Sturm directed the driver to stop as the long motorcar drew up in front of his destination on the Bowery in Lower Manhattan.
“Are you entirely certain this is where you wish to go, Sir?” the driver asked. “This is a rough neighborhood.”
“It is bad?” Sturm asked.
“The worst. Dressed like you are now,” the driver said, referring to Sturm‘s grey worsted three-piece suit with a razor-sharp crease in his trousers, “you‘ll be mugged for sure.”
The driver came around to open the car door for Sturm. “Good luck, Sir. But you‘d have better luck if you carried a weapon.”
Sturm smiled and opened his jacket, revealing a polished leather holster which held his Mauser C-96 automatic pistol, chambered for 9 mm Parabellum cartridges. “I always do.”
Sturm walked down the short flight of steps to the speakeasy‘s entrance. This would be the third time he had met the Irish team leader. He wasn‘t impressed by him either.
10:15 p.m.
Tommy McBride missed his Guinness. The flat, watery beer in Prohibition America just didn‘t match up to any beer in Ireland, let alone Guinness. McBride was sitting at a table in the rear of a long room, a speakeasy beneath the Blossom Restaurant on the Bowery in lower Manhattan. It was a workingman‘s saloon, a loud piano playing in one corner, a long wooden bar running along the right side of the room. The noise level was raucous. McBride pulled his pocket watch out of his vest pocket. Most of the men had been drinking steadily since they arrived when their shifts at the docks ended at 4:00 p.m. or 5:00 p.m. Ten p.m. was far too soon for most of them to stagger home to their families, those that had them.
McBride and two of his men had arrived thirty minutes earlier. Tommy had tipped the bartender well for a secluded booth in a corner of the room. McBride had positioned himself so that he could observe the entrance. The two men with him sat at an adjacent table. They were dressed in work clothes, unlike McBride, who wore a suit. It was well-pressed and had seen many years of service. It easily could have come from a Sears Roebuck catalog ten years ago.
McBride had met Sturm on two other occasions in Europe, once in Berlin and again in London. He was uncharacteristically late for this meeting. McBride looked again at his watch. As he returned it to his pocket, he saw the entrance door being opened by the burly guard who determined who would be permitted access.
Sturm had arrived. Tall, blond, good-looking, self-assured to the point of arrogance. McBride couldn‘t stand him. He watched as Sturm slipped a bill to the doorman and began to make his way across the room to McBride‘s booth. Halfway across the room, McBride saw Sturm bumped by one of the men at the bar. The noise was too loud in the room for McBride to hear what was being said, but it was obvious the Irish laborers were making fun of Sturm‘s Saville Row clothing. Sturm did not appear disturbed and was taking the ribbing with a good nature. Then, one of the men behind Sturm shoved him hard. Instantly, Sturm whirled and before the man‘s laugh had faded into silence, Sturm grasped the man‘s wrist with his right hand, the elbow with his other, and with one wrenching movement, using the elbow as a fulcrum, fluidly pushed the man‘s wrist back until it snapped. McBride thought he had heard the snap, but he certainly heard the howls of the man as he bent over in pain, clutching his dangling wrist.
Two of the injured man‘s companions grabbed Sturm from behind. Sturm‘s right elbow immediately flew out, smashing into the face of the man holding him on the right. McBride then watched in amazement as Sturm dipped under the man on his left, threw him over his shoulder so that he landed on his back, and then, with the same maneuver of grasping the wrist and the elbow, snapped that man‘s wrist as well, a sound clearly heard by McBride and everyone else in the room. The time elapsed since the first man had pushed Sturm until the second wrist was broken was fifteen seconds. That was enough time for the doorman, a baseball bat clutched firmly in his meaty right hand, to have approached the huddled group of three broken men and Sturm, who by now had drawn his Mauser, holding off three other men advancing on him, one of whom had pulled a knife.
“Here, now, we‘ll have none of that,” the bouncer said, taking a left-handed swing of which Babe Ruth would have been proud and slammed it against the shoulder of the man holding the knife. The man cried out, his arm numbed by the force of the blow and the knife clattered harmlessly onto the floor, his fingers no longer functioning.
