The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  Smythe was slumped on the floor, bleeding profusely. The small pistol from his ankle holster lay uselessly beside him. Both shots had torn into Smythe‘s right shoulder. His left hand clutched his wounded shoulder and his back was braced against the side of open door frame. Cockran kicked the pistol away from Smythe‘s reach. He knew he could safely close the aircraft‘s door, bind Smythe’s shoulder and turn him over to the authorities when they landed. He also knew, as a lawyer, that Smythe‘s confession would never stand up in any court, American, English or Irish. The same for McBride‘s confession tortured from him by Bobby Sullivan. He had known all that from the moment Smythe stepped into the plane.

  His rage abating, Cockran coldly confirmed his original decision. To make the bastard suffer. Nora once had been defenseless too, just as Smythe was now. He deserved the same mercy shown to her. He raised the Webley and fired a third shot, shattering Smythe‘s knee cap, pleased to hear him cry out in pain, tears flowing from his tightly closed eyes as he moved his left hand from his shoulder to clutch his ruined knee. A fitting punishment, Cockran thought, for someone in bed with the IRA. He waited patiently for a long thirty seconds until the other man opened his eyes. He wanted Smythe to see what came next. The hatred still blazed in the Englishman‘s eyes and now matched by Cockran‘s own as he braced himself with his left hand on the top of the door frame, his right hand on the side.

  “Know your Bible, do you? How about ‘an eye for an eye‘?” Cockran shouted, making himself heard above the engines‘ noise. “Remember that you heartless bastard because vengeance is mine and not the Lord‘s!” he said as he kicked Smythe squarely in the chest.

  Smythe screamed “No!” and reached with his left hand to grip the door frame just as Cockran kicked him again and saw in his now wide but still hate-filled eyes the knowledge that he was going to die as the impact of the second kick caused his left hand to slip off the door frame and then he was gone, the sky swallowing him up. Cockran held on tight, leaned out the door and watched. It was a long, slow fall.

  73.

  You’ve Got Some Good Points

  Santa Monica

  Saturday, 24 August 1929

  9:00 p.m.

  Cockran’s father had been right. He had his revenge—or the bigger part of it—but it was all he had. He had felt empty after killing Smythe, missing Nora more than he had in years. Was there a chance for something more? He hadn‘t thought so before tonight but now perhaps there was. His arm was around Mattie as she snuggled close. They were sitting in a wicker love seat on the terrace in Marion Davies‘ seaside mansion, torch lights on either side and a breeze in their faces as they looked at the last fading glow of a Pacific sunset. Churchill sat in a wicker chair beside them, a large brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other, talking to Rankin.

  Cockran had sat silently beside Mattie for the last ten minutes while the others talked, replaying in his mind their conversation an hour before when both were walking along the beach alone. He hadn‘t told her what he had learned from Smythe about all they had done to Nora nor her prior relationship with Smythe. His mind could barely process the thought. Had Nora actually been to bed with Smythe? He thought not but didn‘t discount the possibility entirely because she had been seeing him for nearly a year. For a good Irish Catholic girl, Nora had been remarkably free-spirited, a true woman of the post-war era. Like Mattie, a dedicated suffragette. With Smythe dead and McBride in custody, he had as much closure as he was going to get for Nora‘s death. Now, it was time to move on. Without Mattie. He was growing too fond of her. And, worse, she of him. It was time for the speech, time to stop being a cad. If he waited, it would only hurt her more.

  Mattie had been silent as they walked, holding hands while he talked. He stared straight ahead, occasionally glancing down and noticing that her eyes were glistening, several tears streaming down her cheek. He had stopped and looked at her face for the first time. “You‘re one of a kind, Mattie, but Nora would always come between us and you deserve so much more than that. You need someone who will love only you because you are a woman who deserves to be loved.”

