Jake nodded wryly. “I feel like I’ve been ambushed but, hey, okay, enlighten me.”
The coffee arrived on a silver tray, which Major Temple took from the hands of a middle-aged woman. He shut the door firmly before bringing the tray to the table, then looked up at one of the corner cameras and ran a finger across his neck. “They” were shutting off the live video feed, Jake realized. Whatever this briefing revealed, it was to be classified. On a restricted, need-to-know basis.
“How to begin…” The Earl turned contemplative, dark-gray eyes on Jake. “As you Americans say, keep it simple. So I shall endeavor to do just that.” Wexford sighed audibly and a quiver ran through him. “After my father, the tenth Earl of Cantwell, died two months ago, I came upon some documents in his home safe. These documents—mostly lists of money transfers—led me to believe that my father had been the victim of a blackmail scheme going back over fifty years. In addition, this blackmailer apparently influenced his political stance on crucial issues of the Kingdom that I’m not at liberty to discuss. Over the course of nearly fifty years, he evidently felt compelled to pay a sum of fifty-thousand pounds a year into a numbered account registered to a bank in Zurich. This regular deposit had been made faithfully since October of 1948, ever since my father’s marriage to Sarah Spencer, or Lady Sarah Wexford, as she was known to the world. My mother.”
Jake nodded his understanding. He was beginning to get a clue where this was going.
“My mother,” Wexford continued, “was the daughter of a renowned naval hero during the war against the Third Reich. Lady Sarah, before her marriage to my father, worked in the War Department as a secretary. All of her cousins her age did their part for the war effort. It was expected, of course, for the nobility to set an example.”
“Quite right,” interjected Temple. Mr. Jones nodded vigorously in assent. While Jake waited patiently, he sipped the hot, strong coffee, feeling his brain cells perk up.
Lord Wexford went on. “Unbeknownst to me or anyone else in my immediate family, my father and mother kept this blackmail scheme a secret. Even after my mother died in 1990, my father never let on, most likely for my sake. He took his secret to the grave, probably believing it would end with his death. The blackmail, I mean. Well, it has not.”
As the strong aroma and flavor of the coffee cleared his head, Jake began to see what this British aristocrat was leading up to. His suspicions leaped ahead. The tenth Earl of Cantwell, Lord Wexford’s father, had protected his wife, but from what? A sexual scandal? If that were the case, they wouldn’t be briefing Jake about it.
Lady Wexford, as the unmarried Sarah Spencer, had worked in Churchill’s War Department as a secretary. So what did Sarah’s wartime activities have to do with Mary McCoy Snider? Something was missing, another piece of the puzzle.
Jake wanted to cut to the chase, so he jumped in without preamble. “Was there something you found in those documents, Lord Wexford, that led you to suspect your mother might have been the true target of the those blackmailers? That she had something to hide, left over from her work in the War Office?”
His bluntness caused Jones to gasp slightly and Temple to take out his pipe for a close look. Wexford blinked, his long patrician hands steepled together, as if in prayer. Jake realized this public airing of his family’s dirty laundry was costing him. He could feel the man’s shame roll off him in waves.
“Very astute of you, Agent Bernstein. Yes, I did. Clipped to one of the bank transfer statements was one page from my mother’s diary in her handwriting. On that page, she revealed her…shall we say, sympathies for the German cause. If the remainder of my mother’s diary ran to the same theme, I would have to regard my mother as a Nazi sympathizer. What we called the Fifth Column. Perhaps she carried her sympathies further, perhaps not. Certainly, the War Department would never have hired her had they known of these sympathies.”
“And so you concluded this diary, if it still exists, holds proof of your mother’s possible spy activities…or perhaps the diary exonerates her and that one page is just a young woman’s nonsense.”
“Yes,” Lord Wexford said. His shoulders slumped from the seeming weight of the truth. Every crease on his pale but stolid face reflected his emotional pain. “But there’s more, and this connects to your investigation.”
Well, finally, Jake thought.
