The Charlemagne Murders

by Douglass, Carl;

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MYC [Moscow Criminal Investigations Department] Building, Petrovka 38 Street, Moscow USSR, October 9, 1961, late afternoon

  “Tell me about Lagounov’s chekist years and anyone you might suspect from that era, please,” Lt. Stepanovich asked, making a strong effort not to show any reaction to having just been told that he might have to interrogate two high-ranking KGB officers who held life and death control over him.

  “A time better left in the past. Ordinarily I would order you not to follow this course of questioning; but I am as good as my word. I will tell you what you need to know—and nothing more—to aid in your efforts to hunt down the murderer of the superb officer, General Lagounov.

  “Perhaps we should begin with a little history, then I will give you two or three names. The Cheka was created in 1917 as the first state security agency—the military and security arm of the Bolshevik communist party—and it has remained very much the same organization until the present day other than changes in names, personalities, and a few organization changes.

  “The first two men I want to suggest to you as possible suspects came into Lagounov’s life late in 1918 near the end of the Great War. The commissars were putting pressure on the Red Army and Cheka officers to root out the Kulaks [successful farmers who often employed farm workers and owned more property than one family needed]. Oleg Petrovich Latsis was the son of an especially prominent and educated Kulak family in the Stalingrad area. Lagounov ordered me to name him as a traitor, a deserter, and his family as money-grabbing capitalist farmers who were grinding in the face of the poor. Lagounov made a public example of the sixteen-year-old boy who was–in fact–serving altogether faithfully in the Cheka. He was whipped nearly to death and sent off to the gulags. His family was forcefully removed from their lands and put on a train for Vladivostok, where they remained and somehow survived until a year ago when they showed up in Moscow, a fact known only to me. I admit to having provided them help over the years, and saved their lives. I ask you not to divulge that fact.”

  “I won’t. Did Oleg survive, and did he return?”

  “He did. Oleg was a sturdy boy, and he became a hard man—not one to be trifled with. He remained loyal to me, but from time to time when he had too much vodka he would hint at his desire to get revenge against Lagounov. I can get you to him, but I do not want him to see my hand in that.”

  “You mentioned others from that time, General.”

  “There are many others like Oleg, and I will give you a list of the few that I know who survived and whose whereabouts are known to me. There is another man who is probably more dangerous than all of those put together. You are aware that the chekists were assigned to destroy religion branch, trunk, and root. We targeted clergy to make examples of them and to strike the fear of God into their followers; so, they would get the message and abandon their superstitious beliefs and practices. Many priests were killed, tortured, and exiled. Most of them finally died in the gulags, where they were singled out for ‘special treatment’ much like the political opponents of the conservative Marxist-Leninists and the German officer corps POWs. I know of only one of them who lived in torment under Gen. Lagounov, survived it all, and has made it back to the west. He lives in Leningrad and operates an underground church and also a secret organization dedicated to the overthrow of the ruling communist leaders—particularly Chairman Khrushchev—whom he blames for the current persecution of the church and its clergy. So far–to my knowledge__they have not assassinated anyone, but eventually they will.”

  “I will need that one’s name for sure, General. He could be our culprit. He certainly would seem to have motive.”

  “Presbyter Athanasius Mogila named for the hieromartyr Athanasius of Brest-Litovsk. He lives on Obukovskoy Oburon Street in Leningrad near the Alexander Nevsky Monastery. My men can take you there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I can send you the short list of surviving clergy from Siberia. Few of them have enough fire left in them to fight any longer or to be part of an assassination plot. Some of those few are true Christians who would never participate or condone murder, even of one they deemed to be deserving of the death penalty, not even the Antichrist.”

  “What about more recently—the Great Patriotic War?”

