Sullivan smiled. “Actually, it‘s only dollars. He thinks you‘re traveling with your parents and that we want to elope. ‘Tis amazing how romantic conductors can be.”
12:05 p.m.
The train stopped for no more than two minutes at Burbank and Sullivan stood at the station‘s window and watched the train depart as Mattie placed a telephone call to Churchill..
“Winston? Mattie. I‘m free. No, he didn‘t let me go. It was Bobby Sullivan. Two of Smythe’s men are dead. No, I‘m fine. Listen, Smythe is not going to San Francisco. It was a ruse. Yes. He‘s chartered a plane at the airport in Van Nuys. He‘ll be there within the hour. One more thing. I overhead Smythe say they would each be a million dollars richer. And three million dollars is exactly what was transferred from the IRA accounts in New York.”
72.
You Really Don’t Know? She Never Told You?
Los Angeles Metropolitan Airport
Van Nuys, California
Saturday, 24 August, 1929
12:30 p.m.
Cockran was sitting in a wicker arm chair inside Hearst’s royal blue Fokker Trimotor, its engines idling, when he saw a young man run up in front of the plane, waving his hands, a piece of paper clutched in his right hand. The pilots cut the engines and a moment later, Cockran heard a knock on the cabin door. He opened the door and the young man hurried up the stairs.
“Mr. Cockran? I have an urgent message for you,” he said, pressing the paper into Cockran‘s hands. Cockran unfolded the paper and looked at the message:Mattie safe. Smythe on way to Van Nuys airfield. Has chartered an aircraft for San Diego. May have the IRA $3 million. Stop him.
W.
Thank God she‘s safe, Cockran thought as he refolded the paper and then knocked on the door to the plane‘s cockpit.
“Yes, sir?” said the co-pilot who stuck his head out the door.
“A slight change in plans. How much would you charge for a charter to San Diego?”
When told such a short flight would be less than $100, Cockran doubled that and told them the new plan. The pilot would go back to the airfield manager‘s office and file a new flight plan for San Diego. The co-pilot would seek out the pilot for Smythe‘s charter and offer him twice the amount Smythe was paying if he could develop a fuel line problem and turn the charter over to them. Cockran then phoned Churchill who in turn consulted with Inspector Thompson. Thompson agreed to contact the San Diego Police Department and have three squad cars meet the plane upon arrival. They discussed attempting the same thing at the Van Nuys airfield but Inspector Thompson vetoed it. He told Churchill there was something about the LAPD that he didn‘t trust. Jack Manion, however, had assured him the San Diego police were trustworthy.
Their respective missions accomplished, Cockran huddled with the two pilots in the air field‘s reception area and filled them in on what awaited them in San Diego. “I‘ll wait in the galley to the right of the entry door. Make certain Smythe is seated with his back to me. If I can get the drop on him during take-off, I will. But I won‘t take any unnecessary chances. Once we arrive in San Diego and he sees the police cars, he‘ll know the game is up.”
Cockran was comfortably seated in the Fokker‘s galley for barely five minutes before he heard the two pilots and Smythe enter the aircraft. To the right inside the plane‘s entryway was the galley. To the left was the main cabin with six slip-covered wicker seats arranged in two conversational groupings. There was barely enough space to squeeze between the two groupings to make it to the three seats in the front. Cramped luxury but large windows lined both sides of the cabin in a long strip giving the interior an airy feel.
“This way, sir. Mind your head. Have a seat and strap yourself in. We’ll be off soon.”
There were no straps or seats in the galley and Cockran wedged himself into one corner and braced his feet against the bulkhead for take off. The engines would be at their maximum RPM during the take off and the climb to what the pilots had told him would be their 2,000 feet cruising altitude to San Diego. He hadn‘t told the pilots but Cockran had no intention of waiting for the San Diego police. Smythe would be armed and his best chance to slip into the passenger compartment undetected and take him unawares was during the take off. If Smythe resisted, as Cockran hoped he would, he‘d kill the bastard.
The Trimotor was gathering speed now and the noise from the three engines was deafening. When he felt the craft lift off, he carefully let himself out of the galley and walked up the sloping floor to the doorway leading to the passenger cabin, the Webley in his right hand. Smythe was seated in the front grouping on the left with his back to Cockran who weaved through the three seats in the rear grouping to Smith‘s chair.
