Churchill paused for a moment and turned to Mattie, a sheepish look still on his face, and said, “You don’t suppose the President remembers that, do you? Or would hold it against us? ”
Mattie stood up from the damask-covered chair in which she had been dining and smoothed the front of her khaki trousers. She walked over to Churchill and gave him a hug. “You’re a dear old man, Winston, and one of the nicest people I know. But you’re really quite naive when it comes to how Americans think, especially for someone whose mother was an American.”
“I’m not that old,” Churchill replied defensively.
“No, my dear godfather, you’re not,” Mattie said. “But you still don’t know Americans. Until your Navy did it fourteen years ago, I don’t believe we Brits had ever arrested a future American president. He’ll remember. Herbert Clark Hoover has never received a slight he didn’t remember. That’s what the Hearst reporters who cover the White House tell me.”
“Well,” Churchill began, his lower lip pushing forth in the beginnings of a pout, but Mattie interrupted again, clearly upsetting a man who was not used to being interrupted.
“Don’t worry, Winston. I’m certain he would not let his personal feelings influence him in matters of state. But tell me more,” she said, “about your Mr. Cockran. What will you do if he can’t find where the IRA are raising their funds? Given what you told me a few moments ago, would you trust him to do anything more?”
Churchill smiled, and Mattie could see that he was happy she had given him an easy opportunity to resume the initiative in their conversation.
“I believe so. Anything more I ask Bourke to do will be strictly compartmentalized. Information will be given him on a need to know basis only. We will do so until we are certain, beyond doubt, of his commitment. Bourke will be fine. Mark my words. He comes from good stock. I am confident he will run to ground the funding question. Just as I’m equally confident, my dear, that you will be able to track down the companies who are in league with the devil against the Irish Free State. Once we do that, the President will do his part, I assure you. It is a good plan, and we have good people to carry it out. You know most of them and in a few moments, you’ll meet the newest member of the team, Sgt. Rankin. It should be all we need. If we require more resources, I have some more in reserve to draw on as well.”
Mattie grinned mischievously. “You mean Mr. Smythe and his men from SIS?”
“Hardly,” Churchill snorted. “Ramsay may be fooled by people like that, but not me. Anything Smythe or his men bring us will be an unexpected gift. Their tactics may have worked for a while in Ireland in 1920 and 1921, where they had few civilized restraints. America will be something else entirely for them. Besides, you knew perfectly well who I mean.”
A knock on the door interrupted Churchill, who walked over, opened it and brought in his visitor. “Martha McGary, meet Detective Sgt. Robert Bruce Rankin,” said Churchill.
“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am,” said Rankin, waiting until Mattie had extended her hand before grasping it in what Mattie could only consider to be a large paw. Rankin was a giant, six feet, five inches, at least, with an unruly mass of reddish blonde hair and over 220 pounds distributed solidly over a brawny frame. He appeared to be in his early thirties but his full beard made it difficult to tell.
“Please call me Mattie.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Please have a seat, Robert,” said Churchill, and the large man delicately sat down in one of the side chairs. Churchill continued to pace. “Here’s what you do, Robert. Travel across the United States while we do the same in Canada. Keep pace with us. New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, San Francisco. All the Fenian strongholds. Use your Scotland Yard credentials. Visit all the police departments in those cities. Track down every rumor you can regarding arms purchases. Keep in touch with Mattie also. Give her whatever assistance she needs in Chicago where we have a solid lead. Then meet us in San Francisco. Can you do that for me, Robert? There is no time to waste.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Churchill,” Rankin said, a look of puzzlement coming over his broad face. “But I thought, sir, that I was to assist Inspector Thompson in serving as your body guard.”
“No need for that in Canada, my boy, I’ll be perfectly safe with Inspector Thompson. No real danger till we reach America. You can be more valuable tracking these rumors down.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Churchill. I’ll call as soon as I’m packed. Pleased to meet you, Ma‘am,” he said, almost bowing in Mattie’s direction. “Good evening, Mr. Churchill.”
