The German Agent Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by J. Sydney Jones

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Epilogue

  Recent Titles by J. Sydney Jones

  THE GERMAN AGENT *

  The Viennese Mysteries

  THE EMPTY MIRROR

  REQUIEM IN VIENNA

  THE SILENCE *

  THE KEEPER OF HANDS *

  A MATTER OF BREEDING *

  * available from Severn House

  THE GERMAN AGENT

  J. Sydney Jones

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by J. Sydney Jones

  The right of J. Sydney Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Jones, J. Sydney author.

  The German agent.

  1. World War, 1914-1918–Secret service–Germany–

  Fiction. 2. World War, 1914-1918–Diplomatic history–

  Fiction. 3. United States–Politics and government–

  1913-1921–Fiction. 4. Washington (D.C.)–Fiction. 5. Spy

  stories.

  I. Title

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-07278-8436-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-544-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-590-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  FOREWORD

  In the early months of 1917, the United States was teetering on the brink of a fateful decision: whether or not to enter the European war – the Great or First World War as it came to be known in the history books.

  Good men on both sides of the issue pleaded their case in America. A national debate raged, for everyone knew the momentousness of such a decision: we would be entering the world stage, not simply a war. We would forever after be players in an international game, a role the United States had heretofore only partially understudied. Splendid isolationism – despite forays into Cuba and the Philippines – was still the rule of the day.

  Good men on both sides of the Atlantic argued the issue, as well. The British, held in a stranglehold by a U-boat blockade and all but alone in the fight, were desperate for our help. The Germans, exhausted and ravaged by a multi-front war, saw victory at hand, and wanted at all costs to keep the US out of the fray.

  Good men on both sides of no-man’s-land – huddled, sodden, and shell-shocked in their trenches – considered the issue, and wanted only one thing: an end to the war. Not victory. After so many losses on both sides, there could be no winners. For these men, the soldiers of the warring nations, US entry could mean only one thing: a prolongation of the slaughter. Another half million dead before the cannons would finally cease.

  And good men – and bad – on both sides plotted to either lure the Americans into war or lock them out, to somehow influence the decision-makers in Washington.

  As with all things of great moment, this decision would not be left to reasoned judgment, but to the hurly-burly of good or bad luck. For, in the early months of 1917, a single scrap of paper held history in the balance; a secret message that – if delivered – would thrust the US over the precipice into war, or that – if suppressed – would steal the fire from the pro-war senators in Washington.

  That scrap of paper is known as the Zimmermann Telegram.

  While the events of The German Agent are fiction, the Zimmermann Telegram and the convoluted history of its provenance, transmission, and interception are only too real and have reverberated through the corridors of international diplomacy for the past century.

  PROLOGUE

  London, England

  January, 1917

  Now I’ve gone and done it, she thought. What if that beady-eyed super, McMasterson, spotted me with me arm up to the elbow in the typing pool wastebasket? What if the other cleaning woman, Mrs Childes, saw me pocket those crumpled bits of paper?

  What if? What if? To hell with them all, she thought as she got off the number nine omnibus. It’s worth the risk.

  Nothing much in Bess Todd’s forty years had gone right. She suffered from lumbago and fallen arches. Her only child had died of diphtheria at four, and her husband had left her not long after.

  She always told people that he’d died, leaving her a widow.

  ‘Poor Mr Todd,’ she would say after a gin or two, her drooping eyes filling with tears. ‘Fell down an elevator shaft, he did. Left me with nothing. No insurance. Nothing but a pair of dirty britches in the laundry basket.’

  Even in her lies she painted herself as a victim. Until last month.

  Then Michael had come into her life.

  God, how I love that man, she thought as she hurried as fast as her pudgy short legs would carry her down Whitechapel from the omnibus halt and toward her block of flats on Kentish Road.

  He’s my man. I love the smell of him; the touch of his smooth hands on my naked flesh.

  She was hurrying because she wanted to catch her Michael still in bed; because she wanted him on top of her, inside her, covering her like a big old stallion would his mare.

  She’d never known that sex could actually be pleasurable until Michael.

  The early morning was so cold that white frozen plugs shot out of the tops of milk bottles on doorsteps. Gas lamps were still on; there’d be no sun today with the sky low and menacing.

  She clutched her felt bag tightly to her chest; that was where she’d shoved the ball of paper she’d retrieved from the trash. But she’d been so nervous and excited after stealing it that she’d had to leave work early.

