CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Arbat Street, No. 83, Moscow, October 3, 1962, late morning
Antoine Duvalier was in trouble. His coconspirators—the “thievesin-law”—showed him new daily Pravda articles on the recent assassination of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski which left nothing to doubt regarding the determination of the police, the KGB, the nomenklatura [the power elite of the country, corrupt officials all], and the military forces of the Soviet Union to apprehend and to interrogate anyone who was complicit in the murder. Antoine could imagine his own fate if any of the members of the russkaya mafiya who were presently hiding him capitulated under “questioning.” His death would not come quickly or easily. He shuddered at his thoughts.
From the killing site at the Soviet Naval Aviation Office, A-253, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 19, across from the Moscow Military District Headquarters, the mafiya killers, led by Avtoritet Krespin Brundinovich, had efficiently whisked Antoine in the trunk of an AZLK Moskvitch 401 to the safest of safe houses—the home of mafiya boss Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava. Breslava decided the heat was too intense; so, he allowed Antoine only one night at his house then had him taken to one of the Solntsevskaya Bratva’s safe houses—Arbat Street, No. 83—near the trolleybus station and the city’s first metro station, an extremely busy section of Moscow where almost anyone could be lost in the crowd. No. 83 was an apartment building where an earlier comfortable single apartment had been made into a kommunalka, where more than one family lived together, glad to have a roof over their heads in the era of Soviet “transition.” One of the Bratva families served as caretakers of the apartment, and all family members knew how to keep their mouths shut.
Antoine knew his days in Russia were numbered, and the number was small and growing smaller by the hour. Pravda reported mass arrests and questioning at the KGB’s Lubyanka Prison—said to be the tallest building in Moscow, since Siberia could be seen from its basement. Pravda—the official newspaper of the Soviet Union—suggested that apprehension and arrest of the assassin was imminent. Antoine knew that Pravda echoed the party line without having an opinion of its own.
He approached Krespin with his interpretation of what needed to be done.
“Krespin, my drug [Rus. friend], I cannot impose on you and Pakhan Breslava much longer; and I cannot go back to Europe. I have contacts in Argentina where I can assume a new identity and be safe. From there, I can continue our profitable business arrangements with the Solntsevskaya Bratva; and our lives can get back to normal. Of course I will need your help, and I realize it require considerable expense.”
The stolid thick-bodied Krespin was a man of very few words. “Eight million rubles [$27,000],” he said tersely.
Antoine nodded. “I will contact my banker and have the transfer made today, if you can arrange communication.”
“Not a problem.”
It took a day to be able to make contact with Liert Beili Amstutz from UBS in Geneva. The money—plus $10,000 extra for incidentals—was wired to MNB [Moscow Narodny Bank Ltd] and recorded in the account of the Worker’s Cooperative of Arbat Section, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Travel plans were necessarily complex and elaborate with cost overruns—the principal of which was the necessity to involve the cooperation of the ODESSA, officials of the Argentine government, and two agents of the KGB border patrol. The overruns came to a grand total of twenty-two million rubles [$74,000]—a price Antoine considered relatively cheap in comparison to his life and to his earning potential in Argentina.
Disguised as a workman with papers indicating he was Vasislav Andropovich, a mechanic for the Worker’s Cooperative of Arbat Section Heavy Machinery Company, Antoine was driven to the Odessa—the third largest city in Ukraine—the major Soviet seaport and transportation hub located on the northwestern shore of the Black Sea. He boarded a Soviet oil tanker, The Red Star Petrochemical Vessel number 8503, leaving the port of Illichivsk southwest of Odessa bound for Helsinki. Aboard ship, he was identified with official documents as Ivan Nureyev, fourth engineer’s assistant. In Helsinki, he was met by one of Breslava’s men and given new papers including a Finnish passport bearing his photograph and the name Mikke Herppa Tuomala. Five days later, having exited Europe from Madrid, he landed at the International Airport Ingeniero Talavella, Córdoba, Argentina. He was on his own from then on.
