Six o’clock. It was too early for breakfast. He looked at the pink pills Meg’d left on the nightstand, waited before taking another painkiller. He wanted to be as mentally alert as possible when speaking to MI5.
Gotta rehydrate. Fluids. Stop thinking about Meg and what you’d love to do with her to make her forget her anger. Focus. Focus.
He’d dreamed that in the middle of the night, Meg had slipped into his bed and lain next to him. She’d held him loosely, a slim arm gently draped across his midriff. He felt the heat from her body, heard her whisper something to him.
When he awoke that morning, there was no one beside him in his bed. Her scent, however, a mixture of floral and citrus, drifted over to him from her pillow. He sniffed the pillow again. Then his fingers. Her scent was all over him.
She’d spent the night in his bed. Keeping vigil.
He shook his head to clear his thinking, and felt his thigh.
Well, damn, he thought, bracing himself on one elbow. There was a new gauze bandage wrapped around his leg. His thigh was swollen but the bleeding had stopped. Black thread ends spiked up through the gauze. What the hell—?
His fingers touched the tough spiky thread, standing up like black whiskers. Sutures? He unwound the gauze around his thigh and stared. Sure enough. Someone had stitched up his wounds. A yellowish, antiseptic solution was smeared over the two sites, the entrance and exit holes. .22 caliber, most likely. A tiny hypodermic puncture was visible in the red, swollen flesh. Penicillin, most likely.
He plopped back on his pillow and smiled.
Meg. She’d gotten a doctor in the middle of the night. Jake slowly swiveled his head. How the fuck did she do that?
What an amazing woman. She cared about him. His smile widened. Then he scowled.
Major Temple first, then a sitrep to FBI headquarters. A moment later, Jake was getting an earful.
“Pierce said two bikers fired at you and the granddaughter, for Pete’s sake! And then you talked to the Irish cops in McCoy’s pub! Good God, Bernstein, could you have done a better job publicizing your mission by taking out a news advertisement in the Dublin Crier?”
Jake puffed out a breath, holding his temper. Two holes in his leg and no sympathy from this Brit. “We had no choice. We had to cooperate with the locals. I maintained my cover and Meg went along. If I’d had my pistol with me, there would’ve been a lot more commotion to worry the locals, I guarantee you. So, moving on, what’s the skinny on Horst Eberhard? Is that his real name?”
Jake could detect the sound of teeth grinding down on a pipestem. Temple’s patience was running out, he could tell. Hell, so was Mary Snider’s.
“Astonishingly enough, it is. We dug around the archives and found records from Passport Control. Horst Eberhard, the youngest son of Count Friedrich Eberhard of Lower Saxony, came into Great Britain on a student visa in 1934, left in 1938. A check of Irish visas showed he moved into Ireland in 1935. Thus, he had four years to perfect his English, three in Ireland to master an Irish dialect and to look for a target. He must’ve been a valuable asset to the Abwehr if they were footing his bill all that time.”
Jake nodded to himself. “A deep cover mole. I wonder how many Irish sympathizers he recruited during that time. He must’ve met Mary McCoy in Dublin.” Jake said. “Found her suitable in looks, anyway. Probably was looking for a girl who resembled the German agent being trained for the assignment. Unlucky Mary McCoy from Killarney matched up. Then he went about seducing her, or maybe just became friendly. Supposedly, Mary was a devout Catholic—but hey, she wouldn’t be the first to fall in love and forget her strict upbringing.”
For a couple of seconds, he thought of what he’d learned about the real Mary McCoy. “No, strike that. I don’t think he recruited the real Mary. She was too staunchly anti-German.”
“I agree, Bernstein. By early 1940, plans were in place for the German woman to be smuggled in,” Temple interrupted his thoughts, “and assume Mary McCoy’s identity, especially after the girl’s parents had been eliminated. And what better place than on a crowded ferry? Perhaps the only person Mary McCoy knew on that ferry was the female spy, Hummingbird. Her replacement was standing by, probably studying her. Poor girl, she had no idea that she was at the center of an evil, tangled web of deception. A U-boat might’ve been in the Irish Sea that very night, waiting to see what developed. They must’ve received a signal that Hummingbird survived and was in place.”