“I‘m sorry you were bothered, sir,” he said to Sturm, who holstered his weapon and picked up the knife, handing it butt first to the doorman.
“I‘ll be taking care of this lot for you, sir, you won‘t be bothered again.” Whereupon, using the bat as a prod, he moved the four men up to their feet and marched them out.
Sturm slid in the booth across from him and McBride noted that he had not worked up a sweat, hair still neatly combed, tie still held firmly in place by the collar pin beneath it. McBride still couldn‘t stand him but reluctantly admitted that he had been impressed. The Kraut could take care of himself. On McBride‘s previous two encounters with Sturm, he had sensed Sturm‘s competence if only from his rigid military bearing. He now knew there was both skill and ruthlessness to go with it. He wondered for a moment if the show had been for his benefit. But the thought quickly passed. McBride knew he could be just as ruthless as the German bastard sitting across from him casually ordering a Ballentine‘s and water from a hovering waiter.
“Charming place you chose for our rendezvous, McBride. The real New York.”
“My fault,” McBride said. “Wasn‘t it me who never thought to tell you not to dress like you were going out for fucking afternoon tea?”
Sturm ignored the comment and stared evenly at McBride. “To business, then. The money. I want to know about the money, Irishman.”
“And I want to know about the fucking guns,” McBride shot back, tensing to reach for his own pistol as he saw Sturm place his hand inside the jacket of his suit. He relaxed again when Sturm pulled out a long suede leather envelope and slid it across the table.
McBride picked up the soft leather envelope and removed the papers from inside. Invoices and purchase orders: Pacific Arms Corporation, San Francisco. Colt Firearms in Hartford, Connecticut. Winchester & Marlin in New Haven. Remington, and Savage in New York. Hercules Powder Company in Wilmington. Austin Powder in Cleveland.
McBride couldn‘t believe it. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! It was fucking Christmas Day and Jolly Old Saint Nick had just filled their bloody stockings to overflowing. Grenades. Browning automatic rifles and machine guns. Model 1911 Colt .45 automatic pistols. Thompson submachine guns. Rifle grenade launchers. Mortars. Browning M2 heavy machine guns. Pack Howitzers. They could start a bloody war with all this. They bloody well would start a war.
McBride returned the papers to the leather folder and pushed it back across the table to Sturm. “Impressive. Quite thorough. It will do nicely.”
“Yes, it will,” said Sturm. “But only if the funds are properly transferred to the correct accounts in Cleveland, Chicago and San Francisco. If that doesn’t happen, the weapons will go nowhere except straight back to their manufacturers.”
McBride didn‘t like being lectured and replied impatiently, “I know. Don‘t worry.”
“Ah, but I do worry, my Irish friend. My superiors pay me well to worry about all the details. I will say this only once. You will take me to the man who is to arrange the wire transfers. You will demonstrate to my satisfaction that he understands completely the order, sequence and timing of the transfers,” Sturm said in a slow and careful voice.
McBride knew Sturm was addressing him as if he were some retarded relative who had to have things explained in a simple way. He struggled to keep his anger beneath the surface. No need to complicate things. “It‘s our money, not yours. I know what the instructions are.”
“You are wrong, Mr. McBride. At the end of the day it is our money. You know what‘s been arranged. But our time table is rigid. We can afford no delays. We meet with your Mr. O’Bri
en tomorrow night. If he is as well-instructed as you claim, it should not take long.”
McBride did not like taking orders from anyone. Not the IRA. Not Sinn Fein. Not Dev. And certainly not this arrogant German. But in the end, German money was going to buy the arms and the money he had helped de Valera raise in America for the war with the British was going to be returned. With interest of $1 million going to Dev. Still, he didn‘t have to like it.
“Okay, okay, you win. He‘s a busy guy, our Mr. O’Brien. I‘ll give him a call tomorrow and see what we can work out.”
