Mattie winced as she saw a heavy boot come down on her Leica twice, three times. Once the two left the reception area and entered Davenport’s office, she leaped to her feet, grabbed her bag and the correspondence file from Helen’s desk and bolted out the door into the darkened corridor. She heard a shot behind her but she didn’t slow down. Then she heard a second shot but it seemed more faint than the first, possibly from outside. She ran the length of the building until she reached the end of the corridor, turned left and headed for the stairwell which would take her down to the basement, her point of entry. To Ted Hudson. To safety.
Mattie took the steps two at a time, clinging to the railing to steady herself in the darkness, the heels of her boots creating a racket as she did so. She reached the second floor landing and was halfway down when she saw a light below her.
“Ted! Is that you?”
She was answered instead by two gun shots that ricocheted off the iron railing above her. Trapped, Mattie turned back up the stairs to the second floor. As she reached the landing, she could hear footsteps coming from the floors above and below her. She sprinted down the pitch-black hallway toward the far side of the building, hoping it was free of obstructions.
There were at least three of them after her. Lefty and Righty from upstairs and whoever shot at her from the stairwell. She had walked right into a goddamn trap!
Mattie was halfway down the corridor when she heard another shot and a voice shouting “She’s on the second floor. Get her! Get the bitch!” She stopped briefly, stuffed the correspondence file in her bag, slung it by a strap over her shoulder and dashed down the stairs. pulling her PPK automatic from the small of her back inside the waistband of her jodhpurs just as she heard a volley of shots behind her.
Hudson wasn’t on this side of the building but his motorcar was. Plan B. If she couldn’t leave the way she came, she had a spare set of keys and would drive the Cadillac down the shore road to her mare. After sounding the car’s horn as a signal, she would leave on horseback and Ted would retrieve the motorcar and meet her at Ted’s estate, Stanhope Hall.
Mattie reached the basement and she could see moonlight coming in the door which led to the outdoor stairwell and up to the manicured lawn and the tall elm trees which dotted the campus. And, beyond the elms, was Hudson’s Cadillac and a clean getaway.
Mattie was out the door and racing up the steps. She had a stitch in her side from all the sprinting, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She didn’t have time to catch her breath. She ran across the lawn, heard the basement door open and, moments later, flinched as a shot zipped past her head. She raced past the first elm and saw ahead the distinctive double elm beyond which Hudson had parked the maroon Cadillac.
Then her heart sank. The street was empty! The bloody street was empty!
Mattie weighed her options as she ran. A second elm was coming up on her left. Should she take cover behind it and attempt to bring her pursuer down with her automatic? Or should she run an extra twenty yards and do the same behind the double elm?
Mattie chose the double elm. The ground was harder and the grass sparse beneath the great tree but she never saw the exposed root on top of which her foot landed awkwardly. Her ankle twisted painfully as it rolled over until she landed heavily on her right side, the Walther PPK flying from her hand upon impact with the ground.
Winded, Mattie sucked in air and tried to scramble to her feet. She had to retrieve her weapon. Pain shot through her left ankle. It would not support her weight and she collapsed again, the Walther still eight feet away. Painfully, using her arms and her right leg, she began to crawl toward the weapon, but she could hear the man running behind her. She knew she wouldn’t make it but still she crawled. She was no more than three feet from the weapon when a heavy boot stepped on her left hand while the man’s other boot kicked the Walther further away.
“Lady, sorry about this but you should have minded your own business.”
Mattie looked up into Lefty’s face and stared helplessly as the big man pulled out a sound suppressor and casually screwed it onto the barrel of his Colt .45 automatic before pointing it directly at Mattie’s forehead.
41.
Your Life is in Danger
The Railway Hotel
Hamburg, Germany
Tuesday, 24 May 1932
INGRID’S smile vanished as quickly as it formed, Sturm’s name caught in her throat as she read Sturm’s body language, his face knotted with intensity. Sturm pushed through the crowd to reach her. “Ingrid,” he said tersely. “Your life is in danger.” A confused look on her face, Ingrid opened her mouth but Sturm cut her off. “There’s no time to talk. Just do as I say.”
