by Mick Bose
He trudged over the rim of a hill overlooking the shores of the lake, enjoying the exercise. He chose a grassy knoll which hid him from any casual observer and, importantly, from above. From the bottom of the hill, flat ground stretched out to the shores of the lake. Yards from the lake, a long wooden jetty separated the flat ground from the water. The flat ground was mostly sand packed hard to make a sod field. He could also see two wooden hangars, inside one was a biplane. It didn’t appear to have racks on the sides to carry explosives. The plane`s nose wasn’t very big, and it didn’t have a forward gunner`s position or a machine gun fitted to the front seat. There might well be one at the back, he couldn’t be sure.
One thing he was sure of. These planes were not like the heavy Gotha bombers he had flown. This plane seemed more like the light trainer planes the American Air Force used. The Curtiss JN4, called the Jenny for short. From what Becker knew of the Jenny planes, its top speed was 75mph. He judged the length of the runways. They were more than a mile long.
A plane came over the hill and landed on the airstrip. A similar aircraft, blue and white, with numbers on the side. Becker watched the pilot alight, and the man who came out of the office to help him. So far that was three men in total, including the guard at the gate.
After watching the airstrip for two hours, he began to feel hungry. He made his way back to the tram car station, and then into town. A farmer’s market was in the centre square of town. Becker was standing opposite a meat stall, inhaling the fragrance of frying sausages, when he heard a loud thump and a curse in a woman`s voice. Behind the awning of a stall, a woman was on her knees gathering fallen potatoes. Her cart was loaded heavy with sacks. He bent down, picking some potatoes up.
“Thank you,” the woman said. Her voice was pleasant. “But I can manage.” Her face was flushed red, and stray strands of chestnut hair plastered her forehead. She had a pretty face, a face that reminded him of Jemima. He felt his heart twist at the memory. He stood up, standing over her.
“I’m sure you can manage. But please, let me put some of the sacks on the ground for you.”
She got to her feet, rubbing her hands on a towel. She had a strong chin and fire in her eyes. Her lips were soft, coral pink. He stood still, held captive. She extended her hand.
“Maggie Myers.”
“Paul Becker,” he said, feeling the strong grip in the calloused hand. A working woman`s hand.
For the next half hour, Becker lifted sacks of potatoes, turnips, squash and peppers from the horse-drawn cart and emptied them into the bowls at the stall counter. He liked the physical work. Maggie spaced the vegetables out and put price tickets over the baskets.
“Thank you, Mr Becker,” Maggie said, when they were all done.
“Call me Paul, please.” He could see the hesitation in her eyes. He smiled and stepped back, pointing to the meat stall. “I`ll be here, having my lunch. Nice to meet you.”
As he stood in the queue, he kept his eyes on her. She moved gracefully, languidly, a woman who held her shape well. She wasn’t thin, but neither was she large. Her breasts bulged beneath the gown and he found himself thinking about what lay beneath the layers of clothes. The thought stirred him, filling him with a hunger. She looked his way and their eyes met. She turned away hurriedly, scratching her neck.
He had taken a few mouthfuls of his sausage, watching the customers come and go from Maggie`s stall, when he saw a short, bald man come up her. Maggie’s face blanched at the sight of him, her knuckles white as she gripped the counter. Something was wrong. The man leaned forward, saying something. She clearly got angry.
Even from a distance, he heard the words. “No, you will not, Mr Bennett. No one is coming to appraise the value of the farm. Nothing on the farm is for sale. Now excuse me, I have work to do.”
Bennett held up a finger at her and raised his voice. Becker had seen enough. He walked over.
Bennett looked up as Becker`s shadow loomed over him. Becker glanced at Maggie, who had turned her back. “Maggie,” he said gently. She spun around.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine.” She flung the words back at him. Anger made her cheeks blossom, her eyes glittering. He thought she looked beautiful, but also troubled. “Mr Bennett was just leaving.”