Mattie picked up her photographer’s vest, slung it over her shoulder, turned to Churchill and laughed out loud. “My god, Winston, wherever did you find such a boy scout ? That man is as big as an elephant and about as graceful.”
Churchill smiled back at her. “Now, Mattie, be nice. He’s a bright, clever lad. Don’t be fooled by his appearance. He was a commando in the Middle East in the early 20s. I’ve read the field reports—many who underestimated him are now dead. He’s filled in for Thompson before and Clemmie thinks highly of him. Trust me, his demeanor and his accent will bring us more cooperation than Smythe’s condescension,” Churchill said. “I know more about my mother’s country than you give me credit for. Did I ever tell you she was one-eighth Indian?”
“Many times, Winston, many times,” Mattie said, rolling her eyes as she leaned over and kissed his rosy cheek. “Stay safe until I see you in San Francisco. I‘ll find what you need.”
“I know you will, my dear. You take care as well. These are rough people.”
6:30 p.m.
Mattie took the elevator down and walked across the palm-laden lobby. She wondered how safe any of them were going to be. Danger never bothered her. It went with the territory. She knew how to take care of herself. But Cockran? He was a law professor for goodness sakes! She had covered Ireland in 1921. She knew the IRA could play rough. So could the SIS. Add Churchill and Hearst and their separate agendas to the mix and it all became quite complicated. With more to come and much to do. Cockran‘s role would be small if she had anything to do with it. And she did. Was he up to it? She didn‘t know. But the manipulation of Cockran was not the only thing about him on her mind. Mixing business with pleasure was usually not a good idea but Mattie had always liked to live on the edge. Taking risks was second nature to her.
Mattie‘s career and travel demands made relationships difficult to sustain. At 29, she rarely went out of her way looking for romance on assignment but Cockran showed promise. From her first glimpse of him outside his town house, she had thought it possible but the cocktail party had convinced her. For him, she would definitely make an exception. Could she seduce him while otherwise keeping him in the dark as her people wanted? Maybe. Finding out was going to be interesting.
7:00 p.m
Churchill sat comfortably in a large upholstered chair in the observation room of the palatial private rail car placed at his disposal by the Canadian Pacific Railway, a small whiskey and soda on the drink table at his right hand, the liquid in the glass gently rolling in time with the swaying of the train. David Brooke-Smythe sat across from him, reluctantly outlining for Churchill his intelligence-gathering plans. Two of his men were already visiting east coast cities.
“We’re going to fan out around the country in teams of twos. We’ll lift these Irish bastards one by one and, by God, we’ll beat the truth out of them, if that’s what it takes.”
“Are you quite certain that’s a wise approach?” Churchill mildly inquired.
“The Americans might be friends of yours, Mr. Churchill, but they aren’t friends of mine. The Lord spare us if those are the kinds of allies you want our country to have in the future.”
“Well, my dear Smythe,” Churchill said, “you have your job to do and your own masters to answer to. It’s comforting to see that you approach the task ahead of you today with the same insight and intelligence that you did ten years ago. Now, if you’
ll excuse me, I still have a few letters I must write. Good luck to you, then,” Churchill said, as he rose without shaking his hand and padded down the hall towards his bedroom, his whisky in one hand, his cigar in the other.
Once there, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth, Churchill picked up his fountain pen.
My darling,
We are now on the way to Ottawa in our wonderful car furnished to us by the Canadian Pacific. This car is to be our home for three weeks so we have unpacked all our clothes and arranged them afresh. The car is a wonderful habitation. Jack and I have large cabins with big double beds and private bathrooms. There is a fine parlor with an observation room at the end and a large dining room, which I use as the office and in which I am now sitting, with kitchen and quarters for the staff. The car has a splendid wireless installation, refrigerators, fans, etc.
The immense size and progress of this country impresses itself upon one more every day. The sentimental feeling towards England is wonderful. The United States are stretching their tentacles out in all directions, but the Canadian National Spirit is becoming so powerful that we need not fear the future.
