ENEMY WITHIN Read online

  ENEMY WITHIN

  BY

  MICK BOSE

  Copyright © 2012 by Mick Bose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Jennifer Quinlan of Historical Editorial, and Graeme Hague of Polgarus Studio.

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of the 37 million casualties of the First World War (1914-1918).

  2014-2018 is the 100-year anniversary of the First World War.

  A century on, we remember the fallen.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR`S NOTE

  EXCERPT: HIDDEN AGENDA

  EXCLUSIVE OFFER

  THANKS FROM MICK

  CHAPTER 1

  West 49th Street

  New York

  Early June 1918

  Paul Becker stopped at the corner of West 49th Street and Ninth Avenue. He watched the buildings opposite, his right eye moving, his left less so, slowed by an old war injury. Becker was quiet by nature, soft spoken, a man who could melt into the background.

  It was early evening, a pink twilight suffusing the sky. The promise of summer lay heavy in the air. Paul mused over how New York was saved from any stifling heat by its proximity to the sea. He missed Berlin with its wide avenues and large parks. London too, where he lived occasionally. But London was congested and didn’t have the audacity New York possessed. Paul’s ideal city would be either Berlin or Paris, never London.

  An excitement clutched his guts. In war-torn Europe, The Imperial German Army had arrived within fifty miles of Paris.

  The dusk light wasn’t helping him. He wished Dr Klinsmann had chosen a different time, but the messenger told Paul the news was critical and the doctor would only deliver it in person. At least, Paul liked that. Telephone lines might be tapped, mail could be opened. He shrank further back in the shadow of the staircase at the bottom of the cornerstone building. A Daimler Touring motor car passed, reaching the end of the block and turning right onto Ninth Avenue. He waited. It was 6:30 p.m., the meeting was in half-an-hour. Paul wore a black overcoat, black shoes and a wide-brimmed hat covering his face. Thick, heavy rimmed spectacles obscured his eyes.

  After fifteen minutes he saw what he was looking for. A dark brown Ford came in from Ninth Avenue and stopped four doors away from Dr Klinsmann`s address. The driver wore a suit, and next to him a man in the unmistakable button-down tunic uniform of the New York Police. The engine stopped, the two men began watching the doctor’s house, waiting. Paul cursed under his breath, turned on his heels and headed back the way he had come.

  He took a right onto 46th and cut across an alleyway. Soon, he was at the back of the house. He looked around him, it was clear. But one of the men in the car would come round the back eventually. Dr Klinsmann lived in the middle floor apartment. Paul didn’t have much time. He looked up and sighed in relief. At least the doctor remembered to keep the window open. Paul moved swiftly, silently, up the fire escape stairs.

  He climbed through the window into an empty kitchen, lowering the window sash behind him. He heard footsteps and quickly stepped behind the door. Through the doorframe he saw a figure come out from the living room and cross the hallway to the study. It was Dr Klinsmann, wearing an old, creased suit, his white hair tousled. Paul listened for another minute, and then padded softly to the study and put his ear to the door, hearing the doctor shuffling around on the other side. He opened the door only a crack, but the hinges creaked.

  Instantly, Klinsmann was alarmed. “Who is it?”

  “It`s me, Paul.”

  The doctor was still troubled. “What`s the password?”

  “The Gutenberg Bible has been found.”

  “Are all the pages intact?”

  “No, the middle two are missing.”

  Klinsmann relaxed. “Come in, Paul.”

  Paul said, “First, turn off the light and look out the window, Herr Doktor.”

  Klinsmann did as he was told and swore loudly.

  “You’ve been under surveillance for a long time, Doktor,” Paul said mildly. “You get your messages from the office behind the old German Consulate in New York, whose wireless radio messages are listened to every day by English spies in London. They’ve cracked every code we make.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Haven’t they found all of us out? Von Papen, Captain Rintelen, how do you think they caught them?”

  Klinsmann was silent a moment. “Are you going to come in?”

  “I will, if you draw the curtains and leave the lights off.”

  “Yes, like the last time.”

  When the curtains were drawn and the room was dark, Paul stepped through the door. He took off his hat, holding it in front of his face.

  “What have you got to tell me?” Paul asked.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “A colleague of mine knows a man called George Burrell, who works for the Bureau of Mines. Burrell does research into noxious gases, which is a key task for the Bureau of Mines. Miners can die when exposed to gases after drilling. He devised the gas mask for American soldiers.”

  “And?”

  “My colleague says Burrell now works on a secret project for the Government. My colleague doesn’t know what for.”

  “Who is your colleague?”

  “Professor Carlson at the American University in Washington. Burrell now works there as well.”

  The name of the professor or the university meant nothing to Paul. But he could look into it.

  “The Government is hiring chemists in huge numbers. Even I was approached for my work with nitrates. I declined, obviously,” Klinsmann said.

