The Warlords

by Matt Braun

  Holbrook was married to a Boston matron who had given him four children and a substantial mortgage. He took vicarious pleasure in Gordon’s romantic escapades, which were the talk of the Bureau. Hoover, although single, frowned on office gossip.

  Gordon grinned. “Chief, I just haven’t found the right girl. Keeps me busy looking.”

  “No doubt.” Holbrook puffed a thick wad of smoke from his pipe, his expression abruptly serious. “Our concern about Huerta and the Germans may come to nothing. But if our worst fears are realized, always remember you speak for the President of the United States. Allow no one to impede your investigation.”

  “I won’t forget,” Gordon said soberly. “Anyone gets in my way will wish he hadn’t.”

  “And, Frank.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful down there. Texas is still something of the Wild West.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Chief. I’m a little wild myself.”

  J. Edgar Hoover thought it was misplaced bravado. Forrest Holbrook thought it was typical of the man.

  Gordon would leave his mark on the Rio Grande.

  Chapter Three

  The earth shimmered under a blazing noonday sun. A ray of light suddenly splintered away and became a glistening span of feathers. Then it emerged in a slow glide, dropping below the blinding haze, and took the shape of a hawk. Sweeping the sky in lazy circles, it caught an updraft and again disappeared into the sun.

  Gordon thought it was the most desolate land he’d ever seen. He was seated by a window in the rear coach, looking out as the train rattled southward. The countryside was studded with thorned brush, palmetto, and dense thickets of chaparral. There were occasional rolling prairies of grass that seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon.

  The trip, with layovers in Atlanta and Dallas, had consumed the better part of six days. As the train slowed, the engineer setting the brakes, Gordon marked the date at June 2. The outskirts of Brownsville, dotted with sunbaked adobe structures, slowly gave way to modern frame and brick buildings. He collected his suitcase from the overhead rack as the train ground to a halt before the depot.

  The heat struck him like an open furnace when he stepped onto the platform. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and he wondered how hot it got in full summer. He looked around for anyone wearing a badge and saw a man standing in the shade from the overhang of the depot. The man was neatly dressed, wore boots and a widebrimmed Stetson, and carried a Colt Peacemaker holstered on his right hip. He ambled forward.

  “Special Agent Gordon,” he said, hand outthrust. “I’m Sergeant Hoyt Maddox, Texas Rangers.”

  “Glad to meet you.” Gordon retrieved his hand from the other man’s crushing grip. “How’d you spot me?”

  “One lawdog always knows another. Besides, you’re not exactly dressed for the Rio Grande valley. You look a little boiled.”

  “Does it always get this hot here?”

  “Today’s one of our cool spells,” Maddox said with a crooked grin. “Couldn’t be more’n ninety, in the shade.”

  “Ninety,” Gordon repeated, his shirt collar already wilted. “Are you stationed in Brownsville, Sergeant?”

  “No, they sent me down from headquarters at Austin. I’m sort of the chief trouble-shooter for unusual jobs.”

  Gordon could believe it. Maddox was built like a great bear, all muscle and sinew, thick through the shoulders with sandy hair and a brushy mustache. His craggy features and gray, deep-set eyes gave the impression of rocklike strength.

  The pistol he wore was the weapon of Old West lawmen, a single-action Colt .45 with a 5½ inch barrel. Gordon watched as he pulled out the makings, sprinkled tobacco in a creased paper, and rolled himself a smoke. A flick of his thumbnail struck a match and he lit the cigarette. He looked up as he snuffed the match.

  “Got us rooms at the hotel,” he said. “We’ll drop off your bag and go on to Fort Brown. General Parker’s expectin’ us muy pronto.”

  Gordon nodded as they walked around the depot. “How much have you been told about the assignment?”

  “Damn little, and I gotta admit I’m getting curiouser and curiouser. What’s the straight dope?”

  “No need to go through it twice. Let’s wait until we see the general.”

  “Guess I can hold off till then.”