“Tonight, Mr. McBride. Call him tonight. Schedule the meeting at O’Brien’s home in White Plains at 7:00 p.m. tomorrow. Make it so,” Sturm said, as he rose from the table, picked the leather envelope up from the table and smoothly slide it into his inside coat pocket. Turning on his heel, he walked out of the speakeasy. As he left, McBride saw Sturm slip another bill to the burly doorman whose crooked features broke into a smile as he pocketed the currency.
11:00 p.m.
Sturm quickly located Cromwell‘s waiting limousine and settled in for the ride uptown to the Plaza. The Irish were so easily fooled. At the end of the day, it was their money at risk, not the Geneva Group‘s. And the risk was real. Sturm had persuaded his masters that the Graf Zeppelin was the safest ship in the air. Which it was. But the voyage on which it was to embark tomorrow from Lakehurst was unprecedented and fraught with peril, especially the portion over the vast, uncharted wilderness of Siberia. If the ship went down there, it was doomed. Sturm hadn‘t told the Geneva Group that, just as Dr. Eckener hadn‘t told his partner, Mr. Hearst. If the Graf and the gold bearer bonds were lost, however, Geneva had no intention of doubling its bet. The Irish would have to pay for their own revolution and he would find a new diversion for the British.
Sturm had debarked from the Graf a few hours earlier with a sense of regret. He had conceived the mission to America as well as the unique method of delivering the bearer bonds. He fully intended that his capable second-in-command, Bruno Kordt, would lead the mission on the ground here while Sturm kept the bonds safe as they journeyed with him around the world.
Regrettably, a higher authority had intervened, persuading Sturm that he would be more useful in America than on the Graf. A disappointed Sturm had agreed with the logic of this and the short voyage to America just ended had been his consolation prize. Zurich, the chairman of the Geneva Group and Berlin, not Sturm, would have the high honor of being passengers on the first airship to circumnavigate the globe. Sturm was left with newspaper accounts and newsreels.
8.
The Night Train to Montreal
New York City
Friday, 9 August 1929
11:15 p.m.
Cockran walked briskly across the concourse of Grand Central Station toward Track 28 where the New York Central Montreal Limited, Train Number 61, was waiting to depart. The fracas in Central Park had made him late and the pain in his ribs slowed him down. He passed through the entrance to Track 28, showed his ticket to the gatekeeper and was directed to the second Pullman car on the train. He stepped up onto the train, and handed his overnight bag to the Pullman porter who, glancing at the ticket, said, “This way, sir. Compartment Seven.”
In his haste, Cockran did not notice the man who had followed him into the station and saw him enter the gate on Track 28. Once the man saw Cockran board the train, he hurried back out to the row of telephone booths in the main concourse, entered one, closed the door and placed his call. “He’s on the night train to Montreal, like we thought.”
Cockran followed the porter down the narrow passage. He opened the door to Number Seven and stepped back to let Cockran enter. The porter followed and placed his bag on the floor beside the wash basin. “We leave promptly at 11:30, sir, and we arrive in downtown Montreal at 8:37 a.m. The dining car will be open for breakfast at 6:00 a.m. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, please,” Cockran said, handing him a quarter. “Some ice and a pitcher of water.”
“Very good, sir.”
Cockran opened the satchel and pulled out a clear crystal tumbler and a fifth of Johnnie Walker Red. A moment later, the porter knocked on the door and delivered the ice and water. Cockran pulled the blind down to shield his compartment from prying eyes outside and poured two fingers into the tumbler, added ice and water. Taking four aspirin, he took a long sip and gingerly settled back in the compartment’s comfortable seat. A few moments later, he heard the conductor’s “All aboard!” cry and felt the first lurch of the engine as the train slowly pulled out.
