CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Soviet Naval Aviation Office, A-253, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 19, across from the Moscow Military District Headquarters, 1622 hours Moscow time, the same late evening

The killing room was swept clean of any trace of the assassination team that had been there, including wiping down every surface, removing the brass from the spent cartridge, and replacing the furniture back in its original position. The process took less than ten minutes. Antoine, Krespin Brundinovich, and his six boyeviks moved down the back stairway and out into the trash-strewn alley, sending rats scurrying for cover. Three AZLK Moskvitch 401s owned by the thieves-in-law were waiting. The assassination team crammed themselves into the three small Russian-built vehicles; and, a minute later, the hit squad was lost to view of the frantic military police and soldiers who were searching the area in a fury. They checked out the aviation office where the shot had been fired and never knew that it was the site.

Antoine spent the night at the safest of safe houses—House No. 6, Maly Patriarshy Pereulok, southwest Side of Patriarshiye Ponds, Moscow. It was safe because it was untouchable: it was the home of Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava, the vory v zakone [syndicate boss and chief of the thieves-in-law] of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, russkaya mafiya [Russian mafia].

In the morning, Krespin brought disturbing news from America to the pakhan in the form of an article published in Pravda that morning. The story warranted only a few paragraphs, but it appeared on the front page under the fold. Leonid handed the paper to Antoine without comment as soon as he read it.

The headline read: Assassins Kill American Officer in Mexico. The first paragraph was: “Snipers murdered retired American Army Major Richard Saunders in the Mexican border town of Ojinaga. It is believed that he was assassinated by the American CIA because he was about to divulge information to Mexican authorities that could be embarrassing to the American intelligence service. It is a common response by that terrorist organization.

“One of the assassins is currently under siege in a hospital in the American state of Texas where it is reported that he has been severely wounded. Our informants consider it unlikely that the man—whose real identity is not known for certain—will leave the hospital alive. He may possess knowledge that the CIA cannot allow to become public. The only clue to the man’s identity is that he was registered into the hospital under a presumably false name, Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort. He was described as having a German accent. It is widely known that the United States regularly uses former German SS personnel to carry out their dirty work.”

Antoine digested the information quickly and made a life-changing decision just as quickly.

“Leonid Zaslavskevich, this is serious news. I will be unable to return to London in the foreseeable future. I will need your assistance to travel incognito to Argentina where I have contacts. I will need to make some overseas telephone calls, and then I will need to have the Solntsevskaya Bratva move me out of Russia.”

Leonid sat quietly, thinking, for a couple of minutes.

“That is a most difficult request, my friend. I am sure you know that.”

Antoine nodded.

“We have little direct contact with backdoor operatives either here or in Argentina who would be willing to provide such a service. As you might imagine, the ODESSA and Spider organizations are not altogether friendly with Russians in general; and any kind of relationship between ODESSA and official Soviet agencies is strictly prohibited.”

“But the Solntsevskaya Bratva has what the Americans call a ‘behind-the-scenes’ arrangement with ODESSA,” Antoine stated, knowing for certain that it was true; and he was not asking a question.

“Perhaps there is some truth to that, Laird.”

Not even Breslava knew Antoine’s real name.

“I presume it would be somewhat expensive.”

“That makes you the master of understatement, my friend,” Leonid said. “First of all, the assassin or assassins of an American Army officer would make you what the American FBI would call ‘Public Enemy Number One’; and there will be a worldwide manhunt. ODESSA will be most reluctant to come under scrutiny.”

Antoine was growing weary at having to endure Breslava’s usual haggling game; so, he decided to cut to the chase, even if it might appear to be somewhat discourteous. He was too tired and too anxious to prolong the negotiation like Arabs in a souk sipping tea.

“How much do you think it will cost, Leonid Zaslavskevich?”

Leonid thought for a moment, then scribbled a figure on a piece of note paper.

Antoine’s only outward expression change was a slight tightening of his facial muscles, an almost imperceptible response.

“Let us do it today, Leonid Zaslavskevich.”

Leonid had to work to suppress a smile of satisfaction. He left the room and put in a call to Schloss Krupp in the southeast corner of Lietzenburger and Pfalzburger Strassen, Charlottenburg Section of City West Berlin. He made immediate connection via the private line to his old sometimes nemesis and sometimes friend, Anton Friedrich Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Leonid Zaslavskevich?” the head of the ODESSA asked.

“I have a mutually beneficial business proposition to offer you. Your organization is uniquely suited to perform a service.”

