After two days in Las Palmas all three planes were ready for the second leg of the journey under their new commercial markings as “Panair do Brasil” cargo. They took off at fifteen minute intervals and after an eight-hour flight landed at a remote airstrip some forty miles west of Conakry in French West Africa, still only barely under Vichy French control. Providing logistical support for Axis aircraft wasn’t part of the French armistice agreements, but the authorities had no objection to Brazilian aircraft even though they sensed that something about the authorization request was odd. At the jungle airstrip outside Conakry the Italian mechanics got busy servicing all three planes cross- checking the problematic Piaggio engines. Within hours the planes were ready for the ocean crossing.
A major disaster occurred when twenty minutes after taking off the second plane carrying all one of the two back-ups, suddenly plunged from 3000 meters ten minutes after take off in a desperate nosedive directly into the Atlantic Ocean killing everyone on board. Fortunately the seas were rough and only a few debris from the crash washed up on the beach a few days later, offering no clues as to the origins of the aircraft or its cargo.
The main plane carrying Fred Spada took off twenty minutes after the accident without any problems. The ocean crossing enjoyed perfect weather conditions and the plane landed at the makeshift jungle clearing one hundred miles northwest of Macau in northern Brazil exactly twenty-eight hours and ten minutes later. Mario Simoni-Costa was there with fuel drums and two tractor trailer trucks. The 150 wooden crates were quickly transferred to the trucks that immediately took off on a dirt road through the jungle heading north. Simoni followed at some distance in a Dodge pick up with Fred Spada. The drive on treacherous roads to the pier at Fortaleza over 250 miles away took three days because of the muddy conditions since there were no paved highways. Simoni was able to brief Spada in detail about the ship, its captain and what he could expect on board.
On July 25 at 22:17 hours Señor Angel Castillo of Caracas, Venezuela reached the gate to the main cargo area at the sleepy port of Fortaleza. A few people were milling around the entrance and a man in uniform waved at Castillo to approach the guardhouse.
“Señor Castillo, your papers are in order, you may board ship. It sails in less than one hour.”
Castillo walked up the gangplank to the deck of the Bolivar de Panama, while the policeman followed right behind him, suddenly asking for a light. Castillo obliged and noticed four people on the side of the pier near the gangway; a middle-aged couple, a young man about eighteen and a woman in her twenties. The policeman puffed away and whispered to Castillo in Italian:
“They forgot to tell you, those four are your traveling companions. Eastern European Jews on the run. They are leaving Brazil and have paid big money to get on board. The father must have enough cash. They’re traveling on false Portuguese passports. Keep your distance.”
“Understood. Where do they disembark?”
“They have a Venezuelan visa, and get off at Maracaibo where you get further instructions. You will reach Havana three days later, hopefully without too many delays. And, don’t forget to keep an eye on the captain! He drinks a lot and can be erratic.”
“I can handle that.”
“Thanks for the smoke.”
The rusty Bolivar de Panama slipped into the dark waters of the south Atlantic bearing north along the coast of northern Brazil to its first stop at Maracaibo in Venezuela. The arrival at Havana was estimated to take place between August 5 to 8, since there could be unscheduled stops along the way. Castillo spent most of his time alone in his cabin as the freighter chugged slowly north toward the Equator.
The dining room was a cramped affair with only two large round tables and a few basic rituals. Castillo was invited to sit as the lone guest of honor at Captain Diamantopoulos’ side. The family arrived late and had the other table to themselves where they spoke in low whispers and avoided anything more than slight bows of the head addressed at the captain. Diamantopoulos was a rather unsavory looking character, he started telling Castillo that the other passengers traveling under the name ‘Secluna’ were actually wealthy Baltic Jews emigrating to Venezuela.
“So that you know, Castillo, in case we are boarded by a German sub or some other Axis warship and we need to throw them overboard!” said Diamantopoulos with an unpleasant little chuckle.
Castillo nodded and kept silent. The Greek captain was a big unkempt man who guzzled ouzo and wine throughout his meals, easily imbibing a whole bottle of either potion every day. By early evening he was invariably drunk and would stagger to his cabin on the lower deck just a few doors down the passageway.
Seeking to avoid ‘Secluna’ as much as possible, Castillo would hurry on deck for a quick evening walk. Before leaving his cabin he always carefully spread a thick layer of talcum powder on the floor and around his personal effects. He would also stick several threads across the door hinges to check for any trespassing. Just before arriving at Maracaibo three days later he noticed that the threads had been disturbed but the talcum powder remained untouched. The classic device had worked and the person attempting to break in had been deterred upon opening the door. At first he thought it was Secluna. From then on Fred remained in his cabin as much as possible reading and exercising by doing push ups by the hundreds. He limited his appearances to meals and a very short walk on deck once a day.