  Mattie laughed. That same laugh which had so captivated him only two short weeks ago, the laugh which had stolen his heart. Then she spoke. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean?” Cockran asked, confused. “You are a woman who…”

  “Of course I am,” she said, “but I‘m also a big girl who makes up her own mind. I don‘t need a man to do that for me. We‘ve only known each other two weeks and that‘s not long enough for me even if it is for you. Which I don‘t believe for a minute. Listen, I‘ve not made up my mind about you. You‘ve got some good points, mind you, including that cute birthmark on your ass. Plus you make me laugh and you‘re not half-bad in bed either, but we need more time to discover each other‘s flaws. I have a few but if you‘re like most men, you have many. So I intend to get to know you better before I make up my mind. When I do, I‘ll let you know.”

  Cockran was momentarily speechless. This had never happened before. True, he had never fallen so hard so fast for any woman before except Nora but he had lots of practice at this.

  Mattie turned and took both of his hands in hers. “Cockran, I may be falling in love with you. I wouldn‘t have slept with you if I didn‘t think it were possible. I‘m not that kind of girl. At least not any more,” she said and Cockran thought she may have blushed but it was dark.

  “Look, I‘m 29 years old. Almost an old maid. I know you care for me because you were willling to risk your life to rescue me at Wyntoon. Whether you think you could love me doesn‘t matter right now. Eventually it will and if I fall in love with you but you don‘t with me, I‘ll move on and we‘ll still be friends. We‘re not at that point yet. When—or if—we are, I‘ll let you know that, too.”

  Cockran had shaken his head in disbelief. Had he lost his touch? It had been nearly three years since he broke it off with the Vanderbilt girl. But Cockran had not given in easily and he tried again. “I don‘t want to see you hurt. My feelings for Nora …” but Mattie cut him off again.

  “Give it a rest, Cockran. It’s not going to work. I‘m not going away until I‘ve made up my mind about you. And when I do, Nora is not going to come between us. I know she’ll always be the love of your life and I don‘t care. It’s one of the things which makes you interesting. And special. As long as you keep Aquinas in mind, the two of you will spend eternity together. But make no mistake, you can love more than one person and I don‘t care if I‘m second best.”

  Mattie paused and dropped one of his hands. “Let‘s keep walking,” she said. “Bourke, you‘re not the only one who lost their first love. If the flaws we discover in each other aren‘t enough to keep us apart, then having the rest of our lives together is no small thing and your Nora will no more come between us than my fiancé Eric will. Even though we never married, Eric was my first, right before he left for the third Battle of Ypres …” Mattie said, pausing and trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back more tears. She took off the necklace around her neck and handed it to him. “Open the locket” she said and he did.

  Inside were small photographs of a striking young man whose dark curls could rival Byron and a young and very beautiful Mattie McGary whose long auburn locks were a match for her lover. A perfect couple. “Eric?” Cockran had asked.

  Mattie nodded. “Eric Seale. I was only 17, too young to be officially engaged so he gave me this locket in early August, 1917. He died less than a month later at Passchendaele. I wore it every day for at least three years after he died but then I put it away. I‘m not sure why. One of the things I first found so endearing about you, your reputation with married women notwithstanding, was that you still wore your wedding ring. I‘ve always kept Eric‘s locket with me and after you and I were reunited, so to speak, in San Francisco, I decided it was time to start wearing his locket again to remind me that we‘ve both lost our first loves and that life is fragile and nothing is guaranteed. Open the other side of the locke
t.”

  Cockran did and saw a folded packet of heavy bond paper. He unfolded the paper and saw a tracing that read “Lt. Eric R. Seale”.

  “It‘s from the Menin Gate Memorial at Ypres”, Mattie had said. “Eric has no grave. Neither do 54,895 other British and Commonwealth soldiers whose bodies were never found when the battle was over. Their names are inscribed on the inside of the Gate. A military ceremony is still held there every night in their memory.” Mattie said, tears again streaming down her face.

