Waterman pursed his lips. “Ingrid is not feeling well. I decided she should stay home.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Cockran said. “I think she and Mattie would have a lot in common.”
“I‘m sure she‘s a lovely gal,” Mattie said. “But if you‘ll excuse me, I see a few girlfriends of my own I must say ‘hello‘ to.” Mattie turned and weaved through the crowd, her gown sliding wonderfully with her hips which Cockran thought Waterman watched for far too long.
Finally, Waterman turned and calmly placed a strong hand on Cockran‘s shoulder. “Mr. Cockran,” he said in an amiable tone. “You‘re a fine lawyer. Perhaps I.C.E. could send you some legal work. I see no cause for us to be hostile. We might even become friends.”
“Thanks but I‘ve got more than enough on my plate. As for friends, I don‘t think so. The members of the Harvard Club may find you a congenial fellow but you and others who believe in the pseudo-science of eugenics turn my stomach.”
Cockran glanced at his shoulder, his muscles tensing beneath Waterman‘s grip until, finally, he let go. “I see. Have a good evening then, Mr. Cockran.” Cockran nodded and watched Waterman go. Cockran knew he had been rude but why the hell had Waterman offered to send him I.C.E. legal work?
Cockran wandered through the crowd, keeping an eye on Mattie. She laughed with friends, talked to the women she knew, flirted harmlessly with their husbands or escorts. She did a fine job pretending to have a good time
“What the hell,” said a familiar voice behind him. “What‘s with the long face? I thought this was a charity function, not a wake.”
Cockran turned around to see the ruddy face and large, compact body of his old wartime CO, William “Wild Bill” Donovan, Medal of Honor recipient and head of the law firm where Cockran occasionally received an assignment, usually in international law. His brown hair was streaked with gray but the eyes were still as clear a blue as when they first met. He didn‘t like to be called “Wild Bill” so, to Cockran, he was simply Bill or, on formal occasions, “Colonel”. A great friend. An even better lawyer. Five for five in the Supreme Court and he wasn‘t yet 50.
“Too many Republicans like you here for it to be a wake,” Cockran said.
Donovan grinned. “And a damn shame that it‘s not. If it were an Irish wake, fella might be able to enjoy himself.”
Cockran laughed.
“So, how‘d oral argument go today?” Donovan asked.
Cockran answered by downing half his scotch.
“That bad, huh?”
“Two of them wouldn‘t recognize due process if it bit them in the ass.”
“What about the other one?”
“At least he had an open mind. Maybe he‘ll write a dissent.”
“You think he can pull one of the other judges to his side?”
“No, Bill.” Cockran said, taking another sip. “They‘re going to screw her over.”
They talked for a while. Donovan rarely missed social functions like this while Cockran usually did. But Cockran had met Mattie at a similar cocktail party the year before and that was when Donovan had made him a job offer. Cockran had a good set-up with Bill and was officially listed as “Of Counsel” to Donovan & Raichle, specializing in international law––the same subject he taught at Columbia‘s law school. The work had been good. Never more than he wanted and it sometimes put him in the courtroom, which kept his skills sharp and allowed him to offer his students both a real life as well as an academic view.
Donovan traveled frequently and was almost never in the office at the same time as Cockran so he decided to take advantage of the opportunity to talk to his boss one on one. “Was there a package at the firm from Churchill this morning?”
“From Winston?” Donovan said. “I‘m not sure. There were four large files delivered to our offices this afternoon. It was addressed to you but it wasn‘t from Churchill.”
“That‘s probably it,” Cockran said. He told Donovan about Churchill‘s cable
“Yeah, the files are probably from Winston. Don‘t worry,” Donovan said. “I‘ll review the file first thing in the morning. See me at 8:30. I‘ll tell you what I think.”
“Make it closer to 10:30.” Cockran said, scanning the crowd again, looking for Mattie.
“I don‘t mean to pry,” Donovan said gently, “Are things okay with you and Mattie?”
Cockran turned back to Donovan. “Why? Is it obvious?”
“To me? Of course. I‘m a trial lawyer,” he said. “Your body language betrays you.”
