The reading room of the Circolo della Caccia with its green marble floors and high vaulted ceilings was intensely cold on that Friday in January. The exclusive club had reopened even though conditions in Rome were still harsh four years after the end of the war. Neither the heating systems nor the elevators were working anywhere across the city.
The trick to stay warm at the Circolo was to sit as close as possible to the monumental fireplace that provided the only reliable source of heat that was somewhat less frozen than the rest of the building. Admiral Calamai, was pleased to offer his distinguished American guest a leather armchair next to the crackling fire that servants in white gloves and elaborate gold braided eighteenth century liveries would periodically toss into the flames.
Kenneth Davis had been recently appointed as political affairs officer at the U.S. embassy. He found the count’s name in an embassy file and decided to call the retired Admiral who insisted on inviting him to his club.
“I am very pleased you could come over, Mr. Davis.”
“The pleasure, is all mine Admiral. I am delighted to meet you again, and this time no longer as an enemy.”
The waiter offered some French champagne and they both drank to each other’s health.
“Actually I am now living on my farm at Sant’Agata” said Calamai, “and I am very busy writing my war memoirs. It gives me the excuse to come to Rome regularly to do some research.”
“You must have a few secrets to share.”
“I shall avoid sensational revelations. Right now I am looking for a publisher.”
Over a Spartan lunch they discussed the war and Davis understood that the former Admiral was reluctant to reveal anything technical and spoke in generalities.
“Mussolini thought he was cunning, but he was almost constantly out of touch. His judgment, which was rather sharp in normal circumstances, became clouded by fear of the Germans and his thirst for adventure.”
“And Hitler?”
“To me he looked very common, insignificant. I am told that Lord Halifax mistook him for a waiter! I would add ‘a waiter in a bad Austrian restaurant, the kind you find in railroad stations.” he laughed.
“I’m sure you will give us a fine gallery of rogues in your memoirs.”
“Yes, including myself, with great relish.”
Davis nodded.
In the smoking room Davis offered the Admiral an authentic Partagas Cifuentes cigar a total rarity in Europe at the time. They found a small table in a corner.
“Admiral, I was wondering whether you have any knowledge as to the whereabouts of Fred Spada?”
The Admiral puffed on the cigar for a minute or two then said with some indifference,
“Well, I assumed he escaped to South America.”
“Actually he disappeared in New York in April 1943. Normally the case would be closed as with all wartime engagements but he’s also wanted for murder and the FBI has been looking for him. They had a few leads but the man is as slippery as an eel.”
Calamai put down his cigar.
“Disappeared? It wouldn’t surprise me, he was trained to do precisely that!”
“The FBI thinks some Italian gangsters helped him leave the country.”
Calamai nodded slowly,
“Perhaps Mrs. Nicolosi’s friends? But from what I remember about Spada I wouldn’t think so. He was an excellent solo operator. If Maria Nicolosi had an escape route ready for herself that Spada tapped into? It’s possible but I doubt it. She was a stunning looking woman and an excellent agent for both OVRA and on occasion the Navy. In 1940-41 she was our main connection to the New York underworld.”
Davis nodded and had the uneasy impression the Admiral was attempting to change the subject.
“She did work for you then, before and during the war?”
“Until her murder, yes. Then she unsuccessfully attempted to switch sides but knew far too much. The pro-Fascist Mafia decided that she had to go.”
Davis was feeling that he was finally getting somewhere with his old adversary.
“Are you aware of the fact that Spada managed to blow up an entire New York City block? The Navy found tiny pieces of the pocket submarine…but the whole matter was hushed up for obvious reasons.”
The Admiral smiled.
“He did? War is a very filthy business, Mr. Davis. We came close to doing a lot more damage and I am glad we were unable to do so. A determined enemy, no matter how weak and poorly equipped, can inflict very painful losses and tip the balance in many situations.”
“What about Spada?”
