The Song of the Goldencocks

By Margaret Donnelly

"After the end of World War II, high-ranking Nazi officials escaped Europe with the help of Argentina's Juan Domingo Peron in order to avoid the Nuremberg trials. While carting loot they stole from Holocaust victims, the officials spread their ruthless military tactics among Latin American paramilitary units, resulting in hundreds of thousands of kidnappings and deaths over the years.

Forty-four years later, Ivan Trushenko, a young and naïve Venezuelan with a consuming passion for Cuban Communism, uncovers a long- hidden history when he mistakenly becomes involved with suspected Nazi war criminals. Accused of providing a false identity to a war criminal, Trushenko is interrogated under the harshest of circumstances and, after hours of torture, finally reveals a dark secret. When Matt Sheridan, a United States operative introduces Trushenko’s case to Alex Barclay, a popular army general known as the Goldencock, he is intrigued. Soon Barclay discovers an unexpected alliance between both left and right extremists who are hell-bent on achieving one goal—to monopolize Venezuela's oil-rich economy.

Now the Goldencocks, true fighters who have already earned the respect of their community, are in a race against time in order to capture these criminals before they can overthrow the country."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Donnelly
• Release date: Aug 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476126111

Margaret Donnelly

Margaret Donnelly has led an accomplished life as mother, attorney, community activist, and now author. Although perhaps seemingly unconnected, the synergy between being an author and lawyer is strong. Margaret Donnelly’s role as a legal advocate and community catalyst evolved to self-published author in 2005 after years of quietly nursing a passion for uniting the Americas through her books. Her work aims to break through the wall of old mindsets imposed by culture, language, and religion. Above all, her work helps to peel away biases that have caused the genocide of millions of indigenous people.

Book preview

Chapter 1

November 29, 1990

Caracas, Venezuela

Ivan stirred to the noise of footsteps that echoed against a hard floor. Then, the noise stopped. A sense of dread punched his chest. His breathing got heavier. A cobweb of dark memories clung to his mind until, suddenly, the burn marks on his wrists brought back the moment when prods pulverized his insides and almost ripped his kidneys out of their sockets.

To distract himself, he experimented with a different position and sat on the concrete floor. The pain in his lower back subsided when he pulled his knees against his chest and leaned his back against the concrete wall. Underneath the concrete, ancient stones held the floor and the walls together. A prison was a noisy place but not this one, which meant that he was in a clandestine cell, located in an old building of Caracas. If the building was as old as he thought it was, it had survived through many renovations of the colonial district.

Seconds later, his eyes drifted to the opposite wall of the cell. A lightbulb in the ceiling poured a faint glimmer over grooves embedded in that wall. The grooves were deep enough to survive years, if not decades. His mind paused. It gave him enough time to reach a conclusion. Carved into that masonry were names, dates, curses, grudges …, and they were emitting their own silent screams. Battered souls who toiled in this very same place were shouting their stories, obsessing over what they had left behind.

While his eyes focused on those grooves, he dwelt on his own obsessions, and a gale of anger swept through him.

His mind plowed forward. A patchwork of sordid images appeared. One was of his arrest by middle-aged henchmen who blamed him … him!—Ivan Trushenko, of giving a false identity to a war criminal. God piss on them and on that son-of-a-whore Jose Rodriguez for turning him in to the security police. A woman with lice in her pubic hair was not what he deserved. That worthless scoundrel needed to die.

Rodriguez had convinced him to interrupt his stay in Cuba. In fact, Rodriguez had pleaded that he return to Caracas. The reason was to meet an important supporter of their party, Movement toward the Left, Movimiento hacia la Izquierda (MI). After all, he was first in command of the party. The stranger also turned out to be someone who needed a false identity. While the stranger delivered a large contribution to the MI, Rodriguez supplied the false passport. However, hours after the meeting, the security police arrested and charged him with aiding a member of the Kameradenwerke.

Nothing crystallized for him until the interrogation. He did not know what the Kameradenwerke was. In addition, a fascist government was not what the country needed. The accusation was contrary to everything he stood for. He was moving the country toward the left, not to the right. During the questioning, however, his tormentors accused him of conspiring with a man who had worked for the SS. His name was Janis Endelis. They also informed him that Endelis escaped to Argentina in 1946 with the assistance of the escape network known as the Organization of Former SS Members, or ODESSA.

