The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  Hoover paused, wary, and said, “I suppose so. This won‘t take long, will it?”

  “No, Mr. President, just a few moments of your time. But it is a most important message and on a subject close to your heart.”

  “Of course, Winston, Mr. President,” Hearst said. “I would be pleased to do so. My private library on the third floor will be at your disposal. James will direct you to the appropriate elevator.”

  56.

  Geneva Doesn’t Tolerate Mistakes

  The Neptune Pool

  San Simeon

  Wednesday, 21 August, 1929

  5:30 p.m.

  Kurt von Sturm stood in the shade of the portico beside the elaborately tiled, near-Olympic-size Neptune pool, looking out at the Pacific Ocean over a mile away.

  “Will the escape of the McGary woman adversely affect the shipment or the final payment to the Irish?” Cromwell asked.

  “No, as to the latter question. As for the former, it‘s too late to worry about Miss McGary. But we are depending more than ever on the quality of the men you have provided as security for our warehouse in Long Beach. I lost four good men in the British raid at Wyntoon. I underestimated the strength they could muster at the point of attack. Would it be possible to double the number of men you have assigned to Long Beach?”

  Cromwell removed the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Sturm. “Don‘t worry, Kurt, it won‘t be a problem. We have plenty of good men we can call upon. And more where they came from. Trust me. They‘re all ex-Army. I‘d stake my life on these men.”

  “I do worry, Philip. The Geneva Group pays me well to worry. They don‘t tolerate mistakes. I‘ve made a few on this assignment. I don‘t intend for there to be any more.”

  “Trust me, Kurt. There won‘t be. By the way, did you notice the President‘s attitude toward Churchill? He was telling me earlier today that he and the President were old friends from the war. Sure didn‘t look like that to me.”

  57.

  There Is Nothing I Can Do

  The Gothic Study

  San Simeon

  Wednesday, 21 August 1929

  7:15 p.m.

  Churchill seemed surprised. That was obvious to Cockran as they sat in Hearst‘s private library, an enormous room called the Gothic Study with a long wooden table presided over by a portrait of a younger Hearst at the far end of the room. Bookcases lined the walls and light from the early evening sun filled the room through clerestory windows. No one but Hearst and Marion Davies were allowed on this floor. Hoover and Churchill would not be disturbed.

  The two statesmen sat in comfortable leather chairs at the opposite end of the study from Hearst‘s portrait. The chairs were placed side by side at slightly less than a ninety-degree angle. Cockran and Mattie were sitting in a matched pair ten feet away. A single Secret Service agent stood halfway down the room, out of earshot, his silent figure as immobile as the floor lamp.

  Cockran had earlier observed with interest Hoover‘s frosty but correct reception of Churchill. Now, with no one present but Churchill‘s entourage and the Secret Service, Hoover was almost rude, his body language showing visible impatience. Not that Cockran hadn‘t seen Churchill produce that effect when he was dominating a conversation with a monologue. But now, Churchill was on his best behavior, reporting that the Prime Minister would be most grateful to the President for granting a few moments alone with his personal emissary.

  Churchill got right to the point. “Less than a month ago, British Intelligence received reports that the terrorist Irish Republican Army planned a massive arms purchase in the United States involving millions of dollars. His Majesty‘s Government consulted with the leaders of the Irish Free State and both of our governments agreed to ask the aid of the United States. While the Prime Minister and I represent different parties in Parliament, we are of a single mind in helping our fellow Commonwealth member. When he learned I was traveling to the United States, the Prime Minister asked me to personally convey this request to you.”

  Hoover nodded and squinted his eyes until they were narrow slits in his large, puffy face. “What proof do you have of this, Mr. Churchill? Surely you should understand that the United States cannot concern itself every time the natives are restless in a corner of the British Empire.”

