Upstairs, having slammed several doors on the way and now packing her clothes, Mattie calmed down. That was really stupid, she thought, with a flash of deja vu. She hated it when she and Cockran had a fight on the eve of one of her departures. They had had a fight like this a year ago before she left on her maiden Graf Zeppelin flight where the seeds of her affair first had been sown. At least this time she and Cockran would be traveling together, she thought. Unless he took seriously her last comment that she didn’t care whether he came with her or not.
That was untrue. She cared very much. She should let him know that. Sooner rather than later. After all, it wasn’t Cockran’s fault his suspicion of Ted was off base. She was the one who had accidentally sent him the wrong signals in Ohio and she was the one who had asked him along for back-up last night. Cockran had just risked his life to save her. They didn’t have to leave for Manhattan right away. They had time. After all, when a man saves your life, a girl really shouldn’t seem ungrateful. She had tried not to be that way with Hudson. It was the least she could do with the love of her life. Sure, Cockran could be a bastard but he was her bastard. Her big, beautiful Irish bastard. It was her turn to apologize and, unlike that night in Ohio, the signals she was about to send would not be the wrong ones. She headed for the door, leaving her blouse and brassiere behind.
45.
Emerging From the Mist
Lakehurst, New Jersey
Thursday, 26 May 1932
THE Graf Zeppelin was scheduled to lift off after the morning fog had cleared but no earlier than 9:30 a.m. Nevertheless, Cockran and Mattie had arrived at 8:00 a.m., nearly one hour earlier than necessary to board an airship flight. The perpetually tardy Cockran had complained that arriving an hour early for any sort of departure was unnecessary but the ever-punctual Mattie demanded that they take no chances. When they arrived at the Deutsch Zeppelin Reederie company’s passenger departure lounge, the huge airship could not be seen. Then, as the fog disappeared, the silver-skinned zeppelin slowly materialized, emerging from the mist.
Cockran had seen the world-famous airship the year before, seeing Mattie off, but that had not inoculated Cockran against his involuntary reaction when he once more saw the giant silver ship. Its size was breathtaking as the morning sun sparkled on its shimmering surface.
They boarded the ship by way of wooden steps set up against its side, entering into a vestibule, turning left down a short corridor into the grand salon where he and Mattie took seats at a table beside one of the cabin’s bay windows. Champagne was offered and both accepted.
Mattie touched her flute to his in a silent toast. “I’m happy you’re here. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Cockran replied. Mattie had been the first to apologize and he had accepted, but he had apologized as well. He should have waited until later to caution her about trusting Hudson, after she had gotten over the shock of Helen Talbot’s murder.
Matties’s story on the ten dead twins was baffling, a mystery. He had no clue on how they could locate the clinic in Bavaria or stop the autopsy protocol if they did. Getting to the bottom of the mystery and saving the twins was not going to be easy. No matter what Mattie thought, having Ted Hudson still involved wasn’t going to help.
The window beside their table was open and Cockran clearly heard the electronically-amplified voice of Käpitan Hans Pruss and the command “Up ship!” The giant airship disengaged from the mooring mast and rose silently into the sky, the faces below waving their goodbyes and gradually fading into small dots amidst the low hum of the Maybach diesel engines. Cockran was no stranger to flying but this was far beyond his experience. Better yet, and unlike last year, Mattie and he would be sharing this journey together.
On board the Graf Zeppelin
COCKRAN and Mattie passed the morning in their cabin reading clippings from the Hearst research on eugenics which had been delivered to Cockran’s townhouse the night before, occasionally looking out their cabin window to the ocean below. The file contained everything the Hearst organization could find about Charles Davenport, Harry Laughlin and Dr. Otmar von Verschuer.
“Listen to this, Cockran,” Mattie said. “It’s from Point Eight of the Preliminary Report of the Committee of the Eugenic Section of the American Breeders Association To Study and To Report On the Best Practical Means For Cutting Off the Defective Germ-Plasm In the Human Population:
However much we deprecate Spartan ideals and their means of advancing them, we must admire their courage in so rigorously applying so practical a system of selection.
“My God, Cockran, they’re admiring the Spartans who drowned their weakest young boys. And this garbage is published by the Carnegie Institution for Christ’s sake!” She passed the sheet over to him and then continued. “Listen to this. It’s George Bernard Shaw from a lecture in London at the Eugenics Education Society:
A part of eugenic politics would finally land us in an extensive use of the lethal chamber. A great many people would have to be put out of existence, simply because it wastes other people’s time to look after them.
Cockran nodded. “I’m not surprised. Believe me, I’m not surprised.”
Mattie picked up another sheet. “Here’s one that’s worse. Arthur Treadgold. A professor at Oxford no less. He wrote the Textbook on Mental Deficiency. He defends Shaw:
A suggestion of the lethal chamber is a logical one. It is probable that the community will eventually, in self defense, have to consider this question seriously. There are over 80,000 imbeciles and idiots in Britain. It would be an economical and humane procedure were their existence to be painlessly terminated.
Cockran smiled. “The British always were a bloodthirsty lot.”