ODESSA operated throughout Latin America in the late 1940s and early 1950s until it changed its name to Kameradenwerke. Through this Nazi pipeline, hundreds of former SS officers infiltrated President Juan Domingo Peron’s military machine during Peron’s administration. Peron always took care of his public image, but there was evidence that he quietly opened the door to Janis Endelis and, now, forty-four years later, Endelis was in Venezuela.

* * *

After another cursory glance of the lightbulb, Ivan heard the same noise again, and this time his eyes bolted to the door of the cell. The sound of boots grew louder, and the door flung open.

He reined in his terror and closed his eyes when two soldiers grabbed him on each side and hauled him out of the cell. His self-control was momentary because it snapped under the realization that he had to leave some testament before dying. So he shrieked as loud as he could while his bare feet slid over the floor down a familiar hallway and then over the cold, hard steps of a staircase. Dragged to the center of the torture chamber, the stench of burnt flesh, human excrement, and sweat mobbed his nostrils. Now on the barren floor, he hunched himself in silence.

In the meantime, a familiar silhouette stood under the threshold. After whispering something to the soldiers, the silhouette stepped into the room without hesitation.

The light in the torture room intensified the lines of the face of Captain Alfredo Villanueva, a man of medium height in his late forties. An armless wooden chair awaited him. He whirled it around and eased into it, saddlelike, as he had done hours before. Once he folded his arms over the wooden back, his eyes glossed over Ivan’s curled position.

His mouth hissed, We were speaking of Janis Endelis. Why don’t you make matters easier for yourself, eh? His words lingered in the stench of the room until Ivan abruptly connected with his rage.

As I said before, I only delivered the passport.

Villanueva’s impassive eyes smiled. My friend, we have discussed this before. True, we shouldn’t give a damn, but no one will accuse us of aiding war criminals.

Are your bosses prepared to murder me for this nonsense?

No. The current administration doesn’t wish to return to the past. Venezuela is a democracy after all.

Then I should be released because I don’t know anything about this … this war criminal. I wasn’t even born when he was smuggled into Argentina.

The past has a peculiar way of stepping into the present, doesn’t it?

His anger returned. If you and your superiors were hawks, you wouldn’t bother eating a cockroach!

You may be a cockroach, but you have the name of Endelis’s new identity. Not divulging it could be a compromising situation, he retorted, adding, although, thanks to you, it is possible that Endelis probably smuggled himself out of Venezuela.

Ivan gazed at the ceiling. I know as much as I’ve told you.

We appreciate the information. However, what you have given us isn’t sufficient.

Rodriguez convinced me to come back from Cuba. It was a set up.

Yes, you’ve already told us that.

Rodriguez said that an important businessman wanted to help our party.

Why would your friend push you into the sewer?

He sneered back, Rodriguez isn’t my friend. He’s trying to get rid of me because he wants to control the party!

Ah. So, he connects you to a former SS officer who buys a false passport from you …

Rodriguez arranged the meeting and then gave me the passport.

Why didn’t he meet with Endelis himself?

He was protecting his sources, people in important circles. I don’t know who they are.

Are you telling me that you don’t know important people?

Of course I do, but I’m not in the passport contraband business.

It’s pointless to withhold that information, Villanueva countered. In fact, as you insinuated, Endelis isn’t important to you … unless he’s trying to control you as well as your party.

Furious that everyone was pissing on him, Ivan answered, I don’t know anything! My party will not be manipulated by a war criminal!

Ah, yes, Villanueva replied coldly. In the next second, he shot an irritated glance toward the door and nodded. The same two soldiers rushed in and stripped off Ivan’s soiled clothes. They rolled over his bruised, naked body, faceup. While a soldier held together his wrists, the other tightened the drawstring around them.

He mustered enough strength to gasp insults. Look at my face, you bastards! However, a boot quickly hammered itself against his face, pressing his head against the floor.

One soldier spread his legs and strapped his ankles to iron brackets embedded in the concrete floor. The other skillfully applied wet rags from a metal bucket over his chest and shoulders. Then he applied a prod to each shoulder. With each electric jolt, Ivan gasped violently. The prod touched his chest carefully to avoid the area directly over his heart. His breathing cavity fell under the weight of a thousand bricks. He lost consciousness.