Becker looked at Bennett, who showed no intention of going anywhere.
Bennett said, his voice faltering slightly, “This lady`s father owes us a lot of money. They’re three months behind on the mortgage payments and keep bluffing me. All I’m asking is to hand over to me the earnings at the end of the day, when the market is closed. She can come down to our office this evening.”
“She`s not coming to your office at the end of the day,” Becker said quietly.
Bennett stared at Becker. “And who might you be?”
“I think you should leave now, Mr Bennett.”
“If I don’t get the money, I’ll have to send the debt collectors around.”
“You will get your money, Mr Bennett,” Maggie said, still angry. “But threatening us is not going to help.”
“By all means, send the debt collectors around.” Becker`s voice was calm, measured. The other two stared at him.
“What did you say?” Bennett`s voice was incredulous.
Becker took a step closer. “I said, send the debt collectors around. They can come, but I can’t guarantee they’ll leave.”
There was a tense silence. Becker broke it, nodding towards Maggie. “You heard what Miss Myers said. You will get your money. But if you send some troublemakers around, then believe me, the trouble will just begin.”
Bennett`s face went purple. He slammed his hat on, glared at Maggie, turned on his heels and walked away.
Maggie and Becker waited until he was gone. Maggie shook her head. “Bastard”, she said. She looked at Becker. “You didn’t have to do that. But thank you. I wish I could shake him by the coat lapels myself.”
“I am sure you could, if you tried.” They laughed together.
Becker hung around discreetly for the rest of the day. He offered to help Maggie load the cart. This time, she didn’t seem to mind.
When the cart was loaded, Becker thought carefully about what he was going to say. He liked her—a lot. He’d booked a four-day trip and he still had two days to go. In a way, a farm would be the ideal place to hide, away from the city. He squared his shoulders. “For the next two days, if you need help in the farm, I can give you a hand.”
“You don’t look like a farm hand.”
“No, but I grew up on a farm. I know my way around.”
“Where are you from?”
“England. My parents had a farm in Gloucestershire.” His accent always sounded English, despite his last two years in America. Lying came to him easily, and he could see that she believed him. But the indecision was still evident in her face.
“Where do you live now?”
“NYC. I work for a sheet metal company. We have customers in Cleveland, that`s why I`m here.”
Maggie thought for a moment. Johnny was down with the flu, and she felt a pang of guilt she hadn’t checked how he was. But the fact remained there was a lot of work to be done, and with Papa still recovering, there was only her and Mama to do it.
“My farm hand is unwell. I could do with some help. But I don’t think I can afford to pay you until I’ve sold some more produce next week.”
Becker shrugged. “I came here on business and have some time to spare. I don’t need the money.”
She nodded. “Why don’t you come down tomorrow? There`s no bus service. Unless you can get an automobile, a coach buggy is the easiest way.” She gave him directions. “It`s called Clay Tree Farm.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 17
Tunney clambered out of the Army jeep at the mouth of Adams Street in Brooklyn. Walsingham was already striding purposefully down the sidewalk. Tunney hurried to keep pace. The street was swarming with Military Police. The street had b
een shut down and sentries guarded the corners with barricades and Lewis machine guns. It suddenly occurred to Tunney it looked like a war zone—a war zone in New York.
They entered the field office for the Secret Service. Upstairs, two uniformed guards saluted Walsingham and opened the doors. Inside, both men were patted down by an MP. Then they were shown into a large room, where a group of men sat around a large table. One of them rose as the two men walked in. Tunney recognised General Marshall.
“Colonel Walsingham, Major Tunney.” The three men shook hands and Walsingham smiled briefly at Marshall. They were old colleagues from the Spanish-American theatre.
“Let me introduce you,” Marshall said. He pointed the men out as he said the names. “General Peyton C March, Chief of Army Staff. Mr Robert Lansing, United States Secretary of State. Mr William Moran, Chief of Secret Service.” He carried on, but for a moment Tunney stopped listening. He stared at Robert Lansing, the enigmatic legal counsel to the Senate and the man who had formed the Bureau of Secret Intelligence.