“Things are fine,” Cockran started to say. He was about to continue when Mattie snuck up behind him and touched his elbow.
“Bourke,” she said. “Do you mind taking me home? I have more packing to do.”
“No,” he said. “That‘s fine.”
“Hi Bill,” Mattie said with a smile. “Sorry I‘m checking out so early.”
“Not at all, my dear,” Donovan said. “Ruth will be happy for an excuse to leave.”
Mattie and Cockran said their goodbyes to the people they knew and slipped out from the party. It was still early, the sky a dark shade of blue, when they hailed a taxi on Rector Street. Cockran was quiet for much of the ride home, mildly annoyed that Donovan had been able to read him that well. He was a trial lawyer too and ought to hide his feelings better.
“Bourke, I really am sorry,” Mattie said. “You know how the Chief is. You worked for him once. No one says ‘no‘ to the Chief; you just don‘t do that.”
Cockran nodded. “I know.”
“We still have Venice.”
“Unless the Chief calls again.”
“That‘s not fair,” she said.
“Sure it is. He might.”
“Of course, he might. ‘Might‘ is a pretty big word, Cockran. Lots of things might happen––it‘s not fair to pin that on me.” Cockran sensed her growing impatience but he couldn‘t help himself.
“It‘s more than just ‘might,‘ Mattie, it‘s probable and you know it.”
“So what? It‘s my job!” she said, her voice rising as she threw up her hands.
“I know,” he said. “I don‘t mean you shouldn‘t do your job…”
“That‘s what it sounds like,” she said, interrupting.
“It‘s your career, not mine.”
“Damn right, it is!”
“It‘s only that …” he stopped himself. She was right. He wasn‘t being entirely rational. Her new assignment for Hearst that kept her from joining him on the Europa wasn‘t the issue. What really bothered him were the assignments she did have control over. That‘s what he didn‘t understand. What did she have? A death wish? “What happens after Venice?”
“What do you mean?”
“After Venice. After your expedition in the Alps. Then, you‘ll rush off to some slaughterhouse like Bolivia or India––where men are busy killing each other and they might not make an exception for pretty redheads.”
“Jesus, Cockran,” she said. “What‘s that have to do with the Hitler contract negotiations? Or my expedition in the Alps. I thought those were the sort of safe things you wanted me to do.”
“You‘re right. They are. Just don‘t pretend that you‘re choosing jobs like this contract negotiation,” he said. “Left to your own devices, you choose places like Bolivia and India where you risk your life, month in and month out. You know that Paddy thinks of you like his mother.”
“Don’t bring Paddy into this!” Mattie said, her voice almost a shout. “I am not his mother! No matter how he feels about me, or how I feel about him. You leave him out of this!”
“I can‘t leave him out,” Cockran shot back. Now, he was really angry too. “He loves you, I love you and you‘ll soon be throwing yourself into another war! Two of them, to be precise!”
“I‘m a big girl, Cockran,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
“No, you can‘t,” he said, resignation in his voice. “It‘s war. No one can take care of themselves in a war. No
more than you can flip a coin and make it turn up heads.”
Mattie said nothing and Cockran continued. “When are you going to stop chasing the merchants of death? Trying to avenge the loss of your fiancé Eric and your brothers? When are you finally going to start living your own life?”
Cockran watched as Mattie‘s face registered what he said, the shock setting in, her eyes beginning to water. Then she shook her head and looked down, taking a deep breath, before looking at him again.
“I love you so much, Bourke, I really do,” she said in a tired voice, “but I‘ve heard all this before. I am living my own life. It‘s the one I‘ve chosen, just like I‘ve chosen to be with you. I know you love me but it seems like you‘re always questioning my career and the risks I take. It‘s getting old. It‘s probably a good thing we‘re not going to sail on the Europa together.”
This wasn‘t turning out the way he intended, Cockran thought, as she continued. “Maybe we need to take a break from being together. Step back and assess what we both really want and need. I may not be the kind of girl you need and I want a man who spends more time in my corner and less at my throat.”