“On that one diary page, my mother mentioned her friendship with Mary McCoy, a woman her own age who also worked at the War Office. Apparently, they shared a secret which she didn’t reveal on that particular page but which, naturally, suggests a possible involvement, as you mentioned, with the Fifth Column of Nazi collaborators.” The man sighed and ran his manicured hands through his silver hair. “Last month I received a phone call on my private line at my London house. Basically, it instructed me to continue my father’s bank transfers to this bank in Zurich. It was a male voice I’ve never heard before, disguised with an electronic device. Nevertheless, I recorded it. MI5 could not place or track it. This man also said he was in possession of my mother’s diary which had information that could damage my family’s reputation and ruin my career in Parliament. Not to mention, ruin me financially if I were to continue paying this blackmail. The voice added that he would be in touch regarding a certain matter of importance for the House of Lords. The blackmail and extortion attempts continue, you see. This diary may reveal secrets about my mother so damning that the government and even the Crown would quite possibly never recover from the scandal.”
“It’s obvious,” broke in Jones, “these buggers plan to continue this wicked scheme of theirs unless His Lordship buckles under.”
“Quite right, you were, m’lord,” said Major Temple, “to come to us forthwith. We shall put a stop to this insanity.”
Jake stood with a soft grunt and leaned his arms on the back of his chair, hunching over. The stretch felt good—after all, he’d spent the night practically doubled over. It had been agony for a man of his height, six-foot-two. While the Brits stirred with discomfort at his casual behavior, Jake forced his mind back to the briefing. This case had more prickly thorns than a saguaro cactus.
“Excuse me, my back’s killing me. Well, I see why you’d like to get down to the bottom of this. As I investigate Mary Snider, you’d all like to know the extent of her connection, her friendship with Sarah Spencer Wexford. You’re wondering, if Mary was a Nazi spy, was Lady Sarah, as well?”
He paused as the three men exchanged tense, uncomfortable looks. Was he wrong in making the assumption about Lady Wexford? Wasn’t that why Temple had brought him here to this briefing?
Lady Sarah and Mary McCoy shared a secret. Could’ve been anything…a man they both slept with…
The eleventh Earl of Cantwell leaned his elbows on the table and lowered his voice.
“I presume you do not read the gossip rags, Agent Bernstein. My daughter, Lady Betts, as she’s called, is about to be engaged to the prince, second in line to the throne. Her Majesty must give her approval, as is tradition in the English nobility. If it is true—that my mother did indeed spy for the Third Reich—the ensuing scandal would rock the United Kingdom to its foundation. The Queen would have no choice but to refuse my daughter. All because of her grandmother. Her Majesty lived through the war, experienced firsthand the bombings and tragedies—no, it would be unthinkable for her to allow the granddaughter of a Nazi spy to marry a prince of the realm. Absolutely unthinkable.” The Earl broke off, gazed mournfully at his ancestral ring and shook his head in anguish.
So what, Jake thought. There were probably scads of noblewomen who’d love to marry the prince. Every guy gets his heart broken at least once or twice. No big deal. Been there, done that.
But the Brits were another breed. Pride, tradition and history far outranked pragmatic American thinking. To an American, if your ancestors robbed banks, it didn’t necessarily reflect on you. Each man or woman chose his or her own destiny, made his or her own place in the world. To the Brits, scandal
in the royal or noble ranks was anathema. This earl would be ruined, his reputation, political career, his family wealth, his daughter’s future—all up in flames.
Stretching the kinks out of his back as he walked back to the men, Jake noticed that Major Temple wore a crooked smile. So did Lord Wexford, while tugging at his leather-trimmed lapels, as if he were thinking, “These impossible Americans…but we need the wanker, don’t we?”
Jake’s thoughts returned to the case at hand. “When did Lady Sarah’s diary disappear?”
Lord Wexford watched Jake arch his back until it popped. Temple moved his pipe to the other side of his mouth. Mr. Jones’ face flushed red, and he glanced over to the earl before speaking.
“We believe it disappeared toward the end of the war. She declared it missing to her new husband, the tenth earl, on their honeymoon in 1946. It concerned her greatly, according to the family story.”
Temple jumped in, “Even though the blackmailers used it against the earl’s family, those pages don’t prove she actually did commit treason. Recovery of that diary would prove essential to dismissing any such suspicions.”
