The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  A prolonged cheer arise from the crowd when the connection was finally secure and the Graf Zeppelin, for the first time in its illustrious career, made landfall on the California coast.

  Kurt von Sturm was the first man up the stairs to the door of the Graf Zeppelin once the stewards had put the steps in place. He gave a crisp military salute to the Captain, Ernst Lehman, who returned the salute with a smile and grasped Sturm‘s hand in his own. They had been together in the war, Sturm serving as executive officer on Lehman‘s airship, the last before Sturm received his own command.

  “What a pleasure to see you, Kurt. It seems a lifetime since we dropped you off in Lakehurst. Yet it was less than three weeks ago. You have been keeping out of trouble?”

  “Me? Trouble?” Kurt laughed. “I‘m on holiday, Ernst.”

  Lehman stood aside and beckoned for Sturm to enter, which he did. He turned left and walked down the airship‘s familiar narrow corridor to the Grand Salon. As he entered the salon, he saw Zurich and Berlin in the right-hand corner lingering over the remains of their breakfast.

  Sturm greeted them both and sat down. A white-coated steward silently appeared at his right hand and offered coffee which Sturm accepted. At Zurich‘s direction, Sturm presented a complete report. Legal title to the arms and munitions would officially pass to Geneva‘s nominees when McBride delivered the bonded warehouse receipts and the releases on the Swiss accounts to Sturm in exchange for the gold bearer bonds in Zurich‘s cabin in the airship.

  “Were there any unforeseen problems?” Zurich inquired.

  “More than I would have preferred. But none that were insurmountable.”

  “What were the nature of these problems?” Berlin ventured.

  Zurich cut him off. “Herr von Sturm can cover that with us later.”

  “I have made one change in plans” Sturm said. “I have accepted Manhattan‘s offer to provide security at the warehouse. While it didn‘t endanger the shipment, there was a fire fight in northern California at the Hearst mansion, with what I believe were British Intelligence agents. Six men were killed. Four of ours, two of the Irish. With myself, that leaves only six good men to guard the weapons for the next four days until they are safely on board a cargo ship headed for a South American port where they will be broken down into more manageable shipments, less easily detected by the British or the Free State.”

  “You lost four men, Kurt?” Zurich said. That is more than a minor problem.”

  Sturm nodded, accepting the rebuke. “I did not mean to minimize the difficulties we encountered. But the battle at the Hearst mansion was isolated. The shipments were not endangered. The assembly in Oakland went off perfectly. Unlike Cleveland and Chicago, there were no intruders in the warehouse. We captured one of the opposition and learned from her all we needed to know. Unfortunately, after we secured that information, I should have pulled my men out and left the Irish behind to finish up the dirty work. To my regret, I didn‘t.”

  Sturm shook his head in resignation. “Ten good men, good Germans, would have been more than enough to provide security at the waterfront warehouse. We need the Americans but I can‘t place my faith in men whom I have never met. Nor will I place trust in those who have not earned it. Once I have the bonded warehouse receipts and McBride has the bonds, I will order the Irish to stay away completely. Manhattan has promised me fourteen more men. If they are good men, it will bring our numbers back up to what I originally considered was necessary.”

  Sturm‘s expression was quiet and determined as he looked across the table at the two older men. “The question is, are they competent men? Are they good enough?”

  Zurich‘s eyes narrowed. “For Manhattan‘s sake, they had better be.”

  With that, Zurich rose from the table and beckoned Sturm to follow. Inside Zurich‘s cabin, he closed the door, locked it behind them, and walked over to the upholstered bench along the wall which converted at night into a comfortable bunk. He undid the straps and opened the leather valise, showing the contents to Sturm. “Four million dollars U.S. in gold bearer bonds from America, Great Britain, Italy and Switzerland. Nothing from Germany.”

  59.

  My Final Word

  Casa del Mar Terrace

  San Simeon

  Thursday, 22 August 1929

  9:00 a.m.

  The first rays of sun were beginning to rise over the mountains behind them as Churchill, Cockran, Rankin, Mattie and David Brooke-Smythe sat around a glass-topped table on the terrace in front of Casa del Sol. Before them was a full English breakfast of poached eggs, roasted tomatoes, a rasher of bacon, toast and marmalade.