“…Chairman of the Port Authority, and Mr Holding, Director of Coast Guard, East Coast.” Marshall stopped. Walsingham nudged Tunney and they all sat down.
Marshall said, “Could we please have a briefing of what we know so far, Colonel Walsingham.”
Walsingham nodded at Tunney. Tunney felt his heart racing, and his mouth was suddenly dry. He looked up and found the Chief of Army Staff and the Secretary of State`s eyes fixed on him. It felt surreal. He was in the company of two of the most powerful men in the country, bar President Wilson. He shook himself, breathed out, and told them everything he knew. When he finished, there was silence around the table. A quiet voice spoke from the far end.
Lansing said, “Do we have any idea if the Germans know of this chemical, Lewisite?”
General March shook his head. “No, Mr State Secretary. There’s nothing in the messages we’ve intercepted. Nothing from London or Paris either.”
“Of course, if the German High Command does know, they would be pretty stupid to talk about it over the radio. This man has the paperwork, so at least he must know. Where could he be, gentlemen?”
“Well sir, he could be in Hoboken or NYC. We are looking.” Tunney replied first.
“In my experience, Major Tunney, once an enemy agent gathers valuable information, he or she transmits it to HQ as soon as possible. He could have made contact already. But we can’t be sure.” Lansing stopped and cast his eyes at the Chief of Army Staff, who in turn looked at Colonel Walsingham.
Walsingham said, “No sir, we can’t be sure. The port authorities have been alerted with the man`s description. Coast guards are stopping all unmarked boats heading out of New York and New Jersey. It is possible, as you know, for these boats to make a rendezvous with German U-boats in the open sea. At every train station in major cities of the East Coast, ticket operators have been handed a description of the suspect. They’re under strict instruction to contact the police. The wider we cast our net, the less the chances of this man escaping.”
Walsingham continued. “Every new application for a passport, or application to travel outside the USA is being scrutinised. The State Department will be exceptionally busy over the summer to ensure any man fitting the description of the suspect doesn’t get a valid stamp on his passport to travel abroad.”
“Or to Mexico,” Lansing said mildly. “We’ve caught a number of German agents there over the years. The Canadian consulate is on high alert. Anyone entering Canada with an American passport will now be stopped and questioned. Unless, of course, this man has escaped already.”
A grim silence hung in the air. Holding spoke up. His voice was impatient. “Can’t we advertise this man`s description in the newspapers? That would alert everyone all over the country.”
Lansing said, “That would be ill-advised. This man is on the run, and it will merely make him more alert. It will cause a national panic and our Allies will also wonder what this big drama is about. There are almost ten million German-Americans in this country. As you know, sentiment against them is sour. By creating a newspaper storm over this, we could make that situation far worse. It’s only a small minority of recent German immigrants causing these troubles. In fact, we need the help of our loyal German-American citizens, if we’re to catch these agents.”
General Peyton March reached for a sheet of paper and a pen.
“Alright, let’s make a list of the means of escape this man had. Number one, by sea. We’ve covered this, but we need to monitor every port in the country, including the West Coast. I’m sure that’s happening already.” The Chairman of the Port Authority nodded. “Number two, by air. That’s highly unlikely.
“Number three. He hides within our borders. To my mind, this contains the greatest problem. We are blessed with a vast country, gentlemen. This man could hide anywhere. We have good rail links to every corner of the United States. What are we doing about that?”
Tunney said, “I think sir, in accordance with what Mr State Secretary said, this man will try to contact the radio operators we know exist in Long Island, Cape Cod, and other east coastal areas. He will hide, yes, but unless he transmits this information or does something with it, then it’s of no value to him.”
“So are we keeping tabs on these radio operators?” General March demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
Tunney told them about the men in East Hampton that Corell was keeping an eye on.