Antoine was exhausted, but before he dared to sleep, he had to find a room where he would be anonymous. He knew exactly where to go because the ODESSA had instructed him carefully. From the Córdoba airport, he boarded an overcrowded normal bus to the city center, then caught a taxi to the red light district near Rio Suquía, known as the Ex Abasto because of the presence of the huge Mercado de Abasto market area. He took the most expensive room available for a week in the Abasto Transient Hotel because it at least offered a none-too-clean private bathroom and access to a telephone for a price, and because it was located about midway between the main metro station and the trolleybus station. He was also close to the river and its boats, which gave him three choices of escape routes if that became necessary.
He slept for the better part of two days, then did a thorough standing spit bath and changed clothes. He found a busy restaurant on Calle Lillo west of the market and near his hotel and feasted on the skimpy fare Argentines consider breakfast: a cup of café con leche, a few medialunas [croissants], and two shot glasses of agua con gas [carbonated water]. It was hugely unsatisfying; so, he purchased half a dozen containers of unflavored yogurt and some overripe fruit to tide him over until he could find real food. With his hunger pangs settled down for the moment, he telephoned Erich Boehme, former SS Hauptsturmführer, restauranteer, and current ODESSA officer in Bariloche.
§§§§§§
Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, October 3, 1962, early afternoon
Xavier asked Michaele, “I don’t suppose you go around telling everyone your birth name or your SS rank or history. So, what name do you use in your private and business life?”
“I am known as Randolph Bellwether.”
“What is your occupation—the legitimate one?”
“President of European International Conglomerate.”
“I’ll need to know the address of your company.”
“No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London.”
“What exactly do you do for the European International Conglomerate, Michaele?”
There was a considerable pause. Michaele figeted for a few moments, obviously uncomfortable with the question and how to answer it. Xavier’s antennae went up, but he kept his facial expression completely bland.
Finally, Michaele answered, “I am the executive responsible for all imports and exports of the products we deal with. I manage the personnel, review the invoices, hire and fire people, attend in-house meetings and any meetings with senior executives from other companies.”
“What kinds of products, Michaele?”
“Armaments, heavy machinery, refrigerators, stoves, communications equipment, office furniture—that sort of thing.”
“All legal?”
Another pause.
This time Xavier interrupted, “You have immunity for everything you tell me and nothing you hide from me. Michaele, frankly you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving me everything.”
“It is difficult to say. We do some … quite a lot, actually … of business with the Italian and American mafia and organized crime people from France, Germany, and especially Russia.”
“Such as?”
“Prostitution, drugs, kidnapping, extortion….”
“And murder?”
“That, too. We have a unique position in the organized crime world. We never compete with the others; so, they use our influence to settle disputes. The way that works is that both sides have to agree to abide by our final decision. If they agree and then … how do you say … fail….”
“Renege?”
“That’s the word. Then, we have enforcers. All of the crime families fear us because we operate with total secrecy and with no mercy for offenders. We never give up, and we have never failed to find and punish a man or woman who … reneges. In reality, we seldom have to resort to violence … or killing, because of our reputation. No one wants to be on our bad side. They know they sign their death warrant if they make trouble for the other families after we have been involved.”
“I seem to recall something from Greek history like that.”
“Yes. The Italian mafia and later in America, the members saw themselves as Roman warriors, and they made reference to the Greeks who preceded them. They teach every new man about Omerta—the code of silence and also about how the Greeks would call in a particular Spartan to broker a peace settlement. If one party failed to live up to the agreement, that city-state could find itself at war with Sparta—and nobody ever wanted that. If the Spartan were to be injured or killed by one or the other of the disputing parties, Sparta would seek a terrible vengeance. The word comes from the Latin invicta or ‘to vindicate,’ which in practical terms means ‘to avenge.’ Whole cities were reduced to rubble, all men were slaughtered, and all women and children who were part of the offending city were sold into slavery, and they did not live long. That is the understanding about our role—or main role—in the organized crime world.”
“You murdered for this purpose yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have partners?”
“Really, just one partner, but we had trusted and well-paid members of our organization who lived in multiple countries simply waiting for our call. They are very good at what they do.”
“You must have a great many enemies.”
“Hard as it is to believe, we don’t. We provide a critical service. Because of our role, gang wars and other hostile actions are relatively uncommon. The families can do productive work and make a great deal of money without having to look over their shoulders for the most part.”
