“True. Despite their neutrality during the war, you may’ve heard, Ireland wasn’t above welcoming U-boat crews into their coastal towns and tipping a pint of ale with those Kraut buggers.”
“Major, I saw an old photo of just that in the pub tonight. Surprised the hell outa me. What about these U-boats off the coast of Ireland? This was commonplace?”
“Some months, it was a regular flotilla, especially in the Irish Sea. We knew, of course, that spies were brought in by U-boats, then sent ashore in rubber dinghies. British shores were heavily guarded by Civil Defense volunteers who took their tasks very seriously, as you can imagine. Most of these spies were picked up near coastal towns in Cornwall, Wales, and also England and Scotland. Bloody fools, to think they’d escape the CD. Regular bloodhounds, the CD blokes were. But, of course, Ireland was a different story altogether.”
Jake could hear the click of the man’s teeth against his pipe stem as the major chuckled. The guy got a kick out of his wartime stories, so Jake let him go on until he wound down.
“One unlucky chap broke his leg parachuting in, crawled to the nearest pub and gave himself up. It saved his life and he worked for us the remainder of the war. He became one of our best double agents. So, what are you thinking, Agent Bernstein? Some of the Irish along the coast were paid off and let a Nazi spy back in?”
“I’m thinking,” Jake sighed heavily, massaging his temple, “just that. Follow my logic here, Major. If this Helmut or Horst guy left and came back, he might’ve been smuggled in by a German U-boat somewhere along the Irish coast. He would’ve been fluent in English, maybe the Irish dialect, able to blend in, perhaps pass himself off as someone’s kin. He could have pretended to be the cousin of a Nazi sympathizer. Then he did some scouting for an Irish miss he could manipulate. Or possibly he knew her from before, from his time in Dublin. Didn’t some of the Irish think that if England got its ass kicked by the Germans, they’d stop interfering with Ireland? Well, maybe this German found the right mark and turned her into a spy.”
“I see, do you think this German lover taught Mary McCoy German and persuaded her to become a spy for the Third Reich? That doesn’t sound like the Mary McCoy in Mike McCoy’s notes. This girl hated the Germans and told Mike she wanted to serve in the war effort.”
“I know. I read MI5’s summary of Mike McCoy’s notes. It’s just a theory. Because Mary Snider is a linguistic marvel and picks up foreign languages with incredible speed and skill, she could’ve learned German from this guy. Maybe he was a northern German and convinced her to take the job in London. Picked her for her trusting nature and vulnerability—”
Mary Snider, sweet and vulnerable? Well, maybe when she was young. People change, don’t they, as they grow older? Jake shook off those intrusive thoughts and continued.”—or maybe he blackmailed her into helping him spy. Tried to force her into applying for the War Office. When she refused, he killed her parents…”
It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had been duped into committing a crime to keep a lover happy—or to survive. Look at those German spies who had turned against their Vaterland and ended up working for the Brits, to avoid the gallows. To Jake’s mind, this theory was beginning to make sense. But it was just a theory. No evidence, no proof.
Not yet.
On the line, the Major harrumphed. Jake couldn’t tell if the man was agreeing or disagreeing. Or if he thought Jake’s theory was just so much bullshit.
“I’m thinking, Major, this Thomas McCoy who Mary corresponded with during the war, he could be this German. He might’ve been in Ireland somewhere, posing as an Irishman, keeping Mary under a tight leash, maybe threatening her. Arranging for dead-drops, or face-to-face meetings. Their letters were probably coded. He’d convey intel back to his U-Boat contacts offshore. That’s one possible scenario, anyway.”
“Quite possible, Bernstein. I dare say, there were many Thomas McCoys in Dublin and all over Ireland and England during the thirties and forties. There still are, I’ll wager. One would choose that identity for its very ubiquity. I’ll get on it right away and try and locate immigration records on this Heinrich or Helmut.”
“Or Horst.”
“Good work, Agent Bernstein. They told me you were incorruptible and fair-minded. Good at exploring all the angles. This is certainly a new approach.”