Cockran thought back to the cocktail party. Obviously, Cromwell didn‘t remember him. They had never met but Cockran knew too well who Philip Dru Cromwell was. A prominent fund raiser for Hoover in the last election, Cromwell had held one of the top three posts in the Inquiry. Located in unmarked offices at the American Geographical Society‘s headquarters at 155th Street and Broadway, the Inquiry had been formed in the fall of 1917 at the direction of President Wilson and his right-hand man, Colonel House. Anticipating victory, the President set up his own intelligence arm, independent of the State Department and operated in strict secrecy, to prepare him for dealing with post-war issues which would arise at the peace conference. It was the Inquiry which had drafted Wilson‘s Fourteen Points.
Cockran‘s position at the Inquiry was more modest. After Cockran had been wounded in the war, both Cockran‘s father and Bill Donovan had used their influence to have the young infantry intelligence captain transferred back to the United States where, after his leg had healed, he eventually was assigned to the Inquiry’s Irish Section. Authors of the staff reports produced by the Inquiry for the President were never identified. Once a report made it past the Section Chief, one of three men had to approve its transmittal to Wilson‘s Chief of Staff and alter ego, Col. Edward House. Without approval, the report died. Cromwell was one of those three men and Cockran had written the Irish Section’s report, containing modest suggestions for Irish self-determination which mirrored those which the Inquiry had proposed in central Europe for the Czechs and Slovaks, carving an entirely new country, Czechoslovakia, out of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Cromwell had vetoed the report “The U.S. cannot possibly side with the Irish against the English as it would place in severe jeopardy repayment of U.S. war loans to the Allied Powers. Besides, the Irish have demonstrated no capacity for self-government. REJECTED—PDC”
That little sojourn working for the Inquiry had been Cockran‘s only foray into politics and the internecine warfare rampant in wartime Washington. Watching his father while growing up, Cockran had not been attracted to the political life and the time he had spent with the Inquiry had confirmed his initial impressions. When the war was over, he had not returned to the law. Instead, he went to work for William Randolph Hearst‘s New York American where, as an investigative reporter, he could expose politicians; hold them up to the light of day; and occasionally send them to prison where he believed most of them belonged. Cockran smiled. He had been so good at it that Hearst had sent him to Dublin to be his chief European correspondent. There, he met Nora who was also a journalist.
Cockran winced once more as he shifted his weight and the pain returned. The assault wasn’t an accident. It was a warning. They weren’t out to rob him. They left his billfold behind. But a warning about what and from whom? The IRA? Probably. He was certain now there was a link between the attack and the break-ins at Columbia and The Cedars. Anyway, morning would come soon enough and, with it, his meeting with Winston. What did Winston know about the IRA? And what did he want? His mind wandered as he thought of Mattie. Red hair and a journalist, just like Nora. And with both Mattie and Nora on his mind, he turned down the covers and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the comforting sound of the train and the rails.
9.
Can You Ask Around?
Montreal
Saturday, 10 August 1929
9:00 a.m.
The
taxi dropped Cockran off at the Mount Royale Hotel on Rue Ste. Catherine near Peale Street. With 1046 rooms, it was the largest hotel in the British Empire. The lobby was three stories high with vaulted ceilings, skylights and a balcony running around three sides of the room. Huge potted palms, themselves over a story high, were massed at either end of the room. The doorman greeted him, took his overnight case and handed it to a nearby bellhop, who held the brass-plated door open for him as he walked to the front desk and asked for Mr. Churchill. Five minutes later, Cockran was sitting across from his old friend in the spacious living room of Churchill’s tenth floor corner suite with a commanding view sweeping from the foot of Mount Royal down to the St. Lawrence River, a full English breakfast between them..
“Bourke, my boy! How are you? How was your journey? It‘s so good to see you again,” Churchill enthused.
He was fine, Cockran assured him, as was the trip.
Then the monologue commenced. “I have a delightful lunch planned for us. It‘s in the old section. Auberge Le Vieux Ste.-Gabrielle. Authentic Québécois food. My brother, Jack, has the other bedroom here. He and our two sons, Randolph and Johnny, are out this morning exploring Mount Royal Park. Did you know that the architect who designed the park is the same one who did your Central Park in New York? What was his name?”
The DeValera Deception Page 7