THE meeting over, Sturm left the men of Geneva to talk amongst themselves and walked onto the terrace of von Thyssen’s mansion. He rested his arms on the marble balustrade and looked out onto the sunset dappled water of Lake Constance.
Sturm let his weight sag on the railing. He was tired. He had been working for the Geneva Group for ten years. He did not feel the satisfied exhaustion one feels at the end of a long day’s work, the way one should feel on the eve of a well deserved holiday. He felt the fatigue that plagues a man when he’s spent too many years fighting someone else’s battles. Sturm was tired, tired of the lies, tired of the intrigue and, yes, tired of the killing. The last time he had felt the satisfied exhaustion that let him sleep the sleep of the just, secure in the knowledge that he had fought his own battles and fought them well, was when he commanded an airship during the Great War, flying side-by-side with his father—the legendary head of the German Naval Airship Service, Peter von Strasser.
Something in the sky above Lake Constance caught Sturm’s eye and he turned to see the familiar shape of an airship, the LZ-127, the Graf Zeppelin as it was popularly known, on a tourist excursion. He marveled at the timing of the zeppelin’s appearance in the sky, as though his thoughts had willed the silver ship into existence. But he was not surprised. Friedrichschafen was the home of Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei where more passenger zeppelins were being built.
His father’s old friend and airship architect Hugo Eckener was president of the famed Zeppelin company and it was his name scrawled in careful gothic letters on the envelope that still rested in Sturm’s pocket. The letter inside asked Hugo Eckener to allow him to once more command an airship. A part of him had always wanted to return to the sky, but he had resisted the impulse. Even now, he had not yet decided to send the message to Eckener. Germany had to be restored to greatness first. Yet Sturm knew Geneva’s current scheme was fatally flawed. He knew von Schleicher was not the answer just as he knew there were a few key men in Geneva who agreed with him. Sturm could help determine Germany’s future. He knew what had to be done. Could he turn away in order to indulge his desire to once more fly? He didn’t know.
“Kurt? I’ve been looking all over for you.” Sturm turned to see Zurich walking onto the terrace, a cigarette in hand.
“I’m sorry, Herr Dressler. I needed some time alone. I was thinking of my father,” he said. “And my mother and sister, in turn. It will be good to spend time with them.”
Zurich smiled sympathetically. “It is a long-overdue holiday, Kurt.”
Sturm nodded and Zurich took a long drag on his cigarette. He could see that Zurich was hesitating, stalling for time. He recalled Zurich’s strained voice during the meeting.
“I told you before the meeting that Manhattan has problems in America. Apparently, they are severe enough that he has made a request for your particular…services. It is unrelated to Geneva business but he offers to pay you well.”
Sturm raised a hand to cut Zurich off. “I don’t need to hear details. Manhattan is not a person I care to work for on a personal basis,” he said.
“In truth, I do not know the details. Manhattan did not volunteer them. I know only that Manhattan is a valuable member and worth keeping happy. I told him that your request for a holiday would be on the agenda. He said he understood, but asked that I appeal to you directly.”
“I’m sorry, Herr Dressler. My holiday on the North Sea is not negotiable,” Sturm said. “But I understand your position. I do not want to let a member of the Geneva Group down. Suppose I send my number two, Bruno Kordt? He is a protégé of mine and quite capable.”
“I trust your judgment, Kurt. If you vouch for him, I will send word to Manhattan.”
“It will be good for the men of Geneva to see Bruno in action, without my direct guidance. There may come a day when you’ll need to rely on him even more.”
“Ach, Kurt, don’t talk like that. There will always be a need for you here.”
“Perhaps,” Sturm said. “but I am 38 and I am not getting younger. There is only one man whom I expect, one day, will surpass me and that man is Bruno Kordt. It is time you gave consideration to my successor for you will always have a need for an Executive Director with my specific skill set, even after Geneva succeeds in placing von Schleicher in power.”
“Time,” Zurich said, placing a fatherly hand on Sturm’s shoulder. “There is never enough of it, is there?”
“No sir, there is not.”