A half hour later, he opened his eyes. His legs were free but not his wrists. Villanueva’s face was hovering over him.

Ah, you’re back. Ready to make a full statement?

I’m thirsty, he replied, cringing from the pain in his chest. A soldier scooped a tin cup into a metal bucket and placed it against his lips. He gulped down the water with abandon, asking, Can … can you … untie me?

Villanueva muffled his growing annoyance. Give me the name.

What will you do if I do? He was panting.

Let you go.

Why don’t you let me go, and I’ll send you my confession from Cuba.

He was not amused.

Ivan knew that he could not withstand any more of these jolts. He coughed, almost choking at the thought that there was no way to ensure his safe release. After a few seconds, he sputtered, The name is Manuel Blanco.

Villanueva waited.

Go ahead and write it down.

Spare me the humor. Tell me everything, and we’ll draw up the statement.

Manuel Blanco is Endelis’s new identity, he said. Endelis was accompanied by another man … a younger man … they looked like relatives. The younger man had a key chain with a strange design. He gasped for air. An adage that applied to his people slipped into his mind. They lost their heads in their revolts and their courage when chained. The crunch of defeat overwhelmed him.

Chapter 2

Matt Sheridan was on his way to meet with army Col. Eleazar Suarez when he left the U.S. embassy on this mildly hot, sun-washed day. The appointment was set for late afternoon when restaurants in the colonial district were not so crowded.

While he maneuvered the embassy-owned car around a stalled line of traffic, he had enough time to mull over his phone conversation with Suarez a few hours ago. Suarez had requested intelligence that the Venezuelans did not have. On its face, the request was a bit sordid. And if there was anything, it was gathering mold in some dark, subterranean archive of the agency.

In addition, the locals were historically and ideologically distant from the subject matter. That is, until Suarez mentioned more details, such as a man named Janis Endelis, who had worked for the SS and for Peron. More recently, Endelis provided services to right-wing elements of the military of El Salvador during the country’s civil war. Hundreds of thousands of refugees had poured into the United States because of the war, and that was enough to trigger Matt’s immediate interest.

While he sat behind the wheel and measured the time to his destination, about twenty minutes away, maybe more, several more ironies surfaced. Suarez had said enough but not everything.

As an operative who arrived a few months ago, Matt knew that he did not have an appreciation for what the locals never said. Too often, they buried their real, politically sensitive opinions. In fact, they were like characters of a melodrama who wore a blank expression. Some referred to this idiosyncrasy as wearing the face of a dead dog. When they preferred honesty, however, they used epigrams. The most popular ones were tigers do not eat tigers, and, a rooster’s song cannot be clearer. Matt knew that to break through their habit of masking reality, he had to know their history.

His current position as legislative liaison hid his real task, which was serving as a go-between with the Venezuelan military and the Central Intelligence Agency. His assignment was a recent by-product of the reorganization of Operations. Ironically, he was not a military man, but a combination of factors, among them, his hum-int experience, and his Spanish, served as a springboard for the position.

He was a ten-year veteran, who joined the CIA shortly after graduating from Yale. After polishing his skills, the agency assigned him to the border with Mexico, and then to Bolivia, Panama, Ecuador, Paraguay, and now, to Venezuela. Now, he served as a bridge between Gen. Francisco Garcia, a member of the Venezuelan chiefs of staff, and Richard Anderson, his boss. Most of his meetings were with Suarez because Suarez worked directly under General Garcia.

He turned the car in the direction of the colonial district, which was not so historic, because most of its colonial buildings had disappeared. A construction frenzy that took place in the 1940s destroyed several blocks. Today, worn-out modern commercial and residential structures stood as replacements of the past. Even the name of the district, which was El Silencio, or The Silence, was a paradox. It was far from quiet. The name had survived as a reminder of the deadly still in the aftermath of the 1641 earthquake. Nowadays, the traffic made this place one of the noisiest places of the entire city.