In one motion, Cockran wrapped his left arm around Smythe‘s neck and pressed the Webley revolver firmly against his side. “Remove your weapon. Place it on the floor. Don‘t even twitch or I‘ll blow a hole in your back.”
Smythe reached inside his Saville Row lounge suit and carefully removed a Walther PPK automatic and dropped it to the floor beside his chair with a soft thump. Cockran directed him to move to the back of the compartment into the single forward-facing seat in the left rear corner of the plane. Cockran then picked up Smythe‘s weapon and moved to the two rear-facing seats diagonally across from Smythe, barely four feet away. With his weapon secured and Smythe in the rear of the airplane, Cockran now had a clear field of fire to shoot him without danger to the pilots. Which was his plan. But first came questions. A lot of them.
By now, the Trimotor had reached its cruising altitude and conversation was possible.
“Where is the $3 million you took from the IRA?”
Smythe‘s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about that?” he said and paused, “Ah yes, that Scottish bitch. She must have overheard us. No matter. I don‘t know how she did it but she managed to kill my man who was guarding her. It saved me the trouble of doing it myself.” He laughed. It was dry and mirthless. “Do thank her for me.”
Smythe seemed unperturbed and casually draped one knee over the other as if he were sitting in a club having drinks with a friend. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“No,” Cockran said, “but move slowly.”
Smythe pulled a flat silver cigarette case from inside his gray flannel suit coat and took out a cigarette, replaced the cigarette case, and lit up with a matching cigarette lighter.
“So what about the money?” Cockran asked.
“Ah, yes. The money. It was four million, not three and I‘m afraid, old chap, that I haven‘t the foggiest idea. It certainly wasn‘t where I expected it to be.”
“Where was that?”
“In a locker. At Union Station in Los Angeles. Where that idiot Irishman said he left it.”
“You mean McBride?”
Smythe laughed. “Yes, how careless of me. There are so many Irishmen who are idiots, I can understand your confusion. But yes, McBride.”
“Why would McBride have any money left? Didn‘t he spend it all purchasing the arms?”
Smythe took a puff from his cigarette and coolly blew the smoke into the air. “For having been such a problem, Mr. Cockran, you are remarkably ill-informed. Of course McBride spent all the money. To make it seem as if the IRA were buying the weapons itself. But it was all front money to be repaid as soon as the arms were purchased and safely on their way.”
Cockran was confused. “Repaid? By whom?’
“The German,” Smythe said.
“What was his name?”
“I don‘t know. McBride and de Valera only called him ‘the German‘.”
“Who was supplying the money? Who was behind all this?”
“I don‘t think McBride knew. He only knew it was arriving on the zeppelin.”
“Why would Germans want to do that?” Cockran asked.
“I don‘t know and I don‘t care,” Smythe said. “The Germans are no threat to us now. Certainly less of a threat than Churchill, damn his eyes!” Smythe said with
sudden vehemence.
“Why kill Churchill? What do you have against him?” Cockran asked.
Smythe‘s eyes narrowed and his face contorted in rage as he drew one last time on the cigarette and then stubbed it out with his heel on the floor beneath him. “Because that bloody half-breed American is responsible for giving Ireland away to the bloody Papists.”
“I don‘t understand,” Cockran said. “If you hate the Irish so much, why did you help McBride? Why didn‘t you carry out your mission and help Churchill stop the arms deal?”
Smythe laughed again. “That‘s exactly why de Valera tipped me. He thought I would help stop it. What a pompous fool! I very much wanted the IRA to get all the weapons it could.”
“De Valera opposed it? And you wanted to help the IRA? I don‘t understand.”
“Well, you should,” Smythe snapped. “De Valera was born here, wasn‘t he? Makes him a bloody American, doesn‘t it? He did it for the money. Isn‘t that the only thing you Americans care about? De Valera told me that the Germans offered him a million dollar commission if he would let the $3 million he raised in America be used to purchase the arms. He told me that once the arms were seized, it would discredit the IRA forever in Ireland and free him from relying on their suport. And then he would use the $4 million to buy his way into power. He wants to buy a bloody newspaper, he does.”
