Dressler spoke softly as the two men left the Plaza, declined the offer of a taxi and began walking north on Fifth Avenue. He was also the Chairman of the Geneva Institute for Scientific and Industrial Progress—known informally as the Geneva Group—and his code name was “Zurich”. It was in that capacity and not as a banker that he now spoke. “I had not mentioned this to Geneva‘s directors because I thought I had a ready solution,” Dressler began, “but it seems I was mistaken. The Kaiser, it appears, is a superstitious man. He has persuaded the Crown Prince to reject our plan to place him on the German throne after our assassination of President Hindenburg unless he is given an ancient artifact he calls the Spear of Destiny, the spear which the Roman centurion Longinus reportedly used to pierce the side of Christ on the cross.”
“It seems the Spear has been possessed at one time or another by all of the great German emperors, including Barbarossa and Frederick the Great. I had not thought it a problem to deliver the so-called sacred talisman to the Kaiser because I had already arranged with the director of the Hofburg Museum in Vienna, where this Spear is on display, to loan it to a Berlin Museum as part of a special exhibition of historic Germanic artifacts.”
Sturm, who served as the Geneva Group‘s executive director, was surprised. “Really? Aren‘t the Austrians especially prickly about their German neighbors on matters like this?”
Dressler linked his arm with the taller man‘s and patted him with a kid-skin gloved hand. “It is the way of the world, Kurt. A generous contribution to the museum‘s acquisition fund and an equally generous deposit in the museum director‘s account in my bank in Zurich.”
“So what is the problem?”
“The Kaiser no longer believes the Spear at the Hofburg is the true Spear once possessed by his illustrious ancestors. He thinks it‘s a fake.”
Sturm sighed inwardly. The current German Chancellor, Heinrich Brüning, was a disaster. He could not muster a majority in the Reichstag and was running the government by presidential decree, driving Germany deeper into depression by raising taxes and contracting the money supply. But the aging President Hindenburg refused to replace Brüning. In despair, German patriots, including the German member of the Geneva Group code-named Berlin, had asked the Geneva Group for help in implementing their solution—elevating the current number two man at the Ministry of Defense, General Kurt von Schleicher, to the chancellorship, where he would immediately institute a massive public works program and a dramatic rearmament of Germany. The Germans assured the men of Geneva that all German industrialists and bankers would support von Schleicher as chancellor. Unfortunately, President Hindenburg refused to go along, whether out of snobbery or senility was difficult to determine.
Sturm believed it was a blend of both. Von Schleicher had been only a captain during the Great War, rising to the rank of major. He was not well known to the German people, but the Geneva Group believed he would be when the truth was told about the role he played in rearming Germany. Despite the restrictions of the Versailles treaty, Germany had continued during the 1920s to develop advanced weapons pursuant to a secret military treaty with the Soviet Union. Deep within the Ural Mountains, German engineers designed and tested artillery, airplanes, tanks, poison gas, as well as an entire range of rifles, light and heavy machine guns and lightweight machine pistols. As a consequence of the treaty, the German Army was limited to 100,000 men, an army of sergeants, it was called. But it was an army which could quickly be armed with the most modern weapons in Europe. The prototypes were there. All that was needed was to flip a switch on the electric power and let loose the waiting factories.
The weapons project in Russia was set in motion by the German General Staff in the days after the Great War. It was supervised by a highly secret task force called Sondergruppe R. The commander of Sondergruppe R, the man who had implemented the plan of the German General Staff, was Kurt von Schleicher. So, when Hindenburg had flat out rejected the industrialists‘ requests that von Schleicher be made chancellor, they turned to the men of Geneva for a solution. A permanent solution. Hindenburg was to be assassinated and replaced as head of state by someone more amenable to the wishes of the German industrialists––a return of the Kaiser or, rather, his son, the Crown Prince, as a constitutional monarch for Germany. A unifying symbol for the German people. Sturm‘s job, as usual, was to implement the frequently violent wishes of the men of Geneva, something at which, over the years, he had become quite skilled.