Emissaries of Spain founded Caracas in a long, narrow valley in 1567. The lush valley’s mountain range on the north served as a barrier against the sea. The mountains protected the colony from pirates, who acted independently or on behalf of English and French sovereigns. Nonetheless, the city had its share of raids and sackings in addition to earthquakes, plagues, near-invasions, and immigrants greedy for blood, plunder, and power. It miraculously flourished and eventually became a colonial export center of cacao, cotton, indigo, tobacco, and dyewoods. Coffee turned into a major export from the mid-1800s until the oil boom of the 1920s.

Since then, bonanzas from oil exports always stuffed government coffers. Each upsurge spurred renovations like the ones of the colonial district. Each dramatically expanded the city’s limits until they reached the suburbs beyond the east-west boundaries, marked by the ravines of Caraota and Catuche. However, to the north of El Silencio, the renovations spared only a few colonial buildings, among them, the Cathedral, which was completed in 1674.

The predecessor church had been the seat of the city’s first Roman Catholic bishopric, filled in by Fray Mauro de Tovar, one of the locals’ first petite tyrants. Tovar’s bloodthirsty persecution of infidels sorely tested the locals’ patience. When they maneuvered his transfer to Mexico fourteen years after his appointment, his farewell was less than gracious. Before boarding the departing ship, he sneered, Of you, I don’t even want your dirt! while he shook off the dirt from his sandals. Those who witnessed this ungracious farewell nodded in recognition that they were going to be free from one less tyrant.

Not far from the restaurant, a buff-colored, one-story colonial structure with plain ironwork over the windows beckoned Matt. Unable to resist its familiar charm, because he had been here before, he guided the car into a vacant spot against a curb. With time to spare, he unhurriedly eased his athletic five-foot-eleven frame out of the car and pulled a beige sports jacket from the front seat. He then walked along the storefronts, disregarding a few curious glances. He was a musiú, a word derived from monsieur, which also applied to North Americans. His deep blue eyes, dark brown hair, and American-cut jacket over a white open-collar and navy blue pants, set him apart.

The first time he saw the buff-colored, simple structure months ago, he expected a more befitting birthplace for one of the most famous men of the Americas, Simon Bolivar.

A couple of portraits near the open entrance showed Bolivar’s deep worry lines at different stages of his life. There were enough reasons for such premature aging. The locals never understood his native brilliance. The greatest irony was the fact that they complained today about the very thing that he tried to protect them from, the superpowers of the world. They did not believe him then, and many still misunderstood him today.

After 160 years, Bolivar’s soul hovered over the locals as a huge, dark cloud or as a deep source of inspiration. He shook either their sense of guilt or their sense of nationalism, depending on each individual perspective. Those who continued to doubt Bolivar’s motives always asked two questions. One was whether his dedication was solely to amass more power for himself. The other was whether he favored the Colombians over them. In summary, they put no other leader of his stature through so much emotional and mental turmoil.

By the end of his life, he used all of his wealth, and 60 percent of his life fighting for the independence of Venezuela, Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, and Ecuador. He was forty-seven years old when he died in Santa Marta, Colombia, in 1830. His soul must have bristled when they transferred his remains to Caracas in 1842. They buried his bones in the Cathedral until the bones were moved to the National Pantheon thirty-four years later.

Today, there was enough evidence that he genuinely believed that an alliance between Colombia, Venezuela, and several other countries, known as the Gran Colombia, would protect them best from Spain. He imposed the pact because his people would not choose it, especially with Colombia. His people were different from the Colombians by geography, interests, indifference, and a failure to understand the advantages of uniting against the superpowers. In a letter written fifteen months before his death, he conceded that the Gran Colombia existed solely because of his authority until providence or other men intervened, as then happened. Venezuela split from the pact almost one year after his death and, thereafter, became internally divided by factions led by competing demagogues.

In retrospect, Bolivar foresaw the internal wars that repeated themselves many times after the Gran Colombia ceased to exist. In fact, the environment of his country galloped back to the days when tigers hid in ambush. The lessons learned from the Spanish encouraged tyranny, and tyranny bred mediocrity, and mediocrity kept the locals in a permanent state of amnesia. It was so permanent that a significant part of the population failed to understand Bolivar’s complex legacy.

While he placed the country on the map as a leader among Latin American nations, one-fourth of the local population perished. However, they suffered death, dishonor, harassment, humiliation, and ignorance under Spanish rule. His efforts to free them from a similar fate under any tyrant were shattered when history repeated itself soon after he died. A long line of dictators controlled the country until a popular revolt overthrew the last one in 1958.

