The Corsican crime lord reached for the paper, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to his three subordinates.
“What real interest do we Frenchmen and Corsicans have in some nothing business transaction a backward place such as Argentina?”
“Indeed,” agreed Asst. Minister de Douai, “and it goes without saying that there will be no further involvement by your Sicilian, American, and Campanian … associates?”
Don Agapito gave only the slightest nod of his head to convey his assent. Nothing more was necessary. The Unione Corse and the governments of Corsica and France had a long and productive gentlemens’ agreement which neither party wished to jeopardize. The Unione provided invaluable assistance to France when it was in its extremity by supplying highly capable resistance fighters against the invading Nazis during World War II and served very effectively as strike breakers and to keep Marseille out of communist hands after the war.
The French government, law enforcement officials, the SDECE [Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage—France’s external intelligence agency], and the American Central Intelligence Agency, for their part, “deemphasized” law enforcement of such celebrated criminal enterprizes as the French Connection—a highly lucrative heroin industry—after World War II in exchange for Corsicans working vigorously to prevent French communists from bringing the old port of Marseille under their control.
The French Connection was an elaborate and complicated scheme by which smugglers moved morphine from Indochina to Turkey and Beirut and then to Unione Corse laboratories in Marseille for processing into high quality heroin. The final product was then sent to the United States after first passing through Canada. It was a winning arrangement for everyone involved.
BOOK FOUR
ENDGAME
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations [Mossad LeAliyah Bet], Headquarters of Director Levi Appleman ben Cohen, Glilot Junction on Highway 2, Ramat Aviv Neighborhood of Tel Aviv, September 28, 1963, afternoon
The Mossad director of katsas [field agents] and the director of the most secret department—the kidons [legal assassins]—met with “C,” as the director was known. Most directors of the world’s smallest—and arguably, the most effective—intelligence service were secretive individuals by personal preference and by operational necessity; so, they usually went by only the first initial of their surnames. The issue at hand was the eradication of a business, its finances, and its senior officers in faraway San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. Mossad’s interest was tangential to that of the intelligence services of the US, the UK, Germany, France, the Soviet Union, INTERPOL, and—oddly enough—Argentina itself. For Mossad, it was a payment of debts owed the CIA for assistance in the Arab-Israeli conflict of 1956 and the establishment of defense measures thereafter and the opportunity to erase another set of protected SS war criminals. For the other countries, the purpose was the apprehension, if possible—or the death, if necessary—of the international murderers of their senior military officers.
Abraham ben Levy, the senior katsa, gave “C” a succinct and to-the-point current status of what Israel and its partners were calling Project Save the Generals. His information came from twice daily updates from Moises Silverman and Davido Parades, the Mossad agents on site in Bariloche.
“All of the main group of killers are known to be in Bariloche as of noon today, Director. They will attend a meeting of financial supporters and their attorney for the Pueblo Parque National Nahuel Huapi project after siesta—about four in the afternoon. Moises has twelve men in place and set to go once you give the signal, “C.” Davido says that it is unlikely that financial supporters and the killers will meet anytime soon after today. One of our Sayanim working in the project office told Moises and Davido that there appears to be some sort of tension or greater concern than usual among the principals. The meeting was a surprise to all of the Bariloche residents involved in the project other than the president and CEO apparently.”
“Are we ready?”
“Moises and Davido tell us they are,” Abraham said.
“Separately, our two kidons reported to me that they have an additional ten men hidden in the town ready to strike inside the delicatessen where the meeting is to be held. The kidons will lead the on-site approach; and the other ten are seasoned IDF combat veterans who will handle defenses from outsiders, police, and bystanders. They have four well-trained snipers. It is a Nazi-supporting town; so they are prepared for the worst,” Lev Mizrahi, the leader of the kidon squad, added.
“Any CIA or other security services presence?”
“Conspicuous by their absence.”