“The Mafia wanted him dead, they needed peace in America and the pro-Fascists were a liability. He had to be liquidated as quickly as possible.”
“So your conclusion is that he met the same fate as Mrs. Nicolosi…?”
The Admiral shook his head,
“It’s only a theory… Maria Nicolosi according to her file was ‘friendly’ with her deceased husband’s top clients: Luciano, Costello and other names I prefer to forget. She was secretly recruited by Vice Consul Marazza into OVRA in 1934 that is the key date. Her police informer’s file was very thick, the mark of a very important agent. When Calogero Nicolosi died she inherited both the restaurant and the brothel business, which was the big money maker he ran for Lucky Luciano. The gangsters always kept her under very tight control. They needed her to recruit the women and manage the operation, which she did to perfection. But she knew too much and was far too smart.”
“She was murdered by Joe Licata.”
“Licata, of course, he was the master executioner of the pro-Fascist Mafia, it’s only logical.”
“I still find it strange that Spada could just vanish like that.”
“I’m convinced that he must be dead. I did go looking for him but most of his family was killed during the war, only a sister is left and she has no idea where he could be. In nay case I’m certain that if he is alive he will not reappear.”
The waiter brought two glasses of French cognac and the Admiral offered a toast,
“To a successful mission in Italy, Mr. Davis!”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
They drank up and Admiral Calamai was convinced that “Operation Neptune” had finally slipped into history.
But that wasn’t quite the case.
The Hotel Continental was a second rate establishment built in neo-Moorish style during the 1920s that catered to the small number of tourists and businessmen who needed a decent and inexpensive place to stay in Tangier. The prosperous looking man reading a French newspaper at the bar, like many other residents of that international noman’s land, had concealed his true identity when he arrived seven years before. In his immaculate white suit and two-toned brown and white shoes the entrepreneur everyone knew as Max Carlyle didn’t appear to be out of place in the strange city that stood guard at the Pillars of Hercules. He owned and operated the hotel that had been Abwehr headquarters in North Africa until 1944. The former owner, a Spaniard named José Lopez Gandia, had fled across the Straits to Algesiras after D-Day and had to sell the place as quickly as possible. Carlyle picked it up for a song.
Fred Spada aka Vincent Chapman now known as Max Carlyle, went into hiding in New York City on April 12, 1943 after the explosion in Long Island City. He had about $15,000 in cash, more than enough to buy time to plan his next crucial move. He knew that there were frantic searches going on by the FBI and local police. For two years he practically lived underground while posing as an eccentric painter and living in the studio he rented in an old building on 103rd Street. Few people saw him during the day and even the landlord had trouble remembering what he looked like. After V-E Day the aggressive search for Axis spies and saboteurs ended suddenly as the FBI was redirected its efforts to a new cast of characters. He spent many days in the various branches of the public library, changing locations almost every day. His constant research had a purpose since the end of the war made it possible to leave the country.
A magazine article explained how the international zone of Tangier was the ideal place to conduct off-shore business as it was reverting to its pre-war status as a free port under purely nominal French administration. Income tax was virtually non-existent and business was practically unregulated, smuggling being a main activity, especially American cigarettes. The article also described how many residents commonly used aliases and forged new identities to escape scrutiny. It hinted that many former Nazi collaborators were now taking refuge there and in Spain The enterprising adventurer only needed a modest amount of cash and the American dollar was king to get started anew. The papers carried long articles about the economic distress of war torn Europe and even more of their North African colonies. The shortage of basic commodities was extremely critical and everyone desperately needed cloth and especially used clothing. Spada began by creating a new identity using the authentic passports he still had. He knew that very soon many of their stamps and formats would change making his small stock obsolete.
