The DeValera Deception Read online

  I must close now, my Darling Cat. I have several Marconigrams to send.

  Always, your loving husband,

  W

  Churchill put the pen down, picked up his cigar and looked at his reflection in the window. Imagine that, he thought. The IRA on the prowl. He relished the prospect of taking them on again hopefully in tandem once more with the son of his old mentor Bourke Cockran. He knew what people said about him behind his back. A swashbuckler. An opportunist. A half-breed American. Unsound. Churchill smiled. He didn‘t care. “We are all worms,” he had told a close friend many years ago, “but I do believe I am a glow worm.” He took another sip of scotch. He was impatient for the game to begin. The IRA and anyone who secretly supported those terrorists were about to find out just how big a swashbuckler he really was.

  2.

  Churchill’s Cable

  New York City

  Friday, 9 August 1929

  9:00 a.m.

  Churchill‘s cable arrived that morning. The contents were cryptic but to Bourke Cockran, Jr., it meant that the IRA was back. And that was not good for many reasons.

  URGENT. IRA 1922 REDUX. MEET ME MONTREAL. SAT. 10 AUG. STOP. MOUNT ROYALE HOTEL. STOP. WIRE IF UNABLE TO COME. STOP.

  It was a warm, sunny day and the top was down on his late father‘s 1921 Packard Touring Car. Its highly polished bright green hood and brass fixtures were gleaming evidence of the care lavished upon it by the garage where Cockran kept it stored. He rarely used it any more but he couldn‘t bear to part with the Packard. His father had loved it so. His last automobile, he said, and so it was. He had died in early 1923 after being re-elected to Congress.

  With young Paddy and his maternal grandmother in the back seat, Cockran turned the big motorcar onto Fifth Avenue and headed toward the lower end of Manhattan. He was taking them to the ship that would carry them to Ireland for a six week holiday. They had left early because Cockran had promised to take Paddy to the downtown skyport at the foot of Wall Street to watch the seaplanes.

  The cable was as unexpected as it was inconvenient. Unexpected because Winston was not due in New York until late September after his long rail excursion across Canada and the United States. Inconvenient because Cockran had a firm November deadline from his publisher which meant a rigid writing schedule plotted out through mid-October. Perhaps a cocktail party like the one tonight but no other distractions. The book itself would be distraction enough, a memoir of his experiences as an American journalist in Ireland and the role he played with the Irish and the British as a go-between in the days leading up to the truce in July, 1921 and eventually the Irish Free State. The basic structure of the memoir was already in place. Three long articles in The Atlantic Monthly in April, May and June of 1922. All he had to do now was fill in the details. Before she died, his late wife Nora had urged him to sign the contract and start writing. Someday, he promised her. But then she was gone and the newly-widowed Cockran had other plans that summer of 1922 when he returned to America. Writing hadn‘t been one of them.

  But it wasn‘t the inconvenience of a trip to Montreal that bothered him about the cable. That was the least of his worries. The Packard was approaching the pier for the French Line and Cockran pointed out to his son the Ile de France waiting there patiently, small tendrils of steam arising from her forestacks. The young boy was excited. Unlike his father who had crossed the Atlantic four times before he was ten, Paddy had crossed it only once, before he was two.

  Five minutes later they pulled up at the sky port and sat on a park bench watching the graceful seaplanes skim across the smooth water, the only sounds coming from an excited “Look at that one, Dad!” from Paddy. Then it was time to head back up to the Ile de France.

  As they walked to the car, Mary Morrisey said, “Bourke, who was the cable from this morning? You seemed concerned.”

  “Winston. And no, I‘m not concerned. Only more details about Winston‘s plans and who he wants to see when he stays with us in October.” The lie came easily. Mothers-in-law should be placated, not disturbed.

  “Is that Mr. Churchill, Dad?” his son asked.

  “Yes, that‘s right, Paddy, Mr. Churchill.”

  “He‘s the one who gave you those toy soldiers you keep in your study. Right?”

