by Mick Bose
“The two groups down at Hoboken and Weehawken?”
“Yes.”
“Got the rest of the boys keeping a close eye on their safe house.”
“Front and back, I hope.”
Corell flushed slightly. “Yes sir.”
“We’d better get a post-mortem done on the ex-Dr Klinsmann.”
Corell looked surprised. “Really? But we need paperwork for that.”
Tunney sighed. Getting a post-mortem from an army doctor wasn’t easy, and a civilian physician would be useless. “Yes, leave that to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
On West 49th street, Tunney got into his Studebaker automobile. He stared at the rear-view mirror before starting the engine. Casual brown hair fell over his forehead. He always kept a few days’ worth of stubble and never brushed his hair back.
A pair of large, intelligent grey eyes dominated the face, and his lips and hard jaw gave him a serious look. A look that had, in another life, won him many female admirers. The stress of his work, keeping New York`s streets safe, meant an almost total lack of female company these days. At thirty-four years of age, he still wasn’t married. He blamed his job, but the truth was he wasn’t the marrying type. Which didn’t stop him from feeling lonely. Maybe that`s why he worked so hard. He reached forward and flicked the engine switch, silencing his thoughts.
*****
From the roof of the tenement in Hoboken, Paul Becker could watch the ships loading at the dock. His tenement was the highest and he crouched low against the parapet, just raising his head to see. He kept his binoculars fixed on one particular ship, a destroyer called The Intrepid. The gangplank was lowered and he tried to do a rough count of the soldiers boarding. He counted twenty in each row, with five rows approximately, each time. One hundred. That number had gone into the bowels of the ship, or hung out on the deck, ten times so far. He wondered when they would stop. No one but army personnel were allowed within 100 yards of the dockyard. It riled him often that in Hoboken, the most German-American town in the Eastern Seaboard, if not in the whole of America, you could witness thousands of American troops leaving to wage war against the Fatherland. Shaking his head, he wrote down some numbers in his notebook.
Tomorrow, he would convert the figures into code and send it to the post box in Walford, a small town near the coast in Long Island. Becker still believed the coded messages were being intercepted by both Americans and the English. However, Berlin was receiving them.
The enemy couldn’t pinpoint who was watching. They were looking for Becker, but for the time being he was safe. Not that he could be complacent. His months in London taught him that. English agents hovered around every street corner in that city. America was by far an easier proposition. It was vast and the intelligence community was poorly organised. But with the war, and under English influence, the Americans were catching up. Fast. Granted, the German agents who were caught had been given away too easily, like Rintelen, whose name was leaked in a supposedly secret communication from the German Consulate in New York to HQ in Berlin. A school boy error, as the English would say.
Which was one of the reasons why Becker was particular about who he trusted. To carry out his operation, he had to rely on others. But he chose them carefully. Most German diplomats and businessmen were useless.
When the gangplank was finally raised, the muffled cheering from the soldiers filtered to him across the rooftops. Becker wished he could plant the rudder bombs which Dr Kiezle, the watchmaker, had devised. But security around the ships was too tight. Never mind, he thought to himself, he would find another use for the bombs. He took one last look across the harbour. The huge ships of the Hamburg-American Line lay idle in the port. Only they were now commandeered by the US Army. He saw the biggest one of them all—the biggest of all cruise liner ships in the world—the Vaterland. Its three hundred and fifty foot hull dwarfed the buildings around it. Now, of course, the Vaterland was called the SS Leviathan, newly painted, and carrying thousands of enemy troops to France.
His jaw locked tight. It was his job to report when the Leviathan set off on its journey. It was a shame he never knew the route, the Navy changed it all the time. But still, the U-boats prowling in the Atlantic would be forewarned.
He put his notebook into a pocket, pushed his hat down low over his forehead, and put on his glasses. Becker left the roof, going down to his simple room on the top, fifth floor.
In his apartment, he stood to one side of the window and checked the tenements opposite him, and the roof. Then he looked at the street. It was getting close to six o’clock, and the roads were already deserted. Army curfew. Women were arrested on the streets after dark now, and men had to carry identification in case they were stopped. Which was often. Becker’s passport and papers from the ordnance factory where he worked were checked regularly.
He looked at the mirror on his desk and realised he needed a shave. His face was longer than he liked, but it went well with his tall, broad-shouldered frame. His right eye matched the brown of his hair, but the left was yellow-green, too obvious a physical sign of its injury for his liking.
His clothes—the faded old black army overcoat, scuffed shoes and plain trousers—ensured no one gave him a second look. That was the way he liked it.
The damned English had placed a naval blockade so stringent German children were starving. Never mind getting weapons to the frontline. The Allies could buy weapons from the whole world, particularly from America. Germany only had a few countries in Europe. Germans could only communicate via wireless, as the English schwein cut up the undersea cables just as the war began. Paul shook his head as he sat down at his table.
As annoying as the English were, they were clever, like foxes. The Imperial Army could learn a thing or two from them. A moment of weariness passed over him. Personally, he hadn’t wanted this war. But it was upon them now. His job was critical, some would say it could be the difference between victory and defeat. As Colonel Nicolai often said, a war isn’t won on the battlefield.
