City of Knives

by William Bayer

  But for what?

  Late that night he returned to the cybercafé to check on responses to his inquiries.

  Bailey wrote that he hadn't made the replica and hadn't been approached to do so. If the replica was as well-made as Hank said, he recommended contacting Trinkvel as he was the only other fabricator capable of bringing such a project off.

  Trinkvel wrote: "I did not make the replica you speak of. I imagine you've already contacted Sam. If he didn't craft it, there's only one other possibility. Adler in Tel Aviv. He's very old now, but he still does excellent work. As you probably know, he worked at Buchenwald as a teenage slave laborer in Paul Müller's atelier. There he learned all the old master German craftsman's tricks. If there's anyone alive who can fabricate a near-perfect Reichsmarschall dagger, Adler's the man."

  Gerhard Adler: Hank had forgotten about him. He would be in his late seventies now. When Hank had met him briefly at a MAX show in the 80s, he and Adler had exchanged cards.

  Tel Aviv!

  Suddenly, he flashed on a notion that could explain everything: the actions of Marci, Mr. G, DiPinto, Laura, Adler's involvement and Max Rosenfeld's reference to an unnamed Embassy.

  Suppose Señora Pedraza brought the real Göring Reichsmarschall dagger to Max Rosenfeld, and Max, recognizing it and being a good Jew, reported his discovery to a contact at the Israeli Embassy?

  Then Mr. G, Marci and Dipinto, Israeli agents, set to work hatching a plot. My role? Could I be "the schlemiel" in the operation...whatever kind of operation it is? And what a perfect sitting duck I was, ready for the plucking, perched there at the Radisson bar bemoaning my stolen inventory!

  The notion was daring: Mossad agents using an authentic Third Reich artifact to achieve a secret objective of their own.

  Hank's first instinct was to depart Buenos Aires before he found himself trapped in a convoluted Israeli plot. But then he wondered whether there was a chance that if he stayed on and played along, he might get out clean with the dagger for himself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CONSPIRACY

  Chief Ricardi was furious. He crumpled up that mornings El Faro, then tossed into his wastebasket. "This Raúl Vargas—he's washing our damn police linen in public!" Marta spread her hands. "Is there anything he wrote that isn't true, Chief?”

  “That's the trouble! He seems to have gotten it right." Ricardi glared at her. "I know better than to ask if you're his source." She shrugged to show she appreciated that decision. Ricardi continued to glare. "I get an awful lot of complaints about you,

  Marta. More than any other detective. These little shrugs of yours—Judge Schell doesn't like them."

  "I'm sorry the Judge misconstrued my body language," she said. "I never meant to be insolent...even when he told me he was releasing the men who threatened to torture my daughter with electricity."

  "Judge Lantini isn't pleased either. Seems she warned you about leaking to the press."

  "Anything else?"

  "Charbonneau's gone quiet for now, but it's clear he hates your guts."

  "He told me I have a Joan of Arc complex." Ricardi grinned. "If you ask me, he's the one who's got the complex." She liked Ricardi for saying that. "Thank you, Chief, for defending me."

  "I hope my defense doesn't backfire. A good cop always has enemies.

  A smart cop doesn't make them in the higher ranks."

  As Marta drove to the site where Reinaldo Costa was allegedly killed in a hit-and-run, Rolo gleefully read aloud the concluding paragraphs of Raúl's article:

  "'...serious charges are being flung back and forth. The Investigator claims the Politician and Confidential Associate tried to interfere with a homicide investigation. They, in turn, claim the Investigator tried to solicit a bribe. The Goons claim the Investigator coerced them into confessing to attempted terrorization, a confession they've now retracted. And the Police Official and the Father have refused to make any comment at all. "We know nothing about any of this," both stated through their attorney.

  "'This entire ball of snakes would be almost comical if it weren't for the fact that the Investigator in question is one of the most honored in the entire Federal Police, regarded as untouchable on account of her incorruptibility. That's right, her incorruptibility, for, according to our source, The Investigator is...a woman!' Wow!"

