CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, September 8, 1960

The final intelligence reports came into the office by courier. Obtaining the information had required two years of work by employees of the intelligence department of the European International Conglomerate, the Solntsevskaya Bratva, and the Dolgoprudnenskaya, a Washington, DC, branch of the Cosa Nostra, a confidential informant in the Argentine Secretaría de Inteligencia, a woman who worked for the French Ministery of the Interior who had an encyclopedic knowledge of the intelligence services of the National Police and a cocaine habit that allowed her to be the victim of blackmail, and a source inside a loose British criminal network. All of the individuals were paid a king’s ransom to betray their masters, and all of them knew full well that they would die if they were found out. The cost of obtaining the information would have been staggering to any ordinary office, but was considered just the cost of doing business by the two men who considered it to be invaluable—something for which they had been waiting fifteen years. The information was in the form of dossiers on men from the Soviet Union, the United States, Argentina, France, and Great Britain.

The opulent office in which the two men were sitting had gold lettering on the pane glass of the door reading: “Private Library of CEO Laird Eagen and President Randolph Bellwether.” The names were only two of the many pseudonyms employed by the men over years. As huge and rich as the corporation was, the two were virtual unknowns in the UK; and that is the way they liked it.

“Once we get this done, will you be thinking about retiring and disappearing? We’re not getting any younger,” Michaele asked his long-term partner.

Antoine just shrugged.

The two men met with their trusted confidants, the Gebirgsjägers, and the four men who survived the Allied occupation camps with them after the war and their misery in the gulag.

“We have enough money now to do pretty much whatever we want. More than two hundred million dollars pour into our legitimate business channels every month, and another three hundred comes in from our other activities—which includes and necessitates our money-laundering service,” Antoine said. “Michaele and I think it is time for us to phase in more legitmate business enterprises and to phase out our secret activities. We look to the time—maybe ten years from now—when we have no involvement in criminal activities or with criminals. That would mean that we could retire with wealth and without risks from the law or the other side of the law. We want to know what you think about it.”

“I see it differently, Antoine. The power that our wealth gives us is the real insurance. We own coppers, prosecutors, judges, and prison guards. That is expensive and getting more expensive all the time. I want those layers of protection; so, I don’t have to trust anyone. I don’t know anything about legitimate business; so, I would be like a lamb going to the slaughter,” said Serge.

He knew he could say his piece without getting Antoine angry, and he certainly did not want that. He had been present when Antoine felt like he was betrayed. No one survived Antoine’s impression of betrayal.

“Anyone else?” asked Antoine.

The men were quiet for a few moments, then Willibald spoke up, “Antoine, you and Michaele and I have gone through a lot. I wish you would stay on in our business. I don’t see myself sitting in a soft chair in my smoking jacket and slippers sipping peppermint snapps for the rest of my life. If you’re serious about it, maybe we could separate with a substantial nest egg for those of us who want to go it alone.”

“I guess I should ask: who is going to stay with Michaele and me?”

Hugues Beauchamp and Jérôme Christophe Mailhot nodded their heads, and the three other men—Willem Dortman, Fritzi Gerhardt, and Adolf Wagner who joined up with the Gebirgsjägers after the escape from POW Camp 63 in Brienne le Chateâu, France, followed suit. Willem always went where Adolf went, and Fritzi was Michaele’s bodyguard. The choice was not difficult for any of them.

“Michaele and I respect your decisions. I ask one thing of you and Willibald,” Antoine said, his attention on Serge Rounsavall who had been captured by the Russians on the same day in 1945 as Antoine, Michaele, Hugues, and Jérôme.

“Name it, Antoine.”

“We have unfinished business with the Russians, Americans, French, Argentines, and the Brits. It will take our whole team. I think you and Willibald want to see a little justice come out of our miserable lives before we decide to fade away. I don’t demand it—or require it of you—but I ask as an old friend: will you help us with a few erasures?”

“Of course. I have waited what seems like a lifetime to be able to even our scores.”

“We’ll never be even, Serge; but we can get some satisfaction. We are simple men, and we don’t ask for much. It’ll take a lot of planning.”

“And some nerve.”

“We’re good at both,” Michaele said. “We should get started today.”