by Matt Braun
Mueller finished the report late that afternoon. The envelope would be placed in a diplomatic pouch, and carried by courier on a train to the German embassy in New York. With the round-trip travel time, Mueller calculated he would not receive a reply for at least ten days. By then, he hoped he would have more promising news, though he couldn’t imagine what it would be. September now seemed the earliest he could deliver a war.
The one consolation to the delay was Maria Dominguez. Every night, at the dinner club in the Bezar Hotel, he watched her performance. His customary table was now permanently reserved, and the staff in the club treated him with deferential respect. Few men, he often reflected, were so fortunate, or so envied. There were no secrets among the hotel staff, or the club’s regular patrons. Everyone knew he was sleeping with the most beautiful woman in Matamoras.
The affair was not without its burdens. Mueller had gone from sending her roses to buying her expensive gifts, mainly clothes and jewelry. She never asked directly but rather dropped subtle hints that the price of her affection was an occasional visit to the more exclusive shops on the plaza. By now, Mueller was so infatuated by her charms that no cost seemed too great. He was slowly spending himself into poverty.
That night, in his hotel suite, he gave her a black pearl ring. Her eyes went round with delight, and she threw herself into his arms. She peppered his face with kisses.
“Caro mio,” she said in a breathless voice. “You make me so happy.”
Mueller no longer cared that the warmth of her affection was enhanced by presents. He pulled her closer in a tight embrace. “How happy are you?”
“You wicked man.” She vamped him with a vixen’s smile and led him toward the bedroom. “Come, let me show you.”
Later, their ardor spent, she lay curled with her head on his chest. She was asleep, her breath even and soft, but Mueller stared at the ceiling fan swirling in lazy circles. He thought he’d never known a woman so passionate, so devoid of inhibition in bed. A welter of claw marks on his back bore testament to her fiery nature, and it passed through his mind that the pearl ring was a good investment. Something on account for the future.
He idly wondered if she would like Berlin.
Chapter Thirteen
The last rays of sunset faded on the horizon as dusk settled over Brownsville. The lamplights flickered on, casting a sallow glow all along Elizabeth Street. A streetcar pulled away from the corner, trundling west into deepening nightfall.
Gordon and Maddox entered the hotel. They had just come from yet another meeting at Fort Brown, and their mood was solemn. The date was August 2, and as General Parker had noted, they were in a state quite close to suspended animation. The last raids had occurred something more than three weeks ago.
The dining room was crowded for a Monday night. They took a table near the window and listlessly surveyed the menu. Maddox ordered meat loaf, and Gordon finally decided on veal cutlets smothered in cream gravy, a dish he’d never heard of before coming to Texas. He’d also developed a taste for sweetened iced tea.
Neither of them spoke after the waitress took their orders. Their glum manner was that of men assigned to fight a war only to discover that their enemy had withdrawn from the battlefield. Since July 11, when three ranchers had been burned out, the Army of Liberation had vanished without a trace. Everyone was at a loss as to the reason, and communiqués from Washington demanding an explanation merely aggravated the problem. There were no ready answers.
The waitress returned with their plates. Gordon never ceased to be surprised that he actually liked the cutlets, which were breaded and fried and then lathered with a thick gravy. Maddox, who consumed anything that wasn’t still twitching, dug into his meat loaf with an appetite that belied his mood. They ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts, hardly aware of the conversation of diners at nearby tables. Finally, Maddox paused, a wad of mashed potatoes loaded onto his fork, and looked up. His eyes were marbled with disgust.
“This waitin’s pure hell,” he said. “I’d lots sooner be swappin’ lead with the bastards.”
Gordon nodded. “I feel the same way myself.”
“Know what it reminds me of?”
“What’s that?”
“The time the nigger soldiers shot up Brownsville.”
Once again, Gordon was struck by the prejudice so prevalent among the Rangers. He never said anything, for he wasn’t about to change views so deeply ingrained by racial tension on the border. Instead, he speared a chunk of veal and tried to appear interested.
“Are you talking about soldiers from Fort Brown?”
“You mean you never heard of that?”