“Have all of our people gotten rid of their Israeli papers and identities and have appropriate papers on them to convince the local authorities that the troublemakers are—or better, were—Argentines if things don’t go as planned?”
“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so, they didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, as the Texans like to say.”
“Of course, Lev. I am understandably nervous about this adventure. We seem to be out on a limb, as usual. The CIA and the rest of our ‘comrades’ are out there busily establishing plausible denial.”
“Not unexpected, sad to say.”
“So, let me be paranoid. Do our people have the right kind of clothes to fit in with the citizens of Argentina? Are their weapons traceable to somebody else besides the Children of Israel? Does every man and woman have an L-pill? Are their legends good enough to pass muster and to keep the wolves away from Israel’s doorsteps? Are their communications secure?”
“Yes to all of that. The Institute’s documents officers have been very thorough. I defy anyone to prove that these men and women are anything but what they appear in public to be. As to communications, we have been strict about using only a one-time pad for all our communiqués [Irregular-sized strings of random numbers for one-time use as a key in enciphering messages; the proper use of a one-time pad renders a message all but mathematically unbreakable.],” Lev stated definitively, with Abraham adding his agreement with a positive head nod.
“Anything I forgot to ask or otherwise need to know?” “C” asked earnestly.
“We can’t think of anything. My thinker’s sore from trying,” Abraham said.
“Then, I’ll call the old sabra. He’s waiting for my call. We’ll have a signed directive in the next fifteen minutes.
“Sabra” was an apt descriptor for the prime minister. He was one of the Israelis who were born in Palestine, and he—as the word signifies—was indeed a thorny character.
§§§§§§
Boehme New Alemana Delicatessen 420 Avenida Pepito Moreno, San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina, that same afternoon, four o’clock
At three-thirty—before the appointed hour for the meeting on the strange events swirling around financing of the Pueblo Parque National Nahuel Huapi Project—only Antoine, his Gebirgsjägers, the project’s attorney, Xavier Manriquez-Huelsmann, and the project manager, Daniel Urquiza, showed up. They sat stiffly in near silence for almost thirty minutes waiting for the expected financiers to enter the back room of the delicatessen, but not a single one came in by five to four.
Antoine stepped out of the back room office and called to Erich Boehme, “Erich, mein freund, please have your staff contact the airports and the bus lines to see if there is some problem in travel. If I may, I would like to use your other telephone to contact New York, Corsica, and Switzerland myself. You may record it as a business expense.”
“Of course, call as much as you need, Generalleutnant.”
For the first time, Antoine began to get angry and to have a nagging fear when he could not reach anyone at the six numbers he called. They were out; or they were occupied; or the one answering was unfamiliar with the name of Don Pedro Altenhofen. Alarm klaxons began to go off in Antoine’s head. His biggest struggle was to maintain a calm demeanor.
He strode pur
posefully back into the small room in the back of the delicatessen.
“Meeting is over. Our financiers are not coming and are not available for my calls.”
Erich Boehme walked back in and interrupted, “No luck on my efforts to learn any reason why your money people would have been unable to get here: —weather is good, no flights cancelled, no problems with roads or buses. The conclusion is that they did not come. Charitably, all of them failed to get the message to come, or they collectively forgot.”
The implications were simple and clear. A trace of urgency had entered Erich’s voice.
“Are you a gambling man, Erich?” Antoine asked.
“I am, Don Pedro.”
“How are you going to place your bets on this issue?”
“Ninety-nine to one against this being some convoluted mistake. One hundred to none says that this means Nazi hunters.”
Antoine and the Gebirgsjägers did not have the tiniest inkling to bet against the former Nazi’s salient observation.
Antoine had had a long life of moving into action when it was necessary, and he did not hesitate now.
“Xavier and Daniel, leave by the back door right now and don’t stop until you board the nearest bus going north. The Nazi hunters and INTERPOL won’t really be after you right now, and they won’t expect you to stoop so low as to take a bus. Giving up your limos is a small price to pay for the peace of mind you will gain from having your freedom. Once back in the cities, make your records disappear, and deny any involvement.”
