by Mick Bose
“These are all the books on Ohio. Geography, climate, history, politics.”
“Thank you, Maria.”
They stared at each other for a moment. He liked women, enjoyed their company. And Maria looked like another bored housewife in a dead-end job. Probably two school-aged children. Yes, she wanted it. He could tell by her eyes. Any other time, but not now, unfortunately. She turned around and walked away. Becker sighed and shook his head. He studied the books, chose several, and retired to the desk to sit and read.
After an hour and a half, he got up and stretched. His pocket notebook was full of scribbles. He bought a map of Ohio, said a long goodbye to Maria, and left.
At Union Station Becker bought a ticket for Lyndhurst. He saw the narrow river below as the steam train whistled and crossed the wrought-iron bridge. The platform at Lyndhurst was empty. He hefted his rucksack and set off for the swampy estuary land the Hackensack river created as it cut through New Jersey. By then it was 12:30, early afternoon. As he walked he smoked, and thought to himself. There was an airstrip in Cleveland, recently built. It had regular air traffic too. Perfect for what he had planned.
After almost an hour of walking, he reached his rendezvous. He had left the marshy land behind and was into the hills. In the distance he could barely make out the skyline of New York. Presently he saw the figure of a solitary man below. He had a bag on his shoulder and was picking his way carefully across the small ponds dotting the landscape.
The man made his way up the slope, grunting and puffing. John Riordan had a varied career in the National Guard, where he developed an interest in firearms and explosives. Retired after an injury in Havana in the Spanish American War, Riordan found a ready market for his skills in the Irish ganglands of New York. Riordan was in his late forties, and he walked with a limp. He sat down with a heavy sigh when he reached the top of the hill. Becker came out from behind a clump of bushes. The two men had met in the past, in Dr Kiezle the watchmaker`s apartment.
“Hello Becker,” Riordan grunted. “A fine bloody place this is. Why did you come here?”
Becker ignored that. “Have you got the new bombs?”
“Aye, that I do.” Riordan wiped his sweaty, red face.
“Let`s see them.”
Riordan reached inside the bag and took out a slender, metallic tube about a foot long. One end was hollow with a rubber gasket, and the other end had a small clock.
“Here you go,” Riordan handed one to Becker, who took it carefully. Riordan smiled at him. “You don’t have to hold it like that. This works like a grenade, you can just grab it. The rubber gaskets make it water tight, by the way. So they can be fitted to the rudders of ships, or used anywhere underwater.”
Becker looked sceptical. Riordan said, “We did what you wanted. This has all the power of a fifty ton TNT bomb, but it can be carried around safely. It explodes on hard contact, either thrown or dropped from a height. It works underwater. And it can be timed.”
Becker nodded, listening carefully. “Show me how to set the timing device.”
Riordan showed him the clock at one end. “You set it to any time you want. When the time runs out, the piston in the first chamber is activated with a spring ejected by the watch. The same spring is released when the device hits a force, like when thrown. The piston thrusts against the high purity TNT packed in the second chamber and the explosion is enough to bring down the hull of a dreadnought ship.”
Becker said, “The hull of a dreadnought ship is a hundred tons. You sure it can do that?”
“Why don’t you try it and see?”
Becker looked around. For miles there was nothing to be seen but swamps and hills. Behind him lay the river, Hoboken and then New York. Ahead, the vague buildings of another New Jersey small town. If Riordan was right, this explosion would be huge. It would easily destroy the hill they were standing on. People within a few miles would hear it loud. At five miles, it should sound as a distant thunderclap. Becker felt they had five miles, easily. The ground was also soft, not hard rock. No danger of being hit by shards of rock. He turned to Riordan.
“Climb down, but not to the bottom. I’ll throw this as far as I can in that direction,” he pointed. “The hill will protect us, but a lot of it will give way as well. Alright?”
Riordan crossed himself, murmured a prayer and began to scramble down the slope. Becker waited till Riordan had reached half way down the hill. Then he hefted one of the metallic tubes in his fist, feeling the weight. He threw the bomb as far as he could, aiming for a dry spot two hundred yards away, and instantly turned and ran down the hill as fast as he could.