“No, I can’t say as I have.”
“Well, pardner, it was one helluva mess.”
Maddox warmed to the tale. On a moonless night in the summer of 1906, several Negro soldiers of the Twenty Fifth Infantry went on a rampage. The direct cause of the incident was racial tension between townspeople and black troops stationed at Fort Brown. The soldiers ran amuck along Elizabeth and Washington Streets, indiscriminately firing rifles into the homes of whites. Two townspeople were killed and five were wounded.
President Theodore Roosevelt ordered an investigation. The Texas Rangers, working with the army’s Criminal Investigation Division, determined that Negro soldiers had indeed attacked white citizens of Brownsville. Yet the black troops closed ranks, and despite intense questioning refused to identify the soldiers responsible. Teddy Roosevelt had the entire company placed under arrest, and ordered their transfer to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio. A month later all the soldiers in the unit were dishonorably discharged from the United States Army.
“Ask me, they got off light,” Maddox concluded. “Should’ve hung some of the bastards.”
Gordon looked confused. “What’s that got to do with our situation?”
“Niggers and greasers, six of one and half a dozen of another. Anybody that kills white people ought to have his neck stretched.”
Maddox went back to his meat loaf. Gordon was tempted to point out the difference between a handful of angry soldiers and revolutionaries backed by the German military. But he knew it would be a waste of breath, an argument of reason against intractable bias. He had other things on his mind.
Three weeks ago Manuel Vargas had reported Garza’s return to Matamoras. Since then, Garza had frequently been seen entering the German Consulate, presumably for meetings with Otto Mueller. He had also been seen in the company of a man who was now quartered at the house on Calle 5. Vargas, through discreet inquiry at the nearby cantina, had been able to identify the man. His name was Aniceto Pizana.
Gordon was hardly surprised. He recalled the raid on Pizana’s house, and the young boy, Pizana’s son, who’d had his leg amputated. Clearly, in the aftermath of the raid, Pizana had made his way to Matamoras and joined the Army of Liberation. The fact that he was living at the headquarters on Calle 5, and often seen in the company of Garza, led to an obvious and disturbing conclusion. Pizana was now one of the leaders in the rebel movement.
Last night, Vargas had reported the return of Luis Vasquez to Matamoras. Vasquez had been gone almost four weeks, and the purpose of his absence, or where he’d been, was still unknown. But his return, and Garza’s frequent meetings with Mueller, seemed a signal that action of some sort was imminent. Gordon was reluctant to send Hector Martinez to Matamoras, for his appearance so soon after Vasquez’s return might somehow seem suspect. Yet, given the circumstances, he saw it as an acceptable risk. Martinez was their only chance at gathering needed intelligence.
Maddox pushed away his plate. He rolled a cigarette and lit up in a haze of smoke. “I’m meeting Ransom and some of the boys for a drink. You’re welcome to come along.”
“Thanks all the same,” Gordon said. “I believe I’ll try to catch Martinez and send him across the river. We have to find out what Garza’s planning.”
“Yeah, we’re sure as hell fumblin’ around like blind men. You want me t
here?”
“No, go ahead and meet Ransom. I can explain what’s needed to Hector.”
Maddox exhaled a streamer of smoke. “Hector might not be around.” He paused, his eyes glinting with sardonic amusement. “ ’Course, his sister could always take the message.”
Over the past several weeks Gordon had visited Guadalupe’s house three or four times a week. On occasion, he asked Maddox along, more of a courtesy than a necessity. By now, Maddox treated his solitary visits to the house by the river as something of an unspoken joke between friends. They both knew he rarely went there to see Hector Martinez or Manuel Vargas.
Maddox went off to join his Ranger friends for a drink. Gordon took the stairs to his room, where he changed to a fresh shirt, combed his hair, and splashed his jawline with bay rum. By eight o’clock, he was standing before the door of the house and Guadalupe answered his knock. When he stepped inside, she kissed him on the mouth and lightly caressed his face with her fingers. Her dark, flirtatious eyes shone with merriment.
“Hector and Manuel are not here. Are you disappointed?”