“Enjoy your holiday,” Zurich said. Sturm watched as the older man walked across the terrace and back into the mansion.
Sturm turned toward the lake again. A stiff breeze was blowing up white caps on the water and, in the distance, he saw the silver speck of the Graf Zeppelin grow larger, almost glowing in the fading rays of the setting sun. If Bruno Kordt proved himself to the men of Geneva, Sturm would be free to take a more fulfilling role while Germany returned to greatness. In the air. With his father’s spirit by his side.
17.
She’s Fair and Even-handed
The Chrysler Building
New York City
Wednesday, 11 May 1932
I’VE got good news and bad news.”
Cockran looked up from his legal pad and saw Sarah Steinberg standing in the doorway. He stopped working on an outline of Ingrid’s testimony. “Good news first. What’s the scoop?”
“We got the best judge down there,” she replied.
“Who’s that?”
“Miriam Perkins.” Sarah said. “But her maiden name was Friedman. She doesn’t come often, but we go to the same synagogue. She went to law school at NYU, just like me. About fifteen years ago. She’s my role model. There aren’t many woman lawyers, let alone Jewish ones. Unlike my family, she’s rich, but she’s not stuck up at all.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“She’s fair and evenhanded,” Sarah replied.
“That’s bad?” Cockran asked.
“Mr. Donovan always tells me we want a judge or jury biased in favor of our client.”
Cockran laughed. Donovan was right and Cockran’s father had taught him the same thing. “I agree, but what’s the practical effect of that going to be today?”
“She scheduled a hearing late this afternoon on our motion for a temporary restraining order, but she insists that we give notice of the hearing and a copy of the motion to Waterman’s attorney. I tried to tell her that we didn’t know who his attorney was, but she told me that was my problem to solve before 4:30 this afternoon. If I can’t certify to her under oath that we’ve notified Waterman’s attorney of the hearing, there will be no hearing. So what can we do?”
Cockran didn’t reply. He swiveled his desk chair around and looked out the window.
“Chet Bowles,” said a voice from behind him.
Cockran turned around and looked at Ingrid, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, leafing through the current issue of Vogue magazine, heretofore showing no sign of interest in the conversation between Cockran and Sarah.
“Who?”
“My husband’s personal lawyer. Chester Bowles. He has an office on Park Avenue in the sixties. He handled the commitment of Wesley’s first wife as well as the divorce. I’m sure Wesley will use him again. I’ve met him a few times at cocktail parties. He thinks he’s smooth, but he looks oily. Wears a pencil-thin moustache. He resembles the groom on a wedding cake, only a lot fatter.”
“Fine,” Cockran said, looking over at Sarah who was still standing in the doorway. “Have the motion, the TRO and the notice of hearing delivered to Mr. Bowles office by messenger immediately. Prepare an affidavit; sign it yourself; and have it notarized.”
COCKRAN, Ingrid and Sarah sat in the chambers of Judge Miriam Perkins. Judge Perkins was a petite woman in her early forties, her dark hair drawn back from her face in a severe bun. She had angular, attractive features and flashing green eyes. Except for lipstick, she did not appear to be wearing make-up. Her demeanor so far had bee
n firm but friendly.
Judge Perkins looked at her small gold wristwatch. “It’s 4:40, Mr. Cockran. Ten minutes after the hearing was scheduled to start. I believe we need wait for Mr. Bowles no longer.” The judge looked to her left where, beside her desk, a court stenographer stood, fingers poised over the keyboard of her Stenotype machine. “We’ll begin now, Agnes. Mr. Cockran, tell me why you’re here. Then, call your first witness.”
Seating in the Judge’s chambers was informal. The Judge sat behind her desk with the stenographer slightly behind her. There were five chairs arranged in a row in front of the Judge’s desk, Cockran in the middle chair, Ingrid to his left, and Sarah on the outside. The two chairs to his right were empty.
Cockran explained in a conversational tone what their purpose was in seeking a temporary restraining order. He did not employ the resonant voice he usually did when appearing in court, the one he had inherited from his father. He could have. He knew lawyers who used their courtroom voice every time they appeared before a judge. But Cockran thought that a bit much especially since the Judge was sitting only five feet away.