  Brownsville was a thriving community with a population of ten thousand people. The county seat of Cameron County, it was located on the banks of the Rio Grande, some twenty miles from the Gulf of Mexico. Elizabeth Street, the town’s main thoroughfare, was paved with creosoted wooden blocks embedded in the ground. An electric streetcar trundled back and forth through the business district.

  The Miller Hotel occupied a corner at Twelfth Street. After dropping off his suitcase, Gordon and Maddox proceeded east on Elizabeth. The fragrance of blooming bougainvilleas hung in the still air, and farther along, flocks of green parrots sat perched in willow trees. Fort Brown was situated at the end of the street, and in the distance, on a dusty field, a polo match was underway. The field was lined with sweltering spectators.

  A brick wall separated the garrison from the town. The fort housed the 12th Cavalry Regiment, and fell under the broader command of General Frederick Funston, headquartered in San Antonio. Funston had fewer than twenty thousand troops to secure a 1,745-mile border running from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arizona-California line. Fort Brown, with two thousand men, was responsible for the border from the Gulf to the town of Del Rio, some four hundred miles upriver. Scattered outposts were stretched thin along the winding Rio Grande.

  The garrison headquarters was located on the north side of the parade ground. Gordon and Maddox entered the orderly room, where they were expected, and the Sergeant Major showed them into the commander’s office. General James Parker was in his late forties, a rawboned man with ruddy features and a grenadier mustache. The office, like the man, was utilitarian, the sole decorations the national flag and the regimental standard. Maddox quickly performed the introductions.

  Parker motioned them to chairs before his desk. “Welcome to Fort Brown,” he said, nodding to Gordon. “It’s not every day we have someone operating under orders from the president. I must confess I’m somewhat mystified.”

  “Secrecy seems to be the byword,” Gordon said, shaking his head. “I thought you would have received a communiqué of some sort from Washington.”

  “Nothing of any substance. Simply a directive to provide whatever assistance you may require.”

  “Same here,” Maddox observed. “The governor told me to put myself at your disposal.”

  “Well, then—” Parker paused, staring across the desk. “Perhaps you could enlighten us, Mr. Gordon. What’s all the mystery about?”

  Gordon briefed them on the situation. He reviewed the Madrid meeting between Colonel Franz von Kleist and Victoriano Huerta, as reported by British Intelligence. Then he stressed the gravity of the German Abwehr sending von Kleist, perhaps its top agent, to meet with Huerta. The only reasonable conclusion was that a conspiracy had been set in motion against the United States.

  “I’ve been sent here,” Gordon said, “to stop it before it starts.”

  Parker regarded him thoughtfully. “The Germans are capable of any underhanded scheme to preclude our joining forces with the Allies. I nonetheless find it difficult to comprehend that Huerta could mount an offensive campaign of any significance.”

  “Same goes for me,” Maddox said in a steady voice. “Huerta would be a damn fool to come back to Mexico. He barely got out alive the first time.”

  Gordon’s eyes were pale and direct. “Secretary of State Lansing believes a conspiracy of this sort could very well succeed. His view is that the racial tensions here might enable Huerta to start a border war.”

  Parker and Maddox exchanged a guarded look. The animosity on the border went back to 1836, when Texas declared independence from Mexico. Nine years later, when Texas was annexed into the Union, the United State
s humbled Mexico in a brief, bloody conflict. After the Mexican War, the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo led Mexicans in Texas to believe their land had been stolen. In 1879, when the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Anglos in a land dispute, the flames of racial hatred were fanned even higher. Over the next quarter century there were countless clashes along the border, some bloodier than others. The antagonism between Texans and Mexicans was hardly less in 1915 than it had been in 1836.

  General James Parker grew silent, staring at a shaft of sunlight filtering through the window. His expression was abstracted, a long pause of inner deliberation. Finally he glanced up at Gordon.

  “We like to think we have things under control,” he said. “To be frank, we do well to stop the Mexican Revolution from spilling over onto American soil. Hardly a day goes by when we don’t skirmish with gun traffickers smuggling weapons into Mexico.”

  “Works the other way ’round, too,” Maddox grudgingly admitted. “We’ve got two companies of Rangers on the border ’cause Mexicans cross the river and steal livestock damn near every night. Their revolution uses up lots of horses.”

