The Gemini Agenda

by Michael McMenamin

  But that’s not what bothered Cockran about Hudson or why he thought a trip with Ted might prove dangerous. By unspoken agreement, he and Mattie had never talked about previous romantic liaisons, including Hudson and Cockran’s Gold Coast matrons. The only exceptions were Cockran’s late wife Nora and Mattie’s late fiancé Eric. What bothered Cockran about Hudson was both professional and personal. Cockran and Hudson had been together in military intelligence in the same training class where they had been fierce competitors. Each topped the other in some areas but not others. They finally ended up together in the same unit, the Inquiry, Woodrow Wilson’s ultra-secret intelligence outfit where Hudson served as the liaison from MID. Their true antipathy had started with a woman even if it hadn’t ended there.

  Unbeknownst to each other, they both had dated Harriet Vine, a history professor at Stanford who, like Cockran, was on the staff of the Inquiry. She had ended the competition between them by abruptly returning to her tenured position in Palo Alto. Cockran later learned from a mutual friend that the reason for her abrupt departure was that she had become pregnant and the reputed father wouldn’t do the right thing. Cockran had been astonished. So who had it been? It didn’t take Cockran long to learn that the other man Harriet was dating was none other than Ted Hudson. When Cockran confronted Hudson in a bar near the offices of the American Geographical Society on upper Broadway, the headquarters for the Inquiry, he laughed and admitted that he had been seeing Harriet. Then he claimed that she had tried to “blackmail” him after she had been “knocked up” by someone else. “I gave the Jewish slut her walking papers.”

  The words had been barely out of Hudson’s mouth before Cockran sucker-punched him, commencing a monumental brawl between the two. Hudson got in a few good shots but Cockran had paid no attention to his own bruises. He only cared for the damage he had inflicted on Hudson, leaving his handsome face far less handsome than before and requiring extensive surgery on the arrogant nose which had been the target of Cockran’s first punch.

  Their relationship had gone downhill after that when the Army, in its infinite wisdom, had teamed them up on several assignments. And it didn’t improve when Cockran filed formal charges against Hudson for torturing and mutilating a suspect—a Russian émigré baker in Brooklyn with a young family—who turned out to be innocent of being a Bolshevik spy. The Army had covered it up. Shortly thereafter, a disillusioned Cockran had left the Army late in 1920 and rarely thought of Hudson again until that fateful Hearst Christmas party in 1929. He would never forget the mixture of envy and hatred on Hudson’s face directed at him when he learned Mattie and Cockran had been seeing each other for the past six months. Hudson had put his arm securely around Mattie’s shoulders, occasionally staring down at Mattie’s breasts as if he were re-staking his claim and then looking over at Cockran. He had been about to deck the bastard when Mattie’s withering glare put Hudson in his place. And Cockran too.

  Cockran’s concern over Hudson, however, went beyond any competitive rivalry between them about women or anything else. It was why Cockran had tried—and failed—to end Hudson’s military career. He knew Hudson was a patriot who loved his country but once Ted decided that certain ends were justified—his opposition to “godless Bolshevism” being one example—then he was coldly prepared to use any means necessary to accomplish those ends. Did that include bedding women? He knew from their MID days that Ted had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man, the sort who never took “no” for an answer until, as their fellow agents crudely phrased it, a woman had “spread for Ted”. He had never heard Ted use the phrase himself but he was never part of Ted’s circle. All he ever heard Ted profess was that a gentleman never tells. But he had no doubt the phrase originated with Hudson. It sounded just like him. So, despite her denials, he believed Mattie had been a Hudson conquest and he knew from friends in the Hearst organization that Hudson claimed Cockran had “stolen” Mattie from him. Would Hudson make a pass or two at Mattie during the course of their assignment? Of that he had no doubt. Would Mattie shoot him down? He had no doubt of that either.

  Cockran’s concern was what Ted would do when Mattie rejected his advances. Would Ted take “no” for an answer? He didn’t know and it worried him. With Hudson based in Europe as a Hearst correspondent, it hadn’t seemed important. Now it did, Still, how best to respond to this unpleasant development? He had to be careful. Ted Hudson brought out the worst in him. “Look. Is Hudson qualified to fly an autogiro?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. Why?”