  I hope Michael’s newspaper will like this little bit, she thought. Maybe he’ll get a rise on account of it and we can take a trip to the seashore this summer. How grand it would be to see the pier at Brighton. Maybe I’ll get a new frock for the trip.

  Yes, it was damn well worth the risk.

  She smiled at this thought and Mr Pearson, the tobacconist, who was just opening his shop, tipped his black bowler at her, thinking the smile had been meant for him.

  Bess bustled past him, g
iving him only a curt nod, saving all her best stuff for Michael.

  But what if they do catch you?

  Ah now, it was just a crumpled ball of paper I nicked from the Foreign Ministry trash. Not the bleeding crown jewels. Little enough to do for Michael after all he’s done for me.

  She tingled all over just thinking of his hands on her breasts, massaging them like fresh bread dough.

  How lucky you are, Bess. The luck has finally found you.

  They’d met in a little gin house just off Earl’s Court, him a fine looking chap in his early forties with a bad ticker, he’d said, so they would not take him for a soldier. No white feathers about him. He worked for the papers, a reporter, like. And he’d sat next to her in the only available seat in the whole smoky inn and had chatted her up, actually finding her interesting.

  He bought a round of gins and the next thing, you know, Bob’s your uncle, they’d ended up at her bed-sit together, her moaning into her pillow while he serviced her like a man with absolutely no ticker problems at all. He’d moved in with her that very day. In between lodgings, he’d said all sheepish. She figured reporters made even less than charwomen.

  Little enough to do for him, she thought, as she arrived at her soot-blackened building and unlocked the street door with the big Chambers key that weighted the bottom of her bag like a revolver. Just nick a few papers now and again from the bucket what should go to the incinerator.

  ‘A charwoman at the Foreign Ministry?’ he’d said that first night, all surprised at learning her occupation. ‘Well, you’re a princess in my eyes, you are.’

  He had the romantic way of talking that made Bess melt inside; actually made her wet and hot down there.

  You’re a sinful old girl, Bess Todd, she thought, doing a half-skip up the stairs to her third-floor bed-sit. Randy as a mare in heat.

  From the landing she could see that her door was ajar. The door to the communal bath and toilet at the end of the hall was closed and a light was showing under it. She went into her cramped lodgings. Some of Michael’s things were spread out on the chipped deal table, and she felt a rush of affection just seeing that he was making himself at home.

  Pencil and paper; a small book open; a letter sticking half out of a torn envelope. Working. Probably writing one of his articles for the papers. She was curious about her Michael, for he would not talk of his work, would not tell her about his past or his family. Like he was hiding something from her. She dropped her bag on the table next to his papers, opened the clasp and took out her prize for him, carefully smoothing out the discarded ball of paper with the edge of her right hand like she was ironing handkerchiefs until the two pages lay flat, the lion rampant clearly visible on the letterhead of the first.

  A momentary sense of guilt and shame tugged at her: when taking the job at the ministry she’d vowed never to do exactly this. Hand on Bible and all. But there wasn’t really anything wrong with it, Michael had explained. The people had a right to know what their government was up to, even in time of war. And the newspaper he worked for would never print anything that would actually harm Britain, he’d said.

  ‘We aren’t traitors, just watchdogs,’ he would tell her when they lay in bed together after making love, and then he’d describe what sorts of papers she should look for: heavy rag paper with the ministry letterhead; blue flimsies of cables sent or received.

  She took off her hat and coat and dropped them onto a straight back chair, and then her eyes trailed to his writing on the table.

  ‘… SS Edgerton leaving Falmouth, 0400 hours, Feb. 2, bound for New York; SS Essex departs Dover, 2200 hours, Feb. 3 …’

  Strange sort of article, she thought. Like a shipping list.

  Next to this was a book of tide charts. The letter half-peaking out of the envelope intrigued her. There was a Dublin postmark on it.

  Is that the funny lilt I hear in his voice? she suddenly wondered. Is he a Paddy then? Is that what he’s hiding from me?

  She pulled the letter out of its envelope and opened it, then felt her heart skip a beat when she read the opening line:

  ‘Lieber Freund …’

  Her eye went quickly down the page. The whole bleeding thing was in German!

  Bess felt a sudden shiver pass over her, like a goose crossing her grave.

  ‘You’re home early.’

  She swung around at the sound of Michael’s voice. He was standing barefoot in the doorway in his undershirt, pants and braces, holding a shaving mug and brush in one hand, a cut-throat razor in the other. His eyes went immediately to her hands, which still held the letter from Dublin.

