Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  Clegg had filled me in after leaving the Roosevelt on why we needed to go to the restaurant. To say I was apprehensive would be an understatement, but despite my misgivings, I understood his reasoning and agreed it was probably our best chance at filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle.

  We walked into the restaurant and were immediately greeted by a maître d straight out of the movie Casablanca.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the man said with a heavy accent.

  “Table for two, please,” Clegg replied.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

  “No,” Clegg answered. “I was hoping Ahmad could squeeze us in. My friend has never been here before, and I told him he must have the dolma. Simply the best in town.”

  “Thank you, sir. I agree. Unfortunately, there are no tables available tonight. Perhaps you could make a reservation for another night. Yes?”

  “Hmm,” Clegg responded. “That’s most unfortunate.”

  “Monsieur Devereux,” a man in a white dinner jacket sang out, approaching the maître d’s podium. “You should have told me you were coming. I would have prepared the best table in the house for you.”

  “Sorry, Ahmad, it was last minute,” Clegg replied. “Jim,” Clegg said, looking at me, “this is Ahmad Farid. The owner of this fine establishment. Ahmad, my friend, Jim Horn.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, resisting the urge to chuckle at Clegg’s clever nom de plume for me.

  “Claude,” Ahmad said, turning to the maître d, “certainly we could find Monsieur Devereux and his guest a table.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Alan!” Ahmad barked, clapping his hands twice.

  The man nodded obediently and scurried off into the restaurant.

  “Are you in the import-export business as well, Mr. Horn?” Ahmad asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, without hesitation.

  “So, you and Monsieur Devereux are colleagues, yes?”

  “We are,” I said. “Though Mr. Devereux has far more experience in the field than I do.”

  “No doubt,” Farid replied.

  Ahmad Farid was a solidly built man, with a round chest, meaty hands, and a chin so sharp it could crack open a hazelnut. His hair was as silver as silver gets, made even more shocking by his smooth, bronze complexion. He was a man who oozed elegance in every way. He also looked to be a man who one might want to think twice before tangling with.

  The maître d returned and whispered in Ahmad’s ear. Ahmad nodded and turned back to us. “Gentlemen, Claude will seat you now.”

  “Thank you, Ahmad,” Clegg said, “You are most kind.”

  Ahmad bowed his head, and we followed the maître d to our table.

  The restaurant was small and decorated from floor to ceiling in Bedouin-styled tapestries, textures, and colors, conjuring up images in my head of the “Arabian Nights.” It could have easily come off as tacky, but didn’t. On the contrary, it was quite tasteful and made for a relaxing, warm ambiance.

  Claude, our maître d, wasn’t lying, the place was packed. Furthermore, I couldn’t help but notice many of the diners looked to be Middle Eastern, or at least of Middle Eastern descent. I suppose no greater compliment could be paid to such a restaurant than to have customers who had intimate knowledge of the native cuisine to give it their seal of approval by their very presence.

  Once we were seated, Ahmad reappeared. “It’s not the best table in the house, but I pray it is satisfactory,” he said.

  “Most satisfactory, Ahmad,” Clegg replied.

  The man smiled.

  “Ahmad, would you honor us by sitting for a moment?”

  “Most sorry, Monsieur Devereux, but as you can see, the restaurant is quite busy tonight, and I need to—”

  “I’m afraid I must insist, Tomer,” Clegg interrupted, calling the man by a different name.

  The man didn’t give anything away, but he did shoot a quick glance around the room.

  Clegg continued, “Isn’t that the undersecretary to the Egyptian ambassador over there? My, my, I wonder who else could be in here tonight?”

  Ahmad smiled. “Perhaps, before dining, you and Mr. Horn would like to see our wine cellar. It’s modest, but not without some exceptional vintages.”

  “We’d love to,” Clegg replied, tossing his napkin on the table.

  We followed the man out of the dining room and into the kitchen. We arrived at a wooden door that Ahmad unlocked and opened. He extended his arm, and Clegg and I descended a steep staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves in a sparsely lit room, surrounded by wine racks. We followed Ahmad around the dusty bottles, to the other side of the room where we came upon another door, this one made of steel. Ahmad unlocked the door and then pushed it open. We followed him in.