The lawyer and the project manager did not hesitate. They walked as fast as they could out of the room and away from Boehme’s delicatessen, avoiding main streets and drawing any attention to themselves. They found a bus terminal three kilometers east of central Bariloche next to the train station on RN237 [Ave. 12 de Octubre]. There were plenty seats available on El Crucero del Norte bus lines super cama class which had wide and large seats, steward onboard, working lavatories, and edible safe food. They paid cash at ticket station number 122 and booked a nonstop trip all the way to Lima, Peru. Twenty minutes later they were moving swiftly and comfortably on Ruta Nacional No. 237—the main Neuquén-Bariloche highway—bound for Lima and safety 2032 miles north.
Despite the tedium of the three-day trip, the grand vistas they witnessed from the large bus windows were rewarding and eye-opening to these city men. South America has some of the most startling scenery on earth, and they saw a great expanse and variety of it. They passed snowcapped mountains—many of them volcanoes—apparently endless barren deserts and salt flats, bizarre rose-colored rock formations shaped by the elements, lush tropical jungles, ancient ruins, and deep canyons before they finally stepped out into the bus terminal in La Ciudad de los Reyes—the Metropolitan Municipality of Lima. Had they gone by air like civilized men instead of potential fugitives, Xavier and Daniel would have only taken four hours and thirteen minutes, but then they would have missed what was the real Argentina and points north.
Antoine gave Xavier and Daniel ten minutes, then he and the other Gebirgsjägers left the delicatessen through a side window and kept close to the building walls as they made their way along a circuitous route through the labyrinthine alleyways behind the myriad new stores and restaurants surrounding the delicatessen. Antoine ran the escape like an army maneuver. He sent Serge to the escape cache of fresh passports—two for each man—and cash enough to last a frugal fugitive two weeks. He dispatched Hugues and Jérôme out as scouts to make sure that there were no Jew or INTERPOL patrols ahead. Each man reported back every five minutes. Antoine ordered a somewhat reluctant Berthold to cover their backs to be sure they were not being followed. The three made their reports twice, but Berthold failed to return after another fifteen minutes.
“They got him,” Clause said unemotionally.
It was the fortunes of war.
“I’m sure you’re right. So we take a vote on the route.”
Hugues took a moment to tell the rest where he had come from and had encountered no Nazi hunters.
“Good. Hugues, you lead the way for Jérôme and you. Clause and I will go our own separate way to the bus station. Be very careful when you get there. Watch for the hunters. If it’s the Israelis, you can bet that their attack has been planned for some time; and they may be hard to spot. Buy a one-way nonstop ticket for Ushuaia aboard a super cama. Then go to the next ticket station and buy another ticket for Santiago. I think we’ll be safer in Chile than spending a long time here in Argentina. We have friends in Puerto Varas, and we’ll all make our separate ways there and meet up and plan our next moves. Verstehen sie?”
All the men responded that they understood, and they set off looking grim and feeling as if they were bare naked at the Führer’s birthday celebration. There were sightings of suspicious-looking strangers, but each man stepped into a tourist kiosk and bought wide-brimmed strawhats and bright-colored ponchos. By some small miracle, all of them made it safely to the main bus terminal. They followed Antoine’s directions and bought tickets for both destinations, with each bus leaving at different times from those chosen by the other Gebirgsjägers.
Antoine did not do quite the same thing that he asked his partners to do. He purchased one ticket for Brazil and the second for Puerto Varas, Chile. He booked a Via Bariloche bus company trip on común class—the lowest category which provided only the minimal and basic technical standards for bus transportation. Locals came rushing to the bus passengers with offers of accommodation, money exchange, and food and drinks. A local police officer told Antoine to beware of his luggage and belongings at the Bariloche Bus Terminal. He would have a six– to eight-hour ride, so he spent his hour buying very cheap and rough workman’s clothes. Part of the time he spent scuffing his heavy uncomfortable shoes. He could remember the years in the POW camps when his footwear hardly met the definition of shoes; so, he did not complain to himself.