  “Those are the ones,” Cockran said. “He gave them to me as a present when he was visiting your Grandpa. I wasn‘t much older than you.”

  “He‘s really famous as a soldier, isn‘t he, Dad.”

  Cockran laughed. “Not any more. He is a member of Parliament now, just like your Grandpa was a member of Congress.”

  “But he‘ll still tell me stories about when he was a soldier, won‘t he? You told me he would even play with me and the toy soldiers. Right, Dad? Will he bring his sword?”

  Cockran smiled at Paddy‘s enthusiasm. “Don‘t worry, Winston will play soldiers with you. But no swords for you. You‘ll put your eye out.”

  Paddy frowned but made no reply to a parent‘s familiar refrain.

  Cockran pulled the Packard into the parking lot in front of the French Line‘s pier and secured a porter for their bags. After checking them in, they made their way to the first-class gangway and Cockran accompanied them both to their stateroom. Their luggage had arrived before they did and Cockran helped them get settled.

  Cockran had sailed once before on the Isle de France and took them on a tour of the ship in the sixty minutes remaining before the “all ashore” signal. Paddy‘s enthusiasm for Churchill‘s visit was soon replaced by the more immediate prospect of his first sea voyage.

  “Time to go, Paddy. Promise you‘ll watch after your Grandma?”

  “I promise,” Paddy said.

  Cockran turned to Mary Morrisey. “You‘ll make sure he visits his mother?”

  “Of course, Bourke.”

  “And lays down flowers for her?”

  “He will,” she said softly.

  “And you‘ll tell Nora I love her.”

  “She knows that, Bourke. She hears you.”

  Cockran stood on the pier watching the ship glide slowly down the Hudson until it was almost out of sight. Six weeks of solitude for research and writing. No law school classes. It seemed a good idea when his mother-in-law had tentatively raised the possibility of returning to Ireland for an extended holiday. It didn‘t feel that way now, Cockran thought, as he stood there, trying to hold on to the sensation of his son‘s small arms as he gave him a farewell hug.

  Cockran drove back uptown, the spidery lacework and gothic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge were off to his right as he passed Pier 21 of the Pennsylvania Railroad and the B&O. He circled around Washington Square, and headed north on Broadway.

  Cockran was concerned about Churchill‘s cable, his assurances to his mother-in-law notwithstanding. It could not be good news. Nothing about the IRA and Ireland in 1922 could be. Now Paddy was on a ship headed back to the land that had stolen Cockran‘s love and broken his heart. Cockran had never remarried, of course. Never allowed himself to become close enough to a woman to fall in love again. He made sure of that. Paddy and the fading memory of Nora were enough. He no longer believed in happy endings.

  Cockran wanted nothing more to do with Ireland or the IRA but Churchill‘s cable made more ominous than before the two break-ins in the last few days, one at his law school office at Columbia and the other at The Cedars, his country home on Long Island Sound. A coincidence? With the IRA back in the picture, he didn‘t believe in coincidence. Despite his reluctance, however, he could not lightly turn Winston down. Not someone he had known since he was five years old. Not someone whose letter of condolence on his father‘s death said that he had been “a great man. I owe the best things in my career to him.” Cockran needed more information before he could say no to Winston Churchill. It was time to call John Devoy.

  11:00 a.m.

  The tall, red-haired woman stood on a diagonal across the street from the townhouse at 991 Fifth Avenue, a canvas bag over her shoulder, a
35mm camera with a telephoto lens in her hand. She was dressed plainly in a blue cashmere sweater over a white silk blouse tucked into form-hugging tan trousers which flattered a figure that needed little flattery. She took several shots of a man in his mid-thirties who stepped out of a large green Packard motorcar and ascended the steps of the townhouse two at a time. He was wearing a battered brown leather jacket and khaki pants, his light brown hair tousled by the wind. He was a big man, several inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a big chest. He wasn‘t handsome, his head large and his Irish face long and chiseled. But it was a strong and interesting face, one you would not soon forget or mistake for someone else. She smiled. It would be interesting to know him better. And if things worked out as planned tonight, she‘d have that chance.