  “Short flights to Long Island without a co-pilot are one thing. A cross-country autogiro flight on a holiday with your old boyfriend who isn’t a trained pilot isn’t the safest thing in the world. In fact, it’s pretty damn risky.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mattie protested. “It’s not a holiday, it’s a story. It’s my job. And Ted Hudson is not my old boyfriend.” Mattie paused. “We’ve been over this before, Bourke. I don’t know why you have it in for Ted Hudson. Maybe he hates you as much as you hate him. I don’t know but he never let on to me that he did even when he knew you and I were having difficulties.”

  “How did he know that?” Cockran demanded, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

  “What do you mean? He’s Hearst’s bureau chief in Europe. You know I had lunch with him last year in London before my interview with Hitler. Ted asked me out to dinner like he always does and I said no like I always do. I told him that even though we were having arguments over my career, we were in love and we were going to work it out.”

  Cockran was furious. The fact that she and Hudson once may have been lovers was no big deal. He could live with that. He could even live with her going on this assignment with him. He didn’t like it but it wasn’t her fault. The fact she had discussed with Ted Hudson the problems they had been having a year ago, however, was almost a betrayal. He knew he might regret it later, but he couldn’t help himself. Ted Hudson brought out the worst in him.

  “You discussed what with Ted Hudson?” he asked, his voice cold.

  “That silly argument we had last year about my job and the risks I was taking. Why?”

  “First, it wasn’t a silly argument. It was deadly serious. It was your possible death I was concerned about,” he said, enunciating each word precisely. “Second, I don’t appreciate your talking over our personal disagreements with any of your old boyfriends, let alone that asshole Ted Hudson.”

  Mattie stood up and threw her napkin down. Anger flashed in her green eyes. “Damn it, Cockran! I don’t know what your problem with Ted is, but he’s not an asshole, at least not to me. And for the last time, he is not an old boyfriend and I wish you’d stop saying it. It’s starting to piss me off.”

  “Well, I’m already pissed off about your discussing any of our problems with Ted Hudson.”

  “Well, then, I’m sorry. I apologize. But I didn’t discuss anything with him in detail. I merely mentioned it to him in passing while I was telling him how much I loved you.” She paused and Cockran could see tears in her eyes. “So, sue me! I’m going to bed. Keep your damn autogiro! I’ll take the train!” Mattie said as she shoved open the swinging door to the pantry and swung it back with such force that it banged against the wall.

  12.

  You’re Not in His League

  East 77th Street and Park Avenue

  New York City

  Tuesday, 10 May 1932

  WESLEY Waterman was not a happy man. He kicked himself for using Van Deman’s boys last night to settle what was a purely personal matter—sending a message to his faithless wife’s lawyer. He had thought no one would be the wiser. It wasn’t his fault that two experienced ex-MID agents had botched a simple mugging and ended up with broken wrists on a mission that had nothing to do with Project Gemini. Besides, how could he have known that those two ex-agents would recognize Cockran and likely had been recognized themselves? He would have to find some other way to deal with Ingrid. Gemini was too important to jeopardize.
He was already using some of the Irish mobster Owney Madden’s thugs to supplement the MID agents. Owney would charge him an arm and a leg for more of his thugs but you got what you paid for. As those two MID agents had proved.

  Waterman walked to the sideboard and splashed three fingers of Canadian whisky into a short crystal glass. He added a few cubes of ice and surveyed the room with its leather sofa and club chairs, hunting prints on its green lacquered walls, and a golden glow cast by brass lamps. His room. A fire burned in the corner fireplace beneath the head and impressive antlers of a stag Waterman had killed on a large estate near the Bavarian National Forest. His stag.

  The stag reminded him of Ingrid who refused to allow the trophy in their Central Park West penthouse. His wife. The one who made a fool of him last night by openly going off for a tete a’ tete with another man and standing him up at the Wharton’s dinner party. Her new found desire to divorce him was one more problem he didn’t need especially since the new threat to the Gemini Project was far more real and immediate.