Mattie laughed. “And Americans are not? Here’s a California Ph.D., Paul Popenoe, on the board of the American Eugenics Society and coauthor of Applied Eugenics:
From an historical point of view, the first method which presents itself is execution. Its value in keeping up the standard of the race should not be underestimated.
“I never said we weren’t,” Cockran replied. “Ask the American Indians whom we systematically slaughtered or herded onto reservations as we inexorably moved west. Does Hearst have anything in there about Madison Grant? He’s a big time buddy of Lothrop Stoddard, that guy I listened to at Carnegie Hall. They both lectured at the Army War College.”
“Just a minute,” Mattie said. “Let me check.” Mattie rummaged through the file and pulled a sheet out. “I have it.” She whistled. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
Mattie began to read:
Mistaken regard for what are believed to be divine laws and a sentimental belief in the sanctity of human life tend to prevent both the elimination of defective infants and the sterilization of such adults that are themselves of no value to the community. Laws of nature require the obliteration of the unfit and human life is of value only when it is of use to the community or race.
“I’ve read it before,” Cockran said. “It’s from The Passing of the Great Race which is the bible for an entire generation of MID officers, including Theodore Stanhope Hudson, IV.”
“Come on, Cockran. Give Ted a break. He’s said a few unkind things about Jews and Communists but nothing as vile as this.”
Cockran had heard Hudson say lots worse but now was not the time to bring this up. “What’s in there about Verschuer?”
“That’s what’s strange,” Mattie said. “For a German, he is constantly being mentioned in American publications. The Eugenical News announced his being appointed secretary of the German Society for Race Hygiene in 1925 and again in 1927 when he was appointed department head at the Institute for Anthropology, Human Heredity and Eugenics in Berlin. What I still don’t understand is why they’re killing twins. Killing mental defectives is one thing. It’s gruesome, inhuman, but there’s a twisted scientific rationale. But not the twins. They were all normal. The victim in Cleveland was a brilliant engineer. Wh
y would they want to kill twins like them?”
“I don’t know”, Cockran said. “I know a lot about racial eugenics but I can’t figure out where killing perfectly normal twins fits in. One branch is weeding out the weak. The only other branch I’m aware of is breeding for the best. So either there’s a twisted third branch on the eugenics tree or we’re dealing with a psychopath.”
Mattie nodded. “I vote for the psychopath.”
“Maybe. But I don’t see the Carnegie and Rockefeller people — or even Waterman — funding a madman. There’s got to be more to it. There’s got to be another branch to eugenics we don’t know about.”
Just then, the steward knocked on their cabin door to announce lunch in the grand salon.
“GOOD afternoon, Fraulein, mein Herr,” their waiter said. “It is a pleasure to see you again so soon, Fraulein. How was your stay in South America?”
“Fine, thank you, Karl,” Mattie replied. “I am pleased once more to be in your care.”
The waiter gave a small bow and moved onto the next table. Cockran raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t told him she had flown to South America on the Graf Zeppelin.
“So, was the additional research on twins helpful?” Mattie asked, ignoring his eyebrow.
Cockran shook his head. “Not really. For some reason, eugenicists are bonkers about twins but almost all of their studies revolve around ‘nature versus nurture’.”
“What about Verschuer? Helen said he was an authority on twins. So did Winston.”
“He is,” Cockran replied. “His studies don’t fall outside the norm.”
“Any photos of him?” Mattie asked.
“Nope,” Cockran replied. “Laughlin and Davenport, but not Verschuer. But I already know Laughlin and Davenport by sight. They’ve been state witnesses in my sterilization cases.”
The waiter returned and Cockran was impressed. Excellent food served on porcelain with monogrammed silver. They started with vichyssoise, followed by Dover sole and breaded veal. Karl never allowed their crystal wine glasses to be empty.
As Karl was clearing off the dishes, Mattie placed a hand on his arm. “Karl, would you please ask Commander Pruss if he would make an exception and arrange a tour of the Graf for my friend and me?” she asked, giving Karl the same dazzling smile that had so captivated Cockran when they first met. “You’ve got to see this, Bourke. It’s incredibly beautiful.”
“Certainly, Fraulein,” Karl replied. “It’s not as if this would be your first time.”
Mattie actually blushed at that but Cockran wisely said nothing. He knew all about her little adventure risking her life atop the Graf Zeppelin the previous year and there was no point in reminding her. Not even a raised eyebrow.
“Idiot! Dumkopf!”
The salon was only half full but all eyes turned toward the loud noise. A silver-haired man with vivid blue eyes was berating a steward who had spilled a small amount of the schnapps he was pouring in the man’s glass when the Graf had hit a mild air pocket. It had barely caused a ripple in Cockran and Mattie’s own wine glasses but, apparently, it had been enough to disturb the steward’s aim. Beside the silver-haired man sat a young, hard-looking character with a thick neck and closely-cropped skull. The silver-haired man had a patrician air about him and seemed to be in his mid to late fifties. The other man was more thug than businessman.