“No, not at all,” Gordon said with a gravelly chuckle. “I have an assignment for Hector, but you can tell him. Actually, I came to see Antonio.”
“Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes with a delightful little laugh. “Why else would you be here?”
Antonio squealed when Gordon entered the parlor. They were by now fast friends and playmates, and Gordon lifted him high overhead and swung him around in fits of giggles. Then he got down on the floor with the boy, listening attentively as he jabbered away, proudly showing off his toys. Within the hour his energy flagged and he yawned, leaning against Gordon, his eyes sleepy. Guadalupe carried him off to bed.
When she returned, Gordon was seated on the sofa. She sat down beside him and quickly kissed him on the cheek. “Querido mio,” she said in a soft, throaty voice. “You are a good man.”
“Who, me?” Gordon asked with mock surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, my son is an excellent judge of men. Just like his mother.”
She settled into his arms and he kissed her long and tenderly. The sofa was small but they managed to stretch out and lay close. She murmured an endearment and nibbled his ear.
He reminded himself to tell her what he needed from Hector. Later.
Early the next morning, the train from Washington to New York pulled into Grand Central Station. Colonel Franz von Kleist stepped off a passenger coach and hurried along the platform. He was carrying a small overnight bag.
Von Kleist had traveled to Washington yesterday for meetings with the German Ambassador to the United States. Communiqués from the German General Staff, invoking the displeasure of Emperor Kaiser Wilhelm, had expressed concern for the delays in Mexico. As he went up the stairs to the main terminal, von Kleist was still stinging from the reprimand he’d received in Washington. He had been forced to justify continued funding for the mission.
Grand Central Station was a masterwork of functional design. The beaux-arts architecture, a mass of brick and granite, was an airy colossus completed before the turn of the century. The central chamber rose nearly two hundred feet high, with vaulted arches above massive stained-glass windows. The marble floor was immense and the constellations of the zodiac, gold against blue on the ceiling, gave it a kaleidoscope effect. The impression was like that of a vast amphitheater reaching for the stars.
Von Kleist hardly noticed. His thoughts were on Captain Otto Mueller, and the scathing telegram he planned to have encoded and fired off to Matamoras. The German General Staff, when informed of Mueller’s latest estimate for action, had responded with a deadline of September 15 for war on the Texas-Mexico border. The ambassador in Washington, the highest German official in the United States, had delivered the message in blunt terms. Von Kleist would be recalled to Berlin and retired in disgrace unless the mission was completed. The honorable thing, if that happened, would be to shoot himself.
Outside the terminal, von Kleist took a taxicab to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. Before departing Washington, he had wired ahead and arranged a meeting with Victoriano Huerta. On the tenth floor a manservant admitted him to a suite lavishly appointed with Louis XIV furnishings and a sweeping view of the New York skyline. For a moment, upon entering the sitting room, he reflected that Huerta was living in grand style at the expense of the German war effort. Then, with a force of will, he focused on the immediate, if somewhat onerous, task.
Huerta greeted him warmly. “Buenos dias, my dear Colonel von Kleist. How good to see you again.”
“Generalissimo,” von Kleist said with a perfunctory handshake. “I have just come from the German Embassy in Washington. The news is not good.”
“I regret to hear that, Colonel. Please, won’t you have a seat.”
A sofa and chairs were grouped by an ornate marble fireplace. After they were seated, von Kleist went straight to the point. “The situation in Mexico has become intolerable. Delay upon delay and no end to it. We cannot continue in this manner.”
Huerta smiled indulgently. “I received a letter only yesterday from Augustin Garza. He assures me a major attack will take place by early September.”
“Garza’s assurances have little currency. Captain Mueller says he is a man of many excuses.”
“On the contrary, Garza has a gift for organization and logistics. We will field a brigade of cavalry for the invasion of Texas.”
“I will be frank,” von Kleist said stolidly. “My superiors have established a deadline of September 15 for the attack. In the event it does not occur, all funding for your return to power will cease.” He paused to underscore the words. “No excuse will be acceptable beyond that date.”
