It meant the highway away. It
always means that when a man of my position is in Berlin and somebody
says to call up that number, A 11. Whenever A 11 summons it is wise
to be prompt. It is the number of the Wilhelmstrasse, the foreign
office of Germany.
I lost no time in getting a connection and I was told to report at the
Wilhelmstrasse at 10.30 that night. I was to hold myself ready for
instant service. I must come prepared possibly for a long journey.
I gave orders for my boy to have me dressed by ten o'clock. I decided
to take a nap, for I knew that midnight interviews with the gentleman
at the Wilhelmstrasse often led to some mighty unexpected and
protracted traveling. Before going to sleep, however, I went over the
European situation. What had loomed big? I hoped it was something
big, for while a Secret Service agent doesn't get blas?©, he likes to
work when thrones or the boundaries of empires are involved.
I reflected that June--it was in 1911--had been a decidedly strenuous
month for more than one cabinet in Europe. Germany and France were
snapping and snarling. France was going around with its chest stuck
out; its attitude decidedly belligerent. Of course, this cockiness
was due to the fat fingers of honest John Bull; indeed, England had
more than ten fingers in this pie that was baking. I knew that the
air was full of Morocco and war talk.
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