The Bluejay Contrivance

By Dan Liberthson

Near the end of World War II, Lieutenant Peter Roebling of German Military Intelligence offends a fanatical SS Colonel and rubs salt in the wound by defecting to the Allies to become a Nazi hunter. The SS officer takes a terrible revenge. Fast forward 30 years and the two men are locked in mortal combat in South America. There the Colonel lives incognito and Roebling, now working for the CIA, sets out on a mission to thwart a fascist plot in which the Nazi may be a player. Can veteran agent Peter Roebling and an amateur cadre of Christian activists derail the conspiracy? The answer lies at the end of a desperate journey up menacing tropical rivers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Sep 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662901898

Book preview

inspiration.

PART ONE

CONVERGENCE

CHAPTER 1

The priest walked slowly, with the meditative pace of his profession. Hands clasped behind him, he seemed to be studying the wet pavement. Apparently unaware of the two men following him, he passed a cross street sedately, his gait unchanged. At an unlit alley he darted right and disappeared into the darkness.

His pursuers hesitated to leave the well-lit avenue. Use your flashlight, hombre, one whispered tensely.

"No, Señor. If he is armed we will be perfect targets. We must take him in the dark or call for help.’’

We are special missions guards and he is only a priest. Are you a man?

Sí, amigo, as much as any. We can get him. Vamonos.

Each pulled a twenty-two pistol from his jacket and screwed on a silencer. Hidden behind trash bales in the alley, the fugitive watched as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The men vacillated, held back by uncertainty about their quarry but pushed on more strongly by swollen pride, fear of displeasing their commandant, and impatience to be done and get home. They began to creep along the alley, straining their ears, which heard nothing, and their eyes, not yet adapted to the gloom.

The priest sprang as the nearest approached him. Slipping behind the guard’s gun arm, he thrust a forearm under his chin and pivoted until the man shielded him from his companion. Then he rammed the heel of his free hand into the back of the guard’s head. There was a sharp crack and the man sagged and began to fall. The priest dropped with him, snatched his gun, and aimed from behind the prone body.

The remaining guard was unnerved by this priest who moved like a trained fighter, and wary of shooting his comrade, whom he thought still lived. He waited just a half-second, already too long. There was a popping sound. The second guard arched onto his toes and extended his right arm. His weapon fell from his hand before he could fire, and he too folded to the pavement.

The priest left the alley, his black cleric’s suit streaked with mud and dust, and brushed himself off beneath a streetlight. He began to walk in the opposite direction from before, with the same unhurried tread, shaking his head slowly. I had no choice, he muttered, crossing himself quickly. Simply no choice. He ran two fingers along the inside of his stiff collar, breathed deeply of the night air, and muttered a prayer for the souls of the dead men. Too bad they convinced themselves they were good enough, he mused sadly. If not, they would be home filling their bellies with soyo and their throats with caña, laughing with the wife and kids. But a macho with a uniform and a gun thinks he can take anybody.

The priest turned up his jacket collar to ward off the drizzle that had begun again. Walking on, he pulled an airline ticket from his pocket. Point of Departure: Asunción, Paraguay. Destination: Buenos Aires, Argentina. He shrugged slightly, crossed the street, and reversed direction again. An old man sitting on a stoop nodded respectfully, pleased to see the good Father up late, sacrificing his own comfort to guide men to God.

CHAPTER 2

As often during a Buenos Aires winter, the air was warm despite a light rain. Yet, scanning the plaza from the open front of the Café Estrella, Agent Peter Roebling noticed that only lottery and newspaper vendors wore short sleeves. Most other passers-by sported European suits and London Fogs more for fashion than protection from the weather. Of course, he thought, this is a prosperous area, and to flaunt their wealth its residents are willing tolerate sweating from being too warmly dressed. People drifted by at a leisurely pace, and a few stopped to converse in the square. But the relaxed feel was soured by the guards of the Policía Federal who stood on every corner, submachine guns ready at their waists.

Peter noticed two guards loitering under the awning of a small market. The rain wasn’t heavy enough to bother them—for some reason they had the store under surveillance. Framed against fruits and vegetables, they seemed as bizarre as props in a surrealist film.

An elderly gentleman strolled by, well dressed and looking tipsy. He spotted a friend in the market and called to him, walking toward the store. Ciao, Alfredo, qué pasa?

One guard raised his gun casually, savoring the action, until it pointed at his victim’s head. Son of a whore, he explained evenly, you can’t come in here. The old man blanched, backed away, stumbled on the curb, and then stood with head bowed, as if in church. The second guard advanced and barked orders. The old man choked out his name and occupation, and was led away at gunpoint.