“But… how do you know that?”
“Because your husband hired me to kill you.”
Ingrid looked stunned. As the shock of his words sank in, Sturm scanned the crowd behind her, looking for a sign that the tailor was finally playing his part, but there was nothing. He turned back to Ingrid and pulled the bright blue cap out of his waistband. “Wear this hat. It will cause my men to lose sight of you. Go to the train on Track 2.”
Strum reached into his jacket pocket and removed a train ticket. “Take this train to Norden. My mother will meet you there. You may trust her. She will shelter you.”
He looked up again. Still no sign of the diversion.
Ingrid still had not removed her hat, but held the blue cap limply in her free hand. “Kurt,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“You understand exactly what your husband is capable of.” he said. “Get on that train. Don’t look back. I’ll come to you. I’ll explain it then. For now, just do as I say!”
Sturm looked up one last time for the diversion, determined to kill any of his men who got in his way if that was what it took to save Ingrid. Then he saw her. The diversion. The tailor’s sales clerk, another young woman with blonde hair, appeared wearing a bright yellow dress and a white hat as she strolled to the newspaper stand. The dress was far brighter and the hat looked nothing like Ingrid’s, but the last man in the net before Bruno would not know that.
“Kurt, you’re scaring me,” she said.
“I mean to. Give me your hat! Now!” Sturm said.
The tailor’s clerk had passed them in the crowd. There was no time. If she did not move quickly, he would lose his diversion. Finally, Ingrid pulled a few pins out of her hair and extricated the white hat from her head. She handed it to Sturm and examined the blue one.
“No time to worry about appearance,” Sturm said. “You look beautiful.” She stared at him with those deep blue eyes and he could tell his tender words had reached her despite the extraordinary circumstances. He leaned in and softly kissed her lips. “Now go!”
Sturm stepped quickly through the crowd, trying to catch up to the tailor’s sales clerk. He emerged from the blind zone and made eye contact with Kalb just as the blonde diversion in her bright yellow dress and white hat turned the corner. He tipped his hat back from his forehead and directed his eyes towards the tailor’s sales clerk. Kalb caught the signal and scanned the crowd.
Sturm risked a glance towards platform two and saw Ingrid’s blue hat bobbing between the taller heads of the men in the crowd, making her way towards the train. Good. Another obstacle cleared. Now for the final hurdle.
Sturm turned his attention back to Kalb and saw that he had taken the bait. He was tracking the tailor’s sales clerk intently, no expression of doubt or confusion. Now was the time for Sturm’s move. He reached up with his free hand and waved. Nothing. Kalb had his entire attention focused on the tailor’s clerk. Sturm pushed his way through the crowd, waving his free hand again, keeping the white hat low by his side.
This time, Kalb noticed the movement. He turned to look at Sturm and recognized the signal: She’s on the run. Alarmed, Kalb turned his attention back to the tailor’s sales clerk and realized too late that he had been tracking the wrong woman. Kalb turned back to Sturm, but Sturm was pointing pas
t him and towards the ticket counters, gesturing to an imaginary Ingrid. Kalb turned to follow Sturm’s gestures. Sturm then stooped to his knees as though to pick up something off the floor. When he rose again, he held Ingrid’s white hat high above his head.
Sturm came up to Kalb, brandishing her cap. “You damned fool!” he shouted. “Did you not see her remove her hat? She is on to us! Who were you following?”
“There was another woman with a white hat!” he said. “Was she the wrong one?”
“Yes, damn it! Find the right one! Send the signal to Bruno! Find her now!”
Kalb ran off and began signaling Bruno. Sturm retraced his steps to pass the alert back through the surveillance net to Jaeger. He looked for the shoe shine boy, but found his stool and gear missing. Good. One less witness. He looked to track number two but could no longer see Ingrid’s blue hat. It was 8:30. Another fifteen minutes until her train left. She was not safe yet.
It took a few minutes, but Sturm was able to quickly round up their five men. He showed everyone the white hat they had all seen, explaining what they all had been too late to realize. Frau Waterman had been tipped off. She knew they were watching her and took advantage of the crowds to disappear. But she was still here, Sturm insisted. Likely hiding on a different train.
