Assassin: The Terrifying True Story Of An International Hitman

by Robbins, Christopher

  The Observer’s contact in Santo Domingo sent periodic reports to say that the story was checking out while in London the paper dealt cautiously with Evertsz, photostating documents he produced, demanding that he sign each page of the interview and also a release note designed to put everybody out of the danger of post-publication revenge.

  When the story finally appeared Evertsz stared tight-lipped from the front page of the colour magazine and fixed his dead, black eyes on the British public. Apart from the eyes, which will always betray him, he was a study in neatness. His hair was cropped short, his moustache trimmed, his tie pushed tightly into a Windsor knot and he stood correctly erect against an oak tree.

  The British authorities and the general public received the grisly tale with a disturbing amount of phlegm. However, the U.S. embassy in London felt obliged to deny the story and privately leaked a ‘secret’ CIA report from Santo Domingo to The Observer. Like all good denials it admitted a little but baulked at the cardinal crimes. xxx

  ‘EVERTSZ LEFT HERE IN FEAR OF HIS LIFE AFTER BIZARRE TWO WEEK EPISODE IN WHICH HE APPROACHED EMBASSY WITH REPORT OF ASSASSINATION PLOT AGAINST AMBASSADOR. SOUGHT BUT DID NOT RECEIVE OUR SUPPORT FOR INVESTIGATIVE EFFORT. NAMED HIGHLY PLACED DOMINICAN OFFICIALS IN SUPPOSED PLOT, SOUGHT ASYLUM IN TWO LATIN AMERICAN EMBASSIES, AND FINALLY “TOLD ALL” TO MAJOR OPPOSITION PARTY AND TO TABLOID PRESS. AS HIS STORY FINALLY EMERGED, IT PROFESSED PUT HIM AT LEAST FORMERLY IN EMPLOY OF CIA (TOTALLY UNTRUE) CAST EMBASSY IN ALLEGED ROLE OF CONDUCTING INVESTIGATIVE OPERATION AGAINST GODR OFFICIALS, AND ACCUSED PRD OPPOSITION PARTY OF OFFERING EXFILTRATE HIM TO CUBA IN EXCHANGE FOR INFORMATION ON U.S. INTELLIGENCE ACTIVITIES IN DOMINICAN REPUBLIC.

  ‘EVERTSZ DISPLAYED TRULY UNUSUAL ABILITY EMBARRASS AND ALIENATE ALL WITH WHOM HE CAME INTO CONTACT. IN WELTER OF PUBLIC DENIALS, CLARIFICATIONS, RECIPROCAL ACCUSATIONS ETC. WHICH FOLLOWED EVERTSZ “EXPOSÉ”, DOMINICAN AIR FORCE ANNOUNCED IT HAD FIRED HIM FROM CIVILIAN POSITION OCTOBER 10 AND INTER ALIA PRODUCED SERD2S INTERROGATION REPORTS REVEALING EVERTSZ HAD CLEVERLY USED CONTACTS WITH AND VISITS TO THIS EMBASSY TO ROB UNSUSPECTING VISA APPLICANTS OF SIZEABLE SUMS OF MONEY. WE, IN TURN, DISCOVERED EVERTSZ IN ADDITION REPEATED EFFORTS IN U.S.A. ASSOCIATE SELF WITH U.S. SECURITY AGENCES ALSO HAD ROUTINE APPLICATION PENDING FOR EMPLOYMENT WITH THIS MISSION.

  ‘EVERTSZ CLAIMS HAVE NATURALIZED U.S. CITIZEN WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN RESIDENT IN U.S.A. OTHER SOURCES STATE HE “ABANDONED” THEM. PRIOR TO DEPARTURE FOR SPAIN HE SOUGHT ON OCTOBER 21 APPLY HERE FOR TRANSIT VISA BUT WE AVOTOED RECED7T OF FORMAL APPLICATION. NO OTHER TYPE OF VISA DISCUSSED.

  ‘IN LIGHT OF ALL DEVELOPMENT, WE CONSIDER EVERTSZ VERY CUNNING TROUBLEMAKER, PSYCHOLOGICALLY DISTURBED AND FABRICATOR AND PERSON WITH WHO NO RPT NO CONTACT SHOULD BE MAINTAINED, END.

  ‘QUOTE, GP - 3 IRWIN.’