  “A few deserters who were persecuted by the KGB … in the persons of Gen. Lagounov and myself. We killed most of them, and not a few of their families. However, there were three escapees who were due to be repatriated and then sent to the gulags but were able to get back to Germany—to Hamburg, to be exact. I have KGB records on them, on their families, and on their associates. They live under assumed names, but they have been indiscreet in expressing their opinions about the USSR, Chairman Khrushchev, the KGB, and specifically about Gen. Lagounov whom they seem to hold responsible for the murderous repatriatiation program ordered by Stalin himself. Lagounov was neither the creator nor the main officer in charge of the program, but you could never convince those three of that.”

  “Names?”

  “Oh, yes. My mind seems to be wandering a little. Their German names are Karl Rudolf Kirschstein, Jakob Josef Potthoff, and Rolf Herman Schwindt. They all live in Hamburg in the Altona-Nord quarter of the Altona Borough. We can find them easily.”

  “Even with your excellent work to narrow down the field, General, we have a huge list of names to investigate, and who knows if they had anything to do with the murder of Gen. Lagounov. What about the inmates—the seemingly indestructible survivors?”

  “Perhaps it may not be so difficult, Lieutenant. I do have a list of men that are—in my mind—the most likely to be involved. They are the last men to be released from one particular gulag in Siberia—the Butugychag Tin Mine—a camp known as the “Valley of Death.” It was a place that Gen. Lagounov took a special interest in. He seems to have been especially harsh there because that particular gulag had the senior SS officers who were officially designated for ‘special treatment’ by the politburo. I will spare you the details, but here is the list of names of some of the most violent survivors.

  “Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier, Obeführerder Waffen-SSMichaele Dupont, Waffen SS-Obersturmbannführer Serge Alain Rounsavall, Waffen SS-Sturmbannführer Hugues Beauchamp, Waffen SS-Hauptsturmführer Jérôme Christophe Mailhot, Waffen SS-Sturmbannführer Jean Luc Latendresse, and Waffen SS Obersturmführer Jacob Friedrich Bunnemann.”

  “Except for Bunnemann, all of the names sound French,” Stepanovich observed.

  “Yes, indeed. They are French, from an all-French—Vichy French—SS unit which served Hitler in all sorts of capacities throughout the war and stayed until they were captured after the fall of Berlin. They were part of the 33rd Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS.”

  “French?! I never heard of such a division. One more mystery of the Great Patriotic War.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  US Army Alaska Defense Command/Alaska Department, 83rd MP Det CID [Criminal Investigation Division], Office of the Special Agent in Charge, Building 47645, Fort Richardson, Anchorage, Alaska, August 20, 1962

  Staff Sergeant Randy Turnblom received a heads-up call from Major Darrin Higgins Chief officer MCU [Regional Major Crimes Unit, Alaska State Police] in Juneau at 1540 hours.

  “Staff Sergeant Turnblom, CID. How may I assist?”

  “This is Major Higgins, Alaska State MCU. I am calling to report a murder investigation underway in our office. It involves a former army general who was stationed in Alaska during the war. I think I should speak directly to SAC Nicholsen.”

  “I’ll fetch Special Agent Nicholsen. Please hold.”

  Sgt. Turnblom walked into Nicholsen’s office without knocking.

  Tucker Nicholsen was sipping a cup of steaming black coffee trying to get his nerves in shape to start another boring day of routine police work which would require only his official presence. His men were great; and he felt superfluous, which made him crotche
ty. Nicholsen was a fitness fiend, and the only thing that kept him sane besides his morning cup was running ten miles every morning and hunting whenever he could. He had been the SAC at Fort Richardson for six years—five and a half years too long. His wife got cabin fever and did not last the full first winter;so, she flew back down below to Arkansas to stay with her parents. He only sees her three times a year, and the anticipation of those poignant reunions was about all that he looked forward to throughout the years.

  He was an overly fit forty-two-year-old cop at heart and army military policeman by training and experience, and almost by rote. He wore an old-style white wall super-square flattop haircut that suited his square-jawed face and was proud that his hair was still thick and black. SAC Nicholsen was the base boxing champion and had an unrepairable crooked nose from three too many broken noses. He was dressed in civilian clothes—a blue denim shirt, Levis, and hiking boots.

  “What?” he asked irritably. “This better be important.”