  Waterman was looking forward to later in the evening when he would be joined by Pamela Powell, a dancer at the Latin Quarter and a woman who knew her place; who did what she was told; and who presently, albeit temporarily, resided in this elegant apartment. His mistress. He most assuredly was not looking forward to his two 10:00 p.m. visitors. But 1787 protocol demanded it. The future of Project Gemini demanded it.

  The telephone rang. He looked at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m. He had been expecting the call from Chester Bowles. His lawyer.

  “Waterman here. What do you have for me?”

  “A lot, Boss,” the familiar voice of Chet Bowles replied. “It’s just what you expected. She went to the Donovan law firm this morning. Spent several hours there.”

  “Whom did she see?”

  “Can’t be sure. But that guy you mentioned to me?”

  “Cockran. Bourke Cockran.”

  “Yeah, him. Well, his name is listed in the lobby as ‘of counsel’ to Donovan & Raichle.

  I already knew that, you cretin, he thought but he said nothing “Where did she go next?”

  “To a fancy society photographer’s studio on Madison. After that she went back to Central Park West. She’s been there ever since.”

  “Has she called anyone?”

  “Yeah. Some dame named Anne Darrow. We got it on the wiretap. Your wife thanked her for recommending Cockran. She’s going to file for divorce and Cockran’s now her lawyer.”

  “That ungrateful bitch!”

  “She sure is, Boss. But at least we’ll be ready for her,” Bowles said.

  Waterman smiled. Oh yes, they were ready for her. In ways she couldn’t possibly imagine. “Prepare the counter-suit. I’ve got an important project in Germany early next month. I want this business with Ingrid well in hand before I leave. Make it happen.”

  GENERAL Ralph Van Deman wore an angry scowl on his face as Waterman handed him a crystal tumbler of Jack Daniels over ice. His companion beside him on the leather sofa—Lothrop Stoddard—looked uncomfortable. A retired Army intelligence chief, Van Deman was a member of the secretive 1787 Society where Waterman had become an adjunct member for the limited purpose of managing Project Gemini. Other than its chairman—Waterman’s childhood friend and I.C.E.’s investment banker, R. A. Lowe, Jr. — Van Deman was the only 1787 member whom he knew. The Society valued its privacy.

  Stoddard was uncomfortable because he was the Gemini project’s godfather and had come to Waterman for help once the ubiquititious “Dr. V” had persuaded him of the scientific breakthroughs the project promised. Waterman had more than sufficient contacts in Washington and Wall Street to ensure adequate funding. And, he also had sufficient contacts and manpower in Europe to handle that end of the project. What he didn’t have was enough manpower in place in America to get the project off the ground.

  Enter the 1787 Society. Lowe and Waterman had been in prep school together at Choate from their pre-teen years on, followed by undergraduate degrees at the Wharton School of Finance and Economy at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. Their business paths had diverged after that but their personal lives had not. Like many rich men, they supported each other’s pet charities. Lowe, for example, was a major contributor to the Waterman-led American Breeders Association and the American Eugenics Society. Waterman had been equally generous to the 1787 Society which was solely dedicated—or so he once thought—to anonymously promoting and preserving the ideals of the Constitution by supporting the research of historical scholars. He had been disabused of that notion by his friend five years ago over brandy and cigars following an evening of wine, women and song without their respective wives.

  Lowe had confided that the sudden death of the beloved President Harding in the early 1920s had been “arranged” by the 1787 Society as had been his successor Coolidge’s decision not to run for re-election in 1928, thus paving the way for Herbert Hoover. How had this been accomplished? In addition to awarding scholarships and research grants to deserving history scholars, the Society also had at its disposal a private intelligence network of ex-MID agents to enforce its own peculiar ideas of how best to promote and preserve constitutional ideals. Lowe suggested that Harding was not the first nor the last politician to have been removed from the public arena for the good of the country. All it had taken to persuade Coolidge was the sudden death of several close friends of the now ex-President.

  Once Waterman had explained the scientific significance of the Gemini project, Lowe agreed to lend 1787’s support. That led to a meeting with the #2 man in the Society, the unhappy General Van Deman who controlled the Society’s ex-MID agents network.

