper—”
    Warburg shook his head. He was about to invoke Roosevelt, but Mates cut in: “Mr. Warburg is speaking for Washington.” The colonel’s imperative tone was a fist on the table. When he then added, “I am speaking for General Clark,” a second fist fell, surprising Warburg. Clearly, Mates was a quick study. And, equally clearly, he disdained this quisling.
    Sundberg nodded. “Please, then . . .”
    “This week,” Warburg resumed, “your Foreign Ministry will receive the nomination of a Swedish businessman to the post of special envoy, representing the monarch of Sweden to the regent of Hungary in Budapest. My government expects the nomination to be approved. My government seconds his nomination. That is what you are to communicate.”
    “I will be expected to know what your government’s interest is.”
    “Jews.”
    The word hung in the air.
    “Jews?” Sundberg asked. His eyes glazed in a way that made his thought plain: Warburg, Jews—of course .
    “Yes, Jews,” Warburg said. “Since the German occupation of Budapest two months ago, Jews are being transported. Since one month ago, between ten and fourteen thousand Jews have been transported each day. You know the contemporary meaning of the English verb ‘transport,’ perhaps.” Warburg let the silence gather for a moment before adding, “In Budapest the new special envoy will be in a position to issue the Schutz-Pass to Jews, identifying the bearers as Swedish citizens. He will rent buildings and authorize those buildings as Swedish extraterritorial properties—libraries, schools, cultural organizations where the Swedish flag will fly. In those buildings, Jews will be immune.”
    “With respect, Mr. Warburg, no one will believe the Jews are Swedes. The Hungarian police will not be fooled by flags.”
    “They will be paid to believe. They will be paid to be fooled. Handsomely paid. That brings me to point two. I want the name of the Budapest bank licensed for Swedish diplomatic transactions. I want a