The shattering sound of the explosion came, the ground tilted and shook like an earthquake. Becker was flung forward through the air. Earth and rocks rained down on his head and he curled into a ball, rolling until he hit a mound of earth and stopped. A few clumps of debris still fell on him. He felt the aftershock tremors, fading slowly, and it became still.
He lifted his head, and looked around. It was a scene of total devastation. Most of the hill had blown away. It looked as if a giant spade had lifted the ground up. Two more hills close by were flattened. Riordan was right, the power in these devices was quite remarkable. It suited his plans perfectly.
Behind him, a clump of black soil shifted and Riordan appeared, caked in mud. He wiped the dirt off his face and glared at Becker.
“Believe me now?”
“Yes, I do. Get cleaned up. We need to leave this place right now.”
CHAPTER 15
“Don’t touch that!” Major Tunney stopped short as he heard the command. He turned around. The appearance of a fat-jawed, red faced General Marshall, a three-star general, at the site was a minor event in itself. He was chief of the Chemical Warfare Command, a job that seemed, on current evidence, to be wearing him down.
“We’re checking for finger prints,” the General said gruffly. Tunney raised an eyebrow and stepped away from the window he was about to open. General Marshall walked past Tunney, who followed along.
“Be careful of what you touch here.” Marshall pointed to the row of canisters at the end of the room. “Do you know what they are?” A yellow band circled the top of the canisters that looked like eighteen-pound artillery shells.
“Specialised artillery shells?” He ventured cautiously. “Maybe with a gas inside?”
General Marshall nodded. “Yes. Mustard gas. Built to explode on impact. You have to be very careful walking around here. Which is why I think the man who took the materials from the lab was no ordinary burglar. He either knew his way around, which means an inside job.” Marshall stopped. “Or he was a trained soldier who knows his way around specialised weapons. Neither of the two possibilities appeals to me.” Marshall fixed Tunney with a gaze. “Do you understand what I mean?”
“A mole in the Department, or a spy.”
Marshall grunted. “He took paperwork. Top secret material, Major Tunney. About weapons stored here, and weapons in development.”
“I need to see all of it, sir.”
“Alright. But get Walsingham to order it. Now, tell me Major, is there a link between the murdered woman and this burglar?”
“Well sir, the gate to the Chemistry building is too high, and there was a guard at night. The guard saw nothing, so it seems the intruder had a key. He most likely got it from the woman. I think she found out, so she had to die.” Tunney knew more, but he needed evidence before he reported anything else.
*****
The next morning, Tunney was standing beside the gurney holding Jocelyn Flexman. Dr Patterson bent over the body, cutting at something with his scalpel, lifting up the dead woman`s chin in his gloved hand. Wisps of silvery hair wilted on the doctor`s moist scalp.
“Ah, yes,” Dr Patterson`s voice was muffled behind the gauze of his face mask. “How did you know?”
Tunney said, “Is it similar then?”
Dr Patterson nodded. “A clean, smooth strike. Cleaved through the heavy sternocleidomastoid
muscle of the neck, severing arteries, cutting the windpipe. Has to be a heavy, chopping knife, but the attacker must be an expert at this. These wounds are vicious, but almost surgical in their precision.”
“Just like Dr Klinsmann.”
“Yes, just like Dr Klinsmann.”
*****
An hour later, Tunney, Inspector Chris Corell and Sergeant Lindquist were sitting opposite Lieutenant Colonel Walsingham in his cramped office.
Tunney produced the faded ticket stub he picked up from the ground near the service entry doors of the Best Welcome Hotel.
“This, gentlemen, is a ticket for the ferry to Pier 11, Manhattan, from Hoboken, New Jersey. No one else from Hoboken or indeed New York, was staying at the hotel in DC from July 14 through to July 17. No one saw our suspect, Jeff Hurst, return from his night out on the 16th. Yet he was in his room by the morning of the 17th, ordering breakfast. There is no staff in the hotel from Hoboken, or New York. No other guest in the hotel knew about the service door key. It stands to reason, this ticket belongs to Jeff Hurst.” Tunney looked at Inspector Corell, who was frowning at a folder.
