by Matt Braun
“One soldier to another—?” von Kleist hesitated.
“Of course,” Huerta said. “There is no need for ceremony among men-at-arms. Please speak frankly.”
“General, our purpose is at once simple and complex. We wish to return you to power in Mexico.”
“At the very least, such a venture would be ambitious to the extreme. I often fear for my life here in Spain.”
Mexico was in the midst of bloody revolution. Porfirio Diaz came to power in 1876, establishing himself as dictator, and ruled for almost a quarter century. Francisco Madero, nobleman and idealist, organized a revolt and ousted Diaz in 1910. Madero’s military leaders were Victoriano Huerta, Emiliano Zapata, and former bandit Doroteo Arango, otherwise known as Pancho Villa. Huerta then organized a coup d’état, assassinating Madero, and seized power in 1913.
Venustiano Carranza, governor of the state of Coahuila, immediately enlisted the support of Zapata and Villa, and waged war on Huerta. After a year of civil strife, Huerta fled Mexico in 1914 and took refuge in Spain. Carranza deferred national elections, assuming dictatorial powers, and quickly found himself at war with Villa and Zapata. The Mexican Revolution, now in its fifth year, continued unabated in pitched battles across a ravaged land. Villa and Zapata were more determined than ever to bring freedom to their countrymen.
Huerta had been in exile almost a year. To return to his native land, and exact retribution on his enemies, was his most fervent dream. He looked at von Kleist.
“Why would Germany be interested in my future? I assume there is advantage to be gained in some manner.”
“A strategic advantage,” von Kleist admitted. “The Kaiser prefers that America not become involved in a European war. Our goal is to keep President Wilson preoccupied with matters at home.”
“I see,” Huerta said thoughtfully. “How does that involve my return to Mexico?”
“We wish to create a diversion along the border of Mexico and the United States. One that will turn the eyes of America toward the Rio Grande River—rather than Europe.”
“How do you propose to create this diversion?”
“Through your influence,” von Kleist said with a cordial smile. “We understand you still have loyalists in Mexico, officers and men who served under your command. We would ask them to provoke an incident of sufficient magnitude to unsettle security on the border.”
Huerta held his gaze. “Colonel, an incident of such magnitude could result in more than a diversion. Mexico hardly needs a war with the United States.”
Von Kleist was a shrewd manipulator of men and events, and he possessed a marvelous talent for duplicity. In large degree, he believed every lie he told. He spread his hands in a bland gesture.
“General, you have my oath as an officer and a gentleman that we intend nothing so drastic as a war. A series of raids across the border—let us say, guerrilla raids—should suffice to preoccupy the Americans.”
There was a moment of weighing and deliberation. Huerta accepted no man’s word, but he fed on his own ambition. He finally nodded in agreement.
“If I assist you—” he paused to underscore the thought—“how does that further my cause?”
“Quite easily,” von Kleist said with bogus conviction. “The raids I speak of will destabilize the situation for Venustiano Carranza. The opportunity then exists for you to unite your forces and at last become the savior of Mexico.” He shrugged, as though the point was obvious. “Divide and conquer, the oldest of military maxims.”
“You neglected to mention Villa and Zapata.”
“What are they without the leadership of Carranza? They are peasants leading a rabble army.”
“Yes, you are right!” Huerta barked with a quick triumphant nod. “Divide and conquer even as they fight among themselves. I will return stronger than ever.”
“General, I truly believe it was ordained, your destiny.”
Von Kleist went on to explain salient details of the operation. Captain Otto Mueller would travel to Mexico and organize Huerta’s loyalists into a cohesive force. Germany would underwrite all costs of the border raids, and supply the rebels with arms and munitions. The end result would be an army of liberation, awaiting Huerta’s return.
“To our success!” Huerta said, raising his brandy glass in a toast. “You are indeed a man of vision, Colonel. I salute you.”
Von Kleist tipped his glass with a modest smile, inwardly delighted by his performance. He employed his limited Spanish to seal their pact.
“Viva Mexico!”