Smythe laughed again. “The bastard had the IRA kill Michael Collins and now he wants to double cross them and buy an election victory. Serve the bloody Irish right to elect that black-hearted coward.”
“But that doesn‘t explain why you wanted the arms deal to succeed. Why help the IRA?”
“The same reason I didn‘t stop the assassinations Collins planned for Bloody Sunday even though de Valera warned me. We needed something spectacular to persuade Lloyd George to take the gloves off. Having ten of our best agents killed at once was a small price to pay.”
“But why an arms deal now?” Cockran asked. “Bloody Sunday was eight years ago. The Treaty was seven. The Free State is part of the Commonwealth.”
“That it may be,” Smythe said, “but it damn well shouldn‘t be. When de Valera came to me, hoping to discredit the IRA, the bastard gave me a chance I thought was gone forever.”
“I don‘t understand,” Cockran said.
“Then you‘re a bloody fool,” Smythe said. “Because if the IRA takes over the South, a war with Ulster is inevitable. Only something like that could ever force Britain to reoccupy Ireland and put those Fenian bastards in camps along with their women and children where they belong. Just like we did with the Boers.”
Cockran had heard enough. He knew Smythe was playing for time, looking for an advantage but Cockran had learned almost all he needed to know. “My wife Nora?” Cockran asked, his voice barely audible. “Why did you do it? Why was she on your list? Why?”
Without asking permission, Smythe slowly reached inside his suit coat and pulled out the silver case and lit another cigarette. “To teach you a lesson.” Cockran kept the revolver trained on the man‘s chest but Smythe ignored it and coolly blew smoke into the air. “Oh, I know you right well, you bloody American bastard. You‘re the one who kept carrying messages between Churchill and Collins. I read all about it in the field reports. I know you right well enough. If anyone but Churchill were in charge back then, we would have sent the army back in. Collins made a fool of him and England. You‘re as much responsible for that as anyone.”
“Why not have me killed, then?” Cockran asked.
“No one cares about a dead American.” Smythe said with a laugh. “Besides, you had already done your damage carrying those bloody messages between Churchill and Collins.”
“But why have my wife killed? Why put her on the list you gave McBride?”
“Kill your wife? Are you daft? I would never do that. That‘s not why she was on the list.”
Cockran was confused. “But, why....?”
Smythe laughed. “You don‘t know? You really don‘t know? She never told you?”
“Told me what?”
“I courted your wife for almost a year, you bloody idiot! I was in love with her and my leave was cancelled the weekend I was going to pop the question. It was another month before I could make it back to Dublin and, by then, you had come into the picture. Bloody rich American, you were and Nora told me she was in love with you. And your money as well, I‘d wager.”
Cockran was astonished. Nora and Brooke-Smythe? He knew she once had been involved with a British officer who had a “double-barreled” name—much to the annoyance of her parents—but she had never volunteered who the man was, only that he could be sweet to her but was too often a “pompous prig” to others, especially her friends. He also knew she had broken things off after they met but he knew none of the details, let alone the man‘s name. My God, he thought. She had been seeing David Brooke-Smythe! “So irreverent and full of life…her death a tragedy to those who knew her” was what the bastard had said to him in Chicago. It had bothered him to hear the Brit speak of Nora but it had gone right over his head. It never occurred to him that Smyth actually knew Nora. Not that he needed another reason to kill the man code-named Blackthorn.
“But if you loved her, why was she on a list that led to her being killed?”
Smythe laughed again. “Pay attention you bloody fool! I told you she wasn‘t on a list to be killed. Don‘t you bloody Papists ever read the Bible? The Book of Deuteronomy. Chapter 20, Verses 10 to 18. When you conquer a city, it says, ‘You shall put all its males to the sword but the women and everything else in the city--all its spoil-- you shall take as booty and you shall enjoy the spoil of your enemies which the Lord your God has given you.‘”
Oh my God, Cockran realized with horror. “You mean....”
“Exactly. She wasn‘t to be killed. She was the spoil of war to be enjoyed. Your wife was on a list to be shagged by McBride, not shot,” Smythe said, a leer on his face. “His men were to take their turn with her as well. The same with other wives and daughters of Free State supporters who needed to be taught a lesson. Make them realize they can‘t keep their own women‘s honor safe without the British Army. Your wife‘s honor certainly wasn‘t.”
