Several senior officers moved out of the building surrounded by their security personnel at six on the dot. Sobrieski was not one of them. Antoine became more nervous than he should have been.
“Patience, patience,” he said to himself and worked on controlling his respirations.
Two huge security men dressed in Siberian heavy fur caps stepped out and surveyed the area. Then one of them gestured at the door. Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski—in the flesh—stepped out and took his own surveillance of the street before starting towards his limo.
Antoine’s heart skipped a beat when he saw his tormentor. He wanted to start a hail of bullets—use up his entire magazine, blow the man’s head and chest into oblivion.
Again, he cautioned himself, “Patience, patience.”
With the hubris of Soviet command, Sobrieski strode across the sidewalk, gave a couple of friendly casual salutes and waves to other senior officers, then stood ramrod stiff by the rear passenger door waiting for his security officer to open the door for him.
The limousine door opened wide, and the security detail stepped back to give the general room to enter. He was standing in the clear, head and shoulders visible for three seconds. Antoine Duvalier—former SS general, former Soviet, American, and French POW, and survivor—drew in a long slow breath. His hand and eye were steady. He exhaled—and, as he did, he carefully and deliberately squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped in his hands, and for a moment he lost sight of his target. He knew he would not get another chance. As he pulled the barrel of the rifle back into the fourth floor room, he had time to see a cloud of blood, bone, and brains come from the extinguished life of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski, butcher of the Butugychag Tin Mine Soviet Gulag for “Special Treatment Prisoners.” It was a moment of pure ecstasy.
§§§§§§
The two Texas rangers—Tom Packer and Eldred Drake—arrived at the Elmwood Sanatorium shortly before midnight and were informed that the suspected assassin “Lord Downfort” was still in a drug-induced stupor.
“Nurse tells us that the man is basically ahraht, but we gotta be patient and wait until he wakes up befoah we can hope to get anythin’ outta him,” Sgt. Billie Wayne McAfee told the two rangers.
“Ah’m itchin’ ta get at ‘im,” Tom said. “Time’s awastin’, an’ who knows how many othahs were in on that killin’ of onna our vets.”
“Or if we ah bakhen up the wrong tree altagethah,” Eldred mentioned parenthetically.
All four men nodded their heads.
Twenty minutes later, four special agents of the FBI showed up and took their place in the hallway to wait for “Lord Downfort” to come around.
“He’s sleepin’ an’ gainin’ strength while he does, gentlemen,” Ruth Digby told them. “Ah thenk he’ll be able talk with ya’ll by mornin’. My bet’s that ya’ll will be able to get at him befoah eight.”
“Let us pray on that,” Eldred said.
At seven-thirty in the morning, Superintendent Axel Baird, INTERPOL agent in charge in New York City, arrived close on the heels of an even score of local reporters from the Fort Worth Telegram, the Fort Worth Press, the weekly Fort Worth Chief, the Dallas Morning News, the Dallas World, and even the Texas Catholic. There were radio station reporters from the local NBC affiliate and KLIF radio. KERA-TV and channel 8 WFAA-TV who parked their broadcast trucks in the parking lot which was rapidly becoming overcrowded.
Deputy Sheriff Dayne Brown was delegated to control traffic because the numbers of vehicles were becoming unmanageable.
“We ah goin’ ta haf ta install a stoplight heah befoah the day’s ovah,” he quipped.
Ranger Capt. Packer received a call from Austin headquarters. Texas Ranger Captain Reggie Cutler asked how things were going and what—if anything—they had learned from the person of interest there in Fort Worth.
“Nuthin’ wuthwhile, I gotta say. Man’s still out cold. Has TB and is low sick. Weah not raht certain he’s gonna make through the nat. The man looks lak he’s fixin’ tah slough his mortal coil any moment.
“Ah don’ know how the news got out, but we gotta news circus goin’ on in the pahkin’ lot ahready, and ain’t nuthin’ happened yet. Cain’t imagine what’s gonna be lahk heah if we make some sorta announcement.”
“Last thing we need is a buncha hysteria, Tom. Rumors are worse than the real thing. Get somebody out there to get control. Try to get the news people to hold it down until we make a formal and vague announcement.”