He packed a light bag with two changes of clothes, his shaving gear, a blond wig and a fake moustache. The moustache was dark-coloured, so he could only use it with his natural hair. His second pair of spectacles was carefully packed into its own case and also put in the bag. Both his glasses were made in Bremen and he’d painstakingly removed the “Made in Germany” emblem from them. His most important possession, the leather book of secret code, never went into the bag. He put it in the inside pocket of his overcoat.
He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and as was his habit, blew out a perfect ring of smoke. He watched the rings slowly untangle and disappear, thinking to himself.
He was German, and his real name was Hermann Aschoff. He joined the Uhlan Regiment in Dusseldorf when he was nineteen years old. Aeroplanes had always fascinated him and when the chance came to apply to the Gotha Flight School in 1915, he didn’t hesitate.
He had been a natural, flying the heavy Gotha bombers with consummate ease. His recon trip over Verdun became the stuff of legend. He was shot down by the French, but stole a dead French soldier`s clothes and crept back through enemy lines into Belgium. His intelligence report helped the Fifth Army to reposition their defences, and won him an Iron Cross from the Kaiser himself. It had also left him with near-blindness in his left eye.
He had been in America for one year now. Paul Becker was the name of a dead infant in upstate New York. Becker wandered around a graveyard in Newport for two days before he found him. He used the name to obtain a passport, and travelled to Europe and back.
Becker`s thoughts returned to what Professor Klinsmann said. It was time to act on that information.
CHAPTER 4
Becker awoke early the next morning. He showered and got ready, but didn’t shave or comb his hair. He took the Hoboken ferry to Pier Eleven, Wall Street. He liked taking the ferry. He could see the Navy ships docked in the harbour.
After getting to Wall Street he walked to Grand
Central Station, and used the post box inside the station to mail his coded letter to the address in Walford. Then he walked down the wide concourse, hat tipped over his forehead, but still enjoying the shafts of sunlight pouring in through the large windows. He liked the anonymity of public spaces. He could observe, and providing he melted in the background, couldn’t be observed himself.
He stopped across from the main ticket counter where long queues had formed. He sat on a bench, adjusted his glasses and lifted his hat. People milled around, often brushing past him. His eyes were on the queue. He watched for a long time, sitting perfectly still. A cleaner boy came by sweeping. The boy hovered around Becker`s legs, brushing the floor. Becker glared at him, moving his legs.
“Go away.”
The boy, who couldn’t have been any more than ten years old, mumbled an apology and moved on.
After almost half an hour, Becker’s patience was rewarded. A man similar in height and build to Becker stood at the ticket counter. He placed his attaché case on the floor, pulled out a wallet, but put it back again. He said something to the girl at the counter, and produced a chequebook. The man wrote a cheque for his ticket, thanked the girl, picked up his attaché and walked off. Becker stood up and followed.
The man went into the subway station and got onto a train for Times Square. The car was packed and Becker positioned himself right behind his target. As the train stopped at the next station, he lurched and bumped against him. Irritated, the man looked behind him.
“Watch it, mister.”
“Sorry,” Becker said, bowing his head and stepping backwards. He got off the train and left the station quickly, looking back once to make sure the man wasn’t following him. He breathed a sigh of relief. Undercover policemen often patrolled the subway. He didn’t wish to encounter one.
Becker knew what would happen next. Eventually, the man would notice his missing wallet and chequebook. Enraged, he would walk into the closest police precinct office and report the crime. A bored police sergeant would take down his details and add another file to the approximately one hundred petty crimes reported in New York City every week. Later, the victim would try to recall his face. He would remember a man in his thirties, wearing a hat low over his face, eyes covered by black glasses, and week-old stubble on his chin.
An hour later, Becker was back in Grand Central station. He paid for a return ticket from Washington DC, leaving immediately. It was late afternoon when the train pulled into the grandiose Union Station. Becker walked over to the motor car carriage rank and took a cab to Massachusetts Avenue. He got out one block before the university, paid the driver and waited until the car disappeared from view.
It was 5:00 p.m., but the June sun was still shining. Becker took his overcoat off. His blue summer blazer was a tight fit, but it was all he had. He walked down the wide avenue, noting the mainly white-fronted university buildings around him. There was an Army truck in front of most of them. As he got closer to the main office entrance, he heard a rumbling sound, then saw a convoy of four more camouflaged Army trucks rolling up the road. The first three had heavy machinery he couldn’t identify. The last truck carried soldiers with Lee Enfield rifles in their hands and a Vickers machine gun poking out the back.
The machinery on the trucks was important enough to need a guard.
The heavy military presence surprised him. Was this an army barracks or a university? The entire campus was in excess of a hundred acres, he knew that. The vast majority was woodlands beyond the main buildings. He walked a two-mile circle around the perimeter, and then came back to the main building. An army officer walked past him, and Becker hung back, acting casual. The officer ignored him. Becker walked into the main building and headed for the reception. An elderly lady was behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely.
