“Then my mission, sir?” James asked. Is it counter-espionage?”
“Yes captain. But the President and I are most concerned about the Germans.” Pershing said, looking hard at the younger man.
“The Germans, sir?” James repeated.
“Yes, I suspect strongly that they are supplying Villa and others like President Carranza with important information they get from their spies operating across the Rio Grande. Remember, they’ll do anything to stir things up for us.”
“Yes, sir,” James agreed. “My mission, then, is to watch the Germans?”
“More than that, Captain James,” Pershing said. “Our border is threatened. Villa has already proven how vulnerable we are to attack.”
“I don’t expect you to watch every German in Mexico, Captain,” Pershing continued, as if reading his mind. “Just one—a very dangerous soldier by the name of Von Moltke. Colonel Hermann Von Moltke. Currently, he is working with the Mexican general, Obregón. We believe he operates a very sophisticated spy ring. Your mission, Captain James, is to break it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Paris, France, 1100 hours, July 23, 1916
Artillery fire rumbled somewhere off in the distance just north of the city. On the busy stone Parisian streets, military vehicles loaded with supplies and replacements for the front passed others packed with returning dead and wounded. The motor vehicles made growling noises that echoed in the narrow tree lined streets and mixed with the clop, clop of draft horses’ hooves. Voices of soldiers and vendors were occasionally heard above the din of civilian traffic.
Honking, then a loud crash of metal on metal followed by yelling, was heard when a motor truck laden with ammunition swerved out of control and crashed into the front of a speeding taxi. Steam from two radiators shot high into the warm humid air, sending pigeons roosting in the Oak trees upward like an explosion of feathers. The accident happened directly in front of an elegantly built 19th Century brick building, so close that it forced the old doorman to run deep into the marble-lined lobby.
The street noise penetrated the old window panes in the building’s largest office, located four floors above, but it didn’t disturb the room’s only occupant, a youthful looking man dressed impeccably in a dark wool suit. He sat unmoving in the wood desk chair, staring out the window. Indifferent to the riot of sounds below, he looked north across the gray Parisian skyline toward the maelstrom less than fifty miles from the old city.
Harrison James had long grown accustomed to the sounds of war, but they were strikingly different and implacably ugly compared to the pleasant sounds of prewar Paris. During the first months of the war there had been a general fear that the Kaiser’s army would reach and lay siege to the city, not unlike the war of more than 40 years earlier. The French evacuated most of the government, but the siege had not happened. On the Marne River, the French Army finally halted the overextended German advance.
Now entering its third year, the war had evolved into a stalemate of trenches—bloody, horrible gashes in the earth—that weaved their way across northern France, just north of the capital from the English Channel all the way east to Switzerland. The entire area became a battlefield for the contending armies known as the Western Front. Harrison sometimes wondered if it would have been better if the Germans had taken the city in 1914, possibly ending the war—and the suffering—quickly.
The summer of 1916 was devastating for the French and British armies. The allied offensive along the Somme River failed miserably to break the stalemate, with the casualty lists growing into the tens of thousands. The French nation threw everything it had into holding Verdun against repeated German attacks, exclaiming that “they shall not pass.” But the fighting continued to rage unabated. Many thousands of French and German boys fighting at Verdun were already dead. Harrison calmly considered how many more would be killed before that battered old fortress would be held or abandoned.
Like millions of Europeans, Harrison feared that the slaughter and destruction would just go on until all of Europe, from Western Russia to the English Channel, became a gigantic tomb of men and ruins. He was relieved that the United States was still neutral, remaining an observer only in this tragic and futile struggle.
Yet business was good, damn good. Harrison James was a businessman, an American neutral trading with the French Government. And he was making a fortune from this war, selling American commodities to the French—everything from grain, lumber, oil, steel, and even tooth powder.
He casually unfolded a week old copy of the Chicago Herald and began to read. Again, noises from the street reverberated across the room, causing him to look up and out the double window. He heard the shriek of a whistle, more honking and shouting. The old city was trying hard to accommodate soldiers, wounded, and civilian life itself, Harrison knew. Still, Paris was not the same city he remembered and perhaps it never would be again.
As one of the most sought after foreigners in France, Harrison had taken a suite of offices in the most exclusive neighborhood of the city to be nearer the government. It was an older building, full of history and unique Parisian charm. Even if he had wanted to make modest improvements, he knew it was impossible to find anyone to do the work. Every man under 40 fit enough to carry a rifle was in the army. Those deemed unfit for the army worked in the war production industries.
Relaxing his tall, lean frame into the chair, Harrison resumed reading. An article on the first page captured his interest. The Herald was reporting on Pershing’s foray deep into Mexico to chase Pancho Villa. That was Wilson’s revenge for Villa’s raid into New Mexico. Harrison didn’t need to be reminded that his brother Bart was part of that expedition. He commanded a company of Negro troops and he was damn proud of them. Harrison recalled how hard his younger brother had fought to get a command—anything to get him out of Washington.
There was a knock on the door. “Oui,” Harrison called informally. The door opened and his young female secretary entered. With the war taking all available young men into the army, he had been forced to hire a woman to do his clerical work.