  Cockran stiffened at the President‘s slur on the Irish. The man was a complete bigot. He was tempted to reply but stayed silent, listening as Churchill measured his words. “With all respect, Mr. President, the Irish Free State is a full member of the British Commonwealth and its location, far from being remote, makes it of vital concern to Great Britain‘s national security. As for proof, my young colleagues here, Miss McGary and Mr. Cockran, have personally observed the weapons being assembled at three separate locations in the United States. Mattie, Bourke,” Churchill said, gesturing to them, “would you be so kind as to tell the President what you have seen and show him the documents you have managed to obtain?”

  Cockran went first, detailing what he observed in Cleveland, passing over to the President copies of the Cleveland bills of lading he had obtained from the safe at Wyntoon, leaving Hoover with the impression that he had obtained them at the warehouse itself.

  “How did you obtain access to this warehouse in Cleveland? Through the help of a union leader? A Teamster, I believe?” Hoover asked. “But you didn‘t have the owner‘s consent?”

  Cockran had had enough. He was not a patient man. Still, he made it a point in front of judges to always respond politely and respectfully to their questions, however stupid. But this guy wasn‘t a judge. He was a damn engineer who had been elected to only one public office in his life. When it came to the law, Hoover couldn‘t find his ass with both hands.

  “I disagree, Mr. President. The key to the warehouse was delivered to me through an agent of the owner. I had every legal right to be there.” Not to mention the fact that an agent from your old Commerce Department was in the company of a known IRA terrorist.

  “So you say, Mr. Cockran. So you say,” Hoover replied. “But my sources of information indicate the owner of the warehouse was not aware you had been given a key.”

  Cockran wondered how the hell did Hoover have any “sources” on something he just heard for the first time? “The person who gave me the key was an employee of the owner, the night watchman, who clearly had authority to do so.”

  “Be that as it may…” Hoover began but an impatient Cockran cut him off.

  “No, Mr. President, it is a fact. Before you accuse a person of trespass, you need to consult a lawyer, someone who knows more than you apparently do about the law of libel.”

  The President‘s face grew red but he said nothing and Churchill promptly intervened, diverting Hoover‘s attention from his large Irish adversary to the far more appealing Mattie McGary. Unfortunately, it didn‘t work. Hoover had to do something to reclaim his manhood and Mattie turned out to be a surprisingly easy victim after she told her story.

  “So you had the warehouse owner‘s permission to be there?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he know you were going to be crawling over the tops of crates and walking along the ceiling beams as you described?”

  “Well, he knew I was going to be taking photographs all over the warehouse.”

  “Yes, but you took these photographs surreptitiously so you knew it was impermissable?”

  “Well, not exactly, but....”

  Cockran was suspicious. He had never seen Mattie so defensive, so tentative. It‘s almost as if she were trying to be unpersuasive, he thought. Then Churchill intervened.

  “Mr. President, the IRA are a ruthless gang of terrorists. You can‘t always play by the Marquis of Queensberry‘s rules with people like this when they are planning more mayhem for a peace-loving people like the Irish.”

  Hoover let the barest traces of a smile form on his pursed lips. “It remains to be seen, does it not, Mr. Churchill, just how peace-loving the Irish are and whether
their race has the capacity for self-government? Ireland isn‘t Canada. Or even Australia.”

  Cockran was angry now and strained to control himself. His knuckles were almost white as his hands tightly gripped the chair‘s soft leather arms. He leaned forward as if to speak, but Churchill had already seen the effect Hoover‘s words had produced and Cockran was grateful Churchill had quickly responded before Cockran could say something he might regret. “I respectfully disagree, Mr. President. The Free State is every bit as much a respected member of the Commonwealth as other great nations such as Canada, Australia and South Africa. Moreover, the Irish diaspora has contributed hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of immigrants, not only to these Commonwealth nations, but to your own country.”

