Back in the Presidio office, Tom said, “This here was a professional hit. One shot from a sniper rifle, and no one seen a thing.”
Tom was twenty-five years older than Eldred and looked like he had stepped out of an 1870 Texas Ranger recruiting lithograph. Although the current approved attire included a white shirt and tie, tan trousers, a light-colored western cowboy hat, a ranger belt, and cowboy boots which Eldred had worn ever since he graduated from ranger school, Tom was old style. He wore whatever clothes he could afford or muster, which were usually—like today—worn out from heavy use. Unlike his junior associate, Tom dressed more like a compromise between Mexican vaqueros and some kind of gringo police officer. Unlike most modern rangers, he preferred to wear broad-brimmed sombrero as opposed to a neat new Stetson and wore throwback square-cut, knee-high boots with a high heel and pointed toes—the Spanish style. He still wore silver spurs because he liked the jangling sound—and he insisted that the ladies were unable to resist a ranger in real boots and spurs. Both rangers groups—new and old—carried their guns the same way, with the holsters positioned high around their hips instead of low on the thigh. This placement made it easier to draw and shoot while riding a horse, although now they more often used motorized travel.
Ranger Eldred Drake had ambitions. He intended to move up the ranks in the ranger organization; so, he was a stickler for details in the manual and in his dress. He wore clean crisp, freshly laundered and pressed Levis, a wide belt with his rodeo championship buckle, and a snap button long-sleeve white cotton shirt and a string tie. His boots were polished every morning and dusted off from his day’s work every noon and just at quitting time. He was scrupulous about shaving twice a day because of his fast-growing and heavy black beard. He had wavy black hair and an Indian nose. His teeth were big, and there was a conspicuous gap between his front two incisors—all harking back to the distant point in his genealogy when a great-great grandfather had married a Native American woman. Together they produced twelve Mestizos. The subsequent generations did little to dilute the strong genetic contribution of the Natchitoches Indians whose genealogical contribution was now lost to the mists of time.
Eldred made the decisive point: “But even big-time pros make mistakes. The guy or guys who did this hit made three big ones: we have the slug, and it is intact enough to find out the make and model of the gun, at least. We have bloody footprints that don’t match anything we see on men’s feet around here. And, there is all that bloody toilet paper up there on the roof. I don’t think that’s from an injury. I think somebody is mighty sick. I’m gonna take some of the globs of blood over to Doc Pinter’s. I have a hunch about what this is. He used to work up at the Elmwood Sanatorium by Fort Worth, and he can confirm my hunch.”
Pinter’s office was only three blocks away.
Ranger Drake walked in and asked to see the doctor right away on ranger business.
“I’ll get him,” Ruby Dempsey, the office girl, said.
“What’s up?” asked the doc when he came out from seeing a pregnant patient.
“Need to have you look at a blood sample under the microscope, Doc.”
He handed the doctor the mass of paper tissue with the large blood clot.
“See that gray snotty-lookin’s stuff mixed in with the blood, Eldred?”
“I noticed it. That’s why I brought it to you for confirmation.”
“First thing I do will be to make a Ziehl–Neelsen stain prep. It’s also called the acid-fast stain.”
“For TB, right?”
“Good boy. Who says the Texas Rangers are just dumb thugs?”
“We do, Doc. Keeps the yokels scared of us.”
They both laughed.
With a few manipulations, Dr. Pinter looked under the microscope and said without a bit of reservation, “Acid-fast bacilli—Mycobacterium tuberculosis. Good call, Eldred. Take a look at all of those red streaks. Your sniper has TB, and a well advanced case. Given the amount of blood he’s coughin’ up and all that bacterial sludge, he’s in a world of hurt. He’s actually coughin’ up chunks of lung.”
“I need an opinion, Doc. Is he too sick to travel any big distance?”
“I would bet the barn on it. He’s about to slough his mortal coil. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s already dead.”
“Where do ya’ll think him and his friends would likely head?”
“Exactly one place, Eldred. That’s Elmwood up by Fort Worth. Ya’ll skiddadle up there right away, and I’d bet plenty that he’s layin’ up there coughin’ out his lungs and maybe his brains.”