§§§§§§

Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, October 1, 1962, 0830

Michaele Dupont started to dream and shortly thereafter realized that he was waking up. He was mildly confused and disoriented, and he felt sick. His mouth was dry and coated with a residue of bloody phlegm, but he was pleased to find that he was in possession of his faculties. Nurse Digby discovered that her patient was awake and offered him tea.

“Thank you, that would be helpful,” Michaele said.

“Ya’ll drink yoah tea, Lord Downfort; and I will get you some breakfast.”

Michaele did not like the heavy breakfasts that Germans and Americans preferred when he was healthy, and he was not sure he would even be able to get the tea down, let alone bacon, eggs, heavy pancakes, toast, corn meal mush, fruit, Texas tacos and burritos, and coffee, now that he was sick. He did feel well enough to recognize that he was actually having some hunger pangs.

Ruth left the room and went straight to ranger Capt. Tom Packer, whom she considered to be the ranking officer among the law enforcement officers gathered in the hallway, the FBI notwithstanding.

“He’s awake, and he’s not coughin’; that’s the good news. He’s weak and hungry, which might be bad for ya’ll. Mah advice to ya’ll is to wait just a bit whilst ah fetch him up some breakfast. He’ll be able to concentrate better then.”

“Awraht, Ruth. But we ain’t got all day. We might be dealin’ with a bigger plot heah; so, the more we learn and the sooner we learn it, the better we’ll be at protectin’ and servin’ the people of the great state of Texas.”

“Ah understand, and ah will do mah best ta hurrah thengs along, Captain.”

The large coterie of brother law enforcement officers fidgeted impatiently for two hours finishing their huge breakfasts while “Lord Downford” slept fitfully, coughing frequently, and mumbling confusedly. Finally, Ruth let the two rangers in.

“Hey theah, Lord Downfort. How ya’ll feelin’?” Tom Packer asked with just the right solicitous tone.

“Some better.”

“That’s real good,” Tom observed and was instantly aware of the man’s decidedly German accented English, hardly the Etonian accent he was expecting from this man who was supposedly a peer of the realm. “Ya’ll up to answerin’ a few questions, suh?”

“Depends.”

“Whatta ya’ll mean … ‘depends’ Lord Downfort?”

“If the questions are not too stressful. As you can see, respecté agent de police,” he said, not mindful that in his weariness he had slipped into his native French. “A stressful question or two might cause me harm.”

It did not escape Ranger Packer that the man’s French slip of the tongue was uttered with a perfect French accent. More than a little was not kosher here, but Tom was not at all sure what it meant.

“Tell me, please, what is your full name, suh?”

Michaele paused briefly, trying to remember. His brain was foggy, but he knew he needed to be careful.

“Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort,” he responded.

“Ya’ll ah an Englishman, Ah presume?”

“I am.”

“Please give me ya’ll’s address and telephone numbah; so, we can contact ya’ll’s relations ovah theah.”

Michaele had prepared for that question and replied with the street number of one of European International Conglomerate’s warehouses, certain that these Texas hicks would not have the resources to verify his statement. He was very careful not to slip and tell the hick cop about No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London—the address of the corporate offices.

Tom made a note then proceeded, “Whatta ya’ll doin’ heah in Texas, suh?”

“Business. However, my aggravating cough worsened; and I must have lapsed into unconsciousness because I woke up here in this hospital.”

“What kinda business, Lord Downfort?”

“Import-export.”

“Does yoah business require you to go into Mexico?”

Michaele’s antennae went up—way up.

“We have a worldwide type of business as you might imagine … respected officer.”

The stilted English came out with a decided Germanic accent, and it was basically the same words the suspect had used when he slipped momentarily into French. One thing Tom decided at that point was that the man was doing an acting job pretending to be an English lord and was not doing a very good job at it. What he could not decide was whether the man was a Jerry or a Frenchie. He would have some questions to ask INTERPOL as soon as he was done with the questions.

“Ah need a definite answah to mah next question, Yoah Lordship. Exactly what were ya’ll doin’ in Ojinaga, Chihuahua State, Mexico yesterday mornin’?”

Michaele paled visibly and closed his eyes.

“I’m afraid you will have to come back in an hour or two when I have had time to rest. I am rather ill–as you can see–and I am not up to any further questions.”

He began to cough vigorously, which seemed even more theatrical than his fake lordship accent to Tom; but he decided to let it go for the moment. “Lord Downfort” lapsed quickly—remarkably quickly—into a deep sleep.