  “I‘m aware of that, Mr. Churchill, but most of those who have accomplished anything beyond increasing our birth rate were of Scotch-Irish descent. No offense intended, Mr. Cockran, merely a factual observation,” Hoover said, glancing in Cockran‘s direction. “What I find disturbing, Mr. Churchill, is that seven years after you British, perhaps unwisely, gave southern Ireland her freedom, they have still not managed to eradicate terrorism. Even more disturbing and ominous for their long-term chances of establishing a democratic government is that some of the more prominent opposition leaders, including this de Valera fellow, as late as last year were making public statements claiming that the rebels were morally and legally entitled to take power by force. I also believe he threatened an invasion of the North.”

  “You seem well-briefed, Mr. President, but all nations have their growing pains,” Churchill replied. “It took eleven years after America declared independence to establish your constitution. But let us return to the purpose of the Prime Minister‘s request. Bourke, pray detail for the President what you observed in San Francisco.”

  Cockran started to speak but Hoover held up his hand. “What you observed in San Francisco, Mr. Cockran, was comparable to what you observed in Cleveland?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the bills of lading you possess indicate that the weapons and ammunition have been sold and title no longer resides in the manufacturers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are a law professor, I believe? At Columbia?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As you know, my background is in construction and engineering. Unfortunately, my Attorney General did not accompany me on this trip. Would you be so kind as to advise me what federal laws you believe have been violated by these arms purchases?”

  Damn! Cockran thought. Hoover had been well briefed. But how did he know to even ask his lawyers? Had that bastard Cromwell poisoned the well? Was Cromwell Hoover‘s “source” for Cleveland? Hoover had identified the same weak point that Cockran had made to Churchill. There were no federal laws being violated and there was no upside to claiming the violation of nonexistent laws. Instead, he appealed to the President‘s better nature, even though it was obvious that the man didn‘t have one.

  “There are no laws which have been violated per se, Mr. President. But surely the Commerce Department, acting together with the State Department and local authorities, could find some pretext to detain the shipment from leaving port in Los Angeles until after you have had an opportunity to review the implications of these shipments for American foreign policy.”

  Hoover‘s eyes narrowed again and his lips pursed. “I am perfectly aware of what the Commerce Department may do. The problem , Mr. Cockran, and you, too, Mr. Churchill, is that you are too late. Title has passed. Whoever purchased those weapons owns them. They have rights which our Constitution protects and the government may do nothing to hinder them in the exercise of those rights, which includes shipping them out of the country.”

  Hoover paused, filled his pipe with tobacco, and lit it. “Mr. Cockran, as you concede, there are no laws that have been broken in connection with these weapon purchases about which the British Government is so concerned. I daresay, however, we do have laws on the books with respect to both Americans and foreign nationals rendering assistance on American soil to a foreign intelligence service, even a former ally like Great Britain.”

  Cockran briefly wondered if the IRA had paid off the President the same way Al Capone bought aldermen in Chicago. No, Cockran reflected, Hoover probably hadn‘t been bought. But that still left him no better than a common thug who thought that because he had power, he could threaten to use it whenever it pleased him to do so. A typical politician.

  Hoover shifted in his chair and looked directly at Churchill. “What your government should have done, Mr. Churchill, was to approach our government immediately, through proper channels, specifically, your ambassador in Washington, to Mr. Stimson, our Secretary of State. At that point, something could have been done. Had I approved, the Commerce Department could have issued an advisory bulletin to all weapons manufacturers in the country asking them to refrain from selling arms destined for Ireland. They would not have been obligated to honor the request, mind you. Nevertheless, the Commerce Department plays a critical role in facilitating U.S. exports and I have no doubt that few would have ignored our request.”

  Hoover raised his hands palms up in resignation. “But now? Now, there is nothing I can do. Please convey to your Prime Minister, Mr. Churchill, my sincere regret that I was not able to be of assistance and that I very much look forward to his visit in the fall.”