“Chris?” Tunney asked.
Chris Corell looked up, sheepishly. “I was thinking, that`s all. We went through all crime reported in New York and New Jersey by anyone named Jeff Hurst. We started with the July 14 and luckily, on July 15, one Jeff Hurst from Sparkill, New York, did report his wallet as being stolen at the Broadway police station. He thinks he was pick-pocketed on the subway. When he got out of the subway station, he realised his wallet was missing.”
“Did he do anything else at Grand Central?” Walsingham asked.
“He’s a travelling salesman. He denied buying tickets for DC.” Corell looked at his papers. “We’ve interviewed his wife and two neighbours as well. His alibi checks out.”
“So let me get this straight.” Walsingham said slowly. “It’s possible, and I’m thinking aloud here, this man came from Hoboken, got the ferry to Manhattan, stole Jeff Hurt`s wallet on the subway, and made his way to DC.” He stopped and stared at them.
“Is that right?”
Tunney nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking, sir. And you know about the apartment we have under surveillance in Hoboken.”
“That watchmaker, Dr Kiezle? Wasn’t he the one known to Rintelen and some gang members?”
“Yes, sir. He has deep connections with the German Consulate. Apart from Captain Rintelen, Karl Ed-Boys, the military attaché, was a good friend of his. He also knows some very prominent Jewish, Irish and Italian gang members.”
Tunney turned to Corell. “What’s happening at Hoboken?”
“We have the apartment under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Front, back, side, everywhere.” Corell looked pleased with himself. “We’ve managed to break into the apartment above and make holes in the ceiling. We can now see and hear what’s happening in all the rooms below.”
“Good work, Inspector. Any news from that so far?”
Corell shook his head.
Tunney told Walsingham, “The hotel describes Jeff Hurst as a tall and broad-shouldered man. But Giuseppe the waiter saw him clean-shaven and without a hat, and that’s given us an important physical characteristic. His left eye is a different colour to his right, and it moves less. His right eye is brown, but his left eye is yellowish-green. Possibly he’s blind in that eye and might be one of the reasons he wears glasses.”
“So what now?” Walsingham said.
Tunney replied slowly. “We need an identification. Unless anyone can suggest otherwise, I think Giuseppe, the waiter at the hotel, is our key. He’s seen this man a few times, twice at close quarters, without any disguise.” He gestured at Corell. “Chris, you can install him in the apartment upstairs in Hoboken and send word to us, if he makes a positive identification?”
Chris Corell nodded.
Walsingham said, “Alright gentlemen. It seems this man stole very valuable papers from the American University. They include top secret information. If this information falls into enemy hands, some generals believe it could change the course of the war. Do I make myself clear?”
Everyone nodded. “Therefore,” Walsingham continued, “we need to find this man, and fast. But at the same time we need to keep this information between the four of us in this room. This man is now aware that a murder investigation is happening. But he won’t know we’re focusing on Hoboken. We need to keep it that way.” He asked Corell, “Where is Dr Kiezle`s apartment?”
“On the corner of Washington Avenue and River Street,” Corell said. He looked at Tunney, who nodded. “But sir, we have a problem.”
“What is that?”
“Jurisdiction. It was hard enough persuading New Jersey Police to let us conduct surveillance. Now we want to arrest him?”
Tunney raised a hand. “No, wait. If Giuseppe identifies him, then we follow him. He can lead us to other agents. Especially any radio operators in the coast. Arresting him now won’t help.”
“Agreed, get to the snake under the ground, gentlemen,” Walsingham said. “I know that jurisdiction is an issue.” He shrugged. “It pisses me off. This is a case of national emergency, but when you say that, these Police Chiefs look at me like I`m speaking a different language. So I’m going to get General Marshall to call them. If a three-star general isn’t enough, I’m going to the top. To the Chief of Army Staff, General Peyton March.”
Sergeant Lindquist said, “Gee sir, this must be serious.”