  Mattie was uncharacteristically silent and Cockran was still disappointed at how she acted the evening before with the President. Hoover had handled her easily and she had folded like an accordion.

  Cockran was also disappointed that Churchill had not shown more dismay at President Hoover‘s flat refusal the evening before to lift even a single finger of his pudgy right hand to extend assistance to the democratically-elected government of a peaceful European nation. It‘s not as if, Cockran thought, that there were a lot of those left. He had been writing about the decline of European democracies ever since he took his position at the law school. Mussolini in Italy was only the first. In the ten years after the war, liberal democracies with market economies were becoming an endangered species. European countries which had ousted their kings were turning away from democracy in favor of authoritarian dictatorships. Italy in 1922 had soon been followed by Bulgaria, Spain, Turkey, Albania, Poland, Portugal, Lithuania and, earlier this year, a coup in Yugoslavia. Could Hoover really be ignorant of this? Or indifferent?

  Churchill, to his credit, had been doing his best in the past thirty minutes to save Ireland‘s freedom from a return to the gun. “I am quite disappointed in you, David,” he said to Smythe. “You must be capable of doing better than this. With far less resources at their disposal, Cockran and Rankin have had far more success. Without them to locate the IRA warehouses, we would have had no idea of the enormous scope of the weapons being purchased.”

  Churchill paused, took a sip from his weak scotch and water and lit a new cigar before continuing. “Equally important, thanks to them, we now know where the entire weapons consignment is being stored and when it will be shipped. The very least you can do, the very least, is to take your ten men and mount a commando raid on that warehouse in Long Beach.”

  Smythe had been attempting to get in a word edgewise for the latter half of Churchill‘s monologue but to no effect. Cockran had watched as Smythe‘s complexion grew from pink at the beginning to beet red before he was finally able to respond.

  “That is entirely out of the question, Mr. Churchill. My men and I have no authority, I repeat, no authority, to use firearms on this trip except in self-defense.”

  “I daresay you and your men will have ample opportunity to employ your weapons in self-defense if you mount a raid on that warehouse tonight.” Churchill replied. “In the process of defending yourself as you conduct what I would label an ‘inspection in force‘, who knows what sort of accidents might happen with all those weapons and ammunition lying about?”

  “I am not as clever as you, Mr. Churchill. I do not believe in creatively interpreting what are otherwise perfectly clear orders and I take them from the Prime Minister, not you. My men and I will leave this morning for Los Angeles. We will wait there until after the reception for the Graf Zeppelin in the event President Hoover reconsiders his decision. But if he does not, my men and I shall return to England.”

  Smythe paused, took a slice of toast from the silver rack in front of him, and started to apply butter and marmalade. “In the interim, I will send two of my men, and two men only, to this warehouse in Long Beach where Sergeant Rankin and Mr. Cockran indicate the weapons shipment is now located. As per my brief, I will report promptly to you any of their findings so that you in turn may convey them to the President. With luck, I will have this for you by the e
nd of the day or by tomorrow morning at the latest.” Smythe rose from the table, placed a white linen napkin carefully on his plate. “And that, Mr. Churchill, is my final word on the matter.”

  “Does that happen often, Winston? Someone saying ‘no‘ to you?” Cockran asked as he watched the retreating back of David Brooke-Smythe.

  Churchill chuckled. “Other than Clemmie? Usually not. We politicians have a tendency to compromise and find common ground without being so absolute. Military types like Smythe live in a much less nuanced world. More black and white.”

  “It might be just as well, Winston,” Cockran said. “I‘m not sure an inspection in force is one of your better ideas. A small group, possibly only me, Rankin and perhaps Inspector Thompson, would be all we need to gain entry; set a few explosive devices; and leave.”

  Churchill shook his head. “A tempting suggestion but I cannot agree. Both Thompson and Rankin are Scotland Yard. I cannot have them engaged in actions of that kind.”

  “Excuse me, Winston? Didn‘t you just ask Smythe to do the same thing?”

  “Not the same thing at all, my boy. Not at all. Smythe is an intelligence agent. They get themselves involved in all sorts of activities that police officers simply cannot consider.”

  “What about Rankin accompanying me in our effort to rescue Mattie?”