  Cockran had taken Mattie in his arms and held her tightly, stroking her hair. They walked and talked for a long while after that, but Mattie was a stubborn woman and Cockran eventually came to the conclusion that she was not going to change her mind unless he lied to her and told her he had no feelings for her. But that would be a lie and Cockran couldn‘t do it. He couldn’t lie to her. He was still his father‘s son in many ways. He had stopped and taken her hands in his. “ I may have fallen in love with you as well. I don‘t know. It‘s been a long time.”

  “Good. That’s settled then,” Mattie had said. “We‘ll have lots of time to find out each other‘s bad points and I think we‘re going to have a good time doing it.” She looked up at him with a smile. “You will keep shagging me silly, won‘t you? That is one of your better points

  9:15 p.m.

  In response to Churchill‘s question which interrupted his reverie, Cockran took a sip of scotch and recounted the series of admissions Smythe had made to him in the Trimotor‘s cabin. “Tell me, Winston,” he asked, “Were you aware of Smythe‘s involvement? And if so, when?”

  Churchill smiled and blew smoke from his cigar into the breeze. “I suspected Smythe ever since I was at the Colonial Office in ‘22. But we were out of power too soon after General Collins‘ death for me to do anything. Intelligence is a dirty business and Smythe was dirtier than most. I am surprised to hear that he had advance warning of Bloody Sunday and did nothing. But I‘m not surprised to learn that he was collaborating with the IRA in the Irish Civil War. There are zealots in the North just as there are in the South, and the Free State is their common enemy. Smythe was one of them but I am afraid there are more where he came from.”

  Cockran squeezed Mattie‘s arm. “I know I was taking a chance with Smythe but I couldn‘t see him meekly surrendering in San Diego. I should have just shot him in the back when I had the chance and not endangered other people.”

  “No, Bourke, you did the right thing,” Churchill said, his voice a low growl. “Shooting someone in the back is something no one should do unless they have no other choice.”

  “Mr. Churchill‘s right,” Robert Rankin added. “That‘s why Mattie wouldn’t leave you alone with McBride who certainly deserved to be shot in the back.”

  Cockran took a sip of scotch. “McBride. You know, ever since McGary here was captured,” Cockran said, squeezing Mattie‘s shoulder once again, “—what is it dear, the third time in the last week?—I haven’t given that bastard much thought. Where is he now? After the Apostles re-captured him, did you finally turn him over to the LAPD?”

  “No,” Rankin said. “I fear he has escaped once more.”

  Cockran jerked upright, moving his arm off Mattie‘s shoulder and slamming the crystal tumbler of scotch down on the table in front of him. “Escaped? When? How?” he asked, the anger in his voice barely contained, pain shooting through his left shoulder as his body tensed. With Smythe dead and McBride in custody, he had thought he was through with revenge.

  Rankin nervously took a sip of water. “I guess I‘m the one responsible, sir. Once Miss McGary was brought back to the hotel, Mr. O‘Reilly told me there were a number of crimes McBride was wanted for back in Ireland, not the least of which was your wife‘s death. But there was all that paperwork involved in getting our Foreign Office to waive extradition for the attempt on Mr. Churchill‘s life, not to mention dealing with the LAPD who seemed to have their hands out for a bribe whenever you turned around. So Mr. O’Reilly asked me if they couldn‘t just take him. Just like we had let them question him. I told Mr. O‘Reilly that interrogation was one thing but custody was something else entirely. I simply didn‘t have the authority to let him do that and I was certain Inspector Thompson did not either. And then Mr. O’Reilly asked me what would happen if McBride somehow escaped and made his way back to Ireland and trial? Would that pose any problems? I told him that my primary job was to provide security for Mr. Churchill. So I couldn‘t do much about what happened to an escaped prisoner, now could I?”

  Cockran let out a long sigh and sank back into the wicker loveseat and felt Mattie put her arm around him. “So McBride has ‘escaped‘ and O’Reilly is taking him back to Ireland?”

  “Perhaps, but I can‘t be certain,” Rankin said.

  “Why is that?” Cockran asked.