  “I have Major Higgins from Alaska State Troopers holding on the line, sir,” Sgt. Turnblom said.

  He was used to the SAC’s evil moods in the morning and knew that it was nothing personal.

  “Okay,” Nicholsen said grumpily, “put him through.”

  “What can I do for you this fine afternoon, Darrin;or is this is just a social call?”

  “Hardly, I have a murder on my hands;and it could become a problem for you, Tucker.”

  “How so?”

  “A big-time general. You probably remember him. Glen Gabler—full four stars.”

  “Murdered!? Today?”

  “No, coupla days ago. We are just getting our investigation underway.”

  This was the chance Nicholsen had been waiting for the past six years. He was not about to pass it up, hunting buddy or not.

  “Whoa!” he said. “This sounds every bit like an Army case. The brass will be all over me if I don’t handle this case.”

  “Whoa yourself, Tucker. We caught the case in our jurisdiction. The man is retired; so, officially he is a civilian; and we have already started checking out potential leads.”

  “Still our case, Darrin. Sorry to go federal on you, but it’s either me or the fibbies that will take it over. Take your pick.”

  Like every local cop who had an ounce of pride left, he hated the FBI for its arrogance, glory-hogging, and disdain for local law enforcement. He knew Tucker was right. The choice was obvious, but he was not about to fold that easily.

  “Look, Tucker, you may be right. I’ll never get a sliver of information back from the Fat Boys. How ‘bout you and me work it together? We share the credit and both of our careers get a little jump. Whatta you say?”

  “Let me think on it.”

  “Time’s a wastin’.’ We need to pool resources and get on this. We can’t afford to blow this one, you know that. If it looks like we dragged our feet or allowed precious time to get by us because of a squabble, it could hit the fan for both of us.”

  “Who’ll be in charge?”

  “Nominally you, but in the trenches our guys and your guys will pool resources and work on it as equal partners. And, Tucker, this is a trust kind of a deal.”

  “I’m thinking about agreeing with you, Darrin; but I’m also thinking about a bear hunt on Kodiak where sometimes it’s a bit tough to get a license.”

  “You are corrupt, SAC; and you drive a hard bargain. And I’m not promisin’ anything, but some of the troopers have a hunt comin’ up in October. I don’t see why I couldn’t do a little persuadin’ and open up another coupla slots. If I have a reminder ‘long about the first week in September, and if I feel good about things….”

  “Who’s corrupt? It’s a deal. I’ll bring along Sgt. Turnblom. His first name’s Randy. So, how about we get to work? Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Major Higgins became all business.

  “General Glen Gabler, USA, retired, came up here to fish with his family—three sons—and his former aide-de-camp on the seventh. They settled in at the Alaskan Bear Lodge then went fishing the next day and a half. Had good luck. Everything seemed copacetic—nothing out of the ordinary or suspicious—until the night of the eighth. Three or three-thirty to be as precise as possible. That morning—still the eighth—his dead body was found hanging from the rafters by a couple of the local girls who work at the lodge. The aide-de-camp took charge of securing the scene and got the owner’s sons to round up everybody who was in the lodge that night to be sure nobody took off. The owner—a local character named Neille Bastrup—called our dispatch in Juneau, but every trooper in the office was out on a big bank robbery. Bastrup is a resourceful guy and not one to be put off;so, he put in a call to the RCMP station across the water in Atlin, BC. The troopers and the Mounties have a real good working relationship, and the Mountie in charge at the time—a guy named Daniel Olsen—responded.

  “Constable Olsen flew over in a floatplane and took charge of the preliminaries of the investigation and did a good job so far as I can tell. He put on gloves, checked to see if anything had been taken, dusted for prints, and examined the body which he described as about halfway into rigor—about as much as he could do under the circumstances. He told a couple of Bastrup’s boys to cut the body down and leave the rope in place. He said that it was too warm in the lodge to keep the body without decomp getting the best of it. So, the boys carried him out to the game cooler. The rest of the people went out and searched all around the lodge but didn’t find anyone or anything suspicious with one big exception: the lodge’s floatplane was missing, obviously stolen by the perp or perps and used for a getaway.