* * *

Matt arrested an impulse to revisit the airy, sun-filled interior of Bolivar’s birthplace and proceeded to the restaurant. Once there, he selected a table next to the kitchen door in the back, where the late afternoon light lent shadows to the heavy wood of the furniture. The table provided a direct view of the entrance. Once seated, he requested two whiskeys with ice-on-the-side as soon as his guest arrived. The whiskey was a peculiar preference of the military.

During the next few minutes, Suarez arrived. He stood in the foyer, dressed in a dark gray business suit with a matching tie. He was forty-two years old and a product of the same southern plains that produced Bolivar’s greatest military strategist and his hardiest fighters. The plains, known as the llanos, taught patience as well as resilience, and Suarez had plenty of both. The llanos covered six hundred miles of lush grasses and swamps during the six-month rainy season and parched dirt during the six-month dry season.

Venezuelans enjoyed a world reputation for their handsomeness, and Suarez was no exception. His physique was an attractive combination of Indian and Spanish as reflected by a light brown complexion, black hair, sharp nose, and large eyes that bordered on gray. He was trim like Matt but shorter by a couple of inches. His hard-line, serious composure disguised a well-developed sense of humor.

His greeting was cordial and in English when he walked over to the table. When served a pitcher of ice, a couple of tumblers, and a bottle of Chivas, it was too early for him. He never drank liquor this early in the day, but it was unthinkable to turn down the gesture. Therefore, a few minutes later, while he sipped his whiskey, he went on to the topic of the meeting.

Please educate me on what we discussed over the phone. He was big on education, but at this particular time, his interest applied to Janis Endelis’s influence in Latin America. He was scrambling for information.

Matt had consulted Anderson who was stalling. Therefore, he could not offer anything, except to say, Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait is distracting everyone back home.

More of the same, no? Suarez answered, referring to the status quo of not paying enough attention to Latin America. It was a favorite complaint of his people. However, many paradoxes controlled this conversation. Another popular image was that of the CIA as an overprotective cumbamba witch that rode her broom over them on a regular basis.

I wouldn’t say that it’s intentional, Matt answered. As I said, our politicians are distracted by many things …

For instance?

In addition to Iraq, Congress recently received an important report on migration and economic development with Latin America. It will probably open the door for a free trade alliance with Mexico.

Will this trade alliance really help our communication problem? he asked with a gleam in his eyes.

Mexico is a stepping stone toward Latin America. Other treaties will come. It’s important because we already have one working with Canada, he answered, wondering why they were discussing this at such length.

Then Mexico will shift to greater importance as an oil producer.

He nodded. We have to protect our markets.

The negative side is that the alliance may antagonize your Middle Eastern allies.

Maybe.

Sometimes leaders spend too much time godfathering the wrong people.

The comment amused him even though he did not brush it aside. The United States had sided with Iraq in its war with Iran, a situation not created by the current administration. However, it was boomeranging horribly. Now Iraq was the aggressor against Kuwait, another ally, and the United States had to protect Kuwait.

Matt switched the conversation to Janis Endelis. We want to cooperate, he said, because we won’t accept his kind of trash in Venezuela.

Your government has important intelligence.

He wondered when Suarez was going to get to the point.

We’re trying to follow channels.

After another pause, Suarez repeated, Any information will be helpful, even if you consider it out-of-date.

I’ll do my best. He drank some whiskey. What’s behind these inquiries?

As I said on the phone, Endelis was part of Peron’s government. We suspect that he’s now developing a paramilitary network in Venezuela.

For what?

Endelis is a promoter of a death squad technology used to control governments and economies. Members of his network are assuming new identities.

Matt was perplexed. Are they planning a coup?

It’s a possibility.

He waited for Suarez to mention the School of the Americas.

Nothing was mentioned to that effect. Instead, he offered, Now that Argentina has a new president …

Yes, Carlos Menem.

…we need to use other channels. As you may know, Menem has stopped the investigations started by the predecessor government. I should say that he wants to close the door on Argentina’s murky connection with the Nazis.

Matt remained silent.

But we’re continuing to look into previous leads sent to us.

Any results?