Chapter Two
The cherry trees were in blossom. A sea of pink and white encircled the Tidal Basin, the bloom of the trees in bright contrast to the stark lines of the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial. The delicate scent drifted like perfume on a light breeze.
The blossoming of the trees marked the rite of spring in Washington, D.C. Three years ago, Japan had made a gift of over a thousand trees, an expression of international unity with America. The trees, which were the double-flowering Kwansan variety, had involved a ceremonial planting by the then First Lady, Mrs. William Howard Taft, and the Viscountess Chinda of Japan. Cherry blossom time in the nation’s capital had quickly become one of the most anticipated events of the year.
Secretary of State Robert Lansing stared out a window of the White House. His mood was somber, and his thoughts were a world away from the colorful spectacle of cherry trees. He was a fleshy man, bald and beefy, with a widow’s peak of black hair that gave him a satanic look. He had been selected by President Woodrow Wilson to shepherd the country through a dark period in foreign affairs. Today, he felt less like a statesman than a general assessing enemy troop emplacements.
Only that morning, in the Oval Office, he had briefed the president on the latest German mischief. He genuinely believed that Kaiser Wilhelm would resort to any trickery, diplomatic or otherwise, to keep the United States out of the war. The meeting in Spain between Victoriano Huerta and Colonel Franz von Kleist led him to conclude that an incident of some sort was being planned along the Mexican border. He had expressed that belief to the president.
Woodrow Wilson was a scholar and an idealist. But he was a man of soaring intellect, ever alert to the folly and misadventures of jingoistic leaders. He dreaded the thought of America being drawn into what he privately called the “European squabble.” He abhorred even more the thought of American boys dying on the fields of France to undo the age-old rivalry of emperors and kings. He was determined it would not happen.
Lansing was of an equal mind. Yet the sinking of the Lusitania had sparked renewed debate in Congress for intervention. On general principle, he despised politicians and their quickness to pander to public anger and fears. He nonetheless recognized that congressional leaders, given sufficient provocation, could force Woodrow Wilson to alter his stance on war. And the telegram on his desk gave him even greater pause, for Europe was an ocean away, perhaps the lesser threat to national security. War, like lager or schnapps, could also be imported to American soil.
The door to his office opened. Forrest Holbrook, the Director of the U.S. Bureau of Investigation, entered with his customary brisk pace. He was in his early forties, the elder son of a patrician New England family, a Yankee to the core. A slender stalk of a man, light touches of gray in his hair gave him a distinguished appearance. His easy smile and pleasant manner disguised a will of steel.
“Good morning, Forrest,” Lansing said, exchanging a handshake. “Thank you for coming right along.”
“Not at all,” Holbrook said genially. “Your message sounded somewhat urgent.”
Lansing motioned to a chair, then seated himself behind his desk. “We may have a problem with the Germans,” he said, holding out the telegram. “Read this and see what you think. It came in overnight.”
The telegram was from MI-6, the British intelligence agency. Encrypted in London, it was dated May 26 and had been decoded into plaintext. The message related that an MI-6 ag
ent stationed in Madrid had reported a meeting between Victoriano Huerta, deposed president of Mexico, and Colonel Franz von Kleist. The MI-6 agent had identified von Kleist as an officer in the German Abwehr, under the direct command of General Alexis Baron von Fritsch. The meeting had taken place on the evening of May 20.
“Certainly took their time,” Holbrook said, dropping the telegram on the desk. “I have a feeling the Prime Minister signed off on this before it was sent.”
“No question of it,” Lansing agreed. “Six days from Madrid to London to Washington indicates discussion at the highest level. The Brits would move heaven and hell to drag us into the war.”
“Do you think that’s the purpose of the message?”
“Anything the Brits send us has only one purpose. But I believe there is far more to it than that. Far more.”
“I suspect you’re right, Mr. Secretary. What interest would the Germans have in the Mexican Revolution?”
“Unless I’m wrong,” Lansing said, “their only interest would be to foment problems between Mexico and the United States. Unlike Great Britain, the Krauts desperately want to keep us out of the war.”