§§§§§§
Chocolatería Más Rico de Bariloche, No. 669 Avenida General José de San Martin, San Carlos de Bariloche, that same afternoon, four o’clock
Moises and Davido had a hasty last-minute consultation before giving final orders to proceed to the irrevocable last move of their operation. The small back room was heavily overcrowded and rank with the smell of sweaty nervous bodies.
Moises ticked off the intended assignments: “I’ll go in the front with the two INTERPOL guys. Lev will make a final check on the snipers. You take Manny and Aaron and go in through the back door in the alley. Eban, Micah, and Eliot: circle the streets and alleys surrounding the delicatessen in the two tour buses and watch for us to give the thumbs-up signal to pick us up. We hope against all hope that the pickup will be able to take place in the alley and not on the Avenida. Enos, Gavriel, Ezra, Haggai, and Yachin: you mingle around outside. If cops or Nazis come in force, it will be your responsibility to buy us enough time to get the war criminals into the buses and get out of Bariloche. I don’t need to tell you that we will all be in mortal danger if shooting starts, and you guys will have to be the front lines. So, have I missed anything?”
Davido said, “Equipment check.”
“Sure. Everybody empty then reload your weapons and set them to auto fire.”
Thirteen well-oiled Uzis were checked and again made ready for the third time that day.
“Hoods? Handcuffs? Ropes? Blankets? Food and water? Extra ammunition? Extra fuel tanks on the buses?”
A small quiet chorus of voices answered “Yes,” each man answering for his specific assignment.
“Any last-minute issues with the escape route?”
“No,” Lev said.
“Everybody okay and ready to go?”
Another quiet chorus of yeses.
“Synchronize watches.”
Gavriel said, “Let’s do it. I am getting nervous as a kitten in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“All right, let’s move out. May YHWH protect this mission and all who serve Him this day,” Moises said, and the thirtee
n specially chosen protectors of Israel quietly left the chocolateria in separate small groups to ensure no undue attention would be generated.
Entry time had been set for 1610, and everything depended on precise timing. At 1609, everyone was in place. At exactly 1610, Moises and two Argentine INTERPOL agents strode casually through the front door of the Boehme New Alemana Delicatessen at 420 Avenida Pepito Moreno.
“Will you be staying for lunch or having take-away, gentlemen?” asked the sweet-voiced young Aryan girl.
One of the INTERPOL agents stood by the front door, and Moises and the other agent ignored the girl and walked directly around the display counter and opened the door to the back room.
She just managed to get out, “That’s private, you are not allowed…!” before the two men rushed into the room.
Davido, Manny, and Aaron quietly opened the rear door and entered the room simultaneously with Moises and his INTERPOL officers. The six men looked at each other in consternation. They were alone in the room. It was obvious that the war criminals had made a very hasty exit as evidenced by spilled coffee that was still warm, half-eaten sandwiches, and papers strewn over the table and the floor.
“They knew we were coming!” Davido growled. “How? Spies? A traitor?”
“Spies or intelligent criminals who learned that their funding had been cancelled,” Moises said. “It happened only a few minutes ago. Some of them went out through that open window. They probably headed for their cars or the bus station. Let’s round up the troops and get down to the main train station and the metro bus stop on Ave. 12 de Octubre. Eban, Micah, and Eliot: get in the buses and start to patrol the backstreets. Don’t attract a lot of attention when you do.”
In five minutes all of the thirteen Project Save the Generals agents were aware of the highly disappointing and now more dangerous development, and every man knew his assignment for this next phase of their operation. Ten minutes later, the agents were mingling with the sparse crowds around the train and bus station and were circling the town, eyes flicking into every alley and street. Several were walking about looking for suspicious activity taking place in any and every building they passed.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 55