  “The locals and the troopers did a wide area manhunt including the only really inhabited island up there. It’s called Chicagatov Island. There’s nothing there but a Tlingit town—more like a hamlet—and a salmon processing plant called the Hoonah Packing Company facility. The dockworkers in Hoonah remembered two unfriendly newcomers to the docks and a few people thought they might have been speaking Russian. That’s not confirmed. The two headmen of the island did find some definite evidence about the killer or killers. They described a rude campsite near the entrance to Glacier Bay, at Bartlett Cove. There were remnants of salmon bones, tails, and heads, huckleberries, salmonberries, and thimbleberries along with some trash. Some of that trash included fairly recent copies of the Petropavalovsk-Kamchatsky Journal— Russian. Two boys out fishing found an abandoned boat—belonged to the Tlingits from Hoonah—on the Point Adolphus feeding area for humpback whales. Some trash they found around the boat had brochures from the Alaskan Bear Lodge and the plane’s document packet.”

  “What about the plane, Major?”

  “It’s a recently renovated vintage de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito bomber floatplane. The tail number is number N7952Z. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of it.”

  SAC Nicholsen made a note.

  “If that’s all the crime scene and timeline information, please give me some details. First, some names.”

  “Are you ready to write?”

  “Ready.”

  “Okay, here goes. Stop me if I go too fast. There’s Neille Bastrup and his sons—Kevin, Able, Michael, and Donovan. They run the Alaskan Bear Lodge on Excursion Inlet. There are two native girls working there by the name of Asaaluk. She’s a local Tlingit girl. The other one is Nasnana, an Athabaskan girl from the Yukon. Gen. Gabler’s sons are Glen Jr., Trace, and Jackson. The general’s former aide-de-camp’s name is Major Richard ‘Rick’ Saunders. He’s retired Army and now has several businesses in Texas. The two Hoonah headmen are Henry and Anotklosh Peratrovich. The Mountie is Constable Daniel Olsen.”

  “I presume you took notes.”

  “I did. I’ll send ‘em down to you in the next post.”

  “Oh, you mentioned Kamchatka. Were you able to make contact with any of the nice Russkies, maybe a ment or two?”

  “Nice ones, no. But I did get through to the Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky Metropolitan Police Department and spok
e to an English speaker. That was a complete bust. The guy thought it was a CIA plot and wouldn’t talk to me about any plane unless or until they locate one and give it a thorough going over to be certain it’s not a spy plane. Can’t be too careful.”

  “These are cold and careful times, Darrin.”

  “Aren’t they ever?”

  The Kamchatka Peninsula, Commander Islands, and Karaginsky Island constitute the Kamchatka Krai of the Russian Federation. The Kamchatka Peninsula is a 780-mile long outcropping of the mainland of Siberia in the Russian Far East. It lies between the Pacific Ocean to the east and the Sea of Okhotsk to the west. The 270-year-old Cossack settlement of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky metropolitan area is one of the oldest Russian cities in the Far East. More than half of the population of the peninsula live in that one city, including almost all of the eight thousand indigenous Koryaks. Across Avacha Bay from the city is the Rybachiy Nuclear Submarine Base—Russia’s largest—established during the Soviet regime. The entirety of Kamchatka was a Soviet military zone closed to all foreigners and any Russians who did not actually live there, which accounted for the expected paranoid interaction between Maj. Higgins and his Soviet counterpart.

  “Got any ideas about where to go from here?”

  “I do, actually. First, I think it will be futile to requestion anybody local. I don’t think they have any useful information. There’s no evidence, and my gut tells me that they didn’t have anything to do with this murder. I think we have to dig deeper into Gen. Gabler’s past, especially the military part. He’s bound to have made some enemies along the line, and that Saunders guy was with him almost every step of the way. We didn’t have enough time with him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dallas, I think.”

  “Maybe the two of us should take a little trip down below and call on the major in Dallas.”