  In fact The Observer had published a copy of a document signed by President Balaguer himself accrediting Evertsz to the Air Force, but the British continued to pay the assassin scant attention. I had expected his instant expulsion on the publication of the story but nothing happened. A question was asked in the House of Commons why a confessed murderer was allowed to stay in the country, but otherwise the piece seemed to have acted as an exercise in public relations, an elaborate advert for a gun, and tipped Evertsz for celebrity status. I received the following letter:

  ‘Dear Mr Robbins, I would appreciate your forwarding the enclosed letter to Carlos Evertsz, the former Dominican secret agent described in your fascinating profile. You would not be party to any political intrigue or assassination plots by so doing. The letter is simply to ask Mr Evertsz if he would be willing to act a gunman in a film for which we are casting . . . the offer contingent of course on his ability to act the part and his willingness to do so. Sincerely, William Lee.’

  It did not take genius to deduce that the Lee writing that weird letter was none other than William Burroughs’ alter ego, the victim of Naked Lunch. Burroughs later explained: ‘I saw that face on the magazine cover, helpless yet brutal - someone who could carry out any order but was totally incapable of giving one - and wanted him to play one of the policemen in The Naked Lunch.’ Burroughs wrote to Evertsz and left a phone number but he did not call for several weeks. ‘He asked for a Mr Lee and I had forgotten the elaborate precautions I had gone to and told him he must have the wrong number. He said, “I do not have the wrong number, give me Mr Lee.” I thought, “Uh huh, I know who that is”.’

  Bill Burroughs felt Evertsz’s evil telephone vibe straight away and decided not to audition after all.

  Originally the bit in Burroughs’ letter assuring me that I would not be a party to any assassination plot had amused me. Just old Bill’s paranoia showing, I thought. And then suddenly I found myself involved in exactly that.

  A woman with a light Spanish accent phoned me to say that she had been intrigued by the article and would I meet her for tea at the Ritz to talk further about Evertsz. I was to tell the head-waiter my name as I sat down and she would then ask for me.

  I sat and waited and the waiter eventually brought over a slim dark-haired woman in her late thirties who looked as if a collection of Europe’s most chic and expensive couturiers and jewellers had all got together to deck her out. I gave the background on Evertsz to this sophisticated lady while she gave me the background on herself. Very calmly, she outlined a dismal, imprisoned family life dominated by an impossible and vicious husband. It became clear that she wanted to enroll Evertsz’s services to set her free.

  As we ate the tiny triangular cucumber sandwiches, I felt again that I was badly cast in a poorly scripted movie, an unlikely cardboard character in somebody else’s paperback.

  ‘Sugar?’ my companion asked, teapot poised for the second cup.

  What response was in order to this elegant creature, who poured tea with the sure hand of an English woman and wanted to knock off her husband? He certainly sounded as if he deserved all that he got, but even so . . .

  My reply, when it came, was absurd. In an almost collaborative undertone I told her that she would not be hiring a killer but putting herself at the mercy of a blackmailer, and that even the CIA had been made giddy by Evertsz’s deviousness. She accepted all this with a faint air of sadness and smiled so disarmingly that I had the ridiculous emotion that I had disappointed her quite unnecessarily and been unforgivably rude.

  Suddenly she stood up, thanked me for talking to her and insisted that I stayed to finish my tea. She had to rush to catch the shops in Bond Street before they closed, she explained. She turned on her heels and drifted across the foyer of the hotel like some fantastical Vogue giraffe and slipped out into Piccadilly to buy . . . what? A tie-pin for her husband?

  And so it went on . . . Evertsz on the loose and up to every trick in the book. Finally he was picked up by the police. The charge was simple enough. Evertsz’s permit to remain in England had expired and was nearly a month overdue. He was accused of failing to leave Britain by the date specified by the Home Office under an Alien’s Order. The dry legal language covered a multitude of sins.

  There was nothing spectacular about the case which formed part of a dreary morning of petty offences. Evertsz was brought in and stood in the dock and did not appear very frightening or terrible, but simply out of his depth and a little ridiculous. In fact, in a sad round of adult men and women being punished and admonished for trivial crimes - two dustmen had stolen a dumped car and sold it for a fiver, a nurse had taken a dress from a boutique - Evertsz provided unintentional light relief when he tried to make a deal with the magistrate.

  The police opposed bail and Evertsz was remanded in custody and fined a pound. Back in prison he became obsessed by the idea that I had betrayed him to the police and it caused a plunge in our relationship. I went to see him in gaol, walked down the row of booths provided for visitors and took a seat on my side of the glass. Evertsz was leaning back in a chair with one leg thrown over the other. He looked at me with sublime distaste.