  "Like that, do you, Rolo?" Marta asked.

  "Every word!"

  "I hope Raúl doesn't end up paying a price. He's just a kid, and his arms are thin as sticks."

  The patrolman who'd covered the hit-and-run, met them at the site. Consulting his notes, he told them the accident took place a little before six a.m., and that there were two eye-witnesses.

  According to the first, a Señora Foigel, who happened to be walking by to catch a bus, the victim, Reinaldo Costas, stepped into the street in front of his house just as a darkcolored van with black glass windows came hurtling from around the corner. The vehicle swerved, hit Costas, halted a moment, then sped off. Soon afterwards a man and a woman emerged from the house, picked the victim up and carried him back inside.

  The second witness, a Dr. Plotkin, was passing in his car in the opposite direction. He saw the accident, stopped and followed the man and woman into the house, where he pronounced the victim dead on the spot due to traumatic head injury.

  "The plate on the van was fake," the patrolman told them. He had a typical young cop's bushy mustache. "No such number registered. We figure the van was freshly stolen. The thieves were making their getaway, they hit this guy, and knowing what would happen if they stopped, drove on."

  "Was Costas' body examined?" Rolo asked.

  "His wife didn't want him touched. At the wife's request, the doctor called an undertaker. I gather he was buried by the end of the day."

  "Isn't that kind of quick?"

  "They were Jewish. The doctor told me fast burial is a Jewish tradition."

  "Did you investigate further?"

  The patrolman stared at Marta. "Investigate what, Inspector?"

  "Whether the hit-and-run was deliberate?"

  "There was no suggestion of that."

  "Did you do anything else?"

  "I put out a notice on the van."

  "Was one reported stolen that night?"

  The patrolman shrugged. "Out of the two hundred or so cars stolen every day in this city, at least two dozen are SUVs and vans. Such vehicles are rarely recovered. When pros take them, they're broken down for parts or driven across the border into Paraguay. We don't have time to look for them even if one's involved in a hit-and-run. Unless a patrol car is nearby and an officer gives chase, there's nothing we can do."

  "Right!" Rolo said. "Welcome to twenty-first century Buenos Aires!"

  After the patrolman left, they walked to the corner.

  "Did you figure Costas for Jewish?" Marta asked.

  "No."

  "Neither did I. I guess I lack Kessler's sensitive nostrils."

  She stopped at the corner. "Funny thing though—so many Jews converging here: Costas, Foigel, Plotkin." She peered around. "Does this strike you as a Jewish neighborhood?"

  "Not particularly. The van the neighbors saw exiting Granic's garage the morning of his murder—that one was also dark with black glass."

  "Yeah, the Israeli clean-up squad. Seems to me there're two ways to approach this," Marta said. "Find the witnesses, break them down, or exhume the body...if there is one."

  "You don't think Costas was killed?"

  She shook her head. "Let's see what Señora Costas has to say about it."

  Señora Costas, wearing mourning, was a phlegmatic, thirty-five year old woman who didn't strike Marta as a type Costa would have married. Marta recalled Costas as younger, brighter and far more energetic. This woman seemed dazed and turned fearful as soon as they showed their badges.

  "The man who helped carry your husband in from the street—what was he doing here so early?" Rolo asked.

  "He was a boarder."

 
"Was?"

  "He moved out after Reinaldo was killed." She added that the boarder hadn't left a forwarding address.

  "Where's your husband buried?" Marta asked.

  "He was cremated."

  "Patrolman Araña tells us you buried him that very day."

  "We couldn't make arrangements with the Jewish cemetery. Then I remembered he once told me he wanted to be cremated...so that's what we did."

  "Do you have the ashes?"

  She shook her head. "I sent them down to his mother in Mar del Plata."

  Marta stared at her. "You know what I think, Señora? I think this hit-and-run story is phony. I don't believe there was an accident. I think you, Foigel and Plotkin lied to the police. That's a serious crime."

  The woman began to sob.

  "Never mind the tears. Reinaldo Costas wasn't your husband, was he?"