  The room was small and perfectly square. In it was a desk, three chairs, and nothing else. The walls were cinder block, and the floor was concrete. There were no pictures anywhere, no phone, and the only light came from a fluorescent tube hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

  Ahmad went behind the desk and sat. He motioned for us to sit across from him.

  “Something on your mind, Monsieur Devereux?” he asked, reclining in the chair.

  “My compliments to your decorator,” Clegg said.

  The man smiled. “The walls are two feet thick, and above us is several thousand tons of concrete and steel. The room serves its purpose.”

  “As does Ahmad Farid,” Clegg said. “A Middle Eastern restauranteur. Excellent cover.”

  The man raised one eyebrow. “Whatever in the world do you mean by that, Monsieur Devereux?”

  Clegg grinned. “Ahmad Farid, real name, Tomer Hadad. Born in Syria to Jewish Parents, raised in Paris. Was a valued—and lethal—member of the French Resistance during World War II. Moved to Tel Aviv in ’48 after the establishment of the Jewish state, recruited by Israeli security services in ’55. Is credited as being an intricate part of the Mossad team that captured Eichmann in ’60. Congratulations, Tomer. That was stellar work.”

  The man shrugged. “There were many people intricate to the success of that operation. I was but a small cog in a much larger machine.”

  “Modest,” Clegg said.

  “No more so than you, sir,” Tomer Hadad responded.

  Now it was Clegg’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  Hadad elaborated, “Special Agent Peter Clegg. Born Peter Allan Clegg in Lincoln, Nebraska. Youngest of two boys. Sadly, your older brother was killed in the Allied invasion at Normandy. You enlisted in the Army out of college and served with distinction in Korea. Joined Army Intelligence once state-side, excelled, of course, which eventually landed you at the Central Intelligence Agency. At that point, your employment history becomes somewhat sketchy, a testament to your skill. But in certain circles, it’s commonly believed you now head up a clandestine team of highly skilled misfits who operate largely off the books and only answer to the highest levels of authority.”

  Then, the man looked at me. “One of those misfits being this young man. Trip Callaway, a Las Vegas musician with a gift for gab, and an uncommonly high level of tradecraft for an amateur. The story of how you two befuddled the Russians a while back has become legend within our community. Well done, gentlemen. Or perhaps I should say, congratulations, that was stellar work.”

  “It was nothing really,” I said, without thinking.

  Clegg gave me a disapproving glance.

  “My only question,” Tomer Hadad added, “is why this sudden breach of protocol? I’ve so enjoyed our mutual charade over the years. Why end the game now?”

  “Simple,” Clegg answered. “The Mossad is running an op in my country,”

  “Peter, Peter,” Hadad crooned. “We both have operations running in our respective countries. That’s no secret. The CIA must have a dozen operations going on at this very moment in Jerusalem alone, but we’re friends, Peter. Allies. We are in the spy business. We understand watch
ing and listening to our enemies is just a fact of life in our world. Especially since my enemies are largely your enemies. That’s why no one gets upset about such things.”

  “We do when people get killed, Tomer,” Clegg replied. “Especially if the killing is public and loud.”

  Hadad shook his head as if he was confused.

  “You blew up a building, Tomer,” Clegg said bluntly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter.”

  “Come on, Tomer,” Clegg bit back. “The Mossad’s running an operation in Los Angeles to kill Nazis from Argentina. We know what’s going on.”

  Tomer Hadad leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms on the desk. “Peter, as my friend, and as my colleague, I swear to you on my mother’s grave the Mossad is running no such operation in Los Angeles. I swear it.”

  Clegg looked at him for a long moment. “So, you’ve never heard of a man named Ricardo Goetz.”

  Hadad squinted his eyes and slowly nodded his head. “Yes, this man’s name is familiar to me. Peter, are you saying he is here? In this country?”

  “Why is his name familiar to you?” Clegg asked.