“My theory exactly, Major Temple. I think Hummingbird was smuggled in months before so she could adapt herself to the language and culture. She’d have an ear for dialects. A chameleon, she’d blend in well.” They’d arrived at the same conclusion, though from different perspectives. Jake then brought Temple up to speed from his own experiences in Killarney—the photo of a young Mary that Meg knew was not her grandmother. The letter Mary had written to her parish priest before the ferry’s sinking, bearing the real Mary’s signature. No recognition, on Mary Snider’s part, of important landmarks in Mary’s hometown. Not the cathedral, the pub or her family’s home. Not the place where her parents drowned…or were killed.
“It all seems to fit,” said Temple. “The hummingbird pin, Mary Snider’s fluent German, her attitude, her lack of memories of Killarney, her lack of emotional connection, the forged signatures on the typed letters. They all support Old Mike McCoy’s conclusion.”
Jake concurred. “Yes, birthdates were the same because Mary Snider was working from the real Mary McCoy’s life stats. But when Meg saw the graduation photo of Mary McCoy in those church files, she knew then and there her grandmother was an impostor. She took it very hard.”
Temple harrumphed noisily. “Of course, it’s a tragedy for the young woman and her family, especially Commander Snider. The U.S. Navy won’t be pleased with the upcoming scandal but it can’t be helped. You know how complete German records were during the war—bloody fortunate for us, too. I uncovered something else.”
The major drew out the following silence like a melodramatic stage actor. Jake sighed with impatience even as his thoughts raced ahead to the Navy Commander’s reaction to the news that his own mother would be tried in a British court for espionage and war crimes. That a former Navy SEAL was a party to exposing her would hit the man hard. As it would the Navy. Jake felt the bile rise up his throat. His chest ached.
“Horst Eberhard had a wife named Clare,” continued Major Temple, “They married in 1932 when she was twenty. By 1938, she was teaching French and English in a private school in Hannover and doing theater on the side. Then she disappeared in early 1940. Vanished from the face of the earth. Quite gifted, she was a wunderkind of sorts. Twenty-eight when she disappeared.”
Jake considered the dates. “If Mary Snider is Clare Eberhard, that’d make her about seven or eight years older than Mary McCoy. I always wondered about that, Major. It seemed strange that a twenty-year-old German girl could do that job, assume another young woman’s identity and never get caught. Such a feat would take maturity and dedication. And damned good training. A twenty-seven year-old woman, on the other hand…”
He thought of Meg, twenty-six, a full-fledged woman, but in some ways girlishly fragile, unable to deal with the truth of her grandmother’s life of lies and deception.
“The Abwehr had some dunderheads, but not the Sicherheitsdienst, or SS Intelligence. When the SS took over the Abwehr, they sent out only their most ruthless and clever of spies. We think Horst and his wife, Clare, were both SS spies. In the SchutzenStaffel files that the Allies discovered in a Berlin bunker, there were fingerprints next to the code name, Hummingbird, but no actual identity or photo. A thousand quid those prints match Mary Snider’s. Rather, Clare Eberhard’s.”
There was a long pause as each man weighed the import of those words.
Jake frowned. “So I get her prints.”
“My team on site already did that. Picked up a glass she was using at the hotel. The lab’s analyzing them as we speak. The fingerprints were
key to the whole deception. The real Mary McCoy was hired by letter,” Temple said, “her prints sent to the War Office via the local constable in Killarney. Who, of course, verified them at the time. There was no need, evidently, to fingerprint her a second time when she arrived in London. A serious mistake, in retrospect.”
“A blunder of awesome proportions,” Jake remarked drily. “What about the Black Widow’s fingerprints? Were those found?”
“Interesting enough, the name was listed but there were no fingerprints. Which leads me to believe the Black Widow was recruited later, perhaps in Britain after the war had begun. Was the Black Widow in actual fact Lady Sarah, later married to the Earl of Wexford?” Chewing on his pipestem could be heard over the line. “If Mary Snider is Clare Eberhard,” the major continued, “and we believe she is, she’d be—what? Ninety, ninety-one?”