“Okay, Boss, I copy.”
“Keep me posted.”
Tom gathered the officers waiting in the hallway outside “Lord Duck’s” room as it had come to be known.
“The head of the rangers made a suggestion that we get the rumor mill quietened down befoah this theng gits outta hand. Somebody’s gotta go out and tell those buzzards that we don’ have nuthin’ heah yet.”
“And maybe we could get some of that famous Texas breakfast while we’re waiting,” Tom Packer suggested.
Recipes
Texas Breakfast—Serves 12 (Effete Easterners) or 8 (Real Texans)
Grandma’s Old-fashioned Pancakes
Ingredients
-1 cp each finely ground whole wheat flour, white flour complete pancake mix, buckwheat, instant oat meal, 2 heaping tsps baking powder, 3 tbsps soy protein powder, 4 tbsps nondairy creamer, 4 heaping tbsps brown sugar, ¼ tsp natural vanilla, ¼ tsp maple flavoring, spices to taste (nutmeg, cinnamon).
-Buttermilk, whole milk in equal portions, and 4 large or extra large separated eggs to establish the perfect Goldilocks consistency.
Preparation
-Break eggs and separate into yolks and whites. Add yolks to buttermilk/milk, vanilla, and maple flavoring mixture and mix thoroughly. Beat egg whites until they are fluffy and firm and fold carefully into liquid mixture.
-Preheat griddle to the point that water skittles on its surface. Cover with cooking spray.
-Gradually add liquid mixture to the thoroughly mixed solids for the Goldilocks consistency—not too thick, not too thin, just right for pancakes.
-Immediately pour pancake mixture onto griddle~½ cp each. Carefully check to see if first side is golden brown, then turn and poke a hole in the top of the pancake. Cooking will not take long, so check early in the process. It is a good idea to test the first pancake to be sure it is done—it will be fluffy. Do not let the pancakes burn. Serve immediately as each set of pancakes comes off the griddle.
Central Texas Breakfast Tacos
Ingredients
-4 medium russet potatoes, 5 strips extra thick peppered bacon, 1½ lb meat (chopped tongue, chopped steak, or lean angus burger), ½ cp chorizo (requires ½ lb ground pork, 1 can chipotle peppers), white vinegar, 1 cp shredded sharp cheddar cheese and ½ cp shredded Swiss, 1 cp mixed chopped peppers (equal parts green, red, yellow, orange, and jalapeño), ½ cp chopped onions, 5 crushed garlic cloves, 4 pureed raw jalapeños, grapeseed oil, 1 bunch cilantro, 6–8 large flour tortillas.
Preparation
1. Green Salsa (never red in Texas)
-The goal is a slightly bitter, thin, creamy salsa to complement the chorizo. Salsa verde is best created by emulsification of pureed jalapeños and grapeseed oil. Leave in the seeds and add garlic to taste to make the salsa picante. Mix ingredients well and to taste and pour over tacos to serve.
2. Chorizo
-Combine ground pork with canned chipotle peppers (use the type packed in spicy acidic adobo sauce), crushed garlic paste, and a splash of white vinegar. Saute and save. Should be made in advance of your breakfast.
3. Potatoes
-Par-cook potatoes in vinegar first, let them cool, and then fry to crispness in extra virgin olive oil and a little butter on the stovetop
4. Final preparation—scramble eggs, allowing for areas to begin to solidify, then add chorizo, ½ cp shredded cheese, ¼ cp chopped onions, potatoes, and fry until fairly crisp. Immediately, pile onto tortilla and fold. After the taco itself is closed, garnish gener
ously with all the toppings: shredded cheese, sliced avocado, cilantro leaves, mixed chopped peppers (equal parts green, red, yellow, orange, and jalapeño), ¼ cp chopped onions. Cover with green salsa. Add hot sauce to taste.
Mexico Border Texas Breakfast Burritos
Ingredients
-4 small links of spicy sausage or chorizo (see recipe above), 8 baby yellow potatoes, 8 eggs, 2/3 cup of grated Cheddar cheese, plus another 1/3-2/3 cp for topping, 1 cp milk, 8–10 tbsps olive oil, 4 flour tortillas, salt, pepper, Cajun seasoning, and spicy salsa to taste.