  “Who approached you?”

  “Two men from the Bureau of Mines.”

  “Have you seen them before?”

  Klinsmann sounded irritated. “No I have not. I should remind you, I’m known internationally for my work on nitrates. Scientists and men in industry often seek my advice.”

  Paul didn’t move. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Your order to investigate this comes from the highest level.”

  “Who?”

  “Field Marshall Hindenburg and Colonel Nicolai Walters.”

  Paul nodded. Hindenburg, the Chief of Army Staff, and Colonel Walters, the head of Abteilung 3b, the Military Intelligence Department. Two powerful men. Paul guessed they already knew what this operation was for, but hadn’t told the idiots in the German Diplomatic Corps. Good. About time they began lear
ning. Paul had been sending coded messages for months now, warning them about the Royal Navy`s code-breaking service—even though he knew his own messages would be intercepted before they got to the Nauen Wireless station in Berlin. The entire covert operation in America had been blown to bits, thanks to the infernal English spies helping the Americans.

  Paul knew what he had to do next.

  “Can I please have a glass of water, Herr Doktor?”

  “But of course.”

  As Klinsmann moved past him towards the kitchen, Paul hooked his arm around the doctor’s neck, while he pulled the kukri knife from his belt. The blade sliced through the soft flesh below the angle of the doctor`s jaw, cutting through the carotid artery and jugular vein, smashing the sinus bones. Paul pushed harder and felt the frontal skull crack as blood started gushing out of the wound.

  He let the lifeless body fall to the floor, wiped the kukri on the man’s jacket and sheathed the weapon. The corpse twitched once, then went still.

  “You knew too much and never protected yourself, Herr Doktor,” Paul said softly.

  CHAPTER 2

  North east Iowa, 20km from Chagrin Falls

  Early June 1918

  Maggie stood on the stirrups of her brood mare, Lucky Kate, and craned her neck to see beyond the line of trees. She could hear the whinnies and smelt the dust from pounding hooves. Wild horses. Papa Myers didn’t believe her, but Maggie knew a pack existed out here. Ever since she’d been old enough to ride out to the boundary fence of Clay Tree Farm, she had known. Maggie loved horses. Papa bought Lucky Kate for her and they had grown together. Lucky, as Maggie called her, picked up her ears and snorted, jerking her head.

  Maggie stroked the horse`s neck. “Shh, Lucky. You hear them as well, huh? Yes, I know. They’re out there. I think they like us. That`s why they run past when we come here.”

  The sun warmed her neck and back as Maggie continued her ride around the boundary fence, making sure there were no gaps or recent breaks. Papa was getting old. The stroke he suffered a year earlier left him weak. Mama wasn’t so young either. And the work on the sixty-acre farm—small by the standards of north-eastern Ohio—wasn’t getting any easier. Maggie sighed. That morning she had carried bales of hay into the barn, milked the cow, picked the lettuce and parsnips, watered the spinach and kale, tended to the horses in the stable and fed the hens. It was in the chicken coop she discovered bite marks from a fox or coyote on the wire, which prompted the ride around the fence—and the shotgun on the saddle. It had been a month since the fence had been checked anyway.

  Maggie worked through the day, only stopping once for lunch, until the sky was darkening and she was hungry again. Her mouth watered at the thought of her Mama’s freshly baked bread with the churned butter and sugar crust on top.

  She pressed her heels into Lucky`s middle and the horse broke into a gentle canter.

  “Good girl, Lucky,” Maggie said. Her chestnut hair bounced around her shoulders as the mare circled around the fence.

  When Maggie got back to the farmhouse, she saw a one-horse buggy on the drive. It didn’t belong to the Newman’s, who lived ten miles from them—unless they had a new buggy. Besides, it was a Friday and the Newman’s would be at the market. Still, perhaps Gabriele Newman, who was an old friend of her Mama, had dropped by? Maggie wondered if Mr Newman was alright. Ever since his son had gone to war the old man hadn’t been the same.

  Maggie tied up the mare and went inside, taking off her hat. The kitchen was next to the hallway and she could smell the baked bread and also sausages. The kitchen was empty, so she walked into the dining room, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light. Three figures sat at the table.

  Her father Karl was the first to speak. “Sit down, Maggie. You remember Mr Bennett, don’t you? From the bank?”

  Maggie kept her voice steady. “Yes, I do.” She sat down next to her mother, who wore a worried look. Miranda Myers tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear and glanced at her daughter. Maggie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  Last year her father took a loan out on the farm. He didn’t have a mortgage—the loan was so they didn’t have to work as hard. But with the war on, some markets like wheat and grain now had price controls. Financing the loan had been difficult over the last three months and they were behind on the payments.

  Mike Bennett said, “Mr Myers, you’ve done business with our bank before.” Karl Myers nodded. “Farm loans were well-funded last year, but this year we’re having to call some loans back. Farms are making less money, as you know.”