  Even with the thick plat
e glass between us I felt uneasy. As far as Evertsz was concerned I had betrayed him and he intended to make me sweat for it. From then on he pulled the old hard-and-soft con on me. That day it was ‘hard’ and there were threats; later it was ‘soft’ - ‘You’re the only friend I have, help me.’ It may be an old con, or even a crude con, but it’s an effective con.

  Evertsz was moved to Pentonville prison and I received a note from prisoner 097414 on the tasteful headed notepaper the place provides. It was the soft con:

  Dear Criss, first, of all I’d like to thank you for all you help and interest that you have take on my case, would you please keep at mind that you always could count on me. Thank you again. Later in the letter (reproduced here as he wrote it) he asked me to go and see him.

  This time Evertsz came into the visiting booth snappily dressed in blue dungarees with a yellow stripe down the right-hand side. He was in excellent spirits. I had brought some of his clothes and he had chosen to forget my previous misdemeanours. He needed somebody on the outside. He talked a great deal, complained about the terrible food and said something surprising: ‘I’ve been putting people in gaol for a long time - now I’m getting some of my own medicine.’ The twist of fate seemed to amuse him.

  Then he told me he was to be deported back to the Dominican Republic any day and he was convinced that he would be shot on arrival in his native land. ‘I know how those boys do their stuff,’ he said.

  He estimated he had two chances - escape, which seemed unlikely, or a hijack attempt on the plane, a last resort he intended to try. In the meantime he needed money and wanted me to smuggle $500 in to him in the lining of a tie. I told him it was impossible.

  His mood changed — he was not asking, but demanding. He then accused me of putting the police on to him in the first place and said that this was the only way I could make things up to him. My denials were useless and I sat there quietly while he threatened murder. Eventually time was up and the guard returned. Evertsz pretended to be back in his jovial mood and told me firmly that he would expect me the following day.

  I never did go back. The following week I had to go to Spain which I thought would take me off the hook. When I returned to London there was a pile of Pentonville correspondence waiting for me, all employing the soft con.

  Dear Criss

  As you see I am still in the “city”.

  I hope you had a good time in Spain.

  I will look forward to see you very shortly.

  Please try - and not to fail - to bring the items I ask you last time I see you.

  It is very important you bring the tie with, the especial linen in it, they don’t make like those back home.

  Well, I should see you soon.

  All the best.

  Carlos.

  There was another short note with a picture of a tie decorated with a dollar sign. And again:

  Dear Friend,

  As you can see I’m still in Pentonville, therefore I will be much obligated to you when you will bring the items that I ask you the last time that you visit me.

  In case all the booze and birds has made you lose yor memory I’m listing the items again.

  2 Pair of slim fit trousers

  2 Shirt 14, big sleve

  4brief &TIE

  2 Pair boots (1 black & 1 brown, six 10)

  Please do not forget and try to make it soon as possible because I could be going one day. I hope that you will get together with me sometime next year—If I still alive - on the continent.

  Thank you for everything.

  CE.

  Altogether Evertsz was in prison for more than two months before the Home Secretary approved the court’s recommendation to deport him. Finally he was driven by the police to Heathrow Airport and delivered on to the plane with a one-way ticket to the Dominican Republic.

  Seven

  Evertsz never arrived. When the plane touched down in Madrid to take on more passengers he slipped out and did not return. It was as well, for the Dominican Republic had let it be known that they were not prepared to accept Evertsz back under any circumstances.

  I started to receive a series of late night collect calls from him under the name of Mr Carlos. I refused them and sat tight. Then I had a call from Eddie, the Philippine accountant.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked in simple astonishment. ‘We’re back to square one. He was here in the office today asking for money. He’s in a very desperate mood - very ugly. He’s been calling you every name in the book and has been screaming it around that he’s going to kill you if it’s the last thing he does. You are número uno, amigo. Keep your head down.’

  There were several other attempted calls from Mr Carlos which I managed to duck. Then suddenly there was a period of calm. I checked with Madrid and he had not been seen. I waited. Four weeks later he called to say that past misunderstandings were buried. He was in a good mood for romance was in the air. His Spanish wife had been typically abandoned in Madrid and his new bride-to-be was a young American girl.

  Weeks later she called me from Antwerp. ‘The Americans’ had shot at Evertsz in Zurich and he had fled to Paris. They had since moved to Belgium where . . . Evertsz had disappeared.