Preparation
-Remove the sausages from their casing and add to a small pan over medium heat. Break up the sausage with a spatula as it cooks to crumble it. Once cooked~8–10 mins., set aside and reserve.
-While the sausage is cooking, put a small pot of salted water on to boil. Add the potatoes and cook until just slightly undercooked~10–15 mins. Run under cold water, then drain. When slightly cooled, dice into small cubes.
-In a small bowl, mix eggs together with 2/3 cup of grated Cheddar cheese, splash of milk, salt and pepper and other seasonings and small amount of salsa. Add the mixture to a small pan over medium-low heat and slowly scramble the eggs~5–7 mins.
-While the eggs are cooking, add oil to another pan over medium heat; when hot, add the potatoes and sprinkle with a little Cajun seasoning, and fry until very crisp.
-Final preparation—Divide the cooked egg mixture in generous amounts among the tortillas. Cover each filled tortilla with the crumbled sausage and potatoes. Sprinkle remaining cheese on top and drizzle salsa. Eat with your hands. If it isn’t messy, you haven’t done it right.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Soviet Naval Aviation Office, A-253, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 19, across from the Moscow Military District Headquarters, 1622 hours Moscow time, the same late evening
The killing room was swept clean of any trace of the assassination team that had been there, including wiping down every surface, removing the brass from the spent cartridge, and replacing the furniture back in its original position. The process took less than ten minutes. Antoine, Krespin Brundinovich, and his six boyeviks moved down the back stairway and out into the trash-strewn alley, sending rats scurrying for cover. Three AZLK Moskvitch 401s owned by the thieves-in-law were waiting. The assassination team crammed themselves into the three small Russian-built vehicles; and, a minute later, the hit squad was lost to view of the frantic military police and soldiers who were searching the area in a fury. They checked out the aviation office where the shot had been fired and never knew that it was the site.
Antoine spent the night at the safest of safe houses—House No. 6, Maly Patriarshy Pereulok, southwest Side of Patriarshiye Ponds, Moscow. It was safe because it was untouchable: it was the home of Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava, the vory v zakone [syndicate boss and chief of the thieves-in-law] of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, russkaya mafiya [Russian mafia].
In the morning, Krespin brought disturbing news from America to the pakhan in the form of an article published in Pravda that morning. The story warranted only a few paragraphs, but it appeared on the front page under the fold. Leonid handed the paper to Antoine without comment as soon as he read it.
The headline read: Assassins Kill American Officer in Mexico. The first paragraph was: “Snipers murdered retired American Army Major Richard Saunders in the Mexican border town of Ojinaga. It is believed that he was assassinated by the American CIA because he was about to divulge information to Mexican authorities that could be embarrassing to the American intelligence service. It is a common response by that terrorist organization.
“One of the assassins is currently under siege in a hospital in the American state of Texas where it is reported that he has been severely wounded. Our informants consider it unlikely that the man—whose real identity is not known for certain—will leave the hospital alive. He may possess knowledge that the CIA cannot allow to become public. The only clue to the man’s identity is that he was registered into the hospital under a presumably false name, Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort. He was described as having a German accent. It is widely known that the United States regularly uses former German SS personnel to carry out their dirty work.”
Antoine digested the information quickly and made a life-changing decision just as quickly.
“Leonid Zaslavskevich, this is serious news. I will be unable to return to London in the foreseeable future. I will need your assistance to travel incognito to Argentina where I have contacts. I will need to make some overseas telephone calls, and then I will need to have the Solntsevskaya Bratva move me out of Russia.”
Leonid sat quietly, thinking, for a couple of minutes.
“That is a most difficult request, my friend. I am sure you know that.”
Antoine nodded.
“We have little direct contact with backdoor operatives either here or in Argentina who would be willing to provide such a service. As you might imagine, the ODESSA and Spider organizations are not altogether friendly with Russians in general; and any kind of relationship between ODESSA and official Soviet agencies is strictly prohibited.”