  The woman admitted he wasn't, that he'd simply rented a room in her house. She'd been paid well to tell the police his cooked-up version of an accident. In fact, "the victim" was nothing but a bundle of rags Reinaldo had tied into the shape of a man, then helped her carry back inside. She had no idea where Reinaldo had gone, or even if Reinaldo Costas was his actual name. The same with Foigel and Plotkin. She'd never seen them before or since.

  "Who paid you?"

  "Reinaldo."

  "He paid you to claim you were his wife and then to help fake his death?"

  She nodded.

  "How much?" Rolo asked.

  "Two hundred U.S. dollars."

  "Pretty cheap, don't you think, to put yourself at risk for prison?"

  They chose not to arrest her. She had told them, they decided, everything she knew, plus she was dumb, pathetic, and, like so many in the city, desperate.

  It was clear to Marta that she'd been had, that the anonymously delivered photographs, so easily traced back to Costas, were part of a plot to steer her murder investigation toward Viera. But why? Since she didn't know how to reach the one person who could tell her, she called Raúl for help.

  "Great article!" she told him, when she reached him on his cell. "Chief Ricardi's furious."

  "Good! I like it when they're shitting in their pants."

  "Judge Lantini isn't too happy either."

  "It was your choice, Marta. No one forced you to talk."

  "Yeah, my choice. Now I need a favor in return. You mentioned a friend of yours, a CIA contact who 'pays too much and gets too little in return'."

  "Caroline Black at the U.S. Embassy."

  "I need to talk to her."

  "What about?"

  "My business. Can you set it up?"

  "She'll insist on knowing why."

  Marta thought a moment. "Tell her I'm interested in becoming her informant."

  Rolo laughed. "You just made that up."

  "It seems like a good enough reason to meet me."

  "I get first crack at the story, right?"

  "As always, Raúl."

  A brief pause while he reflected. "I'll give her a call. But no guarantee she'll be interested."

  The meeting was set for four that afternoon at a Café "Sigi" near Raúl's parents' apartment, an odd little place at the corner of Salguero and Charcas which Marta had never noticed before.

  Caroline Black was waiting for her, a fortyish woman with streaks of blonde in her medium-cut brown hair. She wore heels, lipstick, her nails were impeccable—a false front, Marta felt, as if she wished to conceal her smarts by presenting herself as a typical Barrio Norte airhead.

  "Raúl tells me you've been one of his best off-the-record sources," Caroline said, after they ordered coffee.

  "Yes, well...we use each other," Marta responded.

  Caroline Black seemed taken aback by that. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "I'm a homicide detective investigating the Granic/Santini murders. I know you know about them. You're the one who told our mutual friend that Granic was an Israeli agent."

  "Just a minute!"

  "Please, let me finish, Ms. Black. I'm not trying to embarrass you. I simply need your help. There's an Israeli woman, a Mossad agent, who met with me some days ago. She didn't give me her name, and, even if she had, most likely it wouldn't have been real. She's about your age, has short thick black hair, very dark eyes, an intense sure-of-herself manner. In fact, if I wanted to be unkind, I'd describe her as arrogant. She was accompanied by a bodyguard who drove us around in an unlicensed cab. I'm sure you know the person I'm referring to. I'd like you to convey a message. Kindly tell her to meet me this evening at seven p.m. at the same place we met before. Please tell her that if she doesn't show, I'm going to make it public that Israelis are once again meddling in internal Argentine affairs. For verification you may mention the following names: Costas, Plotkin and Foigel."

  Caroline Black, who'd sat very still through Marta's appeal, now showed her a patronizing smile.

  "Excuse me, Inspector Abecasis, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Well...I think you do," Marta responded, as politely and demurely as she could.

  "You seem to be asking me to contact someone in another country's diplomatic service."

  "I've relayed my message. Up to you whether to forward it or not. If you do, and there's anything I can do for you in future, please don't hesitate to ask." Marta laid her card on the table, then stood up. "I appreciate your coming out to meet me."