Smythe laughed once more through hate-filled eyes as Cockran struggled to process what the man was saying. “Stripped her bare and gave it to her good, I‘ve heard. How does it feel to know that a low-life scum like McBride was the last man to sample the bliss of being inside your wife‘s lovely body? A blessing she died, wouldn‘t you agree? You know how the Irish love to gossip. The shame would have killed her if the IRA hadn‘t. Spot of good luck for you too, eh? Spared you from hearing his lads down at the pub swap stories over a pint about just how much your wife enjoyed McBride‘s shag, didn‘t it?
“Thomas did that with me, you know. Boasted that he bulled her from behind and left her moaning for more. Did her right in front of all his lads. What a sight that must have been, eh?”
Smythe exhaled smoke through his nose, his eyes never breaking contact. Cockran knew the British agent was only goading him into letting down his guard but he couldn’t keep his rising fury under control. He had thought he would be cold and merciless like he had been in San Francisco. But he would settle for merciless.
“Not surprising, that. At least not to me. I mean McBride rogering her on all fours. Our Nora always liked it best from behind, don‘t you think? She did with me.”
The Englishman‘s icy blue eyes never left Cockran whose finger tightened on the trigger. Nora in bed with Smythe? Smythe had to be lying but it didn‘t matter.
Smythe paused, a smile on his face now, but hate still in his eyes and matched by Cockran‘s own. “I chastised him, of course, when I learned your wife had been killed. A pity that. I understand his men were disappointed because it happened before they had taken their turn with her. Then I heard she went after them with a knife, cut two of them up pretty bad. And for what? A little harmless slap and tickle? I daresay that gir
l enjoyed a jolly romp in the sack as much as any man.”
“Well, with such a savage display of ingratitude,” Smythe said, waving his hand dismissively, the cigarette still between his fingers, “who could blame the lads when she forced them to act in self-defense? Besides, she made her choice when she married you. Protecting her virtue should have been your concern. It certainly wasn‘t mine. After all, what did one more dead Irish whore with a stranger‘s seed cooling in her belly matter to me?”
Cockran’s trigger finger tensed, his mind filled with fury at the monster in front of him but Smythe flicked his burning cigarette directly at Cockran‘s face causing him to flinch as he fired. The gunshot was like thunder in the small cabin and Cockran knew the shot had missed. Smythe was on top of Cockran before he could fire a second time. Smythe slammed Cockran back into the seats and he lost hold of the Webley. The revolver fell between the two front facing wicker chairs and Smythe spun around to retrieve it. Just then, the co-pilot opened the cockpit door to see what had happened. Cockran dove at Smythe as his back was momentarily turned and the two men tumbled forward over the wicker seats, slamming into the co-pilot with full force and driving him back into the cockpit.
The aircraft lurched to the left in a steep bank, throwing Cockran hard into the cabin wall. He looked up and saw Smythe reaching for his own pistol. The pilot regained control of the plane and brought it back to an even keel and, as he did so, Cockran launched himself at Smythe, the force of their two bodies collapsing the backs of two wicker seats. Cockran grabbed Smythe‘s wrist and squeezed with all his strength, pressing his thumbs tightly into the man‘s wrist until he dropped the automatic. Then he swung his arm and slammed his left elbow down into Smythe‘s exposed neck.
Smythe let out a choking cry and Cockran moved to seize his advantage, picking Smythe up by his legs and shoving his entire body back through the passenger cabin doorway into the aircraft‘s cramped entry way. Smythe crashed into the side of the plane and the impact caused the aircraft‘s entrance door to fly open. Smythe, framed by the aircraft‘s open door, quickly regained his balance and reached down to a now-exposed ankle holster. Ignoring the rush of air from the outside, Cockran saw the Webley on the floor three feet away and dove back into the main cabin as Smythe fired and missed. Cockran scrambled on the floor for the Webley and, without standing up, fired two shots directly through the right rear wicker seat and the thin plywood behind it. Smythe cried out and Cockran cautiously returned to the entrance lobby.
The DeValera Deception Page 37