“That‘s not fair,” Cockran replied. “I only meant to….”
“Let‘s not talk about this any more tonight. But think about what I‘ve said.”
They both fell into silence and stayed that way the rest of the ride home. He‘d done more than enough damage. Especially with Mattie leaving in the morning. The possibility of ending things between them, as she had suggested, was new and not what he had in mind. Not at all.
9.
Dinner Can Wait
New York City
Monday, 25 May 1931
KURT von Sturm was as human as the next man and appreciated the company of attractive women. In his line of work, which required frequent travel, sustaining a relationship with a woman was difficult. So, whenever he traveled and it did not otherwise interfere with his responsibilities, he enjoyed having female companionship. Tonight looked to be one of those promising nights.
While Sturm was partial to beautiful women, he preferred that they have brains as well so that he was not bored in those intervals before and after he took them to bed. Over the years, he had learned that the best places to find his kind of woman––bright, beautiful and willing––were not Berlin nightclubs or high-end New York speakeasies, but rather at diplomatic receptions. Sturm had always been able, dressed in a dinner jacket, to meet women on those occasions who appeared on the surface to meet his three criteria. After that, he would ask them their husbands‘ occupations and have them discreetly point out their spouses to him. Single women never made it onto Sturm‘s list. The potential of too many strings was much too high. Sturm then would circulate through the reception and introduce himself to each of the husbands of his prey. He would then take the potential cuckold‘s measure and assess his chances with the other man‘s wife. If the husband were much older than the wife, his chances increased. The same was true if he were pompous or simply too full of himself for no apparent reason. He realized some people might find his methods to be unromantic and a trifle cold-blooded, but Sturm found them to be both practical and successful.
The evening before, Sturm had chosen the American‘s wife. The Frenchman‘s wife had been too aggressive, the wives of the Italian and the Swedish Consuls not as attractive. Besides, he knew the American woman‘s husband would be spending tonight at his club after attending some function downtown and would be sailing the next morning on an extended European business trip. Sturm had all of tonight before he returned to Germany on the Graf Zeppelin tomorrow. Making love in a woman‘s home was far more romantic than in a sterile hotel suite.
Sturm was deep inside Central Park by this point and he could see the lights of the apartment towers on Central Park West where she lived. He could have taken a taxi from the Plaza at the southeast corner of the park, but Sturm was a punctual man and never arrived late or early. With twenty minutes to spare, he decided he could use the exercise and cut across the park. Uncharacteristically, he allowed his mind to drift in anticipation of what delights lay ahead.
There were three of them, predators moving quickly, two hitting him high and the third grabbing his legs. The three men were unshaven and dressed in rough clothes. They had obviously practiced this maneuver before, because they all hit at the same time, knocking him off his feet. One of the three reeked of alcohol, and Sturm saw a knife in his hand.
Sturm reached out and grabbed the man‘s free hand and pulled him forward, a move that surprised his adversary. Before he could react and bring his knife to bear, Sturm had freed a razor sharp assault knife of his own from the strap on his leg beneath his trousers and plunged its serrated edge directly into the man‘s kidney from behind. The man‘s cry of pain was choked off as his system went into shock and he rolled silently off Sturm, his body convulsing as the blood pumped out. Sturm jerked the knife free and swung it in a wide arc, severing the tendons of the second man‘s left ankle. The man cried out in pain and went down.
The third man began to flee. Sturm reached inside his suit coat pocket and pulled from its shoulder holster a Luger T-08 semi-automatic pistol, its short barrel extended by a sound suppresser. He took careful aim and fired one 7.65 mm Parabellum bullet which made a small hole in the back and then blew out the front of the third man‘s head. Sturm preferred the smaller cartridge to the heavier 9 mm which provided greater power but slower muzzle velocity precisely for the effect it produced once inside its target.
Sturm turned back and looked down at the terrified man below him, clutching his bleeding ankle, his eyes wild with fear. Sturm shook his head in regret. It was the same in New York as in Berlin. Men who were out of work, men who were hungry, men who would do desperate things. While Sturm would probably be on his way to Europe before the police mounted an investigation, a man in his particular profession could take no chances. He could leave no witnesses.