  The Israeli taxi was hovering in front of Memorial Plaza on Arroyo Street, when Marta and Rolo pulled abreast.

  Marta, sitting in the back seat, rolled down her window. The Israeli woman did the same.

  "This time we'll talk in my car," Marta said.

  "I don't know your driver."

  "I don't know yours."

  "He's my security man."

  "Rolo's my security man. Get in or the meeting's off."

  The woman got out of her car. This time she didn't seem so sure of herself. Marta was pleased, for this time, she'd decided, she would be the one who'd do the intimidating.

  When the woman got in beside her, Rolo turned into Avenida 9 de Julio, joining the eight lanes of west-bound evening traffic, the Israeli security taxi tracking just behind.

  "Let me put it this way," Marta began. "I don't like being played. An Israeli agent who runs a blackmail/honey-pot operation is brutally murdered. So is one of his working girls. An Israeli clean-up squad sterilizes his house, but leaves his tortured body for us. Meantime suggestive photos are left at my apartment door with a lovely little note signed by 'An Admirer.' Faked-up photos, it turns out, created by a phony cyber-photographic expert named Costas, who claims the faking was commissioned by a pair of nameless generic thugs. Then, when I'm abducted and threatened by a real pair of thugs and need Mr. Costas to identify them, I find his office closed, because, according to the building manager, the poor man was killed in a hit-and-run. Except, of course, it turns out he wasn't killed, the woman who told the police she was his wife turns out to have been his landlady, and it also turns out the so-called eyewitnesses told a pack of lies to the neighborhood cop. All this cinema, I gather, just to steer me toward a politician who may run for President of Argentina. Seems to me, Ms. Whoever-You-Are, I'm owed an explanation. If I don't get one, and I mean one that satisfies me, I'm going to go to the press with everything I know and blow your little operation sky high."

  They were nearing the Obelisk. Crowds surged on the sidewalks. The city was never more alive than at this hour, people leaving work, swiftly criss-crossing downtown streets, heading for taxi stations and bus stops, eager to get home.

  "We had no idea you'd be abducted, certainly not by men who resembled Reinaldo's drawings."

  "So, your plan was flawed! You didn't anticipate it could implode!"

  "Please don't be sarcastic."

  "You don't get it! I don't care what you did or didn't anticipate. If you thought Viera or Charbonneau was behind the killings, why didn't you tell me and hand over your evidence?"

&nbs
p; "That's not the way we work. Granic was undercover."

  "What about Santini?"

  "He used her to create recordable situations with his targets. The killers probably decided that since they were going to get rid of him, they might as well get rid of her too."

  "It seems to be common knowledge that the crocs took care of them.

  Even the medical examiner's technician recognized the way they'd been tied."

  "The actual killers probably were crocs. We're interested in who gave the order."

  "You think it was Viera?"

  "We think he's very dangerous."

  "What about Pedraza?"

  For just a split second, the woman's eyes enlarged. "You think he was involved?"

  "I think it's a possibility. Granic was trying to persuade a woman who provides a bizarre erotic service, to allow him to videotape her in session with Pedraza. Granic kept pressuring her. He wouldn't take no for an answer. She got fed up and mentioned something about him to Pedraza. Shortly afterwards he was killed."

  "I didn't know that."

  "That's because it's not your job. I'm the Homicide Inspector here, not you. You're a foreign intelligence agent meddling in another country's affairs. If Viera's connected to these murders, I need to know. Otherwise why try and steer me to him?"

  "We thought he might be behind the killings. Or one of his people."

  "Charbonneau?"

  "Maybe."

  "Ubaldo Méndez?"

  "I'm not familiar with the name."

  "You must have a theory."

  "We wanted you to take a close look at Viera and his people. If there was something there, we figured you'd find it."

  "But it was too much trouble to tell me this straight out. You had to play out your little script."

  "Forgive us, Marta. That's how we do things."

  "It's not the way I do things." She stared at the woman. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

  "Of course not!"

  "Then you must have known I'd catch on to your game."