“You bet your bottom dollar this is serious, son,” Walsingham said. “General March has already been briefed. I have a meeting this evening with William Moran, the Chief of the Secret Service. The President is as yet not aware, but he might have to be as the situation changes. Gentlemen,” he lowered his voice, “our nation is at war. Agents of the enemy are present within our borders. We’ve known that for many years, but this new situation is an unprecedented one. If these critical secrets fall into enemy hands, potentially we could lose the war. We need to find this man. But what you’ve learnt today stays in this room. Not one member of the police force must be aware. Do you understand?” Walsingham looked at the men, who nodded in turn.
“Good,” he said. “Now let`s get cracking.” As the men stood up, Walsingham called to Tunney. “Not you, Tunney.”
“I’ll catch up with you,” Tunney said to Corell, shutting the door. He sat back down, facing his boss. Both men lit up and puffed in silence for a few seconds. Walsingham took a deep drag before he spoke.
“The documents this man stole are about a new chemical weapon called Lewisite, also known as L. Lewisite is much more lethal than mustard gas. It can stay in the atmosphere for seven days longer, and the blisters it generates on first contact can be fatal. It affects the respiratory tract, causing it to peel off. Quite literally, you cough up blood till you die.”
Walsingham waited as Tunney considered this. “Lewisite is so secret that the Allies have no idea about it. He also stole information about a nerve gas called Sarin, and different types of biological weapons that could potentially be made from viruses like small pox. This is highly classified stuff. Never mind the Boche, if the Allies get to know we’re developing these weapons, they won`t be happy.
“Before you say it, it`s not the Allies,” Walsingham said quickly. “Without giving anything away, I spoke to them, Colonel Reginald Hall, their Chief of Naval Intelligence. He categorically denied sending an agent over. It makes sense. They have nothing to gain, at this stage, by sabotaging our secret weapon.”
Tunney nodded. “Anything on the radio waves?”
Walsingham handed a folder over. “These arrived earlier, transmitted from Long Island and decoded this morning. It’s the same codes London gave us three months ago.”
Tunney shook his head, feeling his boss`s frustration. German agents were still sending wireless messages from American shores. It was beyond believable. Staying on air for short periods of time, and changing location often, they were escaping detection. Tho
se three men with the suitcase in Long Island… Tunney sighed. They needed to be caught.
He read aloud, “The Gurkha is going on vacation. The fruit will be picked. Bumper harvest this year. Everyone will know.”
Walsingham said, “There’s a lot on the air about this Gurkha chap. There was a message earlier from Berlin, telling the Gurkha to begin his vacation. It’s a code obviously. But for what, we don’t know.”
“The Brits never heard of an agent called Gurkha?”
“Nope. They are as much in the dark about this as us.” Walsingham took one last drag on his cigarette and crushed it out. “Let`s get going.”
“Going where?”
“To the meeting with General March and Mr Moran. Come on Major, time is a-wasting.”
CHAPTER 16
Paul Becker watched the countryside flash by, and his eyes began to droop. He was on the Midwest Express to Cleveland. The New York Central Railroad line was flat and fast. He had his glasses on, but taken his hat off. The green mountains of Allegheny Forest rose in the distance, reminding him of the lakes and hills of Sauerland in Westphalia where he grew up. Mist rolling in from the hills. The lowing of cows in the sunset. His mother, wearing a black and white apron, framed in the doorway of their farmhouse, calling him to dinner. Memories crowded his head.
His eyes closed again and, as sleep overcame him, he wondered if he would ever see Germany again. He hoped so, especially his parents, when the ravages of this war were over. He slept.
For a day and a half the train travelled. At Cleveland, Becker was slow to get off. He didn’t see the brown tunics of any soldiers, or military trucks, which reassured him. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, hat pulled low, he handed his ticket to the collector and walked out into Ohio`s sunshine.
He found a small hotel three streets away, above a bar. It was empty. The owner gave him a toothless grin, happy to see him. He told Becker he could choose any room he liked. Once he had showered and changed, Becker had a light breakfast and set off for the airstrip at the shores of Lake Erie. He took the street tram car, then near the Lake, he got off and walked the last three miles.