  Gordon massaged his jaw. “All of that makes it easier for Huerta and the Germans to pit Mexicans against Texans. And a war on Texas would quickly escalate into a war with America. Maybe it’s just that simple.”

  “How can we assist you?” Parker asked.

  “I need to develop a spy network in Matamoras. Preferably Mexicans we can trust.”

  “Good as done,” Maddox said with a laugh. “The Rangers couldn’t operate without informants. We keep ’em on a regular payroll.”

  Gordon was reminded that espionage was often a matter of contacts, rather than an intellectual exercise. He thought Sergeant Hoyt Maddox was his man.

  The Isabella docked in New York on June 10. A luxury liner, operating with Spanish registry, the ship sailed under a neutral flag and plied the Atlantic without fear of German submarines. The crossing from Lisbon, Portugal, had been uneventful.

  Victoriano Huerta came down the gangway with his bodyguard. He was met by Enrique Terrazas, a loyalist who lived in Texas and acted as liaison with a clandestine network of loyalists in Mexico. After clearing customs, the men took a taxi uptown, where Huerta was booked into a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria. He regaled Terrazas with the latest news of his alliance with the Germans.

  Shortly afterward, Colonel Franz von Kleist walked down the gangway. He was dressed in civilian clothes and carried a passport without reference to his military status. On the crossing from Lisbon, he and Huerta had refined their plan for organizing the loyalists in Mexico. Their discussions were made all the more cordial by virtue of a hundred thousand dollars having been transferred to Huerta’s bank account in New York. To avoid detection, they had disembarked the ship separately and henceforth would meet only as the mission required, and in secret. They would not be seen together until Huerta returned to Mexico to personally take command of loyalist forces.

  Von Kleist cleared customs as would any other German national. Outside the terminal, with a porter carting his luggage, he was met by an attaché from the German Embassy. A motorcar waited at curbside, and after the luggage was stored, they were driven to the embassy in mid-town Manhattan, on East Forty-Fifth Street. Ambassador Kurt Rintelen greeted von Kleist with all the courtesy due a high-ranked member of the Abwehr. They retired to Rintelen’s spacious office for a private meeting.

  “How was your journey?” Rintelen asked after they were seated. “Pleasant, I trust.”

  Von Kleist gestured aimlessly. “Calm seas, excellent food, and interesting shipboard acquaintances. What more could one ask?”

  “What more, indeed.” Rintelen hesitated, his gaze inquisitive. “The foreign office informed me by courier of your mission. I was instructed that all matters are to be considered top secret.”

  “Such an operation requires nothing less, Herr Ambassador. Only those with a need to know are to be informed.”

  “I understand you were traveling with Huerta.”

  “All quite discreet,” von Kleist said. “El Supremo, as he thinks of himself, has grand visions. A return to the throne, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Of course,” Rintelen observed. “Through intermediaries, we have arranged for Flores and Mendoza to meet with you at three this afternoon. May I ask you a question, Colonel?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Flores and Mendoza act as arms merchants for Pancho Villa here in the United States. Do you propose to create an alliance between Villa and Huerta?”

  “Hardly,” von Kleist said with a smug look. “The Kaiser agrees that a candle must sometimes be burned from both ends. I am empowered to offer Villa the same arrangement we have with Huerta.”

  “Mein Gott!” Rintelen said, clearly shocked. “You intend to play one against the other? Do I understand correctly?”

  “I intend to play both for the Fatherland, Herr Ambassador. There are no certainties in a military operation of this magnitude. We double our chances by engaging both Huerta and Villa.”

  Kurt Rintelen thought it was diabolical, somehow beneath a Prussian Officer. But he was a diplomat, serving at the whim of Kaiser Wilhelm, and hardly in a position to pass judgment. He managed a tactful smile.

  “Machiavelli would have approved the tactic, Colonel. You have a gift for subterfuge.”

  “I accept that as a compliment, Herr Ambassador. Let us hope I play the game as well as Machiavelli.”