“My client seeks two things, Your Honor. First, we ask that you freeze Mr. Waterman’s assets prohibiting him from transferring or otherwise encumbering them absent a court order permitting him to do so. We don’t seek to prohibit him from conducting normal day-to-day business, customary and usual expenses and the like. Our complaint seeks half of Mr. Waterman’s assets as is Mrs. Waterman’s right under New York law. We would settle, however, for only half the assets Mr. Waterman has acquired since his marriage to my client four years ago.” Cockran paused and grinned. “Plus, of course, half of any appreciation in the value of assets he held at the time of his marriage to my client.”
Cockran thought he saw a small smile on Judge Perkins face as she nodded, a signal Cockran took to mean that she understood what he was asking. “Our first witness is Ingrid Waterman.”
Cockran then reached into the briefcase, pulled out a manila folder and handed it to the Judge. “Your Honor, we would like these photographs identified as Plaintiff’s Exhibits 1 to 5.” The court reporter did so and gave them back to the Judge. She gave them to Cockran.
Cockran then turned to Ingrid. “Mrs. Waterman, I give you what have been marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibits 1 through 5. Please identify each of these exhibits for the Court.”
Ingrid did so, testifying as to each bruise, welt and black eye. As Ingrid finished identifying each photograph, Cockran thanked her, handed the photograph to the Judge and asked that it be admitted into evidence. The Judge kept a good courtroom face, displaying no emotion. But by the time the fourth photograph was handed to her, a frown began to form on her face, her green eyes growing narrow. By the fifth photograph — which showed deep red welts on Ingrid’s naked back, buttocks and thighs — the Judge lost her courtroom face completely and he heard an audible gasp.
“Please describe for the Judge the circumstances under which you received these injuries and identify the individual responsible.”
Ingrid told her story in a calm and clear voice, looking directly at the Judge as Cockran had advised her. By this time, the Judge had her courtroom face back on and was taking notes in small neat handwriting on a legal pad. She looked up at Cockran when Ingrid had finished describing the circumstances under which her husband had beat her with his fists and a belt.
“Is that all, Mr. Cockran?” the Judge asked.
“That’s all we have, Your Honor. We would ask that you enter the temporary restraining order we’ve submitted with our motion and set a trial on the merits as soon as the Court’s calendar permits.”
Before the Judge could reply, Cockran heard the door to the Judge’s chambers open behind him and a loud courtroom voice boom out. “I object!”
Cockran turned around and was surprised to hear such a deep voice coming from such a short creature.
“I apologize for being late, Your Honor. I’m Chet Bowles. We met last fall at the opening exhibit of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Bemused, Cockran watched as a short, fat, balding man with a pencil-thin mustache circled around the five chairs in front of the Judge’s desk and extended a sweaty palm towards the equally bemused jurist, who hesitated before she extended her own hand.
Chester Bowles looked to be in his late fifties. He wore a double-breasted brown plaid suit which simultaneously emphasized his short stature and his wide girth. Cockran knew it was all an act. Chet Bowles was no buffoon. When it came to divorce court, Sarah Steinberg had assured Cockran that Bowles was a shark amidst minnows. His reputation may have been sleazy but, Sarah told him, Bowles had a first-class legal mind. Bending rules and cutting corners were second nature to him. Cockran could only hope that Judge Miriam Perkins was as equally aware of Bowles’ reputation as was Sarah Steinberg.
“Your Honor,” Bowles began, “we oppose any TRO being granted to the plaintiff, let alone the shameless motion she has filed in this court. We have filed our own counterclaim for divorce,” Bowles said as he handed a blue-backed set of pleadings to both the Judge and to Cockran, “in which we ask the court to permanently bar this faithless adulteress from all of Mr. Waterman’s residences and to cut her off without a penny. Starting today.”
Cockran handed his copy of Waterman’s pleading to Sarah and watched while Judge Perkins picked up her copy and slowly leafed through it, her eyes occasionally narrowing. Cockran took this as a good sign. Bowles’ appearance had been theatrical but he wasn’t aware that Judge Perkins had already seen dramatic evidence of Waterman’s cruelty toward his wife.