“I bet.” Jake rubbed his hand down a stubbled cheek. Man, he needed a shower, shave and sleep. His headache had subsided, thank God, and he felt he could keep straight all of these new complications. “And Mary McCoy Snider might be the key to it all.”
“Exactly so,” the major said. Lord Wexford and Mr. Jones nodded in unison, looking relieved that their American investigator wasn’t as dense as they first thought.
Score one for the home team.
“And if I somehow find proof of Mary Snider’s guilt and that the earl’s mother collaborated with her in some way, then what? I report back to you and…?” He cocked up both shoulders.
Jones sat up straight, crossed his arms over his chest and said stiffly, “Then we’ll deal with it in our way.”
Yep, you’ll bury it deeper than spent uranium rods.
Jake returned to his cup of coffee and gulped down the bitter dregs. He had to smile at these Brits. They’d covered all their bases.
“So you think this naturalized American grandmother of what, eighty or ninety years, is going to spill the beans and confess it all to me, a complete stranger? That she was a Nazi mole?”
He looked at the three men, waiting for each in turn to meet his gaze. While Temple and Wexford reflected a modicum of hope, Jones’s stare was blatantly skeptical.
Major Temple spoke up, all bonhomie. “You’re American. The granddaughter’s your ticket into their cozy twosome. Through her, you might be able to breach the walls an elderly spy would have built up over sixty years of maintaining…possibly a lifetime of lies. From what I’ve heard and read, you are adept at inspiring trust in women.” Temple glanced at his watch and stood up, bringing their meeting to an end. “We have to hurry to catch that motorcoach.”
Lord Wexford stood and extended his hand. “At this point, it’s a sticky wicket you have been given but you are the best shot we have.”
Jake shook the other man’s hand, then experienced Jones’s limp handshake. Wexford trusted him, more than Jake could say for Jones. Clearly, the earl and Major Temple had twisted Jones’s arm to include an American agent within their small, investigative circle.
Jake shot them an encouraging smile. “I’ll do my best to learn the truth.”
“That’s all we ask,” said Jones, barely concealing a smirk.
Somehow, Jake doubted that the truth was all they wanted.
Chapter Three
They were standing in the small lobby of the Best Western, waiting for the Global Adventures motor coach to arrive and pick him up. A large suitcase on rollers, topped by a leather carryon, leaned against Jake’s leg, about as irritating as the Major’s choice for his cover. He knew nothing about insurance, but a lot about real estate and investments. His best buddy, Eric White, regaled him so often over drinks about his career in investment brokerage, it was enough to cross his eyes. Still, Jake had listened and learned. And had the stock portfolio to show for it.
Screw the Major’s cover. I know how to play this.
The Englishman smiled, glanced around at the cheap furnishings and dismal decor. “Sorry, ol’ man, this will have to do. So as not to break cover, take care with what you say to the granddaughter.”
“I’ve done this before, Major, with far more dangerous unsubs. I know how to maintain cover, thank you. During the plane ride over, I read most of the encrypted file you sent to my computer. It appears that Mary McCoy transcribed a lot of the coded communiques from the French Resistance regarding Operation Overlord.”
“Yes, sadly so, if Mary McCoy was indeed the mole,” Major Temple gritted out, shaking his head and lowering his voice. “British Intelligence took extra precautions keeping the Wehrmacht off base regarding the Allied invasion’s location—what we called Operation Overlord. The French Resistance was helping us determine what the Germans knew and what they were simply guessing at. One thing they knew for certain, those Krauts, was that the Allied Forces would invade in the summer of ’44. They didn’t know the exact date or location for the beachhead. The entire northern coast of France was considered, of course. Some, including Hitler himself, were convinced the most logical place would be Pas de Calais, that being the shortest point across the English Channel. Elaborate measures were taken to convince them of this, including a facade of fake airbases.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that. So you think Operation Overlord’s true landing sites were compromised by one of these Nazi moles?”
“Certainly possible and more than a little likely. Some of the German High Command believed this intel, and kept army divisions along the Normandy coast.”