“The old man believes the Spear is a fake? What does he want now? For us to magically find the true Spear?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Dressler replied, handing Sturm a manila envelope. “This contains the German translation of a monograph recently published in England by an archeology professor claiming that the Hofburg Spear is a fake and that the real Spear was hidden somewhere in the Austrian Alps before the war.”
Sturm carefully folded the envelope in half and placed it inside his suit coat. “I‘ll read the monograph later. Am I correct that my former monarch and his eldest son now want us to go off on a wild goose chase in the Alps based on an obscure article by an English archeologist?”
“It‘s more than that. The Kaiser and his son firmly believe that Germany would have prevailed in the Great War if it had possessed the Spear. German intelligence apparently reported to the Kaiser before the war that the Emperor Franz Josef personally vetoed an exhibit of the Spear and other artifacts in Berlin. He feared the Kaiser would never return them, which the Kaiser indicates was correct. That is why he believes the Englishman‘s story. Hiding the Spear, he says, is something Franz Josef would think to do. More importantly, the Englishman has been to Doorn at the Kaiser‘s invitation. They were quite taken with his story and his credentials.”
Sturm shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “He‘s a senile old fool but I understand. What do you wish me to do?”
“I told the Kaiser and the Crown Prince that you would interview the Englishman and determine for yourself his reliability. If you are persuaded that his conclusions are accurate, I want you to enlist his help in finding the Spear. Travel to Doorn yourself and meet with the Kaiser and the Crown Prince. They claim that they have further information, intelligence they received after the war, which may assist you in the search for the Spear.”
“Very well, I will do as you ask, Herr Dressler. But a return of the royal family is not what Germany needs. I wish the men of Geneva could understand that.”
Sturm knew the men of Geneva had another reason for replacing Hindenburg with the Crown Prince and Brüning with von Schleicher. Fear. They feared another European war. They wanted the profits that came from German rearmament, but another general European conflict was not in their best interest. Many smaller wars among lesser peoples in South America, Asia, the Balkans and the Middle East were more to their liking. Once his role as the man responsible for Germany‘s weapons development became known, the men of Geneva hoped von Schleicher would become as popular as the one man in the world they feared the most. Adolf Hitler.
While some in the Geneva Group had dismissed Hitler as nothing more than a rabble rouser, others had read his autobiography, Mein Kampf. They knew that, like von Schleicher, Hitler would rearm Germany. But von Schleicher was a cautious and conservative man. Hitler was not. Hitler was a radical, a revolutionary even. He could very well start a general European war. And now Hitler was the leader of the second-largest party and the second most popular man in Germany. Democracy had failed. A strong man was the only antidote to Hitler‘s popularity.
“It‘s nothing more than a means to an end, Kurt. With the economy getting worse, Germany needs a strong leader, one who will be unafraid to openly rebuild Germany‘s arms industry. Von Schleicher is that leader and the Crown Prince a unifying symbol for your countrymen.”
The two men reached the apartment building on Fifth Avenue where Dressler‘s bank maintained a permanent residence for visiting bank officers. The uniformed doorman held the door op
en for Dressler as he shook hands with Sturm. “I am sorry you could not join us for dinner.”
Sturm smiled. “I regret it also, Herr Dressler but I am dining tonight with an exceptionally beautiful young woman I met a few days ago at a reception given by the Swedish Consul General. And, most conveniently, her husband will not be home this evening.”
Now it was Dressler‘s turn to smile. “Enjoy yourself, my friend. I will see you soon in Geneva. Godspeed. Find the Kaiser his Spear.”
8.
Wild Bill Donovan
New York City
Monday, 25 May 1931
MATTIE McGary, clad only in a long green silk robe, sat in an armchair by a roaring fire, making notes for her interview with Hitler. She was impatient for Cockran to arrive. He would be home any minute now and she didn‘t intend to let him make it past the comforter she had spread in front of the fireplace. She heard his key in the lock and turned off the lamp beside her. This left the room illuminated only by fire as, earlier, she had closed the drapes to shut out the light of the pale afternoon sun.