  “Point taken. That was a much closer call. Clemmie and I are quite fond of Mattie and kidnapping is a crime here as well as in Great Britain. Purchasing arms to accomplish a revolution in a peaceful country is, as President Hoover pointedly reminded us, not a crime in the United States. More importantly, Rankin was accompanied on that occasion by fellow police officers who were attempting to rescue the kidnap victim, no matter how far outside their jurisdiction they happened to be. Still, Inspector Thompson and I have had a long talk on this with Sergeant Rankin and, as a consequence, we do not believe he would make the same decision today.”

  Churchill put down his cigar and took a sip from the scotch and water. “Besides, I didn‘t expect Smythe to agree to what I suggested. I simply wanted to give him a plausible scenario from my standpoint. A sporting chance, as it were, to do the right thing. That he passed up such an opportunity is no surprise to me.”

  Cockran nodded and Churchill, having the floor, did not relinquish it. “Robert, I think it‘s time we asked our most recent guests to join us. Be a good fellow and go with Mattie to bring them in. But you need not return yourself. We have matters to discuss which are not meant for your tender ears.”

  Rankin smiled broadly. “Ah, yes. Maybe now Mr. Cockran will believe me about the angel I saw in Chicago.”

  60.

  The Apostles

  Casa del Mar Terrace

  San Simeon

  Thursday, 22 August 1929

  10:00 a.m.

  The sun was higher in the sky now and Cockran shaded his eyes for a better view of a group of four people approaching, one of them the unmistakable shambling figure of William Randolph Hearst looming a head taller than Mattie and the other two.

  “I believe no introductions are necessary?” Mattie asked.

  They weren‘t. “Hazel! Joe!” Cockran cried as he rose to embrace the two newcomers whom he had last seen seven years before. Hazel Lavery and Joe O’Reilly.

  Tall and strikingly attractive with soft brown hair and a long aquiline nose, Hazel was the American-born wife of the prominent Anglo-Irish painter, Sir John Lavery and her portrait adorned the Irish Free State‘s bank notes. Cockran had last seen Hazel on the day of Nora‘s funeral. The same was true of her companion, Joe O‘Reilly. Small, dark-haired and sharp-featured, O’Reilly had been Michael Collins‘ principal assistant. He was with Collins in Dublin when the Big Fella gave Cockran a Webley revolver and a list with three names.

  At Hearst‘s instructions, a larger table was brought over to accommodate all six of them.

  “You‘re a long way from home, Hazel,” Cockran said after accepting a glass of champagne from a hovering servant. “What are you doing here?”

  “We knew what the IRA was up to. Winston asked us and we agreed to help.”

  Cockran knew he looked as confused as he sounded, “ Who is ‘we’? I don‘t understand.”

  “Well, for starters, it‘s Joe‘s man, Bobby Sullivan, who killed those two men in Cleveland and who saved Sergeant Rankin in Chicago. Not to mention Bobby and all of the other Apostles saving Mattie‘s skin from the IRA at Mr. Hearst’s place up north,” Hazel said.

  “Apostles?” Cockran asked. “You mean Mick Collins‘ old squad?”

  “Actually, yes. It’s still the Big Fella‘s squad,” Hazel said, “Some have left and a few more were added from time to time at Kevin‘s suggestion. But basically the same.”

  “Kevin?” Cockran asked.

  “O’Higgins. The Free State‘s Minister of Justice. Continuing the Apostles was his idea. Kevin knew a regular police force would not be enough to protect the Free State, especially since he was determined to emulate English bobbies and have our police entirely unarmed. At first he ran the squad out of contingent funds from the Ministry of Justice. After 1925, that all dried up and he came to me to see if I could raise the money from my friends. Which I did. Wealthy friends are useful. When Kevin was killed by the IRA two years ago, my husband John and I decided that we had raised enough capital to establish a foundation whose income could fund operations of the Apostles indefinitely. Our investments in America did very well.”

  “So who‘s in charge now?” Cockran asked.

  “That would be me,” O’Reilly said. “It hasn‘t been easy. I wasn‘t used to being the one who makes decisions. The British may have given us our country back, but they didn‘t give us much experience in running it. The Big Fella would have changed all that. Wasn‘t it himself who was always saying, ‘I didn‘t go risking my life time and again only so Dev would be free to lecture us from on high that the people have no right to be wrong.‘ And wouldn‘t he have booted us in the backside if we hadn‘t done all we could to keep the freedom he won for us?”