It was another reason why the Brits were so desperate to catch such a spy. D-Day, as the Allied invasion of France was called, had been the most crucial day of WWII. Tens of thousands of Allied soldiers were killed in the Normandy invasion.
“But, Major, you have no proof it was Mary McCoy who may have passed on the actual date or location plans, do you?”
“No, but one of our Doublecross agents—a Nazi spy the Brits had captured and turned—offered up two possible female moles in England at that time. He gave up their code names, but sadly not their English covers, which he claimed he didn’t know. He said one of these two women may have worked for the war department in some capacity.”
“And these two females knew the true location of the Allied invasion?”
“Supposedly, according to this Doublecross agent.”
It was Jake’s turn to harrumph.
“So, no one in the Abwehr—the German army—knew the English covers of these two Nazi moles?”
“The German military defense was so paranoid that only a direct handler knew the true identity of a secret agent under his control. In the files, only a code name was used. We know this from the war records confiscated in Berlin at the end of the war. Mary McCoy could have been one of the two females on that list.”
The chill of the early June morning ran through Jake, making him shiver. He zipped up his brown, bomber-style, leather jacket and frowned. MI5 sounded convinced of Mary McCoy’s guilt already. So much for their objective investigation, Jake groused to himself. Was he here just to validate their conclusions?
“Maybe this Mary McCoy was neither of the two. Let’s suspend trying and lynching this American grandmother until we gather the evidence, okay?” He sighed heavily and massaged his forehead. The mild throbbing pain had intensified and moved from the back of his head and now stung right behind his eyes. “Sorry, that part of the report I must’ve skipped over. What were the code names of these two female moles?”
“One was Hummingbird. We think it referred to the Nazi Party’s Night of the Long Knives, also called Operation Hummingbird, when Hitler ordered a purge of a rival group within the Nazi Party. The SS and Gestapo carried out the killings. From 1933 to 1938, Hitler managed to eliminate most of his opponents, one way or a
nother.”
Hummingbird. “Okay, and the other?”
“Black Widow. We have no idea what that referred to.”
Black Widow. “I’ll read that part of the file later. When I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep,” Jake added pointedly. Temple glanced down, as if he already regretted his choice of American partner. In a gesture of reassurance, Jake patted the man’s shoulder.
A large white motor coach pulled into the curved driveway in front of the hotel. Someone who was obviously the tour guide, a dark-haired man in his forties dressed in a white bulky sweater and brown cords, hopped down, a clipboard in his hand. He was glancing about, looking a little harried and peeved that another stop had to be made to pick up the one American tourist who hadn’t stayed at the Kensington Hilton like all the others on the tour. Major Temple nudged Jake.
“Your carriage awaits, Bernstein. I shall take my leave now. Don’t forget to report in every evening at ten.” The major handed over a secure mobile phone, which Jake tucked into his jacket’s inside pocket.
Acknowledging the older man’s military background and bearing, Jake gave a quick half-salute, biting back the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind. I’m thirty-two, Major, not thirteen. “Will do, Major,” he said and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Where the hell is this coach going, anyway? Besides the Republic of Ireland?” Major Temple’s gray eyebrows arched. “No, didn’t have a chance to read the itinerary, either. Too busy with the other files.”
Temple chomped on his pipe, one side of his mouth upturned in the closest thing to a smile that Jake thought he’d see from the man.
“Oh, it’s a fine itinerary. Southwest England, Wales, Republic of Ireland, a bit of Scotland. Two weeks’ worth.”
“Two weeks? And if I conclude this investigation in less time?”
“Then we debrief, and back home you go. We’ll handle the filing of charges and arrest warrant. Or extradition, if necessary. Well then, good luck, ol’ man.”
Jake nodded and took his leave. Outside, he hailed the guide, a friendly, outgoing sort who introduced himself as Robert Morse. The man quickly and efficiently turned over the suitcase to the driver who stowed it in the storage bin at the side of the motor coach. As soon as Robert checked him in and indicated he could take his carryon on board, Jake moved to the coach’s front door. He suddenly stepped aside as a young, blonde-haired woman climbed down, spun around and helped an elderly woman descend.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 3