Mattie greeted Cockran and gave him a long, warm kiss, molding her body to his.
“Hello, beautiful. I missed you today,” Cockran said, a boyish grin on his face.
“Hello yourself, big man,” Mattie said. “I missed you too. The Chief called. He has a new home in Sands Point. I had to go see him. It was business. I‘m sorry I wasn‘t there.”
“You didn‘t miss much.”
“It was bad?”
Cockran face darkened in anger. “It wasn‘t good. I tried out what we discussed. The real facts about Carrie Buck, but….”
“It didn‘t work?”
“No , damn it!” Cockran said and slammed his briefcase down on a hall table. “The bastards didn‘t care. They just didn‘t care. Or at least two of them sure didn‘t. What the hell is this country coming to when the government plays God and decides who can and can‘t bear children? It‘s just so goddamned wrong!” he said in a loud, angry voice.
Mattie pulled back and took Cockran‘s face in both hands. He could get this way when something mattered to him and stay in a bad mood for hours. Mostly, she just kept out of his way when his temper got the best of him and it wasn‘t directed at her. But if she did that, her plans for the evening would go unfulfilled. It was time to tame the savage beast.
“Darling, you gave it your best shot. No one could have done more,” she said. “Most men wouldn‘t have tried. I‘m proud of you. Have a martini. You deserve it.”
“Make it a double,” Cockran replied as he followed her into the room. “Did I forget to pay the electric bill this month?” he asked, pointing to the fire as if he had just noticed it.
“No, I only thought it would be cozy to have drinks by the fire before we dressed for the Orphans‘ charity ball.” Mattie replied, vigorously pumping the cocktail shaker up and down, then side to side.
“And the comforter in front of the fire?” he asked as she bent over to pour his martini.
“Floor burns,” she replied.
Cockran looked puzzled. Apparently she had to spell it out for him. “It prevents them.”
Cockran smiled and took a sip of his martini before he took off his coat and loosened his tie. He hesitated a moment. “Uh, where are Paddy and his grandma?”
“A walk in the park followed by dinner at the Palm Court. They won‘t be back before seven.” She opened the robe, slipped it off her shoulders and arms and let it fall to the floor, pooling around her ankles. “So what are you waiting for, sailor?”
As Mattie lay back, Cockran sank to his knees, hovering above her, stripping off his shirt. She could see the thick curls of brown hair covering his chest as he unfastened his trousers. She closed her eyes and felt his tongue trailing a path from her breasts to her belly and below until the familiar stubble of his five o‘clock shadow was brushing the inside of her thighs. His tongue soon reached its goal and her body was engulfed by wave after wave of sensation, rolling from her hips along her spine and through her neck until she reached her first orgasm. When they finally finished, Cockran was sprawled on top of her, his hands beneath her breasts. She sighed. The trial was over at last and her man was back. This was lots more fun than fighting.
It would be two years this summer since she first seduced Cockran. It was Winston, of course, who brought them together that summer in 1929, having persuaded each of them to help him track down and destroy a huge IRA arms shipment. With that danger behind them, Cockran had tried to end things between them but, to his considerable surprise, she had refused to let him do it. Apparently, no woman he dumped in the past had ever done that.
Besides, Mattie didn‘t believe him. He had been so transparent, saying the memory of his late wife would always come between them. It sounded rehearsed and he admitted later he had used that line before to ease his way out of relationships that were becoming too serious. No way, buster. She had ghosts in her past too. Mattie had only known Cockran two weeks by then but she thought he was someone she could fall in love with and she could tell the same was true for him. It might not work out, she knew, because he had a young son Patrick and she was used to living alone and doing whatever she damn well pleased. But she wanted to see how it would play out so she told him no. She wasn‘t going to leave unless he looked her in the eye and swore he had no feelings for her. Cockran wasn‘t a good liar and didn‘t try. Soon after, she discovered she was falling in love with him and he with her. They still had their share of arguments––like last night––but who didn‘t? They made each other laugh and, to her delight, his son Paddy became her biggest fan. He read all her articles and loved to hear stories of her adventures.