Holbrook nodded. “Our best intelligence says that Huerta still has a loyal following. I presume he could instigate raids across the border and stir up considerable trouble. But that begs the question of why he would act as stalking-horse for the Germans.”
“I’ve given that a good deal of thought. Suppose the Germans have struck a deal to return him to power, somehow ousting Carranza in the process. Carry it a step further and suppose his part of the bargain is to unite the various factions—Villa and Zapata—and turn their revolutionary anger toward America. What would that accomplish?”
“Our military would be engaged on the border rather than in Europe. But does anyone, even Huerta, believe he could win such a war?”
“Huerta was disgraced,” Lansing said in a reflective tone. “Humiliated in battle, driven from his homeland, forced into exile. The Germans could probably make him believe anything—if it restored his honor.”
“Still seems a bit farfetched,” Holbrook commented. “Villa and Zapata were largely responsible for Huerta’s defeat. Why would they join him in any venture?”
“Forrest, I’m simply speculating on possibilities. All we know for certain is that the Germans are courting Huerta, and to no good end. We must assume they intend us harm in one fashion or another.”
“Given sufficient funds, perhaps Huerta could resurrect himself and his cause. Germany might feel any scheme, however outlandish, is worth underwriting.”
“I am reminded of the old Roman proverb,” Lansing said. “Si vis pacem, para bellum.”
Holbrook cocked his head. “If you want peace, prepare for war. Do I have it correct?”
“Exactly so, and it behooves us to ensure peace. Hostility with Mexico would not be in our best interests.”
“What is it you wish me to do, Mr. Secretary?”
“Open an investigation.” Lansing’s eyes burned with intensity. “Determine what Huerta and the Germans are planning that would result in conflict of any nature. We can’t be caught napping on this one.”
“No fear of that,” Holbrook said confidently. “I have just the man for the job.”
“Get him on it, then, the sooner the better. President Wilson has authorized whatever resources you feel are necessary to the task.”
“And if we uncover a plot in the making?”
Secretary of State Robert Lansing smiled. “We will foreclose on their options. Quickly and expeditiously. Do you take my meaning?”
Holbrook understood perfectly.
Lafayette Square was located directly across from the White House. Originally part of a tree-shaded park, the seven-acre plot for the square was dedicated to General Marquis Gilbert de Lafayette in 1824. A statue of the French general commemorated his service to the colonies during the American Revolution.
Frank Gordon cut through the square. His meeting at the Treasury Department had been interrupted by a call from the Director, and as he walked along in the forenoon sunlight, he caught the scent of cherry blossoms from the Tidal Basin. He crossed 17th Street to the Executive Office Building.
Gordon was tall, with the lithe build of an athlete, his chestnut hair set off by a square jaw and eyes the color of water on stone. He’d begun his career in law enforcement in the Virginia State Patrol, and his natural skills as an investigator led to headlines in several sensational cases. Three years ago, he had been recruited into the U.S. Bureau of Investigation, rapidly advancing to the rank of Special Agent. He was tough and resourceful, tenacious as a bulldog when working a case.
The Director’s office was located on the second floor of the Executive Office Building. Holbrook, who was a prominent Boston lawyer, had been chosen to head the Bureau when it was created as a division of the Department of Justice in 1908. The Bureau was mandated to investigate the violation of federal laws, as well as foreign intrusion in U.S. territories. In seven years, Holbrook had increased the force to over three hundred agents and established field offices in major cities. He served as the chief law enforcement official in America.
A secretary escorted Gordon into Holbrook’s office. The Director was seated behind his desk, puffing on a briar pipe, his features momentarily wreathed in smoke. J. Edgar Hoover, his assistant and general liaison with the field force, was perched on a chair as though awaiting orders. Hoover was short and pudgy, with the face of a gargoyle and the fussy manner of a schoolmarm. Gordon thought he was the quintessential bureaucrat, loyal to no one but himself.