  After the man had unlocked the front door and disappeared inside the house, the woman placed her camera in the canvas bag and walked down the street until she found a phone booth, stepped inside and placed a call. “I have the photos of Cockran. Yes, I‘ll develop them and deliver them tonight. He‘ll be easy to spot once the boys see these. Right, before my evening engagement. Don‘t worry. Of course I can handle him. I‘ll find out tonight all that we need to know. I do this for a living, my dear. Just make sure the boys are ready. There‘s a lot at stake.”

  3.

  John Devoy

  New York City

  Friday, 9 August 1929

  11:45 a.m.

  The sun was streaming in the open window of Cockran‘s study in his Fifth Avenue townhouse. The hum of an electric fan in the corner unsuccessfully attempted to relieve the humidity of an early August day in New York as he placed the phone back on the hook after talking to John Devoy who agreed to meet him for a late lunch at the Plaza.

  Churchill‘s cable still on the desk in front of him, he glanced at the mantel above the empty fireplace where a set of miniature, hand-painted, cast iron British soldiers were grouped at each end, ready to charge into battle, gifts from Winston to a wide-eyed five year old boy.

  Cockran had been looking forward to Churchill‘s visit. Three books had been published that year recounting the authors‘ personal experiences with Michael Collins. Winston‘s was one of them. Cockran‘s own publisher had been pleasantly surprised to learn that he possessed a resource that was unavailable to the other three authors: six leather-bound volumes of Michael Collins‘ private journals, recounting the tedium and terror of the day-to-day existence of urban guerillas. To keep them out of unfriendly hands, Mick had made arrangements to have the journals sent to Cockran‘s father upon his death.

  Churchill would have a prominent role in the book, second only to Collins. There were many areas on which Cockran wanted to probe Churchill‘s memory. Starting with 1920. Cockran and Churchill‘s friendship had been strained. Churchill imagined dark plots against him around every corner. Scotland Yard bodyguards accompanied him almost everywhere. And he carried a revolver with him, even slept with it, to defend against the perceived threat of Irish assassins. As head of the War Office, Churchill was not pleased with Cockran‘s articles for The New York American which chronicled the savage reprisals on Irish civilians wrought by the “Black and Tans”. To Cockran‘s way of thinking, but not Churchill‘s, he had evenhandedly covered Michael Collins‘ campaign of assassination against British intelligence agents and policemen while drawing a vivid contrast between the British indifference to killing innocent civilians and Collins‘ concentration on informers and military targets. For a time, by tacit agreement, the two friends had simply stopped talking about Ireland.

  All that changed early in 1921 after Churchill left the War Office and became Colonial Secretary. For the first time, he had direct responsibility for establishing policy in Ireland rather than being the one who simply supplied the troops. Knowing Cockran had interviewed Collins on several occasions, Churchill had finally asked him over dinner at the Liberal Club in London to tell him about Michael Collins.

  “What sort of fellow is he? We know we can‘t really trust de Valera. Can we do business with this Collins?” Churchill had asked.

  Cockran had been the only foreign journalist to whom Michael Collins had given interviews. Churchill had never asked before so Cockran told him then about Michael Collins. Fearless. Honest. Charismatic. Impulsive. A big ego. “In short, Winston, he‘s a lot like you.”

  Cockran smiled at the memory but the smile quickly faded. It was shortly after that dinner with Churchill that he returned to his roots as an undercover MID agent and became a player in the bloody politics of Irish freedom. A secret conduit between Mick and Winston.

  Had it been worth it? The Big Fella thought so. The last time Cockran ever saw him, Collins said “Tell him for me. I may not have another chance. Tell Winston we could never have done anything without him.” Perhaps. But was it worth Nora‘s death? He didn‘t think so.

  Cockran put the cable on his desk. Churchill was an impulsive man, a romantic even. But a calculating one. What did he want? Cockran hoped John Devoy would have some answers.

  1:15 p.m.