“Yes, that’s about right, Major. You can see the beauty she must’ve been, but her body’s falling apart. She’s a tough old broad but she’s addicted to painkillers and sleeping pills. God knows what else. She can’t hide behind her cover anymore. I’ve studied her and watched her closely over the past week. I think she’s mentally shutting down. The wall of lies is crumbling apart.”
Major Temple snorted loudly in agreement, Jake supposed, or relief. He wasn’t sure. There was certainly no sympathy in his voice. The knot in Jake’s stomach felt like a basketball.
“Quite a nasty business. After we bring her in, the photograph of a teenaged Mary set next to the War Office’s employment photo, her fingerprints, and the signature analysis of those letters are all vital pieces of exculpatory evidence. Your detailed reports, Agent Bernstein, are all admissible evidence and will ensure a rapid indictment. The trial before a magistrate will be months from now, but I’m confident her sentence will be life in prison. For her, that won’t be long, unfortunately. Not what she truly deserves, at any rate. This entirely unpleasant business will be over soon and I can proceed to other cases.”
Jake had the sudden image of a freight train roaring past him. The investigation was already out of his hands. Twenty-four hours with MI5 interrogators and Mary Snider would be spilling her guts. A part of him stung with the pain it would cost Meg. But a part of him, he had to admit, felt righteous.
There are always consequences for your actions. Intended ones and unintended ones. A basic rule of life.
Justice would prevail and there would be closure. Of course, the real Irish family, the Patrick McCoys, and the families who lost loved ones in that ferry explosion would find little solace. Nor would it console the families of the murdered resistance fighters in Nazi-occupied France. Nor the Jewish families who could’ve been saved.
Such were the vagaries of war. Remove all the propaganda and lies and what did you have left? Nothing but human tragedy.
“I want to emphasize this,” Jake stated firmly, “Meg had no inkling about her grandmother’s past. Even now, she thinks it’s all a mistake.”
“We’ll take that into consideration, ol’ boy, when we bring her in for questioning,” the major added with finality.
Jake’s gut wrenched. He doubled over with the pain of it. Temple’s revelation shocked him to his core. His very nerves vibrated with outrage. “What! You’re not serious—”
“I said, we’ll consider your assessment when we bring her in for questioning. Give your final report to Pierce and the evidence from the priest’s file,” Temple went on, ignoring the outburst. “Your reports and that letter will be enough to get a warrant. We can pick up both women in Dublin tomorrow. By then, I’ll have Irish approval for the arrest warrant for Mary Snider. Her granddaughter’s a person of interest as an accessory after the fact, but we don’t expect an arrest will be necessary. Protocol is required, unfortunately. The Irish are a bit touchy about the British barging in and assuming jurisdiction where there is none. Our history as adversaries, and all that, you realize.”
“I can’t accept that, Major.” His whole being hardened into a ball of iron.
“Can’t accept what, Agent Bernstein? Would that qualm you’re having be the dishy blonde you’ve been shagging? Is she planning to flee with her grandmother back to Texas? That won’t stop us from extraditing them both. We’ve done it before, as you well know, but our intention is to arrest Mary Snider before she has a chance. The granddaughter is just leverage, so the old lady will sing…like a lark. There is still the matter of proving or disproving Lady Sara Wexford’s involvement. Have you made any progress on that subject?”
“No. None at all.”
“We hope you haven’t tipped the granddaughter off to our intentions.”
“Of course not,” Jake lied. “Meg hasn’t shared her plans with me. I do know that it’s possible her grandmother has been in touch with either Blood and Honour or the Celtic Wolves, that neo-Nazi organization here in Ireland. Those bikers were members of the Celtic Wolves, according to some locals. They’re encamped nearby, playing their war games. I believe they know about our investigation. Meg found something in her grandmother’s things, a Blood and Honour brochure, would be my guess. The group’s been communicating with the old woman, or possibly with the LeBlancs. Meg shared that information with me. You can bet that’ll be in my final report.”
While Temple was mulling over this complication, something nagged at the back of Jake’s mind. An intuitive red flag.