Tom left the sick room with all of its bacteria floating around in the fetid air. He sought out INTERPOL agent Superintendent Axel Baird–—who had been smart and polite enough not to interfere up to this point.

“Axel,” Tom said, “okay if Ah call ya’ll bah ya’ll’s fust name?”

“Sure,” Axel replied, “that’s how we do business for the most part in INTERPOL. How can I be of help?”

“Ah need a coupla thengs, Axel. Ah got this heah address for ouah ‘Lord Downfort’ in theah. Can ya’ll check it out, raht quick like?”

“Sure.”

“And, while ya’ll ah at it, see if this heah name is legit. Ah thenk he’s as phony as a three dollah bill, but mebbe Ah’m just ona those untrustin’ old rinchers [Mexican slang for Texas cop].”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Axel called Eugène Léon Dentremont to expedite the gathering of that specific piece of information.

After Axel’s call, Eugène dialed the number for Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White at New Scotland Yard.

The secretary took a few minutes to locate the chief inspector.

“Hello, Eugène, how can I be of service?”

“We may have a small break in our case involving murders of important officials in several countries. You no doubt remember the assassination of Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell, RA, Retired?”

“Most certainly; and how could I forget, Eugène? Ten Downing pesters me daily about why we have not cracked the case. It will be refreshing to have something to report.”

Eugène gave him the pertinent information.

“I’ll get right on it. I’ll ring you up as soon as I have anything.”

Linc thumbed through his rolodex and located the name of the London detectives in charge of the investigation—DI [Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard] Angela Snowden and DI Anthony Bourden-Clift.

When he had them both on the line, he did not waste a syllable, “I telexed the information you need. Drop everything and get on this. Call me directly, and I will let INTERPOL and the Texas Rangers know. Be prepared to follow up on what ever comes of this.”

“Yes, sir,” both detective inspectors chimed at the same time.

The search was ridiculously easy: Anthony found a current copy of Burke’s Peerage, and Angela opened the British Phone Book. No such person as Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort was ever listed in the genealogies of English peerage, and the address—although a real one—was for a warehouse of a large company called the European International Conglomerate. Angela found the names of the two main executives—CEO Laird Eagen and President Randolph Bellwether—and a number for the headquarters office at No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London. The two detective inspectors presumed it was too easy, and that the names would either be phonies like the address, or the officers would be legitimate and would have nothing to do with the case. It seemed like picking their names out of a hat.

Anthony called DCI Crandall-White and gave him a status report. The time between their two calls that morning was less than ten minutes. Linc called INTERPOL headquarters in Lyon and informed the senior detective chief superintendent. Eugène called his New York City superintendent, Axel Baird. The call came to nurse Ruth Digby, who trotted promptly to the waiting room where all of the law enforcement agents were sitting in suspended animation.

“Superintendent Baird, Ah got a call from the head of INTERPOL. He says to tell y’all and everybody else that there’s no sucha person as Lord whatshisname. The address was a good one, but not for him. British murder detectives ah on theah way raht now to talk to the heads of the company. News at elem.”

She said all without taking a breath. Less than twenty minutes had elapsed since Axel Baird had made his call. Axel got it all except for “news at elem,” but he decided to forego asking in the interest of time.

Almost simultaneously three more things happened which were pertinent to the case: Lieutenant of militsiya Trushin Vasilyovich Stepanovich from the USSR called Eugène Dentremont in Lyon.

“Hello, Lieutenant Stepanovich … Trushin. Nice to hear from you,” answered Eugène. “Something new in the murder of Lieutenant General Lagounov, I hope?”

“Nothing new there, Eugène. Instead, I am calling to report a new murder that I am pretty sure relates to Gen. Lagounov’s killing.”

He told Eugène the pertinent details—in standard cop-talk—about the assassination of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski by a professional sniper.

“I could go into great detail about this man—the victim—but for the time being I will telex the voluminous details of his life and career and the evidence from the crime scene. The link I see between Gen. Sobrieski and Gen. Lagounov is that both had serious roles in the Soviet gulag system. They were called the butchers of the Butugychag Tin Mine Soviet Gulag for ‘Special Treatment Prisoners.’”

“Who warranted ‘special treatment’?”

“Political prisoners, university professors who refused to follow the party line, and German SS officers. They got the worst of it.”

“I didn’t think those people survived.”

“Probably only a few, Chief Superintendent; but anyone who did and could still breathe and walk would be bearing a huge grudge even at this late date.”