After I brought Martha and Sgt. Rankin together for the first time, I saw my old painting instructor again before her train departed for Chicago. Events are moving rapidly here. I will write again from Toronto.
Always, my darling one, with fondest love, Yr. devoted,
W.
14.
I’ve Had A Break-In
New York City
Saturday, 10 August 1929
9:00 p.m.
Supper with Bill Donovan at the Stork Club went better than Cockran had expected. After his train arrived from Montreal, he had headed there straight from Grand Central so as not to be late. Donovan was a proud man, used to getting his own way. Being passed over by Hoover for Attorney General had been a humbling experience. The Stork Club‘s owner, Sherman Billingsley, however, had a way of making the most humble man feel more important. And if that man had earned the Congressional Medal of Honor, so much the better for the Stork Club’s reputation. A striped awning ran from the curb to the basement entrance protecting them from the rain. Billingsley knew Donovan and fawned over him. Almost everybody did.
“Colonel, how good to see you again. And you as well, Mr. Cockran. Welcome.”
That ought to be good for a mention in Winchell’s column, Cockran thought, as Donovan responded, “How are you doing, Sherman? Keeping out of trouble?”
“Can’t complain,” Billingsley replied.
Donovan pulled Billingsley close to him and Cockran could barely hear Donovan‘s whispered words. “I’ve heard about your new partner. Watch out for him. Frank Costello is not someone you want to get close to.”
Billingsley laughed nervously, saying to the maitre d’ “Our best table for Col. Donovan.”
Over iced tea for Donovan, dry martinis for Cockran, and thick rare steaks for both, Donovan laid out the plan for his new law firm. America’s business interests in Europe had grown dramatically in the 1920s. Investment houses and the big banks had their lawyers. But Donovan saw an opening and a need for representing American manufacturing and trading interests in Europe, South America and the Far East. He could use Cockran’s expertise in international law. It wouldn’t involve travel—unless Cockran wanted it—and assignments would be on a case-by-case basis. But it would pay well, he said, and keep Cockran in those English-cut flannel suits he had grown accustomed to. By supper‘s end, Cockran had agreed that Donovan could carry his name as “Of Counsel” to the firm in both its New York and Washington offices. Cockran would remain a free agent, able to accept or turn down any case.
10:30 p.m.
Cockran walked home from the Stork Club, crossed over Fifth Avenue at 53rd Street, and headed north toward his townhouse in the 60s. He knew something was wrong when he inserted the key in his front door. The deadbolt was no longer in place, and he had locked it himself last night before leaving. The small lamp in the foyer cast a yellow glow over the honey-colored wood and the small Oriental rug. Cautiously, Cockran made his way to the back of the house and the kitchen, the only other entrance to the house. He flicked on the overhead light and his suspicions were confirmed. A small pane of glass in the back door had been knocked out, shards of glass glittering in the harsh electric light. Cockran walked quickly back through the house to his study and the downstairs telephone where he called the district police station to report the break in. The Desk Sergeant promised to dispatch an officer immediately.
Cockran sat in his chair behind his desk after he hung up the phone and surveyed the devastation around him. Like the break-ins at the Cedars and the law school, the intruders had made no effort to conceal their presence. Books were pulled off the shelves and strewn on the floor. The pair of two-drawer mahogany filing cabinets adjacent to his desk gaped open, the files strewn carelessly around the room, lying against the books on the hardwood floor. He knew what they had been looking for. Michael Collins’ journals. But he didn’t know why. What was in them that made the IRA want them so badly? Thorpe’s identity? Blackthorn’s? Even John Devoy had not been able to figure out who the men behind those code names were.
The six Collins‘ journals began late in the early spring of 1920. Kept on an almost daily basis, they reflected a man as obsessed with rooting out spies in his own midst as he was in neutralizing British intelligence agents. Collins’ journals conveyed his suspicions that the British had an informer high in the echelons of Sinn Fein, if not the cabinet itself. Possibly even two. His own intelligence sources could only uncover code names. The conduit between the Sinn Fein informer and the British was named Blackthorn. The Irish spy was code-named Thorpe.
Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed after Cockran’s phone call to the police when the front doorbell rang. Cockran walked out, exchanged introductions with Officer Johnny O’Connell, and led him to the kitchen, telling him on the way about the other two break-ins. From there, Cockran led him on a tour of the house, intending to take an inventory of what the burglars had stolen. Cockran wasn‘t surprised that nothing was missing. His silver was intact. His father’s nineteen century impressionist paintings were still on the damask-covered walls, the gun case which displayed his father’s collection of shotguns and revolvers was untouched.
Nothing touched except the study. The same pattern as the Long Island break-in.
“And were you keeping any money in the study, Mr. Cockran, that the thieves might have been interested in?” asked Officer O’Connell.
“No, I’m afraid not, Officer. This is the third one after my home on Long Island and my law school office. All these break-ins have me puzzled,” Cockran replied, as he showed the policeman out. The officer promised to file his report promptly but indicated to Cockran that the absence of anything valuable missing would make it well nigh impossible to ever locate the perpetrators.
As he walked down the hall toward the stairs, the telephone rang in his study. He picked it up. It was Devoy. “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening, Bourke, where have you been? We’ve got to meet right now.”
“I‘m sorry, John. I just got back from Montreal. I’ve had a break-in here. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“No, it can’t. We must meet now. Can you please come over?” Devoy’s voice sounded worried.
Cockran pulled out his watch from his pocket. “It’s 11:30. If I can find a taxi, I’ll be at you‘re apartment in fifteen minutes.”
“No, not there,” Devoy replied. “Meet me at the office. Make sure no one follows. It’ll be safe to talk there.”
Cockran shook his head as he hung up. The habits of a lifetime die hard. The old man might be paranoid, but it was clear Cockran had some enemies. The assault in Central Park, the attack on the train and now another break-in. He left through the back door and walked down the narrow, dimly-lit alley through to Madison Avenue where he hailed a taxi. He looked around. No one was following him.
15.
&n
bsp; My Regards to Your Lovely Wife
White Plains, New York
Saturday, 10 August 1929
9:30 p.m.
James O’Brien was a bigger fool than he had imagined, Tommy McBride thought, as he shook hands with O’Brien‘s wife, Elizabeth, and introduced her to Kurt von Sturm. The balding O’Brien was stout and in his forties. His lovely wife was neither.
“Please call me Betsy,” an invitation McBride promptly accepted. Betsy was wearing a low-cut blue silk dress that matched her high-heeled shoes and showed off her long, shapely legs. Betsy wore her hair long with loose light brown curls framing an attractive oval face, brown from the sun as was the rest of her body, much of which was on display. The scooped bodice of the dress made it difficult for McBride to avoid seeing an ample portion of her pale breasts as he walked beside her. He didn‘t try.
They were shown into O’Brien‘s study, McBride and Sturm sitting at opposite ends of a dark green leather Chesterfield sofa. Betsy asked if they would like coffee. McBride smiled and said yes. With something like that waiting for you at home, McBride thought, why would James O’Brien keep a mistress whom he regularly visited every Monday and Thursday in a midtown Manhattan pied-a-terre and who, in turn, entertained other men when O’Brien was not there?
McBride had been impressed with the ten-page report Sturm had given him on O’Brien. For all his outward bluster and bonhomie, O’Brien was a weak man who‘d unwittingly provided his mistress with the perfect location for a high-class call girl plying her trade in Manhattan‘s expensive hotels and in the exclusive, member-only “clubs”, as the high-priced speakeasies selling only premium branded liquor referred to themselves. Cote d‘Or, Club New Yorker, the Stork Club and Parrouquet. If O’Brien was so careless in one part of his life, they had to make sure he was not equally careless in the one area that mattered to McBride—the wire transfer codes. Sturm was right. Once the funds were wired, O’Brien had no further use. A loose end.
The DeValera Deception Page 10