  The waitress at the Palm Court seated Cockran and John Devoy at a corner table. Cockran had been having dinner with the gray-bearded old man once a month for the past six years, ever since his father died. It was still a shock every time he had seen Devoy in the past nine months to notice how small he had become. He seemed to be shrinking before Cockran‘s eyes. At five foot eight, Devoy had never been a tall man, but when he stood beside Cockran with his shoulders slumped over, he seemed even shorter, his collar several sizes too large.

  When Devoy spoke, the Limerick accent was still there but his voice was only a shadow of its former booming self, the man the Times of London had described on his triumphant return to the Irish Free State in 1924 as “the most bitter and persistent, as well as the most dangerous, enemy of this country which Ireland has produced since Wolfe Tone.”

  John Devoy‘s real legacy lay in his having molded badly divided Irish Americans into a unified force devoted to attaining freedom for Ireland. Jailed by the British for his revolutionary activities in the wake of the famines, the then-British Prime Minister, Gladstone, had pardoned Devoy on condition that he resettle anywhere in the world except the British Empire. Devoy chose New York and received a hero‘s welcome when he arrived in 1874. Once there, he conceived and founded the Clan na Gael, a secret oath-bound society which functioned as the independent American wing of the Irish Republican Brotherhood eventually headed by Michael Collins. A master strategist and propagandist, Devoy worked tirelessly in America and abroad to raise money so the Irish rebels would be ready to strike whenever the moment of opportunity arose, specifically when Britain‘s attention was focused elsewhere. Cockran really liked the old man and he had filled a void in Cockran‘s life when his father had died in 1923.

  “You‘re looking mighty prosperous, you Fifth Avenue lawyer.”

  “Now John, I‘m just a poor professor who works at a law school in your own neighborhood, teaching all those young men who want to become rich lawyers.”

  Devoy let out a laugh which soon turned into a hacking cough.

  “A lawyer‘s an honest trade, so long as you use your powers for good. And at least you haven‘t gone off into politics.”

  They both ordered tea and when it arrived, Devoy raised his cup.

  “It‘s not Jameson‘s but it will have to do. To hell with the King and de Valera, too!” the old man said, a smile curling the corners of his mouth in that ancient bearded face.

  “Amen!” Cockran replied as their delicate cups clinked together.

  “So what was so mysterious you couldn‘t tell me over the telephone,” Devoy said.

  Cockran handed him Churchill‘s cable.

  “IRA redux?” Devoy said. “What‘s that? Greek? French?”

  “You know what it is, John.”

  The old man coughed. “It‘s not happening. Trust me.”

  “The IRA?”

  “Them and de Valera. They‘re f
inished,” Devoy said.

  “But why would Winston send this?”

  Devoy shook his head. “I don‘t know. I don‘t like Churchill and I never trusted him. But Mick respected him; said he was a man you could do business with. So I wouldn‘t reject it out of hand. But no one in Ireland is going to give the IRA any hard cash. Only in America but I don‘t see it. If they were raising money here, I‘d be the first to know.”

  “So you don‘t think I should go to Montreal and see Winston?” Cockran asked.

  “I didn‘t say that.” Devoy replied. “Even a blind squirrel like British intelligence occasionally finds an acorn. Go see Mr. Winston bloody Churchill and hear what he has to say. It can‘t hurt. Meanwhile, I‘ll put out a few feelers and see what turns up. Let‘s meet for dinner after you‘re back and I‘ll tell you what I‘ve found.”

  2:30 p.m.

  Tommy McBride watched Cockran and Devoy exit the Palm Court and walk toward the taxi stand in front of the Plaza. He was a large man with close-cropped dark hair, a somewhat bulbous red nose and looked to be in his mid 40s. When Devoy entered the cab and Cockran walked in the direction of Fifth Avenue, the man returned to the hotel lobby, stepped into a phone booth and placed a long-distance call. He spoke with a soft Irish accent.

  “Cockran‘s going back to his house. We took photos earlier and I‘ve got two of the boys following him. I‘m certain he‘s alone. You want us to deliver the message there?”