“Have no fear,” Huerta said without concern. “The campaign will begin well before your deadline. In fact, there will be simultaneous action on two fronts. I waited to advise you until my plans were complete.”
Huerta quickly elaborated. Pascual Orozco, one of his former generals, was even now organizing loyalist forces who had found sanctuary around El Paso and southern New Mexico. Orozco, who had distinguished himself against Carranza’s army, was a brilliant field commander. In 1914, when Huerta went into exile in Spain, Orozco had taken refuge in the Mexican district of El Paso. His loyalist force would be comprised of two thousand veteran soldiers, perhaps more.
“I will lead the attack myself,” Huerta went on. “We will strike along the upper Rio Grande even as Garza invades southern Texas.”
Von Kleist was momentarily taken aback. In all their planning sessions, Huerta had never once mentioned a military campaign on the upper Rio Grande. Yet it was clear that the Mexican was not only a conniving old fox, but a master strategist as well. A coordinated attack on two fronts would impress the German General Staff as nothing short of genius. He silently explored ways that he might take credit for the idea.
“ ‘Fortune is ally to the bold,’ ” he said. “Virgil wrote that when Rome ruled the world. I think it is a fitting motto for our enterprise.”
“Si,” Huerta said, nodding sagely. “One that will speed my rule of Mexico.”
“Indeed so, Generalissimo. Once we divert America’s attention from Europe, you will be free to engage Carranza’s army. And need I say, Germany will underwrite your swift fight to victory.”
“I envisioned nothing less, Colonel.”
Von Kleist left the hotel with his spirits restored. On the way to the German Embassy, he began composing the communiqué he would dispatch to General Alexis Baron von Fritsch, in Berlin. He imagined a summary of the message channeled through the chain of command to Field Marshal Heinrich von Luettwitz, and then to Kaiser Wilhelm himself. Worded properly, the communiqué would bring praise from the Emperor for a strategic gambit he’d heard only ten minutes ago. The upshot might very well be a promotion, and the sound of it made his ears ring.
General Franz von Kleist. General!
Late that afternoon he met with Felix Men
doza. Pancho Villa’s emissary frequently traveled east to purchase arms and munitions for the Villistas’ interminable war with Carranza. Von Kleist, as promised in their initial meeting, was providing $50,000 a month in support, and had already rendered $100,000 in funds. The date was August 3, and Mendoza was there to collect the latest payment. His manner was almost obsequious.
“General Villa sends you his most cordial regards. He often says you are the savior of the Revolución.”
“Hardly that,” von Kleist said with feigned modesty. “Our agreement included a quid pro quo that has nothing to do with your revolution. I’m sure you recall the terms.”
“Si, mi coronel,” Mendoza replied. “You wish Villistas to raid across the Rio Grande—disguised as bandidos.”
“How much have I provided General Villa to date?”
“Why, one hundred thousand American. Surely you remember the amount.”
“And have I requested anything in return, so far?”
“No, mi coronel.” Mendoza’s eyes narrowed in a shrewd look. “But I think you are about to tell me something. Am I correct?”
Von Kleist consulted a calendar on the wall. Then he placed an envelope stuffed with bank notes on his desk. “Fifty thousand for August,” he said, “and another fifty thousand on September 1. Are you following me?”
“Si.”
“And I want General Villa to begin his raids on September 17. Agreed?”
“Does the date have particular significance?”
“Nothing that need concern you or General Villa.”
Mendoza pocketed the envelope. “General Villa is a man of his word, mi coronel. I will convey your wishes.”
“Excellent.”
September 17 was an arbitrary date. Von Kleist thought it would coincide closely with the date of Garza’s invasion of Texas and Huerta’s campaign on the upper Rio Grande. Villa’s raids, even if a few days late, would pour oil on an already incendiary situation. America would declare war on Mexico.
All the contingencies, von Kleist told himself, were covered. Huerta and Villa might join forces to oust Carranza, or the triumvirate might join to defend Mexico against America. Whatever the case, no matter who ruled Mexico, the end result would be the same. America would look to its own security, and away from Europe.