  “And we produce less than what we used to. It`s alright, you can say it.” Karl Myers had always been a straight-talking man. Beneath the tanned, lined forehead and bushy eyebrows, steely blue eyes glinted at the banker.

  Maggie silently groaned. Why did she always feel guilty when Papa said their produce had fallen?

  “Sure, sure.” Bennett seemed uncomfortable under Karl Myer`s gaze. “’The problem is you’ve missed the last three payments, and this month`s payment is also late.”

  “As I explained,” Karl said patiently, “When the grains are sold next week, I will be able to pay you in full. We simply didn’t have enough produce to go to the market the last quarter.”

  Maggie looked at her lap and twisted her thumbs around the floral print of her gown.

  “Certainly, and thanks for the explanation. But I’m under instructions from my manager. I have to do my job,” Bennett spread his hands.

  The family waited in stony silence, while Bennett pursed his lips and looked at each one of them.

  “If the loans are late after this month, I’m afraid we will have to ask for full repayment of the loan capital.”

  Maggie stared at him. The money had been spent on building the barn, a new stable and digging irrigation channels. The farm hand, who had been working till last week, had to be paid as well. Barely one thousand of the ten-thousand dollar loan remained. Most of that would be used up over the next few months. They had no money to give back.

  After Bennett left, Maggie and her mother sat together in silence at the table. Maggie could hear her father close the front door after the banker, then his steps creaked on the stairs. Maggie went out to the porch and sat down on the swinging chair. Fireflies glowed in the darkness and crickets chirped their incessant song. A breeze came down from the hills bringing with it a smell of the rich earth and wild brush. Maggie folded her legs underneath her and listened to the sounds of the night. She had grown up in the farm. Apart from the occasional excursion to the markets of nearby towns and Cleveland city, farm life was all she had known. It was what she wanted.

  She heard the door open, and felt her mother sit down next to her.

  Maggie said, “He`s going to be ok, Mama.”

  Her mother sighed. “He`s taken it badly. A proud man, your father.”

  Maggie nodded. She was just like her father and understood he wanted to be left alone.

  “I’m going to take some corn to the market tomorrow,” Maggie said.

  “You don’t have to, Maggie. Wait till Johnny arrives. He can help you.” Johnny was their farm hand.

  “It`s alright. It’ll take me a bit longer, that’s all.”

  Miranda leaned forward. “Honey, don’t worry about the farm so much.”

  Maggie looked at her mother. She could just make out her shape in the darkness. “We need to keep the place running, Mama. That means taking the harvest to the market. I can’t keep waiting for someone. You can help me, too.”

  “I will, Maggie. But remember, your father always said if we can’t cope, we can always sell the farm.”

  Maggie`s cheeks turned red. She tried not to raise her voice, but it didn’t work. “No one is going to sell the farm, Mama! Not now, not ever.”

  Her mother said nothing. They sat for a while, then Maggie went inside.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Mother of Mary,” Major Thomas Tunney said under his breath. He was on his haunches, leaning o
ver the body of Dr Klinsmann. He looked up at his assistant and long-time friend, the new Inspector of the New York Bomb Disposal Squad, Chris Corell, a ten-year veteran of the NYPD. Tunney was still adjusting to Army life, having been a civilian Inspector for the last six years.

  “What do you think, Chris?” Tunney asked.

  “His face is almost cleaved off his spine, Captain… I mean Major.”

  “I’ve never seen a knife wound like this. If it is a knife, that is.”

  Corell nodded. “Either that, or a sword. It looks like a quick job. Only a heavy sword, swung hard, would have that effect. In that case, the victim would have time to defend himself. Yet there are no marks of any resistance on the victim.”

  With his leather baton, Tunney lowered the neckline of the victim`s shirt. “Mild contusion there. Probably was gripped. But not strangled.”

  “No, sir.”

  Tunney stood up and straightened himself. “Odd. Very odd. You sure no one came to see him?”

  “No. We even had a man going around the back. He saw nothing.”

  Tunney had spent twenty-three years in the police force, most of it lately on saboteurs and surveillance.

  “Are you saying the front and back entrance weren’t watched by separate teams?”

  Corell heard the formal tone. “We got the message late. We only had Nicholas and myself left…”

  “You should know better, Chris,” Tunney was heading to the door and stopped. That was unfair of him. The Bomb Disposal Squad was formed in 1914, four years ago, and only had five men, all of them officers. Even in his Department, the new Military Intelligence, the total number of men came to six. Including him, the latest recruit.

  Since 1914, when German terrorists gripped New York in their vice-like hold culminating in the immense explosion of Black Tom Island in 1916, the NYPD and Military Intelligence had been routinely following suspects.

  Tunney said, “You kept an eye on him, that’s what matters. What about the rest?”