He asked, “Can you do some digging for me? Pierre and Madeline Le Blanc, French Canadians. Well-to-do, from all appearances. Middle aged. She’s tall and he’s short. Check Passports, Immigration.” He gave Temple what additional information he’d learned about them, which wasn’t much.
The major swore a stream of invectives. “Who’re these people, the LeBlancs?” the major finally asked. “Why wasn’t I told about them before?”
Jake sighed heavily. “I thought they were just tourists, like everybody else on the coach. Now I’m not so sure.” He gave Temple what information he’d learned about them. “I contacted my office,” he added. “They haven’t anything on these people. No priors, nothing.”
“I’ll check them out. French Canadians, you say. Publishers from Quebec?”
“So they say.”
“I’ll double the surveillance team,” Temple said, “Someone’s exposed you, so it wouldn’t hurt. They’ll be there by morning. Keep your head down, Bernstein. I don’t want an FBI casualty on my watch. And we need you to testify at the trial.”
“Starting tomorrow, I’m packing, Major. I’m tired of being a target.” Sick and tired of you and your games, too.
They rang off.
Jake pushed himself up, took a painkiller, drank an entire bottle of water, then went to sit at the desk. His head was buzzing a little and his reserve energy was sapped. Every bone and muscle ached. He was drained from yesterday’s excitement. From loss of blood. From the bad news about Meg.
Mostly, the rage inside him drained him. He’d trusted Major Temple to keep Meg out of the indictment. His reports had verified her innocence, her lack of knowledge about her grandmother’s true identity. MI5 was disregarding Jake’s assessment of Meg’s role in helping him crack the case.
Use her as leverage to make her grandmother confess!
His rage made him feel sick with helplessness. Then he spied his Navy sweat pants and the matching sweatshirt. His eyes narrowed. So the major had been keeping his cards close to his vest.
Well, he had a trump card hidden as well.
Jake picked up his FBI-issued, secure cell phone and placed a call to the States. To FBI headquarters. The call might get him fired, but at this point he had no choice.
His cover was blown.
Chapter Thirty-Three
London, November 1944
Mary excused herself from their table of four women and two men. She smoothed her netted snood at the nape of her neck and slung her purse strap over her shoulder. The dark-blue wool dress, her finest, clung to her curves, the brightly jeweled hummingbird pin shone at the apex
of its deep-V neckline. Her dark nylon stockings, courtesy of one of her Raffie beaus, showed off her long, slim legs to advantage. She knew she looked her best. A gratifying thought, for she’d prearranged a rendezvous tonight. A rendezvous that could possibly change her life.
The dance hall was smoky and clammy with cold, the drinks watered down, and the women outnumbered the earnest, young men in uniform. The mellow music was heavenly, though, resulting in a crowded dance floor. The big band, brought over from America, was in its element at this American sponsored USO event. But she needed air and another drink. Finally, she’d spied her “cousin Thomas.”
Lady Sarah was sitting at their table, along with their new “best friend,” Catherine Collier. Mary needed her handler’s advice and couldn’t wait for their meeting on the following day at their usual meeting place.
Thirty seconds standing at the bar drew a small platoon of soldiers her way, mostly swaggering Americans and Canadians. Mary held them off with a “don’t bother me” air of haughtiness. One, a tall, square-shouldered American flyboy, caught her eye, however, as he leaned over and saluted her. He was very good-looking and appeared a little older than most of his comrades in the US Army Air Corps. A captain, from his insignia.
A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts and made her turn around. All thoughts of flirting with the American flyboy vanished as she stared up at Thomas. They pecked each other on the cheek before he seized her elbow.
“What was so pressing, it couldn’t wait?” he whispered.
“You’ll see.”
“Come with me, cousin,” he urged in his Irish brogue. She grabbed her drink and let him steer her away from the dance hall into a quiet alcove near the coat-check room. Instead of the usual flip of pulse she’d felt whenever he touched her, this time Mary felt nothing. The war, its deprivations and horrible bombings, her lack of family contact, and Horst’s sexual betrayal had left her emotionally numb. She was a walking, talking automaton, a total stranger even to herself.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 26