“Or, Major, it could be just a bunch of bull. Just a theory, no proof.” A slight pause. “Or Thomas McCoy could be just someone Mary met along the way and kept writing to because she liked him. I’ll get around to asking about him in the next day or so. Also, following this same thread, Mary could be innocent and her cousin, Mike McCoy, could’ve been totally wrong about her at their meeting in Dallas. He could’ve gotten the eye color wrong, or mistaken her reasons for avoiding him during the war and not acknowledging him afterwards. Don’t you have cousins, Major, who you avoid at all costs? I sure do, on my mother’s side. Real dumbasses.”
“Hmmm,” was what Jake heard from the major.
“Maybe,” he continued, on a roll, “there was another German mole in the War Office. Another woman. What about the clerk who shared the top floor of the boarding house where Mary McCoy lived? Have you run a thorough check on her?”
“We did—historical records are quite complete. Catherine Collier was her name. She disappeared in early 1944. Strange, but her body was never found. Her room was searched. No radio, cypher pads or codebooks turned up. The fact that she disappeared, of course, is highly suspicious. There’s nothing more to go on.” A manly snort came through the line. “So, Jake, how is that extracurricular sporting with the comely granddaughter progressing? Is she proving to be helpful in this investigation?”
Jake said nothing. How could he admit that he’d just broken the cardinal rule of undercover work? Never fall for one of your marks.
“Meg’s devoted to her grandmother. The woman raised her, is like a mother to her. I’m convinced she has no clue about any of this.” He frowned as something else occurred to him. “Another thing, Major. Mary McCoy’s correspondence with Thomas McCoy ended in 1944, didn’t it? I’m stretching here, but maybe there’s a correlation between Catherine Collier disappearing and the end of Mary’s connection with Thomas. Meg said her grandmother told her that this German boyfriend went back to Germany and, for all she knows, was killed in the war.”
“I’ll check Passport Control—that dusty ol’ basement where they keep the war records. It may take a while if they haven’t been transferred to any of our databases. There’s a slim chance there just might be a link between the two. Could be a coincidence, however.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”
“Not really. So, that’s it, Jake?”
“That’s it for now, yep.”
“We’ll check out this German student in Dublin—this Helmut or Heinrich or Horst. He may’ve been a foreign student at Trinity College or one of the private language institutes in the city. My own father attended Trinity in the early thirties. One of his best friends was the grandson of a Russian countess. It was and still is quite a cosmopolitan university.”
“Another thing, Major. Meg told me her grandmother was eighty-nine years old. That’d make her DOB, 1916, wouldn’t it?”
“Date of birth, you mean? Yes, it would.”
“The file on Mary McCoy gives her DOB as 1920. Could this be a mistake, a typo?”
A snort came through the line. “Could be. I’ll check into it.”
With nothing more to add, Jake was about to punch off.
“By the by, Jake, our surveillance is for the safety of everyone concerned. No need to take offense. I’m afraid we do have cause for concern, ol’ sport.”
“What’d ya mean, Major?”
“The old adage, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, seems to apply here. Mike McCoy, Mary’s tenacious cousin, has struck again.”
“How’s that possible? Didn’t you say he died years ago?”
“The old man, yes, but his son,
a middle-aged man who’s been on mental disability for the past eight years—-we’ve learned he’s been on your tail for the past four days. We think he followed me to Heathrow that day I picked you up, trailed us to the hotel and observed the motor coach and its occupants. He’s discovered through an obliging travel agent that Mary McCoy Snider is on your tour. We believe he harbors the foolish notion of confronting Mrs. Snider. Apparently, he has the same fixation on this woman that his father had, though I suspect there’s something else he wants. The one time I met with him, not quite a year ago, he kept asking about a deed that Mary was given when her parents died. What he hopes that will accomplish, I have no idea. You should be on the alert, however.”
“What does he look like? Is he armed?”
“He’s in his fifties. Six-foot, stocky build, half bald with a monk’s fringe. Gray hair, blue eyes. Has a deep voice, heavy Irish accent. Various personality disorders make him unemployable and his wife left him six years ago. Sad case, all around. Dotty ol’ chap. Whether he’s armed, we have no way of knowing. He has no permit for a gun, if that’s what you mean. Not with his history of mental afflictions.”