Sturm fired once more, a small round hole appearing between the second man‘s eyes. He pressed the Luger back into its shoulder holster, wiped his knife clean on the pant leg of the first man‘s trousers, before returning it to the strap on his leg. He brushed the dirt from the back of his gray flannel jacket and trousers, smoothed back his blond hair and continued his journey through the park.
FIFTEEN minutes later, Sturm was inside the lobby of the Majestic Apartments at 115 Central Park West. Five minutes after that, he entered the penthouse suite in the Majestic‘s northern tower, the door opened by his hostess for the evening who wore a long, flowing, cream-colored silk gown with a modest neck, cut daringly low in the back. A pale pink sash around her hips was tied in a small bow at the back whose subtle movement drew his attention to her attractive backside as she walked towards a two-story high window with a spectacular view of Central Park below.
“Would you like some champagne? I‘ve given the servants the night off.”
Sturm joined her at the window and, with a flute of champagne in his left hand, he lightly moved his fingers along the entire length of her bare back. “I‘m so pleased you were free tonight,” Sturm said.
“As am I,” she replied. “The headache that caused me to beg off accompanying my husband to that dreadful charity affair has miraculously disappeared.”
Sturm raised his flute in a toast. “To your headache.”
She smiled and they clinked glasses. She turned back to the park and Sturm followed her gaze onto the dark patchwork of trees below. “Tell me, do you seduce many married women?”
“Only the beautiful ones. And never before in New York.”
“You told me last night that this is only the third time that you have been in the city.”
“But only the first time I‘ve met such a beautiful woman.”
She laughed. It was a delightful laugh. “Don‘t try that line with me. I saw three other gorgeous women throwing themselves at you last night. Especially that French diplomat‘s wife. She couldn‘t keep her hands off
you. So why me? I am certainly less experienced at this.”
Sturm smiled. He liked Americans. So open. So direct. Emboldened, he replied in kind, “Three reasons. You were the most beautiful of the four. You were the only blonde. And your husband was easily the most boring of the four husbands.”
The woman laughed and choked on her sip of champagne. “Oh, my god! Excuse me,” she apologized as Sturm handed her his handkerchief. Still laughing, she continued “Not the most romantic way to start our evening but you are so right. My husband is a businessman and that‘s all he talks about. He‘s also a very tall man and something of a bully, quick to use his fists. Other men are afraid to make a pass at me because of his reputation. So why are you different?”
“Perhaps your husband‘s reputation is over-rated,” Sturm said. “Or it could be that I am leaving America on an airship for Germany tomorrow morning.”
She laughed again. “Well, then, let‘s not waste any more time. Dinner can wait.”
“Being with you could never be a waste of time,” Sturm replied, “before or after dinner,” as he took off his suit coat in a practiced maneuver which took his shoulder holster and weapon with it, and draped it carefully over the back of a chair, the weapon hidden from view. He stood behind her, one hand caressing her neck. Putting the flute down, he gently turned her face to him and kissed her, a kiss she eagerly returned.
The room‘s only illumination came from the fireplace and a few candles placed at various locations around the room. An excellent dancer, Sturm was also a skilled and demanding lover. On the dance floor as in bed, his partners followed his lead. She offered no complaint as he picked her up and carried her into the master bedroom. She was still breathing heavily while he placed her down upon the covers and slowly removed her silk gown, inch by inch. Beneath she was naked save for a filmy pair of step-ins. He paused to admire her breathtaking body, inwardly shaking his head. How could her husband pass up an evening alone with such a woman?
Sturm slipped her undergarment down over her hips, parted her legs and moved his face between them. She gasped when one and then two fingers moved inside her, her passion growing as his fingers moved faster. “No, don‘t stop” she said when his fingers left but she said no more when his tongue replaced them and she grabbed his head tightly. Moments later, he felt her body convulse. As he knelt up between her legs, removed his shirt and unbuckled the belt on his trousers, he knew the best was yet to come. Her husband really was a fool.
The Parsifal Pursuit Page 6
