The DeValera Deception Page 4
“No, not there,” the voice on the other end of the conversation replied in a Belfast accent, the voice of a man whose code name once had been “Blackthorn” many years ago in Ireland. “Keep following him. He might have servants about. Patience. Exercise patience. There‘s a good lad. You‘ll know the right moment when it comes. Seize it. No witnesses, mind.”
“What about the cable from Churchill you mentioned earlier?”
Blackthorn laughed. “Churchill? No, don‘t worry about him. He‘s well under control. We‘ll take care of him in due time. You have your men see to Cockran. But, Thomas, I don‘t want him killed. Times are different. You could have done that during the war. If you had, his wife—may she rest in peace—wouldn‘t have found her way onto my list. Remember that.”
4.
The Graf Zeppelin
The Graf Zeppelin
Friday, 9 August 1929
4:30 p.m.
Kurt von Sturm was in his element. Below, the skyscrapers of Manhattan shimmered in the afternoon sun as the great airship slowly turned and headed south toward its destination in Lakehurst, New Jersey, less than an hour away. He sat in the main cabin, the window open, the air stirring his blond hair as it fell casually down over his forehead, briefly obscuring the two inch scar on his left temple. On his lapel was a discreet, rectangular blue and white ribbon, his late father‘s Blue Max, Pour Le Merite, Imperial Germany‘s highest decoration, a constant reminder of the man who had first introduced him to the magical world of airships.
The airship conveying him, the Graf Zeppelin, was a magnificent vessel. Everything he had dreamed about and more. He had not realized, until he heard the command “Up ship” three days ago in Germany, how much and how deeply he had missed the transcendent experience of airship travel. The freedom of floating high above the earth, gliding like a great silver fish through the clouds and riding the currents of air.
Sturm turned to his travel companion, Philip Dru Cromwell, IV, the managing partner of the Wall Street investment banking firm, Wainwright and Cromwell. In his late forties, Cromwell wore a dark gray, English cut business suit, his thinning dark brown hair carefully barbered, his third scotch and water of the afternoon in his hand. He was known as “Manhattan” to the Geneva Group, shorthand for the Geneva Institute for Scientific and Industrial Progress. Sturm was Geneva‘s Executive Director. Each of the members of the Geneva Group had a code name representing the cities from whence they came, an affectation honoring the group‘s late 19th century origins. They all were major players in the international arms trade—mining moguls, arms manufacturers, coal and steel industrialists, arms dealers and financiers. In short, the merchants of death.
“You have enjoyed your first airship voyage, Herr Cromwell?” Sturm asked.
“Very much, Kurt. Very much. It was all you promised.”
Sturm smiled and turned back to the window. The voyage from the Graf Zeppelin’s home base in Friedrichschafen had taken only three days but Sturm wished it had lasted longer. These giant ships had once been his life. He could remember and describe in detail every flight he had ever taken. His training flights at Friedrichschafen. The high altitude bombing runs over Paris and London. The more frequent reconnaissance missions for the North Sea fleet.
The last time Sturm had been this close to a zeppelin, let alone inside it, was the night of 23 June 1919. His intentions then were more deadly than his current mission. Only 18 zeppelins had survived the war, standing silently in their sheds at Nordholz and Wittmundhaven, awaiting delivery to the victorious Allies as reparations. Two days earlier, in a daring act of sabotage, the officers of the German High Seas Fleet interned at Scapa Flow in Scotland opened the sea valves on their ships and sank them all. Sturm persuaded his fellow naval airshipmen to emulate the bravery of their seafaring brothers. They plotted their attack in the basement of a beer house in the port of Wilhelmshaven, owned by the family of one of his officers. They split themselves into two teams of ten men each and headed back to the hangars, Sturm taking the group assigned to Wittmundhaven, only a few kilometers from the North Sea and the barrier islands of the East Friesians. Sturm and his team of fellow naval officers, clad in black, had operated with grim, silent efficiency, overpowering six unprepared Allied sentries and slitting the throats of three more. Two sentries attempted to flee in terror and Sturm personally shot them in the back with his silenced Schmeisser machine pistol. These were the first men Sturm had killed at close range. He had felt no remorse. Others had died at his command but those deaths had been accomplished in a more remote fashion when his airship had rained bombs on French and English targets from thousands of feet in the air.