“But the Solntsevskaya Bratva has what the Americans call a ‘behind-the-scenes’ arrangement with ODESSA,” Antoine stated, knowing for certain that it was true; and he was not asking a question.
“Perhaps there is some truth to that, Laird.”
Not even Breslava knew Antoine’s real name.
“I presume it would be somewhat expensive.”
“That makes you the master of understatement, my friend,” Leonid said. “First of all, the assassin or assassins of an American Army officer would make you what the American FBI would call ‘Public Enemy Number One’; and there will be a worldwide manhunt. ODESSA will be most reluctant to come under scrutiny.”
Antoine was growing weary at having to endure Breslava’s usual haggling game; so, he decided to cut to the chase, even if it might appear to be somewhat discourteous. He was too tired and too anxious to prolong the negotiation like Arabs in a souk sipping tea.
“How much do you think it will cost, Leonid Zaslavskevich?”
Leonid thought for a moment, then scribbled a figure on a piece of note paper.
Antoine’s only outward expression change was a slight tightening of his facial muscles, an almost imperceptible response.
“Let us do it today, Leonid Zaslavskevich.”
Leonid had to work to suppress a smile of satisfaction. He left the room and put in a call to Schloss Krupp in the southeast corner of Lietzenburger and Pfalzburger Strassen, Charlottenburg Section of City West Berlin. He made immediate connection via the private line to his old sometimes nemesis and sometimes friend, Anton Friedrich Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Leonid Zaslavskevich?” the head of the ODESSA asked.
“I have a mutually beneficial business proposition to offer you. Your organization is uniquely suited to perform a service.”
§§§§§§
Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, October 1, 1962, 0830
Michaele Dupont started to dream and shortly thereafter realized that he was waking up. He was mildly confused and disoriented, and he felt sick. His mouth was dry and coated with a residue of bloody phlegm, but he was pleased to find that he was in possession of his faculties. Nurse Digby discovered that her patient was awake and offered him tea.
“Thank you, that would be helpful,” Michaele said.
“Ya’ll drink yoah tea, Lord Downfort; and I will get you some breakfast.”
Michaele did not like the heavy breakfasts that Germans and Americans preferred when he was healthy, and he was not sure he would even be able to get the tea down, let alone bacon, eggs, heavy pancakes, toast, corn meal mush, fruit, Texas tacos and burritos, and coffee, now that he was sick. He did feel well enough to recognize that he was actually having some hunger pangs.
Ruth left the room and went straight to ranger C
apt. Tom Packer, whom she considered to be the ranking officer among the law enforcement officers gathered in the hallway, the FBI notwithstanding.
“He’s awake, and he’s not coughin’; that’s the good news. He’s weak and hungry, which might be bad for ya’ll. Mah advice to ya’ll is to wait just a bit whilst ah fetch him up some breakfast. He’ll be able to concentrate better then.”
“Awraht, Ruth. But we ain’t got all day. We might be dealin’ with a bigger plot heah; so, the more we learn and the sooner we learn it, the better we’ll be at protectin’ and servin’ the people of the great state of Texas.”
“Ah understand, and ah will do mah best ta hurrah thengs along, Captain.”
The large coterie of brother law enforcement officers fidgeted impatiently for two hours finishing their huge breakfasts while “Lord Downford” slept fitfully, coughing frequently, and mumbling confusedly. Finally, Ruth let the two rangers in.
“Hey theah, Lord Downfort. How ya’ll feelin’?” Tom Packer asked with just the right solicitous tone.
“Some better.”
“That’s real good,” Tom observed and was instantly aware of the man’s decidedly German accented English, hardly the Etonian accent he was expecting from this man who was supposedly a peer of the realm. “Ya’ll up to answerin’ a few questions, suh?”
“Depends.”
“Whatta ya’ll mean … ‘depends’ Lord Downfort?”
“If the questions are not too stressful. As you can see, respecté agent de police,” he said, not mindful that in his weariness he had slipped into his native French. “A stressful question or two might cause me harm.”
It did not escape Ranger Packer that the man’s French slip of the tongue was uttered with a perfect French accent. More than a little was not kosher here, but Tom was not at all sure what it meant.
“Tell me, please, what is your full name, suh?”
The Charlemagne Murders Page 47