“Great,” Jake said sarcastically.
He mused over this additional complication but was satisfied that Major Temple had informed him. Now he understood the reason for the surveillance team Temple had ordered. He just didn’t understand why the major hadn’t informed him about it from the beginning. Maybe the man was embarrassed they’d let this crazy guy slip through their fingers.
“So you heard about the pub disturbance tonight?” Jake asked Temple. He could still hear the man grinding his teeth against his pipe stem. Was the major extra nervous tonight?
“Our surveillance team was in the pub. Impressive, the speed with which you disarmed the young wanker. Good work, Jake, although you could’ve blown your cover, as you well know.”
“Not a problem, Major. Meg knows I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. Undercover works best if you mix in some truth with the lies.”
They rang off cordially.
Halfway to the bed, it struck him what he’d just said. It was an accurate statement about undercover work—mixing some truth with the lies—but he wondered if Meg, a civilian, would ever understand or accept what he was doing. Would she hate him when the time came to reveal everything?
Most likely. His stomach dropped, his guts twisted.
Another thing struck him: If, according to Meg, her grandmother had been a “femme fatale” when she was young, she would’ve played men like a violin. This Thomas McCoy could’ve simply been an admirer. One of her beaus.
That didn’t mean, of course, she couldn’t have been played herself, by some conniving German student-turned-Nazi spy. The guy could’ve been her controller—and this so-called Thomas McCoy could’ve been a cover name. What about the time Mike McCoy, the real cousin, visited Mary McCoy in Dallas? Meg would’ve been living there at her grandmother’s house. Would she have observed this visit and her grandmother’s reaction to the man who had come all the way from Ireland and claimed to be her cousin?
It was an oversight, Jake admitted. Never would’ve happened if he’d kept a clear head about him whenever Meg was near. So the other salient question: How was he going to keep his feelings for Meg from compromising this investigation?
He had no answer for that one.
Jake turned off the bedside lamp. He lay back against the pillows, stacked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The scent of her wet hair and warm flesh lingered in his mind. As did the press of her mouth, the sweet taste of her tongue, and the feel of her hard-and-soft rump in his hands.
Well, damn…
Chapter Fifteen
“Another lovely, two-thousand-calorie English breakfast! Good Lord, they’re making me fat! I could barely zip up my pants this morning!”
Judy, the youngest of the two New Jersey sisters, stood and gathered her purse. Her sister, Jeannie, followed suit.
“I know what you mean,” Hank Philemon concurred. The three agreed that between the long motor coach drives and the fattening meals, each of them would return home with at least ten extra pounds to shed. Jake was tempted to suggest a long jog in the evenings instead of sitting and drinking in the bar, but decided to stay quiet.
“Aren’t you coming, Jake? People’re boarding.” Jeannie shot Jake one of her brightest smiles. The prettiest of the two sisters, she seemed determined to win his attention.
Meg and her grandmother hadn’t come down for breakfast, a cause for concern. He put down his cup of coffee and stood. What was their room number? Meg had told him. Like a household cleaner, one he used.
“No, go on ahead. Tell Robert I’ll be there. Going to check on Meg and her grandmother. They’re usually among the first down to breakfast. Haven’t seen them yet.”
Jeannie looked disappointed but covered it smoothly and tossed back her dark hair with a flippant, “Will do!”
The three filed out of the dining room while Jake headed for the elevators. Cleaning product…he used it in his kitchen and bath…yes! 409!
Jake punched the “4” button, the carryon strap cutting into his left shoulder. Unmindful of the discomfort, he wondered about Meg and Mary Snider. Uneasiness weighed on his mind.
He knocked on their door. Meg flung it open, relief swamping her face as soon as she saw him.
“Thank God, Jake! I need your help.”
He followed her into the room. Mary Snider sat on the edge of her bed, dressed in a brown pantsuit, sweater and loafers. Her hands were exposed and for the first time, Jake saw them gloveless. He now understood why she covered them up. The fingers were brown-spotted, horribly gnarled and twisted. Like deformed crab legs.