In February 1947, an American businessman named Max Carlyle arrived in Tangier aboard the Leslie Marie, a cargo out of Brooklyn on its way to the eastern Mediterranean. He landed with some $3,000 worth of compressed bales of used men and women’s clothing purchased from jobbers on the Lower East Side. The merchandise was warehoused in the free port and within weeks he had sold the entire load for $30,000, more than enough to buy the Hotel Continental. The owner, Señor Gandia, a Spanish citizen, was represented by a lawyer and wouldn’t or couldn’t travel back from Spain. He was accused of being a former German agent by the new French police and didn’t want to risk arrest for espionage. The sale was therefore quickly agreed to with almost no bargaining: Gandia was happy to accept one third of the asking price, which his lawyer received in cash at the offices of a local notaire. The sale was officially recorded at a much lower and rather fictitious price.
Mr. Carlyle prospered very rapidly in the import business scoring massive sales every three to four months, enough to purchase a one third interest in the Banque Hispano-Française pour l’Afrique, a small but solid money changing institution similar to many others that had its offices across from the lawyer in the hotel mezzanine. By 1954 Max Carlyle was worth several million dollars and felt comfortable enough to indulge in a new passion for racehorses and equally fast women.
But then, on a quiet morning, the unexpected suddenly intruded.
A man showed up at the front desk asking for Mr. Carlyle. He said he was an Italian businessman by the name of Cardini. The desk clerk directed him to the owner’s office inside the bank in the mezzanine where a few clients were transacting business with the cashiers, a young secretary walked him to a back office.
“I am Max Carlyle, glad to meet you.” He flashed a broad smile and offered Cardini a seat in front of his desk.
“Thank you my name is Angelo Cardini. A friend from New York asked me to look you up when I passed through Tangier.”
“Very good Mr. Cardini. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Cardini was sitting on the edge of his chair and smiling broadly.
“My friend’s name is William Anderson.”
Carlyle kept on smiling and simply nodded.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name in New York, I haven’t been there in some time, several years actually Mr. Cardini. Are you sure you are contacting the right person in coming to see me? There are quite a few other Americans in business in Tangier.”
“Well, Mr. Anderson says that although he has never met you personally, he insists that he knows you quite well. He happens to be in charge of the New York Office of the FBI. He said that one of your ‘real’ names is Fred Vickers. He showed me a few documents that prove that fact and that you managed to cover your tracks very well but not perfectly, Mr. Carlyle.”
Carlyle was stunned and didn’t react for a few seconds, then he took his time to light a cigarette, exhaled and finally regained his composure and smiled,
“Mr. Cardini, you obviously possess a wild imagination because I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. So, I guess there’s nothing more to discuss….” He called his secretary: “Solange will you see Mr. Cardini out, our business is concluded…
Cardini expected that kind of answer and kept talking as Solange walked into the office,
“Perhaps you will recognize the name of the capitano di corvetta Federico Spada, of the Gruppo Gamma then? Mr. Anderson said that you entered the United States in 1927 using that name: Spada is your real name, isn’t it?”
Carlyle’s dark complexion suddenly darkened even more. He slowly placed the cigarette in the large crystal ashtray and with his right hand opened the top drawer of his desk. Cardini produced a gun and the secretary screamed in a panic as she ran out the door. Cardini calmly cocked the revolver,
“You murdered a young man in cold blood in New York … one of your own men…but he happened to be my brother, Mario Barone…! This belongs to you, Spada.”
He fired three times hitting Fred Spada-Max Carlyle at point blank range. Spada didn’t utter a sound, his body was yanked back toward the wall as the gun he was attempting to extract from the desk dropped to the floor. The burn marks on his white jacket and shirt turned red and began oozing blood. His eyes remained wide open and he slowly collapsed on the white marble floor as blood began flowing from the corners of his mouth. The executioner calmly went around the desk to the motionless body and fired a ‘coup de grâce’ to the forehead. A pool of black blood spread quickly on the white tiles.
Angelo Barone walked out the front door and calmly got into a waiting car. The police found the pistol a few hours later but, according to local newspapers, the killer had successfully escaped.
Most assassins do in Tangier.
The End