We don’t know what group is masterminding the effort here, but we do know that Endelis is advising the group. He sipped his drink and continued. A Venezuelan passport was issued to Endelis. The passport is part of a batch missing in the Ministry.

Who’s the source?

A man named Jose Rodriguez. He gave us information about the person who sold the passport to Endelis, Ivan Trushenko. Rodriguez and Trushenko are the leaders of one of our minor left-wing parties.

Trushenko? Matt repeated the name, wondering about the nationality.

His father is a Russian who immigrated to Venezuela.

What’s a leftist doing with a right-winger like Endelis?

Suarez grinned. Stranger things happen, he said ruefully.

How did you find Trushenko?

He was turned in by Rodriguez, but then, Rodriguez disappeared. After undergoing several interrogations, Trushenko provided Endelis’s new identity.

What do you know about Rodriguez?

Not much.

And Trushenko?

"He told us that a younger man accompanied Endelis when Endelis purchased the passport. However, we already knew a lot about Endelis. As far back as the late 1940s and early 1950s, a powerful organization of officers based in Argentina, Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, pressured Peron to import former SS officers, and this included their tactics to strengthen Argentina’s authority …"

Authority?

Yes.

Peron had authority.

Exactly what I want to address, Suarez said. No one wants to discuss this part of history.

But the Nazis are the past. No one is interested in them anymore.

If they were irrelevant, we would not be having this communication problem with Menem, would we?

Go on.

Loyal men in key posts. Group cohesion with a sense of honor, although their underground tactics have no honor. Their modus operandi combines terror with aggression, hell-bent on controlling economies by infiltrating the military apparatus. Peron was unable to complete his plans because he was overthrown.

In 1955?

Correct.

What do you know about Endelis?

He was a member of the Latvian Auxiliary Police. The police reported to Gruppe A, which was part of Himmler’s organization, Suarez explained. He escaped through the German lines to Argentina. He was thirty-five years old. He’s about seventy-nine years old right now.

Matt continued listening.

He added, Functional equivalent of Himmler’s organization in the occupied Baltic territory was a regional organ known as Gruppe A. It had subunits known as commandos. Each commando was responsible for a Baltic country, and the one assigned to Latvia was Commando 2. Endelis served as liaison between the Latvian Auxiliary Police and Commando 2. His was an administrative job with an opportunity to learn about the inner workings of the commando. The technology developed by Himmler was a professional killing machine, a death commando, the prototype of today’s death squad, and this is what Endelis has marketed in Latin America for the last forty-four years.

How many men did the commando have?

There were 750 who followed Germany’s advancing army through Latvia. While technically subordinate to the army, Himmler controlled them. You see, the design of each commando was to arrest subversives during the German occupation. Endelis’s Auxiliary Police led the commando to insurgents.

You really believe that Endelis is designing something like that in Venezuela?

We suspect as much, unless you have other information, he answered. The commando was highly effective. Endelis provided a network of informants who gave intelligence and peripheral support to the commando. When the commando pushed 28,000 Jews into the ghetto of Latvia’s capital, Riga, supposedly to keep an eye on them, the commando proceeded to murder 80 percent of them in a three-month period. This was accomplished with the assistance of the Latvian Police.

Records were kept? Matt asked, dumbfounded.

He nodded.

What else do you have?

That Endelis knows how to organize paramilitary troops like Commando 2 even though he wasn’t directly involved with the assassination of the Jews. He was a civilian, but given his prominent position, he was a key figure.

What’s his background? he asked.

Physically, he is five ten and thin, gray hair, but probably colors it. The Russians carried his parents to Siberia when Hitler’s army invaded Latvia. The Russians killed his wife and daughter.

Suarez glanced at the table in an absentminded way and, after a waiter refilled their tumblers, he added, Endelis wasn’t brilliant, but he was bright, graduated from the state university and served in the ski troops of the army.

For a moment, Matt rubbed his chin, appreciating Suarez’s ability to convey facts that converged in some peculiar detail.

Suarez cocked his head and added, The Latvians hated the Russians, so they hailed the Germans as their liberators, which explains Endelis’s immediate loyalty to Germany. It’s easy to understand how his loyalty was fed by the Russians. His gaze was even when he added, Endelis is an embarrassment to Argentina.

Yes, I know.

Don’t underestimate him, he