“Why did you kill Rick Saunders in Mexico?”
“That was personal business for Antoine and me, not part of our crime syndicate work. He was a devil who did unspeakable things to us. We waited a long time to avenge those wrongs.”
“We suspect you of several other murders of former military officers. Did you do that?”
“Twenty-one of them. We were quite successful, but our work has not been completely finished.”
“I need you to write down all of the people you have killed for your personal reasons. You can do that after we finish our questions. You mentioned someone called Antoine … did I get that right?”
“Yes, we were in the war together; then we were POWs. We had to get revenge for what was done to his and to our division.”
“What division?”
“The 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS.”
“Your name is French, not German. How did that come about?”
“It was an all-French division. We were called ‘Hitler’s Gauls.’ We were the last division defending the Führer’s bunker until the very last.”
“You and Antoine.”
“I am proud to say that we were loyal to the end.”
Xavier shook his head. It was the first time he had ever heard of an all-French Nazi division. He would have to check this part of Michaele’s story out very thoroughly before giving it credence.
“I’m guessing that you have a long story about how the men you murdered figured into your story. For now, let’s just get some information on this Antoine and any other people who aided and abetted the murders we are investigating.”
“As you wish.”
“Tell me about Antoine. Full name, address, where he is at the present, and how we can find him.”
He was taking notes as fast as he could write along with the court reporter. The detainee did not even seem to notice either of them.
“He is Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier. He is now living under the name of Laird Eagen, a citizen of Great Britain. We share the same business address: No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London. We share the penthouse nearby in the Halkin Hotel, in Belgravia—5 and 6 Halkin Street, London. It is less than five minutes from Hyde Park Corner and about ten minutes or so walk from the Buckingham Palace.”
“Do you think he is in London now?”
“Probably. He is either at the corporate offices or at home. He and I tend to keep to ourselves.”
That was his first lie, and Michaele uttered it out without any change in his facial expression, not even so much as a blink.
“Write down the name of everyone who had to do with the murders you described. I have to get my people going on the information you have given me. I don’t know if you are a praying man, Michaele; but if you are lying to me, you should start getting in touch with the man upstairs because it will go very badly for you. Understand?”
“I understand perfectly. As you Americans like to say, ‘I am being straight with you.’ I think you are an honest man and are straight with me. I will have a good kind of immunity.”
“Anything else I need to know? I am not a believer in second chances.”
“Nothing, other than the things I will write down.”
Xavier and the court reporter left the room and quickly brought all of the other law enforcement officers up to date. A flurry of activity directed at No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, commenced immediately.
§§§§§§
Abasto Transient Hotel, Ex Abasto District, Córdoba, Argentina, the same afternoon
Antoine called four times over a five-hour period before he was able to connect with Erich Boehme, the ODESSA officer he had been told would help him get started in Argentina.
“Guten tag,” Erich answered with his usual Prussian brusqueness.
“I am the man from Russia you were told to expect.”
“Name?”
“Not over the telephone. I need to have transport to Bariloche where we can meet in private and talk. Can you arrange that?”
“Have you money?”
“Only a little with me, but I am sure that you have been informed of my holdings and ability to pay any necessary expenses. Exchange of funds will have to wait until I can communicate with Europe over a secure telephone system.”
Erich pondered that for a quiet moment.
“All right. But, my friend, you need to know that we do not tolerate Jewish tricks to get us to expose ourselves.”
“Of course I do, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I am a Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS. That is all you need to know to understand that my word is my sacred bond. We can work together for our mutual profit; but I, like you, have no tolerance for those who would betray those of us who are the architects of the Fourth Reich. You will meet me by the Rio Suquia in the Ex Abasto area of Córdoba. Are you familiar with that part of the city?”
“Not intimately. I know it as the red light district. But I have contacts who will know the area like the back of their hands. Be more specific, General.”
“There is a small gelato kiosk under a stand of three tall trees about midway between the trolleybus station and the main metro station. I will be wearing a red cap. If I see police, you can consider yourself to be a dead man.”
“And I say the same thing to you. We are both careful man, General.”
“As all of us must be in these troubled times. I expect to see you tomorrow evening at dusk.”
“That will be a good time. Welcome to Argentina.”