“WOULD you like a drink?” Cockran asked as they entered the ballroom. It was the first thing he‘d said to Mattie since they‘d left his Fifth Avenue townhouse in a taxi.
“Yes,” Mattie said. “Johnny Walker and water would be nice.”
Cockran was behaving badly and he knew it. After making love, Mattie had told him about Hearst and an expedition he was financing to find some ancient Christian artifact that meant a lot to her father. That was fine with Cockran. He knew how close Mattie had been with her father, the same as he was with his. Suitably softened up––and set up––she had hit him with the bombshell. She was leaving tomorrow on an airship for Germany.
Cockran knew he should count his blessings. He was lucky. Most men thought themselves fortunate to find one woman in their life to love. Cockran had found two. It didn‘t seem likely when he lost his first wife, Nora, the mother of their ten year old son Patrick, in the Irish Civil War nine years ago. Nothing had seemed very likely to him back then, a barren future without the love of his life, his young son the only consolation and a constant reminder of what he had lost. Cockran didn‘t think he could ever bear again the impossible pain he felt when he lost Nora. Over the years, he began to see female friends but he never hinted at a future together; and sooner or later, the women would drift away in search of more commitment than he could give them.
But two years ago, Mattie had changed everything. She helped him let go of the guilt he‘d felt over Nora‘s death and, against his earlier resolve, Cockran had fallen in love. Mattie was irrepressible and irresistible. Going on two years now, it was Cockran‘s longest relationship since Nora‘s death. Unlike the other women he had dated, Mattie didn‘t seem to mind that he never talked to her of a more permanent future for them. They simply enjoyed the present and each other for they both knew from tragedies of their own how fragile life could be.
She wasn‘t perfect. Who was? She had a flaw, possibly a fatal one. Mattie was impulsive. Aggressively so. He had quickly discovered that. All he had to do was take a look at the photo spread from her latest assignment, see the young corpses slumped against their guns, and gauge how close she had come to being killed herself. Her only excuse was to quote one of her photographer mentors, Alfred Eisenstadt, who told her if her photographs weren‘t good enough, she wasn‘t clo
se enough. To hell with Eisenstadt! He just didn‘t want to see her hurt. If Mattie wanted to cover stories half way around the globe, fine––but let them be natural disasters, or politics. Just not every god-damned war or insurrection that the 1930s, thus far, seemed to supply in ample abundance. And above all, she didn‘t have to get that damn close!
“Is that demon rum I see?” someone said to his left. Cockran turned to see the large frame of Wesley Waterman. He held a glass of orange juice. “Nursing the wounds of defeat?”
Cockran didn‘t reply, handed the second drink to Mattie and introduced her to Waterman.
“Well, Mr. Cockran, as you trial lawyers say, ‘sometimes you win; sometimes the client loses.‘ It won‘t be the end of your world when your client loses,” Waterman said.
Cockran let his anger flash. “Tell that to Judy Dill. It‘s her rights and her body you and your government thugs will be violating.” “I meant that sincerely, Mr. Cockran. Not to tease or taunt,” he said in a softer voice. “You did the best you could with a bad case and a worse client.”
“Is this the livestock breeder you mentioned this afternoon?” Mattie asked and he could see she was trying to distract his anger.
“No. Humans, dear,” Cockran said. “Humans.”
“Can you breed humans?” she asked in an innocent tone.
“Mr. Waterman and the so-called scientists he funds think we can.”
“And should,” Waterman finished. “It‘s the only way to improve the human race.”
“Speaking of improving the human race,” Cockran said. “How‘s your lovely wife?” Cockran looked at Mattie and said, “We met this afternoon. She‘s a blonde knockout.”
The Parsifal Pursuit Page 5