“Monsieur,” she said with a curtsy. “Monsieur Butcher.” She indicated the man standing behind her.
“Oui, Mr. Butcher. Come in, please,” Harrison said, standing to extend his hand. “This is a great pleasure. I’ve been expecting you. I hoped the commotion out there wouldn’t delay your visit.” Both men shook hands across the desk. “Sit down, please.”
“Mr. James, I’ve been hearing much about you and your company,” Butcher said. He remained standing in front of the large desk. His face revealed no expression, not even a muscle twitch, Harrison noticed. Butcher waited for him to sit, and then followed. “I’m afraid I’ve come on official business. As you know, I represent the President of the United States.”
“Your letter of introduction informed me of your position, Mr. Butcher,” Harrison said carefully. “How may I be of service to the President?”
Although Butcher easily had 10 years on James, both men were considered handsome. They possessed distinctive Anglo-Saxon features—piercing, cold blue eyes, noses that were neither too large nor too small, and firm, well-shaped chins. Both were tall men, broad across the shoulders, narrow at the waist. But, as Harrison quickly learned, Butcher was different from the men he conducted business with on a daily basis. The diplomat sat stiff and straight in the chair with his knees pinched together, feet firmly planted on the floor, and hands resting on his thighs, palms down. He seemed to fit Harrison’s image of a career civil servant—formal and rigid. A know-it-all, he thought, who is now going to lecture me on the war, I suppose.
Harrison James, on the other hand, projected an image of supreme confidence and success. He appeared relaxed and interested, even though expecting a long monologue from the diplomat. Harrison had heard it before from others, but he maintained a conscious smile. Butcher immediately took that as condescension.
“Well, Mr. James, it is more a matter of
how we can assist you. Your company received approval to do business with the belligerents because you—you personally, Mr. James—have sworn not to sell munitions or any other products on the list of contraband materials to the warring parties, their representatives, or intermediaries.”
“That is correct, Mr. Butcher,” Harrison agreed, rocking back in his chair. “And I have honored that agreement, sir.”
“Mr. James, President Wilson is fighting to maintain strict neutrality. That struggle has been very difficult, as you are certainly aware.” Harrison nodded.
“Tell me: What are you currently selling to the French?”
“Grain mostly—corn and wheat. Several shipments of lumber came into Marseilles from the Northwest last month. Steel and oil are currently much in demand. I am negotiating with Standard Oil to import the oil, and with several Pittsburgh firms for a good price on steel. But trade is becoming more difficult and dangerous with German subs operating in the Atlantic,” Harrison said. “How may I help you, Mr. Butcher?” he repeated.
“We suspect that Randolph James Commodity Brokers is transacting with the French Government for munitions—large bore gun barrels and explosives, mostly,” Butcher told him. “As a matter of fact, the German Government has recently lodged a formal protest. They charge that your company in Chicago negotiated an agreement with a representative of the French Government one month ago to ship those items in volume. They demand that your license be revoked immediately.”
“You take the word of German spies, Mr. Butcher?”
Butcher ignored the question. “Mr. James, federal agents tracked a shipment of those items belonging to Randolph James to the port of Galveston. The entire shipment has been temporarily quarantined until we can sort it all out.”
“What does my mother say to these charges?” Harrison asked.
“She stated, and I might add, not under oath, that the particular shipment traced was meant for the naval depot in New Orleans. But the commandant there had no knowledge of it.” Butcher watched James’ reaction. “At present, the United States Government cannot prove otherwise because there don’t appear to be any papers with the cargo, and no Europe-bound freighter was designated to ship it. That could change, of course. Our investigation has just gotten underway.”
Harrison, who knew Butcher was watching him, nodded, and gave the diplomat a simple look of interest.
“We are hoping that you can clear this matter up, as you are the company’s principle contact here in Europe,” Butcher finished.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor have I been briefed by my mother. I have not at any time contacted or been contacted by the French or the English, or my home office for that matter, regarding their purchase of American munitions.”
Butcher never took his eyes from James, obviously still gauging the young businessman’s reactions.
“You say you are selling wheat. The Germans say explosives. Please understand: If their accusations are true, the United States is in direct violation of the Neutrality laws. Such business transactions could easily be considered acts of war. I am here to discover the facts of the situation, not to charge or threaten you in any way. I want to inform you, Mr. James, of what is at stake here.”
“I understand,” Harrison responded as sincerely as possible. “I will wire Chicago immediately with your concerns. But again, Mr. Butcher, I must state that I know nothing of this.”
“And again, I must caution you. There is an official investigation underway and, if we determine that the German allegations are true, your company’s license will be revoked immediately. There could also be criminal charges.”
“I think you’ve been misinformed Mr. Butcher. Randolph James Commodity Brokers has, since the beginning of hostilities here, complied with all laws—American and French.” Harrison thought he understood Butcher’s type. He was driven by one thing and one thing only—his mission—and he would not lose focus until guilt was established or innocence proven.
Butcher stood and offered his hand. “Good day, sir. Thank you for your time.” He turned and marched for the door.
