The FBI’s Latin American division and its office in Venezuela had failed to identify Osvaldo Pacini as an enemy agent. The man was well established and owned a bona fide shipping business like many successful Italian immigrants in South America. He kept a very low profile and didn’t display any particular allegiance to his country of origin since becoming a Venezuelan citizen in the 1920s. Pacini had routine business contacts with Italian diplomats and officials because of his business as a shipping agent. Neither the Venezuelan authorities nor the FBI knew that he was an Italian ‘sleeper’ agent in a region where many anti-Fascist expatriates were kept under surveillance by the Italian government.
A short note written in Italian and marked “Personale” for Signor Osvaldo Pacini was sent to his office in the old port area of Maracaibo on August 7th. It read:
“I am in the tavern across the square. Glauco”
The ‘Glauco’ signature was actually an emergency signal from an agent in urgent need of assistance.
Pacini, elegantly dressed in a white suit, two-toned white and brown shoes and dark green sunglasses, was the picture of the successful businessman. He immediately left of his office, and entered the café where he spotted Fred sitting in the back.
“Good to see you again, Señor Pacini.”
Pacini came closer but remained standing in front of the table. The man looked familiar but he couldn’t recognize him without the black beard he was wearing when they first met in August 1941. He had to be cautious and use the recognition phrases,
“How many steps to reach the Capitol?” he asked.
“Two hundred and forty six.”
Pacini nodded, sat down, and removed his glasses. The man had the deep suntan of the sailor, and unruly black hair like many of the tough deck hands Pacini hired around the port area.
“I need to get back home and I have run out of options.” Said Fred nervously. Pacini was determined to keep the conversation as short as possible.
“British and American agents are everywhere. Shipping companies are afraid to risk an Atlantic crossing. Prices are doubling every week for any kind of transportation. My business is mostly limited to merchandise traveling up and down the coast. But in a few days a Spanish freighter may be planning to take the southern route from Recife to Malabo in Equatorial Guinea. That’s the best solution I can come up with. After that you’ll have to make your way up the coast of Africa to the Canary Islands and Spanish Morocco and Tangier. It will be a twenty to thirty day affair. I know they need an engineer and I’m sure you can qualify for the job.” He said, attempting a smile.
“When can you arrange this?”
“As I said this is still very tentative. You must wait and you can’t stay here; it’s much too risky for both of us. You’ll have to hide in the jungle. I’ll let you know if the freighter is ready to sail. If that doesn’t work you’ll have to be patient. It could take months.”
Fred saw that Pacini was much too nervous and fearful. He needed an alternate plan and decided on crossing into Brazil to reach Argentina where Italian networks were efficient. Pacini insisted it would only take a week at the most to find out about the next ship. Fred knew he’d be a sitting duck “hiding” in some jungle cabin.
The Ciudad de Sevilla under Spanish flag needed minor repairs before it could cross the South Atlantic and the owners were anxious to minimize the risk. In the meantime Pacini provided Fred with forged Venezuelan documents under the name of Juan Manuel Cubas. The hiding place was near a remote village near Machiques across Lake Maracaibo.
The disappearance of the Norbert was barely mentioned in the New Orleans Times Picayune where local crime was drowned out by war news. The short item mentioned the much-loved father and son team who were well known fixtures in the pleasure boat business. They were missing for too long and the authorities were investigating. Fred got busy charting a route on local maps to reach Argentina through the Amazonian jungle.
Anderson was ordered to use FBI resources in Latin America to track down and arrest or, if necessary, kill “Fred Vickers.” After the explosion on Great Jones Street in lower Manhattan the FBI, ONI and G2 agreed that the fugitive saboteur had information vital to the war effort. The Norbert and its well-known skipper had sent only two messages, the final one was dated two weeks before and gave the position of the pleasure boat just off the coast of Honduras. The second read,
“Heading back up from off Limòn, Costa Rica tomorrow arrival expected in four days. H.N. Trumbull, skipper Norbert.”
Using sketches with various likenesses, “Vickers” was being hunted across the Caribbean. Many sightings were reported to the point of confusing the search and for several days they were convinced that he had gone to Cuba. The skipper of a fishing boat from the Panama Canal Zone reported sighting a small fishing vessel called the Albert III some fifty nautical miles off the coast of Panama heading south toward Colombia. From the description, it sounded identical to the Norbert.