  Churchill interrupted. “I think I can explain. O‘Reilly and the other four men with him have lost six of their comrades on this trip to America. As a consequence, they did not appear to be in a good frame of mind, notwithstanding their success at the warehouse two nights ago. Before the Free State, you know, many of them, possibly including Mr. O’Reilly, were members of that secret society known as the Irish Republican Brotherhood. There are trials and then there are secret trials. I advised Robert not to inquire too closely into what kind of trial Mr. O’Reilly had in mind.”

  Churchill took a puff on his cigar and laid it carefully in the ashtray beside him, then took a sip of brandy. He reached inside his coat and pulled out two envelopes. “By the way,” he said to Cockran, “Mr. O’Reilly asked me to give you these. Something about settling old debts. He said you‘d understand. Open this one first.”

  Cockran took the envelope which had his full name on it, W. Bourke Cockran, Jr. Inside was a handwritten note: Bourke,

  I’ve never forgotten the promise Mick made that rainy night in Dublin on the day you buried your Nora. He reminded me of it when he left on his last trip to Cork. He made me pledge to honour it if he couldn’t. All the Apostles tried, Bobby Sullivan more than most. But we failed. Fortune has blessed us with a second chance. So don’t you be worrying. We won’t fail again. By the time we’re done, the Big Fella will have kept his word to his last Apostle.

  Joe

  Cockran passed the note to Mattie and opened the second envelope. Mattie‘s head was on his shoulder as he unfolded the single sheet of paper inside, its contents illuminated by the two torches flaming above them:Mr. Cockran,

  I regret things didn’t turn out the other day as you and I had wanted. While it’s a poor substitute, you might wish to join the rest of us on a small fishing trip I have planned in San Diego. I’ll make sure we wait at least four days before we go ahead without you. We will be staying at the Harborside Hotel. Please come. You won’t be disappointed.

  Respectfully,

  Robert Sullivan

  Cockran, blinking back tears, looked up and passed the second note to Mattie, then turned to the others. “Thank you, Winston. Robert. I understand. You did the right thing. The Apostles have waited a long time for this. The Big Fella would‘ve been pleased. So am I.”

  Cockran placed his hand on Mattie‘s shoulder and said in a mock Irish brogue. “And could you be sparing my company for a day of fishing with Bobby and Joe and the rest of the lads?”

  “Go to it, Cockran,” Mattie said, leaning close and kissing him on his cheek. “But remember. It‘s their play not yours,” she whispered in his ear. “He‘s no longer a threat. Look but don‘t touch. Remember your Aquinas. You‘ve got a date with Nora that I don‘t want you to miss.”

  Cockran smiled and whispered back. “Aquinas? Oh, yes, I remember him. Didn‘t we discuss him the same night you promised my virtue was safe with you?”

  Cockran winced in silence as Mattie brought the heel of her sandal sharply down on his instep.

  74.

  Top Of The Morning To You, Tommy

  San Diego, California

  Sunday, 25 August 1929
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  8:00 a.m.

  His bonds were getting looser. McBride had been in a dingy hotel on the waterfront for the past three days and two nights. They kept him bound and gagged but he was otherwise alone in the room. They fed him only once a day but they had stopped torturing him and he was gradually recovering his strength.

  The last two times they retied him, he had tensed the muscles in his wrists and forearms. If he worked at it, he thought he could be free in a few hours. His captors, five in number, had rooms on either side of him as well as the one O’Reilly stayed in across the hall. He assumed there was a guard in front of his room at all times, but he couldn‘t be sure. All he knew was that every morning, the housekeeper asked if she should make up the beds and there was always a man there to respond, “Not today, sweet. Our mate has a terrible hangover once again.”

  This morning, McBride was surprised when he heard a timid knock on the door, a key being inserted, and then the door opened. A middle-aged woman wearing a threadbare housekeeper‘s dress entered, a bundle of linens on her arm.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and started to back out. McBride motioned her over with his head, shouting through the gag, “Please help me.”