“I wonder if you could,” Becker said in his best American accent. “I’m trying to find a Professor Carlson, of the Chemistry Department.”
“And you are?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Mr Hurst, of the New York Subway Transport Company.” Becker showed her the ID card of the man whose wallet he had pick-pocketed.
“Professor Carlson doesn’t know I’m coming. But my colleague Mr George Burrell at the Bureau of Mines said I could contact him about an issue we had digging in the Hudson River for a new tunnel. I was here on business, so I thought I would drop by.”
The woman looked at the ID card, then back at Becker. “Excuse me for a moment.” Becker waited. She came back in a moment. “I’m sorry, Professor Carlson is away on a meeting today.”
“I see,” Becker feigned disappointment, but this was exactly the news he was hoping for. He gave her a wan smile. “In that case, can I please leave a message with his secretary?”
The receptionist hesitated. “Hang on, let me ask again.”
Becker considered that most professors didn’t have secretaries. Carlson was obviously a very busy chemistry professor.
The receptionist returned. “Please head down to the Chemistry building.” She gave him directions.
Becker walked for fifteen minutes into the woodlands before he saw the Chemistry building. It was in a clearing, and plainly a log wood building only recently constructed. Three Army trucks stood in the front. Becker stepped away from the path and melted into the trees of the forest. He settled behind the trunk of an oak where he had a view of the building. Around and behind him there was nothing but the forest. He took out his binoculars. Three men in uniform came out, got into the trucks and drove them through a concealed wire gate. Becker hadn’t seen the gate from the road, and it would have been missed by most observers. It was shut by a uniformed man on the other side and, briefly beyond the gates, Becker could see a lot of activity, a compound with a large courtyard, and several buildings.
He continued to keep watch. The sun began to fade, it was close to 6:00 p.m. The main door opened and this time an attractive woman stepped out. She was aged in her late thirties or early forties, her black hair bobbed up at the back. A pink gown fell to her ankles and matching shoes. She took out a cigarette packet, lit one, inhaled and for a second Becker felt she stared straight at him. He moved back behind the tree. When he dared look again the woman was gone.
She must be the secretary, he decided. In a short while, the woman emerged again. She shut the door, waved goodbye to someone inside, and began walking down the path towards the main campus. Her shapely hips rolled within the tight confines of her gown. Becker allowed himself a smile and followed.
The woman went to the coach station opposite the admissions office in time to catch the bus to Georgetown. Becker hurried and joined the end of the passengers trailing aboard.
At Georgetown, he sat down at the bus stop with his back to her as she walked away, then he turned to watch. Her figure became smaller until she took a left and vanished from sight. He hurried after her, seeing her go down an alleyway through a park. The alley gave way to an avenue of suburban family homes on both sides. At the fourth house on the left, she took a key from her handbag and went inside.
Ten minutes passed and nothing changed. No cars were parked outside. He saw a window open upstairs, facing the street. He waited. His legs became tired, so he sat down in the alleyway. It looked odd, but he didn’t intend to stay for long.
A man drove up in an old Dodge motor car, got out, and used keys to enter the house. Then something happened that surprised Becker. He heard loud voices, the front door slammed, and the woman came out—heading back towards the alleyway, and fast.
CHAPTER 5
With Becker in the shadows the woman strode past without seeing him. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Once again, he followed.
She went back to the bus station and got on the Potomac River ride.
At the river stop she went to the water`s edge. Becker took his time, hanging back a greater distance now. The evening light played on the surface, reflecting the darkening sky. The woman leaned against the rai
ls, feeling the breeze on her face, and it seemed she was trying to find some peace. Her dark hair fell in curls on her face. He moved close. She seemed oblivious, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, staring at the sunset.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Becker said.
He smiled at her before gazing at the horizon. When he looked back, she was holding the railings hard, blanching her knuckles.
He said, “You know, beautiful as it is, there’s something here that is far more pretty.”
“What’s that?” He could tell that, despite herself, she was intrigued by his bold approach.
He came forward to see her better. Mid-thirties, he guessed. Nice figure, curving at the breast and hips, but well maintained, not out of shape. In a corner of his heart, an image of his old lover, Jemima, rose up like a vision. This woman`s figure was similar to Jemima`s.
“You,” he said simply.
The woman gasped and lowered her head. When she looked back, a crimson hue was spreading across her cheeks.
“I… I should go,” she stammered, and turned around.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“No, I just need to—”, She stopped and regarded him properly. There was wariness and suspicion. But suddenly they seemed to lift as she made a decision. Her eyes sparked. They were grey with green flecks in them.
Becker told her, “My name is Jeff Hurst. I work for the NY Department of Transport. I’m here on vacation, and on my own.” He extended his hand.
She took it lightly, her fingers cold. She kept it there for a fraction longer than was necessary. Something passed between them. She was lonely. He could tell.
“I’m Jocelyn Flexman,” she said. She didn’t wear a ring.
“Can I walk you to wherever you’re going, Miss Flexman?”
“Yes, Mr—”
“Please, call me Jeff.”
“Ok, Jeff.” She nodded.