  Shortly before three o’clock Alberto Flores and Felix Mendoza arrived at the embassy. They had fought beside Villa in the Revolution until he decided their talents would serve him better elsewhere. For the last year, working through a front company, they had been purchasing guns and munitions from American manufacturers for shipment to remote towns along the Rio Grande. The arms were then smuggled across the river to Villa’s troops.

  Von Kleist received them in a lavishly furnished conference room. A manservant wheeled in a cart of coffee and rich German pastries, and von Kleist proceeded to charm them with praise for the military genius of their leader. Once the preliminaries were out of the way, he went straight to the point. He offered them the exact proposal he had presented to Huerta in Madrid.

  The Mexicans exchanged a veiled glance, the coffee and pastries forgotten. Mendoza finally cleared his throat. “Señor, pardon our ignorance,” he said. “We are simple men who work to free our country of tyrants. Are you offering us aid in the fight against Carranza—” he paused, his eyes dark with suspicion—“or are you suggesting we make war on the United States?”

  “One step at a time,” von Kleist said amiably. “Carranza must be overthrown and General Villa could more quickly achieve that end with our financial assistance. Do you agree?”

  “Si, señor,” Mendoza conceded. “Our army has more men than rifles. The Revolución desperately needs arms.”

  “And once you have them, General Villa will rightfully occupy the Palace in Mexico City. Is it not so?”

  “Yes, it is so,” Flores interjected. “But how does this involve the United States?”

  “Permit me to explain,” von Kleist said smoothly. “We do not ask General Villa to declare war on the United States. We ask only that his forces conduct raids across the Rio Grande. If he wishes, the raids could be disguised as the work of bandits.”

  Flores studied him. “And your purpose is to distract the American military from the European war. Nothing more?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You spoke of funds,” Mendoza said. “What amount of assistance would your government provide?”

  “Three hundred thousand dollars,” von Kleist said, drawing out the words. “Fifty thousand immediately, and fifty thousand a month for five months. We trust General Villa to honor the agreement.”

  Mendoza and Flores were visibly impressed. After a moment, Mendoza nodded. “We will communicate your proposal to General Villa. Are we to contact you here or elsewhere, señor?”

  “Yo
u may contact me here for the immediate future.”

  Von Kleist felt confident the offer would be accepted. Villa was a brigand and pirate long before he had become a revolutionary general. His greed would almost certainly sway his decision, and along with Huerta’s loyalists, the border would run red with blood. In the end, the United States would declare war on Mexico.

  Flores and Mendoza emerged from the embassy a few minutes before four o’clock. Steve Willard, an agent for the Bureau of Investigation, watched the Mexicans from a doorway of a building near the corner. His partner had tailed Huerta from the docks, and he had followed von Kleist. He thought their surveillance would send shock waves through Washington.

  MI-6, the British intelligence agency, had advised the U.S. State Department that Huerta and von Kleist had sailed aboard the Isabella. The information was yet further verification of a conspiracy, and Director Holbrook had ordered the Bureau office in New York to conduct around-the-clock surveillance. The first day’s results were more than anyone might have imagined.

  Flores and Mendoza were known to the Bureau as arms merchants for Pancho Villa. Steve Willard was an agent, rather than a Bureau analyst, but it seemed to him that two and two equaled four. The Germans were already involved in some clandestine operation with Victoriano Huerta. There was little doubt in Willard’s mind that they were now plotting with Villa along similar lines. Perhaps a devious scheme for Huerta and Villa to join forces.

  He hurried off to draft his report to Director Holbrook.

  Chapter Four

  Matamoras was on a level plain bordering the Rio Grande. Fields and orchards ripe with produce surrounded a town of nearly seven thousand people. Yet its prosperity was attributable only in part to the land and local agriculture.

  Even in a time of revolution Matamoras remained a town of merchants, the trade center for northern Mexico. New Orleans forwarding houses filtered their goods through its waterfront to the mines and haciendas and countless villages scattered throughout the interior. In return, wool and hides from outlying ranchos were trailed to the border; copper and gold were transported from distant mines by railroad. The wealth of an area larger than Texas itself was funneled through the town for shipment to the broader marketplace in New Orleans.