Secluna kept very much to himself, which suited Castillo perfectly. On the second evening out of Fortaleza he suddenly crossed the deck and approached Castillo;
“Señor Castillo, may I have word?” he asked as he lit a cigarette.
“By all means.”
“My wife, as you may imagine, is extremely nervous, verging on the hysterical. She fears a possible submarine attack, the poor woman. Anything I say makes her shudder with fear. Personally, I take things in stride and decide as I go along, what else can one do with a war going on?”
Castillo smiled and figured he was better off having some kind of conversation.
“You plan to stay in Venezuela, then?”
“Yes, well, of course eventually I hope to go to the United States, to New York actually. I have a relative there.”
“New York City?” ventured Castillo.
“Yes. In The Bronx, on the Grand Concourse.” Secluna seemed to instantly regret having released that information so he quickly asked another question
“Are you also getting off at Maracaibo?”
Castillo replied:
“No.”
Secluna suddenly seemed even more nervous, he nodded and quickly stepped away, his hand was shaking as he smoked and Castillo was convinced that that kind of fear couldn’t be faked. Secluna was definitely not the person who attempted to break into his cabin and after their brief conversation he went out of his way to avoid Castillo even though they acknowledged each other in the dining room.
The freighter slowly traveled up the coast, under clear skies, with the sun broiling the decks as the temperature didn’t move from a broiling windless 110. Castillo was in his shirtsleeves as he looked out at the long thread of the tropical coastline some ten miles away. Secluna noticed the small tattoo of a mermaid on Castillo’s left forearm, the kind of symbol sometimes associated with professional criminals in Eastern Europe. He thought nothing of it and Castillo barely spoke to him until they reached Maracaibo and the Secluna family disembarked. The cargo was loading large quantities of lumber from the Amazonian forest and that operation was to last all day. Castillo went into town for a few hours and spent some time in a tavern reading the handful of foreign newspapers that made it across the Atlantic. Around noon a rather well dressed man with dark glasses approached Castillo’s table and sat down. He was carrying a leather attaché case that he placed carefully under the table. They spoke for a few minutes drinking coffee and cracking jokes. Then the man got up and left and no one noticed that Castillo was walked back to the Bolivar de Panama later in the afternoon with a brown attaché case. He now had his instructions for entry into the United States.
That same night, after loading fresh water and supplies, the freighter sailed out of Maracaibo, carefully hugging the coast of Colombia until the next morning when it began to head straight up the Caribbean to Havana, Cuba.
Diamantopoulos was feeling relaxed and pleased to be rid of that cumbersome family that upset his lazy routine. Castillo found him in the dining room nursing a bottle of ouzo before dinner. The captain was reeking of liquor and wasn’t exactly the most attractive person to behold with his unkempt three-day beard, a stained shirt, as he constantly poked into his mouth with a toothpick.
“Well… Señor Castillo, please join me in a celebration!”
“What’s the occasion?” asked Castillo as he poured himself a shot of ouzo.
“The occasion is that we shall soon safely reach our destination…unless some Nazi U-Boat is waiting for us somewhere in these waters. But I am optimistic. We’ll reach Havana only three days late and that’s as good as being on schedule and I would add even amazing in the middle of a war.”
They clicked glasses, and Castillo was wondering why the captain was suddenly being friendly. Diamantopoulos remained silent for some time. Then as the food was served he suddenly asked:
“So, what did you discuss with the Jew during the trip?”
Castillo sensed a threat in the captain’s voice.
“Secluna was worried about his wife. She was very fearful of us being torpedoed, that’s all.”
“With good reason, I might add.”
“Yes, I suppose he should be. Like the rest of us.”
“Well, of course, given who you really are. Had he only known!”
Diamantopoulos laughed and finished the rest of the ouzo.
Castillo felt the blood drain from his face. The contact in Maracaibo had warned him about the captain known to have denounced passengers before and even attempted to shake down those he suspected money and something to hide. Even though he had been handsomely paid he obviously felt it wasn’t enough. Money was the motivation behind his attitude since he didn’t fit the profile of a British or an American agent. Castillo concluded that the crew played no part of the captain’s scheme otherwise they’d already be restraining him. He stopped eating and looked at the captain straight in eye.
“What is it you want exactly?”
The captain wiped his greasy chin and smiled with undisguised pleasure.
“My friend, this war will soon make it impossible to cross the ocean. That could last for a very long time, maybe several years. I don’t care one way or another. I plan to retire after this trip, to Cuba in fact. Lots of women, life is pleasant and cheap. I could adjust to those things very well.”
“How much?”
“Something reasonable. Say twenty thousand U.S.?”
Castillo calculated that they were still three or four days from Havana barring any unforeseen problems. He had carefully been checking his cabin several times a day and was certain that no one had set foot inside after that first attempt. In seconds he made up his mind. He took a nonchalant attitude and poured himself and Diamantopoulos another drink. The man was completely mercenary and therefore totally predictable. An idealist would have been a far different matter.