“Come in, Frank,” Holbrook said. “Edgar and I have just been chatting about your new assignment. Have a seat.”
Gordon took a chair. “I’d welcome a new assignment, Chief. I’ve done about all I can with the counterfeit boys over at Treasury.”
“Not much as investigators, are they?”
“The way they operate, it’s a wonder the country’s not flooded with funny money. They’re more clerks than cops.”
“Treasury will struggle along somehow.” Holbrook paused, waved his pipe. “Tell me, Frank, what do you know of the Mexican Revolution?”
“Just what I read in the newspapers,” Gordon replied. “Seems like there’s a new dictator every week or so. They’ve been fighting forever.”
“Five years, to be precise,” Hoover interjected. “But only three dictators, if you include Diaz. Francisco Madero, had he lived, would have brought democracy to Mexico.”
Holbrook was often amused by Hoover’s pedantic nuggets of information. Today, he chose to ignore the interruption. He looked at Gordon. “Are you familiar with the name Victoriano Huerta?”
“Yes, sir, that rings a bell,” Gordon said. “Wasn’t he one of the dictators who got the boot?”
“Yes, and in a manner of speaking, Huerta’s your next assignment.”
Holbrook went on to detail the events of the past week. He first explained the Abwehr, and then elaborated on Colonel Franz von Kleist’s position with the German Intelligence Service. From there, he reviewed Britain’s MI-6 report on von Kleist’s meeting with Huerta. He concluded with Secretary of State Lansing’s speculation about a conspiracy to incite hostilities with Mexico.
“Of course, it’s all conjecture at this point. President Wilson has nonetheless ordered a thorough investigation of the situation. We must determine if Huerta is actually in league with the Germans.”
Gordon considered a moment. “The British report places Huerta in Madrid. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll try to enter Mexico?”
“Not right away,” Holbrook said. “His life would be forfeit if he were caught. Carranza would have him executed on the spot.”
“So how would he put an operation together?”
“Huerta has a network of loyalists in Mexico, especially in the northern states along the Rio Grande. Assuming there is a conspiracy, I suspect he’ll work through them for the immediate future. He wouldn’t
return until the operation is up and running.”
Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Knowing the Germans, I doubt they’d trust a bunch of Mexicans to pull this off. Wouldn’t they have someone on the ground to oversee things?”
“Quite likely,” Holbrook acknowledged. “If they are indeed funding the operation, they’ll want to orchestrate it every step of the way. Probably from their consulate in Matamoras.”
“Why Matamoras?”
“Because it’s directly across the Rio Grande from Brownsville. The area is highly populated, and it’s always been a tinderbox for hostilities between Mexicans and Texans. The Germans couldn’t ask for a better place to start a jolly little war.”
“Just so, Mr. Director,” Hoover said in a portentous voice. “Historically speaking, the area has an abysmal record for racial tension. Texans, in the main, look upon Mexicans as a lesser species.”
“Sounds like the place to start,” Gordon said. “Does the Bureau have any contacts in Matamoras?”
“Nothing official,” Holbrook noted. “However, I put Edgar on it and he’s opened a few doors. Tell him, Edgar.”
Hoover preened. “I’ve exchanged wires with the governor’s office in Austin. You will be met upon arrival by a ranking Texas Ranger. One who speaks Spanish, I might add.”
“Good thing,” Gordon said with a trace of irony. “I barely manage in English.”
The attempt at levity went past Hoover. “In addition,” he said, “I have wired General James Parker, who commands Fort Brown at Brownsville. He will provide whatever assistance you require.”
“Appreciate it, Edgar,” Gordon said. “I’ll take all the help I can get. Thanks for paving the way.”
“Also—” Hoover consulted his notepad. “You are booked on the Southern Limited, which departs at six-o-five tomorrow morning. You will change trains in Atlanta, Dallas and Austin.”
“Thanks again,” Gordon said in a jocular tone. “Gives me time to kiss my girl good-bye.”
“Which one?” Holbrook asked with a wry smile. “I thought you were playing the field these days.”