“So don’t think I’m impolite, Doc; but that’s exactly what I’m gonna do right now.”
Eldred reported the doc’s findings and suggestion to Tom and started out the office door to get in the car.
“Hold up a sec. You hearda that new invention—the telephone?” Tom asked.
“Oh, yeah, good idea. We can put a hold on the guy before he can git outta there. That’s why you’re the captain with the fancy gold badge and I’m the guy with the lowly silver one.”
The 1960s badge of a Texas Ranger was the same size as compared to a 1948 cinco pesos coin from which both Tom and Eldred had theirs made. Shortly after the Texas Rangers were merged with the Department of Public Safety, a new badge design was issued by the state. Roughly oval-shaped, it contained the legend “Dept. of Public Safety,” the letters T-E-X-A-S, and a star with the rank in the center. The two mavericks kept their old style badges like many of the old-timers, and no one made a complaint.
“Get on with it and make the call, lowly ranger. Probably oughta call Austin first.”
“Politics,” grumbled Eldred.
“It’s how to keep yer job, young fella. I been at this for nearly thirty-five years. I hadda make a lotta compromises in that time.”
“I’m still learnin’.’”
He made the call to headquarters in Austin and gave the duty officer the shorthand version.
“Ya’ll need to git on over there to Fort Worth [pronounced Fot Wuth] asap, ya heah!” the duty officer said unnecessarily.
“Thank ya’ll very much, Ranger. Idda never have thought of that.
“Anyhow, me and Tom will head out from Presidio. See ya’ll at the sanatorium. Be careful out there. We think these’re bad dudes. Might wanna bring along the cavalry.”
The ranger captain, Reggie Cutler, in Austin, acted immediately after learning about the military status of the victim and called the DOD and the DOJ. The DOD call took half an hour to wend its way to Tucker Nicholsen SAC, 83rd MP Det CID, in Fort Richardson, Alaska.
“Nicholsen,” Tucker answered.
“This is Captain Reggie Cutler, chief of the Texas Rangers office in Austin, Special Agent. We are investigating a murder that the DOD told us may be related to one you have going—the killing of a US general named Glen Gabler.”
“Yes, sir. You’ve come to the right place. What’s new?”
“I’m going to keep this real simple because it’s kind of urgent right now. The Mexican federales called us about a sniper murder—obvious professional hit—in a little border town called Ojinaga, Chihuahua State. Our rangers confirmed that the deceased is one Major Rick Avery Saunders, USA retired. That ring a bell?”
“A loud one. What have you learned?”
“I’ll fax up the info, but right now things are in the hurry-up phase. We have a lead that suggests that the perp may be currently in Fort Worth. Specifically in the Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium outside of the city. Rangers, Fort Worth police, and fibbies, are all gearing up to descend on the place. It’s a TB sanatorium. If he’s still there, this may be a breakthrough for you and us.”
“And maybe a half dozen or dozen other cases around the world, Ranger. We’ll get our people there as fast as humanly possible. I know you have to protect your people, but try if at all possible not to kill the guy. We need to sweat him.”
“Understood. I’ll let you go. See you or one of your age
nts in Fort Worth.”
“Thanks for the call.”
Tucker called Major Darrin Higgins, Chief Officer MCU, Alaska State Police, in Juneau to give him a heads up and then made arrangements for the Army criminal investigation service in Dallas to send special agents with lights ablaze and sirens blaring. His only other requests—and the strongest ones—were not to kill the arrestee and to try and play nice with all the other jurisdictions involved.
Capt. Cutler’s next call was to AAG Spencer Reynolds, assistant attorney general for the criminal division of the DOJ, who in turn called DFBI Warren Brent Gaines and Superintendent Axel Baird INTERPOL agent in charge in New York City, and Eugène Léon Dentremont, Senior Detective Chief Superintendent of INTERPOL, who had his deputy, Marianne de la Reynie senior INTERPOL technician, forensic specialist, contact the French, Russian, British, and Argentinian law enforcement officers in the cohort of investigators of the murders of senior military officers. Then all eyes and ears focused on Fort Worth—a dusty backwater city in north central Texas—a place most had never heard about before that day.