“I want you to search every train in this station. Every seat, every sleeping compartment, every toilet on board. I want this woman found! I’ll do tracks one and two. You do the rest.”
The men spread out wordlessly on Sturm’s command. Bruno stayed behind, his face ashen. Sturm turned to him. “Do not blame yourself. I told you this might happen.”
“If you do not blame me, then why did you not give me an assignment?”
“I think you have something better to do.”
Bruno looked up. “It was the American,” he said. “Wasn’t it? It was her American lawyer, her lover, who tipped her off. You warned me about him.”
Sturm concealed his reaction. Bruno did not suspect. He had taken the bait once again.
“That woman,” Bruno said. “The woman that Kalb saw. It is too much of a coincidence that she happened to be wearing a yellow dress and a white hat.”
“Yes,” Sturm said. Of course Bruno would notice the decoy. “You may be right. Find her and question her. Gently. No need to draw too much attention to ourselves. But she should give you a lead to the American.”
“I will find this man, this American,” Bruno said. “And I will find Frau Waterman.”
Sturm nodded solemnly. “I know you won’t disappoint me, Bruno.”.
42.
What About Ted?
The Eugenics Record Office
Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island
Tuesday, 24 May 1932
COCKRAN grabbed the handrail at the stairwell and reached the bottom in two strides. He smashed the window pane with the Webley, reached inside and opened the door. He could hear footsteps above him as he ascended the steps, making no effort to be quiet. He reached the first landing and headed up to the second when a shot ricocheted on the wall beside him, plaster spraying onto his head. He stopped and cautiously moved up as he heard a shout above him.
“She’s on the second floor! Get her! Get the bitch!”
The footsteps on the stairway were moving away and Cockran pushed open the exit door to the first floor. He had to outflank them. Moving up a closed stairwell was suicide.
Cockran stepped into the darkened hallway and was greeted by two shots slamming into the wall above him. Cockran dropped to the floor and fired three shots in the direction of the muzzle flashes, then rolled to his left to change his location. There was no return fire. He moved cautiously along the wall and saw a shape on the floor, a Colt New Service laying five feet away. He knelt, checked for a pulse and found none. Lucky shots but the guy was just as dead.
Cockran quickened his pace down the corridor until he came to a large, high ceilinged vestibule, the building’s main entrance. Above him there was another shot and more footsteps. Screw caution, he thought, as he sprinted across the vestibule and up the main staircase, encountering no one as he made it to the second floor. He turned to the right and ran in the direction of the noise and straight into a clothesline in the form of a plaster of Paris cast. It hit his chest and knocked him to the floor, jarring the Webley revolver out of his hand. As he lay sprawled on his back, the bright white cast came crashing down. Cockran rolled out of the way as the cast hit the terrazzo floor with a loud crack. Cockran moved to a crouch and saw the man awkwardly reaching with his left hand for a pistol in his waistband. Cockran caught him with a leg whip and the man fell to the floor, his head hitting hard against the tiles.
He was slow to get up. Cockran took advantage, scrambling across the tiles to find his Webley. It would be near the door. His hand brushed against a hard object and he seized it, fumbling to find the grip. He heard the man stirring behind him. Cockran spun around, long enough to see a gun held unsteadily in the man’s left hand. Cockran fired twice from the seat of his pants. The kickback jerked the barrel up but he knew he’d found his mark. He got to his feet and approached the man. Kneeling to check his pulse, he recognized his former MID colleague Peter Schmidt. He had broken the man’s wrist last week. He had no pulse either.
Cockran regained his feet and ran down the corridor, going through the exit door and down the stairwell on the other side. Moments later, Cockran was out the basement door and up the stairwell. He reached the top and froze. There, less than fifty yards away, he could see, outlined in the moonlight, Mattie laying on the ground and a man with a plaster of Paris cast on his left arm holding a silenced weapon pointed straight down at her. Wilhelm Schmidt! It would be damn difficult to take him down, a shot worthy of Ted Hudson to hear Mattie tell it, but he had no choice if he was to save her. His only advantage was that the Webley had a longer barrel than a Colt .45, a more accurate weapon in the hands of a more skilled marksman than Cockran.