When the sun rose the next morning over Wittmundhaven, all eight of the great zeppelins had been destroyed in vast explosions, leaving them a twisted mass of blackened duralumin, patches of canvas still smoldering in the warm morning light. Sturm‘s only regret was that the raiders at Nordholz had not been as successful, the result being that six of the ships slated to be given to the Allies had survived. Not that it did them any good, Sturm thought. All the remaining German zeppelins delivered as reparations had either crashed or been retired out of fear. Sturm savored the schadenfreude. They can‘t build their own. They can‘t fly ours.
Kurt knew his father would be proud if he could see him here now in the salon of this wonder of German engineering, nearly one hundred feet longer than any ship his father had commanded. Sturm‘s father was Peter Strasser, the legendary head of the Imperial German Naval Airship Service, who had been killed in August, 1918 in a five-ship raid on England. Strasser had been on the maiden voyage of the new L-70, a seven-hundred-foot-long dirigible specifically designed to cross the Atlantic, bomb America and return home. His twenty-four-year-old son Kurt had been a junior officer on one of the other four ships and watched his father die in a blazing hell, shot down by incendiary bullets from a British warplane. Kurt was given his own command a month later and two months after that the war was over.
A warrant was issued for his arrest by the new Socialist government in Germany for his role in destroying the eight zeppelins at Wittmundhaven. Forewarned, Kurt changed his name and, courtesy of an introduction from the Zeppelin Company president, Hugo Eckener, went to work for the steel tycoon, Fritz von Thyssen, known to the Geneva Group as “Berlin”. Germany took care of its heroes, even if its spineless Socialist government did not.
Sturm broke the silence between the two men. “I am pleased you enjoyed yourself.”
“The largest airship ever.” Cromwell said. “A symbol of Germany‘s new prosperity.”
Sturm nodded in agreement before adding, “But a prosperity without power.”
“That will be remedied soon enough. Germany‘s new beginning is rapidly drawing to a close. In many ways, a new phase commences today when we land. The final piece of the puzzle before implementing our plans for Poland.”
“I agree,” Sturm said, “but there is much to do. Still, I appreciate your kindness in arranging for this passage. It cost Geneva substantially more than a first-class steamship ticket, but I cannot adequately express how I feel about flying again even if I am not in command.”
“The Geneva Group can well afford it and you can put to good use the extra three days in New York. Besides, were it not for my good client, Mr. Hearst, we would not have had the opportunity to return you to the sky in such a satisfying manner.”
In fact, the American newspaper empire owned by William Randolph Hearst was one of Cromwell‘s biggest clients and was sponsoring the forthcoming historic round-the-world flight by the Graf Zeppelin, paying $200,000 for exclusive newsreel and newspaper coverage everywhere but Germany, where papers had paid an additional $50,000 for exclusive German coverage. But Hearst had insisted the round-the-world flight begin and end on American soil. Hugo Eckener had no choice but to agree and hence the Graf Zeppelin was set to land in Lakehurst, New Jersey where the American—and first—version of the round-the-world flight was to commence. From
there, the ship would return to Friedrichschafen where it would refuel and reprovision before it began the long nonstop flight to Tokyo and then on to California for the third and last stop of the trip before returning again to Lakehurst. After a tickertape parade for the crew in New York, the ship would return to Friedrichschafen and complete the anti-climactic German version of the first round-the-world flight by an airship.
“Just one more thing we have Mr. Hearst to thank for,” Sturm said. “A three-day voyage to America by air instead of six by sea.”
“And nine days, my young friend, is the actual air time Captain Eckener told me it will take the Graf to travel from Friedrichschafen to California, even assuming unfavorable weather conditions over the Pacific. By that time, Kurt—only two weeks from now—your mission will be almost over. When you meet the zeppelin in California, Zurich and Berlin will entrust to you the gold bearer bonds that the Graf has carried and one more obstacle will be removed from the road to restoring Germany‘s power.”