The rangers stopped at a burger joint and picked up some Tex-Mex to eat on the way to Fort Worth.
Tex-Mex Recipes
Tex-Mex BLT—Serves 2
Ingredients
¼ cp mayo, 1 pinch chili powder, 1 pinch fresh chopped jalapeno, 1 pinch pepper, 4 thick slices whole wheat bread, 8 slices crisply fried bacon, 6 thinly sliced tomatoes, 1 slice thinly sliced avocado,1 sprig roughly chopped cilantro, 1 washed lettuce leaf.
Preparation
Mix mayo with pinch of chili powder and jalapeno and set aside. Toast the bread lightly and spread both sides with mayo. Pile on bacon, tomato, avocado, cilantro sprigs, and lettuce, and top with other slice of toast.
Tex-Mex Stuffed Chilies—Serves 10
Ingredients
-1 med. diced red onion, 1 lb ground turkey or good beef, 1 (1½ oz) envelope taco seasoning, 1 11 oz drained can corn, 1 4 ounce can green Ortega chilies, 1 15 oz can rinsed and drained black beans, ½ 15 oz can refried beans, ½ cup salsa, 4 cps shredded cheddar cheese, 5 med. bell peppers of all colors. Include Ortegas or jalapenos as desired.
Preparation
-Brown ground meat with onion in skillet until done, drain grease. Add taco seasoning and water as per envelope simmer 5 mins., remove from heat and let cool.
-Cut peppers in half from top to bottom, remove all seeds and membrane.
-Place in 2 greased 13 x 9 in. pans.
-Mix salsa and refried beans. To the meat mixture add corn, black beans, green chilies, refried mix, and 2 cps cheddar cheese.
-Stuff raw peppers with mix. Cover and bake ~1 hour at 350° F, uncover and top with remaining cheese, then place back in oven ~5 min. until cheese is melted.
Tex-Mex Barbecued Salmon—4 Servings
Ingredients
¼ cup fresh orange juice, 2 tbsps fresh lemon juice, 4 6 oz salmon fillets, 2 tbsps brown sugar, 1 tbsp chili powder, 2 tsps lemon zest, ¾ tsp ground cumin, ¼ tsp salt, ¼ tsp cinnamon, 1 lemon slice.
Preparation
-In a ziplock plastic bag, combine first orange juice, lemon juice, and salmon; seal and marinate in refrigerator 1 hour, turning occasionally. Remove fish from bag, discard marinade.
-In a small bowl, combine next sugar, chili powder, lemon zest, cumin, salt, and cinnamon. Place fillets in the mixture and soak in same (but fresh) marinade longer.
-Place fillets on grill on medium-high heat and cover with grill lid. Baste fish with the sauce occasionally. Cook for 10–12 min. or until fish flakes easily when tested with fork. Serve with lemon slice.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, September 31, 1962, evening
After enduring the irate nurse’s scolding and seeing to it that their old and sick friend was as comfortable as possible, Antoine and Jérôme bade Michaele a reluctant farewell, then drove quickly across the desolate highway thirty-three miles to Love Field in Dallas. No transatlantic flights were available at that time of night;so, Antoine had to make emergency and incredibly expensive arrangements to take the two of them alone on a TWA flight to London. The cost was not Antoine’s main concern; the attention they would stir up with their extravagance was. At least Michaele was out of it for now.
When they arrived back at the corporate offices of European International Conglomerate in London, the two men were greeted with an urgent telegram message from Nicolai Andreavich Putansky russkaya mafiya under boss to Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava. Breslava was the Pakhan of the vory v zakone [thieves-in-law] and Putansky was Breslava’s brigadier.
The telegram message was simple: “We have information regarding the whereabouts of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski, as per your request. Stop. Contact us soonest possible. Stop.”
It was six-thirty in London and nine-thirty in Moscow. Antoine assumed the chieftains of the russkaya mafiya would be just starting an evening of rough drinking and gluttony. His call would not be a disturbance. He called Nicolai first and got no answer; so, he called the Pakhan and was surprised to get an answer on the first ring.