  “Damn it, Waterman, my men are too valuable to be used in some petty domestic squabble,” Van Deman said, after taking a generous swallow of Jack Daniels. “You know I agree completely with the goals of Project Gemini. We’ve got no choice unless we want to leave the future to the Bolsheviks and the Jews. You and your friend Stoddard, here,” the general said, referring to the man on his left who seemed to flinch at the sound of his name, “are in operational charge of the project but my men are to be used only on the project and nothing else from here on out. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, General, perfectly,” Waterman replied. He was not used to being dressed down like some junior officer and he damn well didn’t like it. But Van Deman was right. “It won’t happen again. I apologize for using them. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It never occurred to me or them that they knew the target from their days together in MID.”

  Van Deman laughed, stood up and walked over to the bar to refresh his drink, talking over his shoulder as he did so. He was a tall, gaunt man over six feet tall with closely barbered graying brown hair. “Yes, if they had known, I suspect they would have turned you down. The Schmidt brothers know that on their best day they couldn’t take Bourke Cockran on his worst. I’ve read the commendation for his Silver Star at the Ourcq River, the one where Donovan got his Medal of Honor? Cockran is as ruthless and crazy an Irishman as Wild Bill himself. I daresay he sent a lot of the Schmidts’ German cousins to Valhalla that day. Give him a wide berth, Wesley. You’re not in his league.”

  We’ll see about that, Waterman thought, but otherwise said nothing. He hadn’t been aware of Cockran’s war record and he’d be more careful next time.

  Drink in hand, Van Deman turned to face the other two men. “Professor Stoddard says he’s concerned about the investigation this woman reporter for Hearst is undertaking into our affairs. What’s being done about that?”

  Waterman smiled in reply. He was not about to let Van Deman know just how serious a danger he believed the Hearst organization posed to the project. “We’ve learned that Winston Churchill—he’s an out-of-office British politician—was Hearst’s source. We walked that back to Germany and our people there were able to figure out who tipped off Churchill. Now, he’s dead. Churchill and Hearst will learn no more through him. As for the woman, I don’t think she�
��ll be able to discover anything about the project. As a precaution, however, I have her under close surveillance. One of the usual teams of a Madden operative and an MID agent will be around in the event she learns more than she should. I take your point on Cockran but the Hearst reporter is nothing to worry about.”

  Van Deman nodded. “Good. Keep me informed,” he said as he donned his trenchcoat and headed for the door.

  “That’s all for now, Lothrop,” Waterman said to Stoddard after the general had departed. “I’m expecting guests and I have no further need of you tonight. See Dr. V and make all the necessary arrangements for the remainder of the project.”

  But Waterman did not leave things to chance. He hadn’t conceived the project but his money and influence had given it life. It was his, he thought as he placed a phone call.

  “When does the Hearst bitch leave? Tomorrow morning? Fine. Give her enough rope but only enough to hang herself. Just make sure she’s scared off the story.” He laughed. “No, I don’t care how you do it. But tell them it’s business before pleasure.”

  As he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he heard the apartment’s door open and Pamela Powell appeared, still wearing heavy make-up from her appearance at the Latin Quarter.

  “Sorry I’m late, sweetie. I won’t be but a minute,” she said and headed for the bedroom.

  Waterman smiled. Five minutes later, Pamela Powell reappeared, her face scrubbed, her hair in pigtails, an oversized white shirt her only clothing. His shirt. She looked all of fifteen years old. “Has my Pam been a bad girl?”

  She lowered her eyes and stared at the floor, biting her lower lip. “Yes, she has.

  13.

  He Made Me Like Him

  The Cedars

  Sand Point, Long Island

  Tuesday, 10 May 1932

  COCKRAN heard two more doors slam as Mattie made her way upstairs. That certainly went well, he thought. Pick another fight with Mattie the night before she leaves on what could well be a long assignment with a man who obsessively believed Cockran had “stolen” her from him. A man who would love to turn the tables on Cockran and to whom the ends justified almost any means.