“I’m sure your people can get something of a list of the prisoners who survived or of family members and friends of prisoners. Those people could be carrying around an equally bitter grudge. Let me know as soon as you can. Check your telex reports from this morning. Maybe the people we are looking for are part of this. We all need a break.”

“Yes, sir. We will put all of our resources into that search for now.”

The second piece of information to surface came from Friedrich Schneider Graf von der Lippe, the police chief of Wiesbaden regarding a call he received from Anton Friedrich Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, the head of the ODESSA. He called INTERPOL.

“Greetings, Chief, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” Eugène Dentremont asked in response the German police chief’s “Guten morgen.”

“Apparently ODESSA has developed a concern which could make the organization’s activities more difficult.”

“Pardon me, Chief, but that can’t be all bad news.”

“Not for us in Germany either, Eugène. Von Bohlen und Halbach wanted to let me know that his organization had been contacted very recently by individuals who are seeking to move their fortunes from Europe to South America.”

“That can’t be all that unusual, mein freund.”

“Usually no; and usually, we would not hear about it from the head of ODESSA. The difference is that the individual seeking help provided information to further his bona fides to von Bohlen und Halbach, and it is that information that raised flags in the Nazi organization and probably should for us in our murder investigations.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Although he was sworn to secrecy, von Bohlen und Halbach is known to defend ODESSA above any other consideration. In this instance, he perceived a threat of sorts. It seems that the man called from Moscow—from a number our German police have traced to the home of Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava, one of the chieftains of the Solntsevskaya Bratva which—in case you may not be aware—is the strongest group in the vory v zakone or, as we all know them, the “thieves-in-law”—in effect, the Russian mafiya. They emerged as leaders of prison groups in gulags and are now among the most dangerous and effective organized crime groups in the world.”

“Sorry, Friedrich, but I don’t quite see how this is germane to our murder cases.”

“Patience, Eugène. This is all necessary background. The call came in three hours after the assassination of a Russian general named Sobrieski. He was related to the Gen. Lagounov. I’m sure you are aware of that murder. There is a relationship between the two generals, and maybe to our recent caller. He would not give me his current—and presumably fake—name, but it is ODESSA’s policy to require a true SS officer name that can be verified. The name von Bohlen und Halbach got was Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier. His unit was the 33^rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS, the so-called Charlemagne Division. I contacted a counterpart of mine in Moscow—Rudolph Vladimirovich Fedorchuck II, head of the KGB’s Fifth Directorate, responsible for ideology and countersubversion, and the Agitprop Department. He knows everyone and everything, including the classified KGB records. Duvalier was a prisoner in one of the worst POW gulags—one whose commandant was Gen. Lagounov. His deputy was Gen. Sobrieski. The last the KGB knows of Duvalier is that he was one of the few survivors and one of only a handful of such prisoners released around 1956 when the camp was closed down. My team thinks the evidence for motive is there, and this Duvalier likely has help from Nazi sympathizers. We are looking for anything more we can learn about him and suggest that you put him high on your list of suspects.”

“I very much appreciate this timely message, Friedrich. Maybe you could get your detectives Kriminalkommissar Horst Schäfer and Oberwachtmeister Eberhard Zimmermann to investigate the records on German POWs released back into Germany after the war. I have been in contact with them on the Gunther Emil Sondregger murder case. Sondregger’s real name was Heinrich Rudolf Gajewski, an SS officer who worked for IG Farben in chemical war crimes. I will get my people in INTERPOL to find anything about possible internment in Allied POW camps after release from Russia or if he might have been listed in the DP [Displaced Persons] records. Maybe together we can trace this man or people he knows and find out if he is involved. Great work and thanks, Friedrich. Keep in touch.”

The third piece of information on that busy day came from Nurse Digby.

“Listen up, y’all. I been tunin’ in to Little Lord Downfort’s nightmare talk. Funniest thing about that is that he speaks gibberish—maybe French, maybe German, or maybe just his fever talkin’; but Ah thenk y’all oughta take a listen. Might learn somethin’ while he’s not guardin’ himself.”

The two rangers pointed at Axel Baird, whose INTERPOL background required that he be conversant in French and German. He donned a face mask and took up a chair beside the elderly tuberculosis patient and began to take notes.

Michaele mumbled and groaned as he slept fitfully, obviously uncomfortable from his frequent coughing and nightmares. It was apparent that his nightmares reflected the life of a man with bad memories in four languages: French, German, English, and Russian.