  ‘What is all this?’ she said.

  He shrugged, grinning. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I was anxious to be with you. To show you my new find.’

  She suddenly felt all the joy leave her, realizing she was about to become a victim once again, and this angered her.

  He closed the door, walked slowly toward her, and set the shaving mug on the table. ‘I can explain.’

  His eyes were sorrowful looking, sincere. But she suddenly did not trust her Michael; suddenly realized she knew nothing about him whatever.

  ‘It’s from an old school chum of mine in Dublin,’ he said. ‘Takes himself for a marvelous linguist.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She felt the anger rising, turning red-hot in her chest. ‘And these shipping lists?’

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. ‘Why did you have to come home early?’

  ‘It’s my bleeding home. I’ll come when I want.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head.

  A half hour later he had dressed, cleared all traces of himself from the bed-sit and was locking the door. He looked one last time at Bess: the blood around her head had turned a dirty rust color now and was already thickening like gelatin.

  He felt nothing; neither remorse nor shame at what he had done.

  The pages of the purloined telegram copy were folded in his pocket, his heart still racing at its contents. Berthold will be a happy man tonight in Berlin, he thought.

  Happy? Shite. Berthold’s going to mess his pants over these papers.

  ONE

  Washington, DC

  February, 1917

  The snow began at about ten that morning. With its coming, Catherine Fitzgerald decided to call it a day. She had intended to take more architectural shots for her Washington album, but with available light low and the snow dampening the lens of her new pocket Kodak camera, there was not much point in continuing. Instead she would go home and work on the enlarger in her dark room.

  Thomas had dropped her off, for she had not wanted to be concerned with remembering where she had parked. She had arranged for Thomas to pick her up at one, but she was freezing and not about to wait for the old servant to come retrieve her.

  The old ‘servant’, she thought. As if Thomas had ever been less than part of her family. He had helped to raise her; had dried her tears when a homemade kite had caught in the great elm at her father’s Rhode Island estate; had risked his life scaling that tree to fetch it. He was decidedly afraid of heights, and all Catherine could remember of the incident were Thomas’s eyes, large and white, peering down at her from the heights of the tree.

  As she was thinking these thoughts, she left the wide avenues around the Capitol to stumble into a warren of shanties and shacks in a narrow alley. Smoke came from the chimneys of two of these structures, swirling into the falling snow. They were little more than lean-tos with corrugated metal roofing, stables by the look of them. Perhaps for the few remaining horses that pulled hansom cabs for the tourists. It took her a moment to be able to discern how many separate buildings there were. Her best count made it fifteen such miserable structures, cobbled together against back walls of brick buildings which faced onto much more congenial avenues facing the Capitol.

  Then she heard the unmistakable cry of a baby from one of the shacks, the clatter and bang of cooking pans, and a woman’s snarling voice: ‘Shut up, will yo
u!’

  This was followed by another mournful, plaintive cry, and Catherine could not stop herself, she had to go to that crying baby. A slat-board door hung unevenly on the opening to the shed from which the sound had come, and she rapped on this.

  There was no answer for a moment, then finally a woman in a greasy blouse and skirt with a baggy cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and hair falling down into her face opened the door.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Catherine was taken back for a moment, wondering what indeed she did want. The harsh smell of unwashed bodies and kerosene came from the open door.

  ‘A baby,’ she finally stammered. ‘I heard a baby crying.’

  The woman scowled at her, filling the tiny door so that Catherine was not able to see in back of her into the shack.

  ‘I try to keep him quiet. What’s your complaint? Can’t sleep in your fancy bed for all the noise of my little one?’ She jerked her head toward the brick row house to which her shack was attached.

  Catherine’s gaze however went behind the woman, for she had now moved enough to allow a view of the interior. In an instant she was able to take in the scene: a dirt floor with here and there straw covering it; a scratched table with two rickety chairs; a simple iron bed in one corner. The baby, strapped into a sort of high chair, stopped its squalling, looking with wide hungry eyes at Catherine.

  ‘Have you gawked long enough?’ The woman slammed the door in her face.

  ‘But I want to help you,’ Catherine cried out at the closed door, a deep sense of guilt overcoming her. Here she was dressed in furs and boots, a shoulder bag stuffed with cameras and film worth enough money perhaps to rent this woman and her baby a decent lodging for a year, and all she could do was gape at them.