“Who is this?” came the gravelly voice.
“Leonid Zaslavskevich, this is Laird Eagen in London. I received an urgent telegram from Nicolai Andreavich. What do I need to know?”
Every message or service between the two men was a matter of goods, money, or services transfer: goods for goods, money for money, services—including transmittal of information—for services. It was a good, clean, and efficient business arrangement that left nothing to the imagination or to mistakes.
“I am glad you called before the evening is over. We have a hurry-up situation here, one you have told me is of primary importance to you.”
Braslava was speaking English in case anyone was listening in. He had little confidence in the English ability of the KGB watchers who hounded him.
“I just got back from the US. It would be best to make this as direct as possible, Leonid Zaslavskevich, because my brain may be rather foggy from jet lag.”
“I understand perfectly, Laird. I hate to fly. The message is that we have a time and a location for the man who interests you. He will be in a meeting at the Moscow Military District headquarters, A-252, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 14, at 1800 hours Moscow time tomorrow, and tomorrow only. We have determined a location across the street in an apartment building which should prove to be very useful. Everyone who enters or leave the district headquarters must use the main entry facing onto Chapayevskiy for the building.”
Antoine took hurried notes.
“Any problem providing us the necessary equipment?”
“Not really, my friend; but you realize that all of this will be very costly.”
“How costly?”
“Thirty million rubles for expenses and an additional ten million for our … efforts.”
Antoine did a quick bit of math. He had just been in the US; so, he was thinking in terms of the US dollar. Thirty rubles to one dollar—$1.3 million dollars. It was steep, but not really a problem. It would be something of a problem to raise that much overnight.
“Will that include a safe exit from the USSR, Leonid Zaslavskevich?”
“Of course. Any place you want to go.”
“I had not prepared for such a quick response to our request. I will have difficulty raising the money tonight, but our Swiss bankers can wire the funds tomorrow morning. Will that be acceptable?”
“Of course, my friend. We operate on a basis of trust. I will alert my bankers to anticipate the funds in the morning. I presume you will leave on what the Americans call the ‘red-eye’ tonight?”
“Yes. I have some familiarity with the Aeroflot schedule. We should be able to arrive at the secret Sheremetyevo Airport early tomorrow with a little influence from you.”
“Until then,” Leonid said and hung up.
Antoine put in a call to Geneva, Switzerland, to the private line of the CEO of Caussidière Enterpr
ises International, François Gaspard Caussidière.
“I hope your venture in the Western Hemisphere went satisfactorily, Mein Freund,” François said as soon as his secretary told him who was calling.
“It did. The second half of the mission has presented itself much sooner than expected. I will need you to wire $1.3 million to our associate in Moscow tomorrow morning at the opening of business. I believe you already have the account number.”
“Are we still dealing with Moscow Narodny Bank Ltd?”
“Yes.”
“A wire for that amount will be forwarded from UBS to Narodny as soon as the Geneva branch opens.”
“Good. Take your usual fee from the account but not from the $1.3 million. Understood?”
“Of course. Will that be all?”
“For today, but we have big plans developing in our South American areas of interest.”
“As always, I will remain at your service.”
§§§§§§
Fort Worth PD and Tarrant County sheriff’s deputies arrived in the parking lot of the Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium less than twenty minutes after the first calls were received. There were four cars in all, and the law enforcement officers got out and stood in the oppressive heat for a short pre-raid conference. Sgt. Billie Wayne McAfee was the acknowledged lead until the rangers or fibbies got there.
Billie Wayne had been a Fort Worth PD cop since he was eighteen years old. He was now fifty-six going on seventy after a hard working, hard playing, and hard drinking life. His sun-bronzed face showed a deeply etched line for every near miss and long night of his career. He wore an old sweat-stained straw cowboy hat and a pair of badly scuffed boots with old-fashion high heels and pointy toes capped with steel protectors. He was still wearing the same snap button bright red cowboy shirt he had on yesterday. He had the dunlop syndrome—his belly dunlop over his belt. His facial stubble was three days old, and his eyes showed a considerable amount of red from a night or two of carousing.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 45