  With that, Hoover quickly rose from his chair before Churchill had a chance to do the same. The Secret Service agent opened the door for the President. When the door closed, Churchill turned to Cockran with a laugh and a twinkle in his eye. “Well, how do you think it went, my boy? He never once mentioned the unpleasant episode of his arrest during the war. That‘s a good sign, wouldn‘t you say?” Churchill laughed again. “I fear we may have to find another way to foil the IRA than depending on the U.S. authorities. Join me for breakfast tomorrow and we‘ll explore our options.”

  Cockran wondered, and not for the first time, exactly what Winston had in mind. It‘s not as if he hadn‘t been told to expect an outcome like this.

  7:00 p.m

  The elevator door closed in front of the President and his two Secret Service agents. “Do you boys know who that was?” Hoover asked with a chuckle.

  “No, sir,” they responded in unison.

  “Winston Churchill. He was Britain‘s last Chancellor of the Exchequer. But during the war, he was in charge of their navy.” The President laughed. “Tried to have me arrested for espionage in 1915 because I was feeding starving children in Belgium. Can you imagine that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “At the time, neither could I. I have many close friends in England. No one in his party really trusts Churchill. He‘s only out for himself. He changed parties twice. They call him an adventurer, a half-breed American. Do you know why?”

  “No, sir.”

  The President laughed again. “His mother was an American. Fine looking woman but a genuine round-heeled tramp. I‘m told she had multiple affairs including one with King Edward before the war. I heard another was with that Cockran fellow‘s father. A real Irish blowhard he was. After her husband, Lord Randolph, died, she twice married men half her age. Some say Lord Randolph died of syphylis and wasn‘t even the sire of Winston‘s younger brother.”

  The elevator door opened and the President walked out into the Great Hall.

  “Breeding will always tell, I suppose,” Hoover remarked to no one in particular, as his two agents were now scanning either side of the room. “I never could stand that man. I can‘t believe Ramsay MacDonald showed such poor judgment in sending him as an emissary.”

  Hoover let out another short laugh. “Not that I would have lifted a finger to help the Irish. I didn‘t need the Catholic vote last year anyway.”

  As the entourage reached the door, Hearst‘s butler approached. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the butler said, “but Mr. Hearst asked me to tell you that there‘s been a change in plans. High winds have p
revented the Graf Zeppelin from landing here on the grounds. The ship has advised us that weather reports for tomorrow do not offer a brighter prospect. As a consequence, they have determined to fly on to Los Angeles and moor there tomorrow morning. Mr. Hearst asked me to tell you that he has reserved the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel for a luncheon reception for the crew of the Graf Zeppelin on Friday. A train will be leaving tomorrow evening for Los Angeles and he would be pleased if you would join him in his private railcar for the journey.”

  The President nodded. “Thank Mr. Hearst for his kind invitation which I accept. Tell him I look forward to seeing him at dinner tonight.”

  58.

  The Shadow of the Graf Zeppelin

  Los Angeles

  Thursday, 22 August 1929

  8:30 a.m.

  The giant airship slowly turned into the wind, the morning sun flashing off its silvery skin, until it was heading directly west toward the mooring mast where Kurt von Sturm patiently waited along with the forty men of the ground crew. Behind them, fifty yards away, a crowd numbering in the thousands lined the airport fence.

  The shadow of the Graf Zeppelin now reached the men gathered at the base of the mooring mast, which had been turned until it was directly in position to receive the airship‘s nose cone. Once the nose cone was locked in place, the mooring mast was designed to swing in an arc of three hundred sixty degrees so that if the winds shifted, the zeppelin‘s long fuselage would turn with the wind. At a signal from the landing master, the ground crew fanned out, twenty men each, on either side of the airship‘s shadow. The airship was now barely one hundred feet above them and, as if on cue, landing lines appeared on either side of the ship, dropping down to the men below, each of whom grasped a line and, muscles straining with the effort, slowly walked the giant airship the last few yards to the mooring mast.