Sturm took a sip of mineral water. “We still need the Irish to play their part. $3 million is a large amount of money for them to risk.”
“Receiving their money back along with a commission of $1 million should provide adequate motivation,” Cromwell said. “Still, I wonder. Do you trust this Irishman?”
“De Valera?”
“Yes, that‘s the one. Not a very Irish name, is it?”
“No, it‘s not. Born in America, but of an absent Spanish father. Raised by his mother.”
“Can you really trust him?” Cromwell asked. “He is a politician, after all.”
“That he is,” Sturm acknowledged, “and no better than the ones we have in Weimar. Easily bribed. All it took was $10,000 in a numbered Swiss account.”
Cromwell smiled. “I don‘t have to pay much more in America. Will he stay bought?”
“I think so. After the initial numbered account was opened and the $10,000 deposited as a down payment, I insisted de Valera publicly reconcile with the IRA. I told him this would send a signal to the Geneva Group that he was fully behind the plan and it would also help condition the Irish people to the legitimacy of a revolutionary government formed by the IRA.”
“And this was done?” Cromwell asked.
“Quite openly, in fact. On the floor of the Irish Parliament,” Sturm said. “It was last November. It received no attention outside Ireland, but he made his position clear. He accused the Free State government of having pulled off a ‘coup d‘etat‘ in 1922 and claimed the IRA had a right to use force to regain power. We are well satisfied.”
“How will the English react when Poland is dismembered next year by the Soviet Union and Germany?” Cromwell asked. “After all, their navy starved your country in the last war.”
“It is difficult to say,” Sturm replied. “Revenge can be complicated. Over a year ago, we began exploring various alternatives to insure that Great Britain would not involve itself in a Polish conflict. Many prominent members of the Conservative opposition in England have publicly expressed support for restoring Danzig and the Polish Corridor to Germany, along with other German-speaking areas in East Prussia taken from us at Versailles. And that is all we will be taking back. The Russian bear will have a much bigger meal. Besides, Germany is a democracy. Poland is not. Since Pilsudski‘s advent as dictator three years ago, Poland‘s friends in the West are few, especially in England. Also, the new Socialist government in England is committed to disarmament and, if it remains in power, the British Navy will not sail.”
“Are you certain?”
Sturm shrugged. “Politics are unpredictable. That is why I conceived this mission.”
Cromwell nodded his approval.
Sturm smiled, accepting the compliment. “Seven years ago with the creation of the Irish Free State, the thorn of Ireland was removed from the hide of the British lion where it had festered for over two hundred years. The $3 million we are spending here on weapons for the IRA is designed to reinsert that thorn. A coup d’etat by the IRA in the Irish Free State. Once that is done, the British will be too preoccupied to care about Germany and Russia once more dividing Poland.”
“What about the French?” Cromwell asked.
Sturm laughed. “What about them? They believe in nothing. They are too busy building a wall to keep Germans out. Without the Americans helping them in the last war, victory would have been ours. Without the English at their side, they‘ll sit on the sidelines and watch while we take our revenge on the Poles.”
Revenge on the French will come later, Sturm thought, after Poland. The Rhineland will be re-militarized and the Frogs might even beg us to take Alsace-Lorraine back. Or at least offer a fair election and not a rigged one like the last. Either way, they won‘t have the stomach for another million casualties. Germany will once more be great. Then, and only then, would he be free to fulfill his destiny—to reclaim his father‘s name and return to the sky in command of a magnificent airship like the Graf.
5.
Miss Photo-Journalist
New York
Friday, 9 August 1929
7:00 p,m.
Cockran‘s taxi pulled up in front of the Beresford Apartments at 211 Central Park West in a driving rainstorm. Designed by Emery Roth, it was New York‘s newest and grandest apartment building, the largest in the city. The Beresford faced both Central Park and Manhattan Square with towers at each of the three corners facing on the park and the square. It was twenty-two stories high and Cockran‘s good friends Gregory and Anne Dawson occupied the penthouse on the southeast corner overlooking the park. He came out of the elevator and handed his umbrella to the maid.