  Cockran was still trying to put all the pieces together. “When did you first get wind of the IRA arms deal, Joe?” Cockran asked.

  “The beginning of the summer. The Apostles have their own informants within the IRA. Once we heard about new arms being bought, we started making our plans to come to America. When Mr. Churchill called Hazel, we saw no reason not to honor his request to help.”

  “I‘m not sure I understand quite how Mr. Hearst fits into all this,” Cockran said.

  “It‘s easy enough,” Hearst said. “I‘m a newspaper man and Mattie is one of my best reporters. She told me what she and Winston hoped to accomplish. It sounded like a good story. The Merchants of Death angle. It‘s too easy to outfit an army in America if you have the money. The arms makers fall all over themselves. I still hold them responsible for the Great War and someday, with Mattie‘s help, I‘ll nail them for it.” Hearst paused and took another sip of lemonade. “Your contribution, Mr. Cockran, was an unexpected bonus.”

  “And that was?”

  “Serving up Philip Cromwell‘s head to me on a platter. I had no idea he was using my bank accounts to launder the money. We‘ll have to hush that up but otherwise Cromwell fits the role of a Merchant of Death perfectly. Without men like him, governments couldn‘t wage wars.”

  “You still look puzzled, Bourke,” Mattie said.

  Cockran stood up and pulled Mattie aside, excusing themselves from the rest of the group. “If Hearst isn‘t behind this, why‘d you send a telegram in Chicago to him telling him of our travel plans to California?”

  Mattie arched her eyebrows. “Looking through my things after taking advantage of me?”

  Cockran felt the color begin to rise in his cheeks. “It‘s not as if you hadn’t already done the same thing. How about that emerald earring, the one I found in my hotel room?”

  Now it was Mattie‘s turn to blush. “Touché,” she said. “ I‘m sorry. Hazel said Joe w
anted to see the Collins journals. Anyway, the telegram wasn‘t to Mr. Hearst, it was to ‘H‘—Hazel.”

  “Ah,” Cockran said. “My mistake. But how did you manage to leave your bra and panties behind at Wyntoon?”

  Mattie blushed again. “How did you know that?”

  “I got a tip the IRA had you there so Rankin and I and a few others mounted a raid to rescue you.”

  Mattie hesitated and tears began to form in her eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I didn‘t tell you about Wyntoon because I didn‘t want you to know McBride tried to rape me. First in Chicago and at then at Wyntoon along with one of his men. And I would have been raped if not for the Apostles. You have enough reasons to hate McBride for killing Nora. You don‘t need me giving you extra baggage. But I didn‘t want to lie to you either. So, if I told you nothing, it wouldn‘t be a lie. Lies aren‘t a good basis for a friendship. I like you Cockran. A lot.” she said “and I want us to be friends.”

  Cockran made no reply but simply took her in his arms. She liked him but she didn‘t know him that well. One more evil act by McBride against someone he cared for was not “extra baggage” in the sense that Mattie meant it. When the time came for killing, he believed he would do so as coldly and unemotionally as he had back in 1922 and before that in the war. He saw Joe O’Reilly standing ten yards away, keeping a distance but clearly wanting to approach. Cockran motioned him over.

  “Bourke, I‘m sorry that we didn‘t let you know the Apostles were involved. We didn‘t know how you felt about us. If you held a grudge, Mr. Churchill believed we couldn’t risk losing your help.

  “What grudge could I possibly hold against the Apostles, Joe?”

  “Mick promised to avenge your wife‘s death and we never delivered. That promise was important to Mick. He sent out the order to the Squad the same day. But with the war and then Mick being killed himself....” O‘Reilly shrugged his shoulders. “By the time we won the war, McBride had skipped the country and we didn‘t know where he went. Bobby Sullivan—he was there that night the Big Fella and I met you at McDaid’s—he felt the worst of any of us because Mick had given him the primary responsibility for McBride. Bobby said the two of you had a lot in common, but he wouldn‘t say why. He was the first one I called when we heard what was going down with McBride and the IRA arms deal in America and he rounded up everyone else while Hazel and I made the travel arrangements.”