Judge Perkins looked up. “Mr. Bowles. I note that your client accuses his wife of adultery. Having read her complaint, I note that she has made the same accusation against your client. You will have ample time to file an answer, but I want your reply right now. Did your client commit adultery as alleged in the complaint.”
By now, Bowles had settled into the far right hand chair, leaving the chair between him and Cockran vacant.
“Absolutely not, Your Honor. It is this … this …,” Bowles began, theatrically stammering, “faithless slut. I apologize, Your Honor, but there is no other word for it — who is the only person in this room guilty of adultery. And I can prove it.”
Judge Perkins looked at Bowles and lowered her reading glasses down to the tip of her long nose. “Really, Mr. Bowles? Would you be so kind as to enlighten us?”
Bowles shoved his meaty hand into a cracked and battered brown leather briefcase and extracted a crisp brown envelope. “I have the photographer waiting outside in the courtroom, Your Honor, to validate these photographs. But I believe it will be apparent once you look at them,” Bowles said, casting a sidelong glance at Ingrid, “that the photographs will be self-authenticating once I’m allowed to question the plaintiff as if on cross-examination.”
“It’s late, Mr. Bowles. We’ll take this up in the morning. Meanwhile, tell your client to stay away from the penthouse on Central Park West until I’ve heard all the evidence.
“No problem, Your Honor. He’s out of town until Saturday.”
“Good,” the Judge said as she rose from her desk. “I’ll see you gentlemen in my chambers tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.”
Ingrid placed her hand on Cockran’s arm as they left the Judge’s chambers and placed her lips close to his ear. Cockran angrily shook her arm off and walked away. “Tell it to Sarah” he snapped. Clients. Cockran hated it when they lied to him.
BACK in his office, Cockran’s messages included one from Tim O’Hanlon. Once Ingrid left, he had his secretary return the call and moments later O’Hanlon was on the line.
“It’s not good news, Bourke. I can’t even tell if the Schmidt boys are still in MID. Both their personnel files are classified ‘Black Drape’. They’re available only on a need-to-know basis and—here’s the kicker—the only person who approves access is General Ralph Van Deman.”
“The former head of MID?” Cockran said. “Hell, he retire
d 10 years ago. What gives?”
“Van Deman runs a private intelligence network and has a lot of corporate clients. He only hires ex-MID agents. He told me so himself a few years ago when he tried to recruit me. The pay is good, twice what I’m making in the Army. I also know he does contract work from time to time for MID. So my best guess is the two Schmidts left MID to work for Van Deman who still has the clout to have a Black Drape placed over all the MID agents he’s recruited.”
“Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it.”
“A word to the wise, Bourke. Watch your back. Van Deman has important friends all over Washington and that includes the current resident at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. You don’t want to make an enemy of him. He plays for keeps.”
Cockran replaced the receiver and walked over to the window and looked out over the New York skyline. Waterman was hiring a better class of thugs nowadays. Last year, he had two of Owney Madden’s men try to persuade Cockran not to take on a certain client. Now it was two ex-MID guys doing the same thing. This was beginning to be a bad habit.
18.
Get the Hell Out of My Office
Pittsburgh
Wednesday, 12 May 1932
HUDSON surprised Mattie during dinner in the hotel’s dining room when, after she made a cutting comment on Stalin, he bitterly criticized the 1918 Allied intervention in Russia, ostensibly to keep supplies there from falling into Bolshevik hands after they made peace with the Germans. After all, that had soon turned into Allied support for the White Army against the Red Army, something she thought Ted and his anti-Bolshevism would have supported.
“That’s not the point,” Ted said. “We didn’t adequately support our forces there once we started to back the Whites. Plus the officers in charge were a couple of incompetent limeys with double-barreled names. Then, once we decided to pull out, our goddamn Navy took their sweet time in getting there and a lot of good men—and women too—were butchered by the godless Communists at Archangel.”
The Gemini Agenda Page 10