March asked, “If we can apprehend these radio broadcasters, then don’t you think we might kill two birds with one stone?”
“Yes and no, sir. He might have transmitted the message already. A postal envelope to a PO box is all it would take. That envelope can be picked up by the radio operators. But I see your point. We need to get to these radio operators as soon as we can. I’ll see to it myself.”
Lansing said, “Major, what do you think these agents might do?”
Tunney shrugged. “Based on my experience of hunting down German saboteurs in New York, I believe they’re men of action. They aren’t many of them, but they know they must sabotage our installation somehow. Like Black Tom Island, sir.”
No one needed reminding of the spectacular explosions at the ammunitions depot in New Jersey two years ago.
“Sir,” Tunney continued, addressing Lansing, but speaking to the whole table. “Outside New York, we can’t arrest anyone. Even when I show my Military Intelligence identity, we have problems. We urgently need the authority to let us search and arrest in New Jersey and DC, at the very minimum. Ideally we need to be able to do that across the country.”
Lansing pulled out two documents from his coat pocket and handed them over to Tunney. “These are Special Agent Passes from me, personally. The MID will have more of them by tomorrow. Will that suffice for now, Major Tunney?”
Tunney looked at the papers. “Thank you Mr Secretary. You don’t know how much this will help us.”
Lansing looked at Tunney and Walsingham. “Gentlemen, I don’t have to remind you of the extremely urgent nature of this mission. We need to find this man without delay. If you feel he’s in New Jersey, then alert every Police Department in every town. Stop and question anyone who matches the description, wherever you need to. Just get this man. Right now.”
CHAPTER 18
Maggie was used to waking up at the crack of dawn. She yawned and stretched, pushing her curtains open. The house was silent. The steps creaked as she went downstairs.
Outside, she went into the barn to check the store of hay. Twenty bales—they needed to get more. She thought of the day`s work and a weariness came over her. Mama would tend to the maize and corn, Maggie had to take out the horse manure and spread it as fertiliser. Then she had to chop the waste wood to prepare some mulch as weed killer.
She climbed to the barn loft and opened one of the windows. Slanting golden rays of sunlight lit up the patchwork of field and hills, slowly casting night away. It looked beaut
iful. Her thoughts returned to Becker. She remembered looking at his face the first time, while she crouched on the ground. His wide eyes, one brown, the other a hazy yellow-green. That puzzled her, but there was no mistaking the glint in the brown eye. The high cheek bones and the strong jaw line. And when he stood up, his height and the width of his shoulders… she blushed. It had been a while since a man affected her in this way.
“Hello!” The shout caught her by surprise. Opposite, at the homestead and near the foot of the stairs leading up the porch, stood Becker. She shuddered with equal measures of shock and pleasure. He had come.
She came down the loft ladder slowly, smoothed down her apron, tucked a few loose strands of chestnut hair behind both ears. Becker turned around at the sound her opening the barn doors. She walked towards him, self-conscious, feeling his eyes on her. What was she wearing? She did have some summer dresses in the bedroom, and an evening gown the dressmaker in Chagrin Falls made for her and Mama… She put those thoughts aside and lifted her head. This was the Myers family farm. She was dressed as a farmer.
“Hello, Paul.”
“Nice to see you again, Maggie.” He was wearing a white cotton shirt, damp with perspiration. His brown hair was swept back with pomade, some of which had melted with his sweat. She took her eyes off his heaving chest muscles.
“Coffee?” she asked, leading the way onto the porch.
“Sure, I could use some.”
Maggie could hear her mother upstairs. She put the kettle on the boil and ground some coffee beans. She turned around and faced him. They stared at each other for a few seconds without speaking.
“Thank you for what you did yesterday. There was really no need.”
“Sometimes people step out of line. They need to be reminded.”
Maggie said quickly, as her mother appeared. “Mama, this is Paul Becker, our new farmhand for a few days.”