“Well captain, you are a very perceptive sailor. But not quite accurate in my case.”
“Oh, but Señor Castillo I can tell that you are a real professional.” Answered Diamantopoulos “I saw it instantly from the way you walked the deck. What is it then? Navy, right? Ah, yes, navy but some special unit perhaps? Who knows? In any case real navy, not merchant marine! I bet you could even be a sub captain! But let me be perfectly frank, Castillo, I don’t give a flying shit about you, your country, whichever it may be, or your fuckin’ war. As I see it, you’re my ticket off this rathole.”
“Twenty thousand is impossible.”
“That’s my price.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal?”
“You’re looking at the reason why. Look at me, I’m old and exhausted, too old to keep on traveling like this and be able to enjoy life. I must stop somewhere and now’s the best time, while I’m ahead.”
“You’ll have to wait for the money in Havana.”
“That’s reasonable but as my insurance you’ll remain as my guest until your people deliver the cash.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much of a choice then does there?”
“Remember Castillo that Havana and all of Cuba for that matter are crawling with American and British agents and spies. There are also quite a few Germans. Just to let you know that I can have you picked up in minutes since the Cuban police is practically a unit of the FBI. Until I get paid you’ll remain safely under lock and key in your cabin. Ok, now that’s enough, let’s go down. And don’t worry, I can’t afford to let you starve or get sick.”
Castillo slowly descended the ladder to the lower deck and the passageway to the cabins. Diamantopoulos was so close behind that he could smell his rotten teeth. The passageway was empty at both ends and he was convinced that Diamantopoulos didn’t trust his crew and had no intention of sharing anything with them. The idea of getting the cash in Havana once the crew was gone must have sounded even better to the captain. As they reached the cabin door he could feel the barrel of the gun touching his back. Castillo suddenly swung around smashing the captain’s right hand hard against the angle of the open cabin door. The gun dropped to the floor and he punched the captain with a straight jab just under the solar plexus. Diamantopoulos looked stunned as the wind had suddenly been sucked out of his lungs, he gasped and doubled up in pain falling to his knees then head first into the open cabin.
Castillo grabbed the gun. Clutching his stomach Diamantopoulos staggered to his feet but Castillo squeezed his neck in a tight arm lock pushing him further down the passageway. Castillo then placed the gun hard into the captain’s temple:
“Believe me I’d love to pull the trigger and see your brains decorate that wall!”
“No, no, don’t shoot …I …I made a mistake…”
“Open your fucking cabin, you piece of shit,” said Castillo jabbing the muzzle harder into his head. He struggled with his keys as he opened the door and Castillo then hit him with a chopping blow to the back of the neck that sent the captain crashing head first into the steel table. Castillo carefully closed the door behind him. Suddenly he could see that Diamantopoulos wasn’t moving and was bleeding profusely from a deep gash to the head. With large amounts of blood streaming from his nose and mouth it was obvious that his neck was broken. As Castillo turned him around he suddenly stopped breathing and died.
Castillo tried to stanch the bleeding and carefully inspected the cabin before emptying the captain’s pockets. The pool of dark blood was concentrated in one area so he moved the body at an angle with the dresser and doused his mouth and throat with whiskey. The strong box with all the ship’s documents was bolted to the floor inside the closet and the key was on the dead captain’s steel ring. Besides the ship’s papers, there were two thousand dollars in cash and a few personal effects. Castillo took the money, leaving only a few hundred dollars and the papers just as he had found them. Then he quietly returned to his cabin as if nothing had happened. None of the crew went looking for the captain that night and the freighter remained on its course sailing north along Colombia and Panama into the Caribbean. They assumed Diamantopoulos as usual was sleeping off his latest mix of ouzo and white wine.
The cook discovered the body the next morning when the captain failed to show up for breakfast. Blood was now oozing under the cabin door. The crew was indifferent to the news and everyone agreed that he must have died of a broken neck while drunk. The captain was known for his heavy drinking so an accident was very plausible and remained the official version. Due to the unbearable tropical heat, regularly over 95°, it was decided to dispose of the body immediately. Iorgo Diamantopoulos wrapped in white sheets and weighted down with a few pounds of lead received an unceremonious burial at sea some two hundred miles off the coast of Panama.
The Bolivar de Panama minus its captain reached Havana only three days late. The representative of the shipping company took note of what had happened barely asking a few perfunctory questions. He filed a statement with the Havana port authority and the Cuban police but both entities showed no interest in the accident because the death occurred outside Cuban territorial waters releasing them from any direct responsibility to conduct an investigation. Panamanian authorities were even less interested and no further inquiries were deemed necessary. With a world war raging the shipping company was relieved to have its cargo ship back unscathed.