  Hadad looked at Clegg, and sighed. “Okay, Peter, I’ll tell you. Ricardo Goetz’s real name is Werner Strasser—or Lieutenant Colonel Werner Strasser, to be more precise. Austrian by birth, and a very committed Nazi. Among his many sins was acting as the commandant of at least three Jewish ghettos in Poland. He also served a brief, but exceptionally deadly, stint at the transit and extermination camp, Risiera di San Sabba, in Triesta, Italy.”

  “What happened to him after the war?” Clegg asked.

  “He was arrested before the liberation of Auschwitz and taken to an Austrian prison camp. He escaped three months later. We believe he returned to southern Italy because that’s where his family was. Also, we suspect he was assisted by a Nazi-sympathizing bishop there who arranged travel for him and his daughter to Uruguay. After that, we assume he did what dozens of his compatriots did and used the Odessa ratlines to make it to South America.”

  “What happened to his wife?” I asked.

  Tomer set back in his chair. “We don’t know. It’s possible she was killed in the Allied invasion, but it’s also possible Strasser killed her himself. She wasn’t Austrian, she was Italian. We also know she had no loyalty to Mussolini, much less Hitler. In fact, there’s some evidence she had been an active anti-fascist even before the war started.”

  “Then why would she marry a Nazi officer?” I asked.

  “Survival would be my guess, or possibly to be a spy. We just don’t know. Probably never will.”

  Clegg asked. “If you’ve known where Strasser has been all these years, why haven’t you gone after him?”

  “Oh, we’ve made attempts, just nothing too bold. Frankly, since our successful, and unfortunately well-publicized, extraction of Eichmann, the Argentinian government has made it next to impossible for us to achieve the same level of success with others. Also, even though Strasser was a Nazi, and an exceptionally good one, he’s low on our priority list.”

  “Why?” Clegg asked.

  “There are others we want more. But also, to be completely honest, nowadays the state of Israel is in a fight for its very existence. War with Egypt is all but inevitable, ergo, the Mossad has largely left Nazi-hunting to others.”

  Clegg nodded.

  “However,” Tomer added, “if you’re telling me Strasser is now on U.S. soil, we would be very interested in knowing where.”

  “So would we,” Clegg said.

  “You’ve lost him?”

  “Before we even found him,” Clegg answered.

  “There’s something that confuses me, Peter,” Tomer said. “Old Nazi officers like Strasser don’t survive unless they are very, very careful. Why did he leave Argentina? And why did he come to the United States, of all places?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Tomer,” Clegg answered.

  “Try me.”

  Clegg looked at me before answering. “So that his daughter could do an American television show. She’s a singer.”

  Tomer Hadad fell back in his chair and burst out laughing. “You’re pulling my leg,” Tomer bellowed. “A television show? That’s beautiful. Simply beautiful. Was that your doing, Peter? Did you come up with that one?”

  “No,” Clegg replied. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here asking you these questions, would I?”

  “Ah, right, right, of course,” Tomer said, waving his hands in the air. “But that is fantastic. A television show for his daughter. Oh my, utterly brilliant. Completely spurious, I presume. There never was a television show, correct?”

  “Correct,” Clegg replied.

  “Brilliant. Utterly brilliant,” Tomer panted out, regaining control.

  “Tomer,” Clegg said, “this was a big operation. Many people involved, lots of money, and a logistic minefield. If the Mossad was not behind it, then who has the ability to pull off such an operation?”

  Tomer Hadad thought for a moment. “You said there’s been violence.”

  “Yes,” Clegg answered. “A recording studio was blown up killing six people, and another man was tortured and murdered a few days before that.”

  Tomer shrugged. “There are many groups with the financial resources for such an operation. Money is not a problem. And even as clever as the scheme is, it’s still not beyond the capacity of some of the more fervent groups.”

  “Wiesenthal,” Clegg said.

  “Yes, Simon has the resources, as well as the cleverness to execute such an operation. But the violence, that’s another story. They don’t engage in violence. Even in the case of Eichmann, we were ordered to bring him in alive. It’s important for the world to hear what these people did, and then to see them punished, by us, for their actions. Even the Mossad believes that.”