“Bourke, how delightful to see you again,” his hostess Anne Dawson said. She was a tall, attractive blonde who wore a long, shimmering silver gown. “We don‘t see nearly enough of you these days. Greg and I are so pleased you could make it.”
Cockran took her hand in both of his and kissed her lightly on the check. “I wouldn‘t think of missing a party of yours, Anne. Your dress is beautiful, as are you,” Cockran replied. “How‘s business, Greg?” he asked, turning to shake the extended hand of Gregory Dawson, a large, red-faced man in his late forties with prematurely white hair. Dawson was a senior vice president in his family‘s investment banking firm, Dawson & Goodyear.
“Couldn‘t be better. The Dow dropped ten points last week, but it‘s temporary. It‘s only 345 now. We could see 380, maybe 400 by the end of the month. You really ought to let me take some of those bonds your father left you and put them into stocks.”
Cockran laughed. “My bonds are fine, Greg. And my needs are simple.”
Leaving his hosts, Cockran passed under a glittering chandelier and circulated through the room, pausing at small groups where he knew one or more of the people. The room wasn‘t as crowded as usual for one of Anne‘s parties which he attributed to it being August when many people were summering elsewhere. He usually didn‘t come to affairs like this, even ones given by childhood friends from the Gold Coast like Anne Dawson. He enjoyed small dinner parties more, especially if the guests were interesting. Cocktail parties like this, where there were already thirty people in the room and certainly more to come, all in formal evening attire, were not his cup of tea. Neither was black tie. But Anne had been especially insistent.
Indeed, he had come night only because Anne had promised there was someone she wanted him to meet. “Why else would I throw a party in August”, she had joked “except to introduce you to a nice single girl and keep you from the clutches of all those young Gold Coast wives?” A photo-journalist, Anne had told him, and from Scotland no less.
Miss Photo-Journalist wasn‘t here yet, Anne had informed him at the door, so Cockran continued moving through the room noting familiar faces here and there but not one sufficiently interesting to warrant an extended conversation. He stopped at the windows overlooking Central Park, a crystal tumbler of Johnnie Walker Red Label and water in his hand. It was still raining, but it had lighten
ed considerably from the time he had left his townhouse. He felt the pressure of a hand on his right shoulder and simultaneously a voice was speaking softly into his ear.
“The Dawsons have no taste if they‘ll invite any mick bastard in off the street.”
Cockran turned to look into the broad smiling face of Bill Donovan, his old CO who had led New York‘s Fighting 69th Infantry Regiment in action in France. Donovan grabbed him in a bear hug which Cockran returned, slapping him on the back and drawing a few stares of surprise, if not disapproval, from the nearby tuxedoed men and evening-gowned women. Donovan was ten years older than Cockran, a large man, five foot ten, with neatly trimmed, graying brown hair, pushing two hundred pounds, but still almost as fit and trim as he was eleven years earlier when he won the Congressional Medal of Honor and the nickname “Wild Bill”. Their Regiment had lost 1,750 of its original 3,000 men in that action and Cockran might well have been one of them that summer of 1918 had he not been wounded five months earlier.
Oblivious to the stares, both men drew back from the hug. “Better than the judgment shown by your Quaker friend in the White House, Bill,” Cockran replied. “By shafting you, he made sure his lily-white Protestant cabinet wasn‘t infected by a rum-loving Papist.”
Cockran‘s comment concerned Herbert Hoover‘s reneging on his promise to appoint Donovan as Attorney General. As a matter of principle Cockran didn‘t like most politicians. His father‘s good friend, Mark Twain, had said it all with his comment that America‘s only native criminal class were congressmen and, by inference, all politicians. Even presidents. Donovan just laughed. “I‘d rather be rich than famous, Bourke. Your father taught me you can do more good that way. Besides, the real reason the Great Engineer stiffed me was because he was afraid I‘d find the secret tunnel in the White House you Democrats built during the war for the Pope!”