Right then, Karl returned with the good news that Commander Pruss had agreed to Mattie’s request and that he, Karl, was to have the honor of being their tour guide tomorrow.
“Who is that man,” Mattie asked Karl, keeping her voice low and gesturing towards the table where the commotion had just occurred.
Karl rolled his eyes. “He has flown with us before but he is using a different name than he has in the past.”
46.
I’m Their Big Sister
Norden, Germany
Friday, 27 May 1932
THE muscles in Kurt von Sturm’s body protested at every step. His lungs seared with pain, his nerves cried out for mercy, begging him to rest, to stop, to give in. But he ignored their pleas and pushed harder, forcing his body through the final leg of his exercise regimen — running barefoot for ten miles along the shores of the North Sea. The salted sea air filled his lungs and sweat stung his eyes, dripping from the hair over his brow.
As the rhythm of his running pace settled in, the pain and aches took on a steady monotony and fell into the background — an irritation he was aware of but could readily ignore. His mind had won the battle over his body, as it always did. Rewarding himself, he allowed his mind to wander. It had been two days since he rescued Ingrid in Hamburg and so far, everything had gone according to plan. After every train had been searched in the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, and Ingrid was safely on her way to Norden, Sturm advised Bruno to focus his energies on finding this mysterious “American” they suspected was traveling with Frau Waterman.
Sturm would handle communication with the Geneva Group from now on. In his call to Berlin, Sturm made it clear that the fault for failure did not lay with Geneva. It was likely Manhattan’s own incompetent men who had tipped his wife off to the danger she faced here in Hamburg. Thanks to these errors, there was now a very high probability that Frau Waterman would never be found. Manhattan had no one but himself to blame.
With Waterman and the Geneva Group chastised and Bruno busy chasing ghosts, Sturm’s only remaining concern was Ingrid. As Sturm’s men searched other trains, he had found her waiting nervously inside her first-class compartment. She had demanded to know what was going on and he told her everything short of the actual truth. The less lies to cover up, the easier it was to keep them covered. He told her he was the Executive Assistant for Fritz von Thyssen, head of the largest steel manufacturer in Germany where companies did not always thrive simply by offering superior products and services. Bribes and blackmail, sabotage and subterfuge were also part of the game.
Sturm had claimed to have come across the plot in the course of his usual work. One of the various “agents” whom he employed on a semi-regular basis told Sturm of a commission to assassinate the wife of a wealthy American businessman. Was he interested? Sturm had said no but, curious, he began checking into the matter and quickly learned the businessman was Wesley Waterman. After that, he had sought out the commission and accepted it in order to save her.
In the adrenaline rush of the moment, Ingrid had accepted his explanation. Sturm had been able to note faint discolorations beneath the make-up around her eyes. He could see that she had been beaten, likely by her husband. That her husband was violent probably helped Ingrid to accept Sturm’s story so quickly. Once in Norden, he noted a trace of suspicion. She became more observant, asking questions, clarifying the details in his story, probing beneath the surface. It was clear to Sturm that there was something she didn’t fully trust about him. And well she shouldn’t.
Sturm shook his head to clear his face of sweat. Beyond all these legitimate concerns, of course, was a more basic question: What to do with Ingrid? But that could wait for another day. For now, he was thankful she was still alive.
STURM returned early from his morning run. Rubbing a towel over his face, he walked into the kitchen for a bite, surprised to find his sister Franka already up and sitting with Ingrid, practicing her English. Franka lifted her head at the sound of his footsteps.
“Excuse me?” she said in strongly accented English. “You are not permitted here.”
“I can’t make myself breakfast?”
“We are having girl talk.”
“Girl talk?” Sturm looked to Ingrid, but she shared Franka’s severe countenance, albeit with a playful smile drifting beneath the surface. “Is this your influence?” he said.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I’m helping Franka with English.”
“That is no form of English I’ve ever heard,” Sturm said.
“Then you haven’t been spending time with the right girls,” Ingrid said.
>
“Now scram, brother!” Franka said, giggling at the use of her new American slang. She picked up an envelope and spoke in German. “Here, you have a telegram. Go read it in the sunroom.”
Sturm took the telegram and left the room. It must have arrived during his run on the beach. It was from Bruno. The message inside was short and cryptic. He sat down next to his private telephone line and hailed the operator. A few minutes later, he was speaking with Bruno.
“What have you found?”
“She never made it to Munich. At least not to the Hotel Continental. At this point,” Bruno continued, “I’m not going to waste any more resources searching for her in Munich.”
“Perhaps,” Sturm said. “But tap some of our Munich agents to keep an eye out.”
“I already have,” Bruno said. “Now, I am focused on finding her siblings. Her visa application gave some indication of their itinerary, listing some villages along the Bayerischer Wald, like Kötzting and Regensburg. I think they provide the best opportunity to find her.”
Regensburg. That was unfortunate. That was exactly where Ingrid’s brother and sister were staying. If Bruno found Ingrid’s brother and sister, hotel phone records would show calls from Norden and a phone number Bruno knew well. It would not take Bruno long to figure out Ingrid’s location.
The Gemini Agenda Page 25