  “Then who?” Clegg asked.

  Tomer Hadad got up and paced to the back of the room. When he returned, his face said he knew something, but was pained to reveal it.

  “Tomer?” Clegg said. “What is it?”

  “There have been stories, rumors really, that a group who was active after the war has reemerged.”

  “Who?” Clegg asked.

  “Nokmim.”

  “You’re kidding?” Clegg exclaimed.

  “Unfortunately, I am not.”

  “What’s Nokmim?” I asked.

  Clegg answered, “Not what, who. Nokmim is Hebrew for Avengers.”

  “Okay,” I said, “who are the Avengers?”

  Clegg raised his hand to Tomer Hadad, as if to say the floor is yours.

  The man nodded and sat back down. “The Nokmim, also known as Dam Yisrael Nofer, meaning, ‘the blood of Israel,’ or just the acronym DIN, meaning ‘judgment,’ was a secret organization established after World War II with one purpose: to seek revenge for the Holocaust.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “By killing six million Germans.”

  “You’re exaggerating?”

  Hadad shook his head. “I am not. Six million Germans. The same number as the amount of Jews who were killed by the Nazis.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Tomer continued, “Some believe the group came about in the spring of 1945 in Bucharest. Our renowned poet, and former leader of the Vilna ghetto uprising, Abba Kovner, gave a speech at a Passover attended by Shoah survivors. During that speech, he quoted Psalm 94, where God promises he shall deal with the enemies of the people of Israel: He will repay them for their iniquity and wipe them out for their wickedness. Kovner suggested this was the fate that should befall the Germans. He also said that if the courts of international justice would not do it, then the Jews themselves should.”

  Clegg spoke up, “In the beginning, it was just a handful of young men and women. The same young men and women who had formed the first armed Jewish resistance in the ghettos and eventually became the partisans in the forests of Nazi-held eastern Europe. Trip, these kids had
been shaped by the Holocaust. Most of them had lost their entire families, and all of them had witnessed unspeakable horrors.”

  Tomer nodded, “Thus, they were very angry. The trials at Nuremberg were fine, but those were for the men at the top of the Nazi state, twenty-four, to be precise. So, only twenty-four men were ever called to account for the murder of six million people. Twenty-four, Mr. Callaway. I submit it takes more than twenty-four people to kill six million, would you not agree?”

  “I would,” I answered.

  “So did the Nokmim. They asked what of the ones who policed the death camps? Who closed the doors of the gas chambers? Who administered the pellets of lethal gas? What of those who manned the ghettos, drove the trains, or who used rifle butts to herd Jew after Jew to deep pits, strip them naked, and then shoot them in the back under strict orders to use no more than one bullet per victim, so that many who fell into the pits were not even dead yet and were buried alive? What of those men?

  “And consider this. After the war, Allied officials identified thirteen million men in western Germany alone who were eligible for arrest because they had been complicit in aiding the Nazi machine. Fewer than four million were ever charged, and of those, two million were released without trial. That left about a million, and most of them faced no greater punishment than a fine, or confiscation of property they had looted or some temporary restriction on future employment and a brief ban from seeking public office. By 1949, only three hundred Nazis were in prison. Three hundred from an original wanted list of thirteen million. Only three hundred men ever saw anything resembling an appropriate punishment.”

  Clegg spoke again, “So the Nokmim set out to right what they considered to be an egregious wrong.”

  “Were they successful?” I asked.

  Tomer answered, “They started small. They implemented death sentences they themselves carried out. They would identify a Nazi who had melted back into civilian life, then pose as police, stage an arrest, and then take the person away. Some would be strangled, others shot. What they found to be better and safer, was to make the death look like a suicide. A hanging, for instance, might take place in a garage, where the prisoner was forced to stand on the hood of a car while a noose was wrapped around his neck and attached to an overhead beam. The avenger would drive the car away, and the man would be left swinging. Crude, but most effective.”