“She’s having problems putting on her gloves and she won’t let me help her!” Meg explained, frustration heating up her tone of voice. “Grandma, please let me—”
“I can do it, myself!” After a try, the elderly woman gave up, and throwing Jake a hard, hostile look, cried, “What are you doing here? No one asked you—”
“Grandma, I asked him in. He can help—”
“No, he can’t. He can’t be trusted.” Mary Snider gazed up at Jake, standing over them. She squinted and her mouth curled downward.
“I’ll get your carry-on,” he began, seeing it open on the dresser. A ziplock baggie held at least ten containers of pills in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors. Meg was now holding one of those containers, a plastic, rectangular dispenser divided into seven compartments, one for each day of the week.
“No, leave that alone!” barked the old woman at Jake, followed by a snarl, “Meg told me what happened in that pub you took her to. You’re a cop and I don’t trust cops.”
Meg sighed. “Grandma, don’t go paranoid on me. Jake’s not a cop. Like I told you, he used to be a Navy SEAL. You’ve got to stop this nonsense. Here, take the glass of water. I’ll dole out the pills. Today’s Tuesday, so…”
The old woman, her narrow, flinty stare never leaving Jake’s face, opened her mouth, let Meg place one pill after another on her tongue, following each one with a sip from the water glass. Meg glanced over at him and managed a smile.
“Grandma takes pills for high blood pressure, painkillers and anti-inflammatories for her rheumatoid arthritis, heart medication, anti-depressants. You name it, she takes it. Last night, she took one too many sleeping pills. This morning, it was the devil trying to get her up.”
Jake marveled at Meg’s patience with the old lady. He thought about Oma and how his own mother and father handled her cranky days. It was tough getting old, he knew, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be called upon some day to help his own parents deal with their aging problems. He was still the single son, after all. He’d be expected to take charge.
“I don’t want to take that ferry. Ferries are dangerous! I should know!” Mary Snider’s dark blue eyes tracked him as he retrieved her coat and Meg’s jacket from the other bed. “I almost drowned because of a ferry.
The Irish Sea is a dangerous place! Not like the Mediterranean. It’s cold and foggy and stormy. If we have to go to Ireland, Meggie, we should fly there!”
Meg snapped shut the lid to the weekly pill dispenser, then bent down to tug on her grandmother’s brown, calfskin gloves.
“Grandma, we talked about this before. You said it’d be okay, now you’re changing your mind. Well, it’s too late. We’re getting on that ferry and I’ll stay by you. Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise.”
Impatiently, Jake gnawed on his lower lip, then shifted the coat and jacket to one arm before he picked up the carry-on that Meg had just zipped closed.
“Mrs. Snider, the ferries nowadays are larger, faster. They don’t capsize. This one takes cars, trucks, the motor coach—speaking of which, everyone’s getting on it right now.”
Meg helped her grandmother stand up. “Jake, Grandma’s got a history with ferries. She nearly drowned when she was—what, twenty years old, Gran? She was crossing over from Ireland to Wales, on her way to England for her job with the War Office. What year was this, Gran?”
“Um, 1940,” grumbled Mary Snider, looking a bit befuddled and groggy, “Where’s my coat? My purse?”
“Jake’s got your coat, I’ve got our purses. Okay, let’s get out of here before they leave us behind. You know how punctual Robert is. Likes to leave on the dot.”
Wielding both carry-ons, one on each shoulder, his right arm loaded with Meg’s jacket and Mary Snider’s coat, Jake paused to scan the room. Meg did, too; their gazes met and she smiled again in appreciation. Their brief look transmitted volumes. He held the door open while Mary leaned on her granddaughter’s arm.
“Mrs. Snider, you’ll have to tell me what happened on that ferry,” commented Jake, walking slowly abreast with them down the corridor. It would be interesting to hear it from Mary’s perspective, sixty-something years later. Would her recollections be as sharp and as accurate as the eyewitness accounts in MI5’s file, taken within twenty-four hours of the catastrophe?
“Too horrible to talk about,” clipped the old woman.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 13