Cockran steadied the barrel on the metal railing, cupped the butt of the Webley in his left hand as he aimed at the man’s head and squeezed once. The first bullet missed. Cockran shifted the barrel slightly to the right and squeezed again and hit Wilhelm’s shoulder. He fired a third time and it tore a gash along the back of the man’s neck, emitting a spray of blood as Mattie screamed. Cockran holstered the Webley and ran to her.
“Are you all right?” Cockran asked when he reached her and knelt down.
Mattie brushed spots of blood off her forehead. “I’m fine … I think. It’s not my blood,” Mattie said, rising to a sitting position. “Bourke? It’s you? How’d you get here?”
Cockran didn’t reply and looked at the body sprawled beside Mattie. The man was groaning loudly but the blood from his neck wound was not spurting, nor was it a bright, arterial red. It might not be as bad as it looked. If help came in time, he might well survive. That would not be good. It didn’t happen often but sometimes on the battlefield, circumstances dictated you just couldn’t take prisoners and the Geneva Convention be damned. Both sides did it and this was one of those times. The ex-MID agent Wilhelm Schmidt may have been a good guy once but now he was a cold-blooded killer who had been seconds from executing Mattie. Alive, he might well try again. Cockran wasn’t going to risk it. Mattie watching didn’t make it easier.
Cockran reached down to the commando knife strapped to his right ankle and then stopped when he saw the sound suppressor on Schmidt’s Colt .45 not four feet from his twitching hand. Cockran reached for the weapon, stepped over Schmidt so that his back was to Mattie, blocking her view of his head. He never liked this part of bloody mayhem but it was easier than he expected. Reminding himself the bastard was about to kill Mattie without a qualm, he placed the suppressor’s snout against Schmidt’s temple and pulled the trigger. Behind him, Mattie’s gasp made a louder noise than the shot.
Cockran turned to Mattie whose face bore an unmistakable look of horror. “Look, we’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk? I left two m
ore dead bodies inside the building. Someone must have heard all the shooting and called the sheriff by now.”
“I think I sprained my ankle,” Mattie said in a very small voice.
Cockran helped her to her feet and put his right arm across her back. Together, they began moving slowly across the lawn and down the street. When they reached her mare, Mattie stopped. “Wait a minute, Bourke. What about Ted?” Mattie asked, her voice stronger.
“What about Ted?”
“I left him there on the other side of the building. He was my backup. Someone must have stolen his car. It’s not there. We’ve got to make sure he’s okay.”
“Screw Ted,” Cockran said. “The bastard tried to keep me from coming into the building after you. Kicked me in the head to make his point. He said you told him to keep me away.”
“That’s not true!” Mattie cried, looking directly at him. “He was just my back-up.”
“Some back-up,” Cockran snorted. “He almost got you killed.”
“But can’t you go…?”
“No,” Cockran said firmly. “If his car’s not there, he took it on the lam.”
“Even so, he might be hurt. Look at you. You’re going to have a black eye soon.”
“Oh, he’s hurt all right. I can guarantee that. I left him unconscious.”
“What? Unconscious? Then we really should check on him.”
“Leave it, Mattie. If I went back there and found him, I’d probably kill him too.”
Mattie didn’t reply and broke off eye contact, her look of horror returning.
“Can you ride?” Cockran asked.
“I… I think so. But I’m going to need a hand mounting her.”
“Sure thing,” he said as Mattie put her left foot in the stirrup and he helped lift her up.
Mattie looked straight ahead as she picked up the reins, avoiding his eyes. “Do you think I should swing past Stanhope Hall to see if Ted made it there safely? We agreed to meet there.”
Cockran exploded. This was really too much. “For God’s sake, McGary! Haven’t you listened to a word I said? I don’t care if he’s safe. He pulled a gun on me to keep me away from you. If he had succeeded, you’d be dead. What part of ‘dead’ don’t you understand? The man who was about to kill you was an ex-MID agent. So is Ted Hudson.”
The Gemini Agenda Page 23