Harrison stood behind his desk, his mind elsewhere. Dear mother, so greedy and obsessed with power. He was deeply troubled and confused by Butcher’s accusations. He slowly massaged the muscles in the back of his neck.
When the James’ father died quite unexpectedly, mother, Bart, and Harrison inherited equal shares in the company. Following 12 months of acrimonious in-fighting between Harrison and their mother over control of the company, Bart announced that he would vote for Harrison to run the company if his brother allowed their mother a free hand with her personal business interests. In return, she had to accept Harrison’s leadership. They agreed, and Bart signed over his proxy to his brother.
That decision was proving to be a great mistake—if Harrison’s only mistake. But Bart was devoted to his mother, and Harrison was not prepared to destroy his younger brother’s relationship with her—or with him—by using Bart’s shares that he controlled to throw her out of the company.
But attempting to circumvent the American munitions embargo? He was amazed at the audacity of it.
CHAPTER THREE
Columbus, New Mexico, 1000 hours, October 5, 1917
The muscular-looking, well-dressed man stood, waiting impatiently, in an interior corner of the Hotel Hoover’s lobby. A hot desert smell blew in through the open windows and hung in the air, dusting everything and everyone with a thin red coat. The weather was unusually hot and dry for this late in the season. He had seen smoke rising from the Portillo Mountains just to the north on his train trip from El Paso. Probably a brush fire, he was told by the conductor
The man, not used to the heat and grit of southwest New Mexico, wiped the perspiration and dust from his face with a silk handkerchief. Until several years ago, he had lived and worked in Chicago. He decided that was a much more civilized place. Opportunities for making fast money had brought him to El Paso. But he had not anticipated the dangers and the endless intrigue with all the competing armies. Their spies and agents had begun to threaten his business.
Trying to appear occupied, he retrieved a newspaper from under his arm and pretended to read the front page. The war news didn’t interest him, but a short article on the bottom of the page caught his eye. “Rioting Negro Soldiers from New Mexico to be court-martialed in November,” he read. He wondered how many soldiers remained to patrol the border, and the state of their morale.
Then he heard a name called. It wasn’t his name, but rather an agreed upon signal.
“MISTER BARNES FROM DENVER?” a heavily accented voice said. It sounded melodious to the ear. “MISTER BARNES,” the voice repeated, coming closer to where the man stood.
He nodded to the young, Hispanic-looking bellboy. “Here,” he said, loud enough to catch the bellboy’s attention, but not loud enough to call attention from others.
“Someone looks for you, señor,” the bellboy said. “I will get him?”
“Yes, bring him here,” the man said. He handed the young man a dime.
*
“You’re late,” the man hissed to a shorter, younger, darker skinned man who had approached and was now standing only inches from him. “Were you lost?”
“Sorry, señor. Crossing the border es dangerous now,” the man responded with a shrug. His thick coarse hair was black, short, and crudely cropped off. He was dressed like a local—cotton shirt open at the neck, no jacket. The young man was noticeably out of place in the Hoover lobby, filled mostly with well-dressed white men parading around with great self-importance. The white men were mostly from Denver, Houston, or Santa Fe, conducting business with the army, local ranchers and miners, or with Mexicans who had come up from Chihuahua Province to purchase needed supplies. Everyone had something to sell, and could always find a buyer willing to pay top dollar for scarce merchandise.
“This business is muy importante, eh señor?” The shorter man’
s dark, cold eyes studied the taller man, whom he had recognized immediately as his contact. They both held copies of the Houston Post, another recognition signal that had been arranged in advance. American? European maybe, he thought. It was difficult to tell with gringos.
“That is not your concern,” the white man responded crisply.
“Why do you call for me, eh?”
“It is a mission specially suited to your skills. You did very well with the last assignment,” the white man said quietly, looking casually around the lobby to ensure no one was listening. The white man felt uncomfortable here. He worried that he would be remembered meeting with a man like this one. But he was putting out a fire that, if allowed to burn, could eventually destroy the entire operation. Hiring this dangerous animal was a necessary part of his plan.
“The money?”
“The usual way. Half now and half when the job is done. It will be waiting for you as before, in Juarez.” The white man pulled a brown envelope from his coat pocket and slipped it to the shorter man beneath his newspaper. He scanned the lobby again. “Further instructions are inside, with the money. They’re in Spanish. You can read, I assume.”
Ignoring the comment, the younger man opened the envelope and looked inside. With his thumb and forefinger, he carefully touched each bill to ensure the amount was what they had agreed to earlier. Smiling, he pulled out a single sheet of paper before stuffing the money in his shirt.
The white man watched the young Indian quickly read the note, refold it, and stick it inside his shirt. “The brother must die, too,” he continued. “Together, in some type of altercation—ah, confrontation—that I’m sure you can arrange.” He disliked the idea of being involved with killing, but knew he had no other choice. “This must be done in January.”
Today, I will help Standard Oil because they want Villa to win, he thought. In January, I sell to Carranza when he has money to pay me. A quick smile of contentment creased the otherwise expressionless face.
Chasing Pancho Villa Page 2