  Another gap until I started to receive picture postcards from him, although they gave little away and were mostly concerned with making urgent demands for cash. After his disappearance he turned up in Moscow and Prague (defection? I wondered incredulously), New York, Puerto Rico and then back to the U.S. to live for a while in Passaic, New Jersey. For a man the United States wished to avoid all contact with, Evertsz displayed a remarkable freedom of entry. One card arrived with a Brooklyn date-mark and featured a night-time shot of Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge at Garden State Parkway in New Jersey. It was a publicity card and enthused that the lodge was Bergen County’s newest and most beautiful, only twenty minutes from New York and complete with pool, sauna bath and colour TV in every room. Evertsz had simply arrowed these luxuries with the cryptogram, ‘All the Goodies’. He was back in the bosom of Uncle Sam, apparently forgiven for his previous transgression, and living well.

  Then, suddenly, he returned to Europe and arrived in Paris where, with the usual uncanny coincidence, I was going the very same weekend. I intended to stay with Gregorio Webber and received a call from him in the morning I was due to leave. Apparently my relationship with Evertsz was in the doldrums again as I had not replied to his cards or sent money.

  ‘He says,’ Webber shouted down a crackling line, ‘that he is going to shoot you.’

  The death list again, but the threat had been bounced around for too long and I simply did not believe it. When I arrived in Paris I went straight to Webber’s apartment on the Avenue Rapp where there had been a party that same afternoon to celebrate the first communion of his daughter. Several of the guests had stayed behind in the salon and were still drinking champagne. The little girl herself was floating through the room in a flowing white dress. A heavy gold chain and cross hung around her neck and her hair was tied into a tight white cap. My eyes scarcely had time to take in this angelic figure when they fell on Evertsz sitting silently in an armchair. The contrast was ludicrous. It was as if Innocence and Evil had stalked on to the stage to act out some medieval morality play.

  Before I had time to panic Evertsz was out of his chair and greeting me warmly. ‘You’re lucky to have a friend like Gregorio,’ he told me amiably. ‘I’ve been pretty angry with you.’ I looked confused as he slapped me on the back and walked away.

  After Paris Evertsz began spinning through Europe at a dizzy rate. He flew to Stockholm where he applied for political asylum. It was refused so he moved south to Copenhagen where he stayed for several weeks before flying to West Berlin. In Berlin he was arrested on suspicion of forging a BEA airline ticket but was released after eight days in gaol. Somehow he had discovered a way of phoning free from public booths and I began to receive a barrage of calls in the early hours of the morning with the familiar requests for money.

/>   He had a new French girl in tow and wanted to go back to Paris with her, write his memoirs and realize a dream. His idea was to run a filling station in the States, a curious ambition for a retired assassin. ‘I’ve changed my life,’ he said on the phone. ‘I’m going straight now. I’m going to quieten it all down.’

  I couldn’t bear those calls. They came in the small hours and were immensely depressing. Then it occurred to me there was a very easy way to get rid of him.

  ‘Okay,’ I told him the next time he phoned, ‘I’ll send you two single tickets from West Berlin to Paris but you must pay me back the moment you get to Paris. I’m completely out and desperately need the cash.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Evertsz said in a voice quivering with sincerity. ‘You’ll get the money. This chick is loaded.’

  ‘Well okay, but I’m really out on a limb here and if I don’t get that cash next week I’m in a terrible spot. I’m putting my trust in you.’

  ‘You can trust me like a brother,’ Evertsz said and for a moment I thought, Oh, dear God, no, he’s going to pay me back.

  The airline wired the tickets to Berlin and Evertsz called to say how much he appreciated what I had done for him. He said that they were leaving for Paris that day and would send the money the moment they arrived - maybe his girl would come over to London and pay me in cash.

  But no, come Monday, nothing. And on all the subsequent days there was nothing. The curse was lifted from my phone, the black cloud which had hung over me for so long dissolved. I had been right. The assassin was bought off with two air tickets, a total cost of $200. Cheap.

  Eight

  Life without Evertsz was dull: wonderfully dull, joyously and ecstatically dull, and I wallowed in the exquisite ordinariness of it like a hippo in mud. One month of peace and quiet followed another and for almost a year there was not a peep or a whisper from him.

  It might have been a very quiet year and for a while it almost was. My life settled into something approaching normality. Friends dropped into my apartment once more and eventually I was able to move among people without bludgeoning them with manic outpourings on assassination and its kindred trades. Slowly, I began to relax.