Professor Manuel Vargas, sitting with Agent Roebling and his wife Elena, watched the arrest. I’ve known that man for years, Vargas said bitterly. "He’s retired from La Prensa, but they closed the paper for ‘communist leanings’ so he’s guilty by association."

Peter Roebling looked away, his mind hijacked by a memory. It was Frankfurt, 1943. The Schmeisser fired and his friend became a marionette wildly jerked by invisible strings. A lamp post cut into the dance. The puppet accepted its hard embrace and slid down into the gutter. Lieutenant Roebling could only stare at the sneering SS man who had just shot his friend. The Fuehrer demands obedience, Leutnant . . .

Agent Roebling pushed the image aside and managed a thin smile, alarmed by the rage Vargas barely held back. They needed him calm and focused. He studied the professor, a tall, portly man with a broad face and high color, trying to gauge his mood. From past acquaintance, he knew Vargas to be an idealist who believed fiercely in democracy and justice. He would be a good source if he could stay on topic.

My friend, Peter said, placing his hand on the professor’s and squeezing a bit, tell us what’s going on at the university.

Vargas stiffened, slowly took hold of his brandy glass, and then abruptly raised it in a toast. To our beautiful friendship! he nearly bellowed, and gulped the drink. Surprised, Peter and Elena dutifully reached for their glasses, but then drew back as Vargas’s face turned white with strain. The big man surged forward like a tormented whale turning on its hunters, but Elena’s shocked expression sent him slumping back into his chair. He stared straight ahead, and though his voice was soft, it was so tight with anger that it seemed like a scream everyone in the café could hear.

"The university, Señor Roebling? They are restructuring it—which means that anyone who criticizes the regime will likely disappear and return as a corpse with strange marks. Fascist spies bait me at every class. They follow me everywhere!"

Manuel, Peter replied quietly, fixing his gray eyes on the professor. You are drawing attention. Calm down, please. Let’s have some coffee.

In the left rear corner of the café, a priest turned a page in his breviary and continued reading as though aware of nothing else. He looked like a regular who hadn’t moved all day—never mind that in 24 hours he had covered over a thousand miles by land and air. He looked as if he paid no attention—but in fact he noticed everything.

CHAPTER 3

The man who called himself Carlos Fuerza was pleased by the surveillance of Manuel Vargas, who was closely watched at considerable expense. Smiling, Fuerza tightened his gloved fingers on the wheel of the Volvo. Juan Carrera had done well to follow the professor to his meeting with the Americans. Of course, as Juan was both Carlos Fuerza’s best officer and Manuel Vargas’s best and most trusted student, his success was no surprise.

The professor had been very careful, living like a hermit for months. So Juan Carrera knew something was up when he suddenly arranged to see the Americans at his favorite café. Vargas was cracking—Fuerza knew it, and felt a surge of pride. The man is no fool, he mused, but Carlos Fuerza knows how to flush a rabbit, even a smart one. The Americans, though, who were they? Hardly tourists. We will see, Fuerza said amiably to himself. In the safety of his mind, he lapsed into his native language. Es geht. Es geht sehr gut.

Careful as always, Fuerza parked in a side street away from the café, locked the auto, and paused to review his plan, thin lips compressed to disappearing. Deciding to check the café himself before joining Juan Carrera at the surveillance post, he walked deliberately. Well-made shoes carried his six-foot frame buoyantly, despite his 64 years, into the stream of people on the Avenida Diagonal Norte. Now he would take his exercise, keeping alert as one always must.

Swerving slightly as he passed the Café Estrella, Fuerza caused a man walking against him to bump his left shoulder. He turned to apologize, and for a second his eyes scanned the café. The three persons of interest sat toward the back, but a passing waiter spoiled the view. Fighting the urge to look again, he rounded the block to the rear entrance of a shuttered bookshop across from the café. The shop’s odd business hours had been easy to explain: his men planted rumors that the owner was an eccentric pornographer who catered to select clientele.

Juan Carrera opened the door at Fuerza’s signal, saluting briefly. I cannot identify the Americans, mi Coronel. They are new.

Don’t worry, Juan. You did well to stay with Vargas. Let me look.

Fuerza adjusted the telescopic sight, which framed only the face of the woman. Juan Carrera might be intelligent but he was still a typical Latin male, Fuerza thought sourly, always chasing skirts. Swiveling the lens, he focused on the unknown man. His fingers tightened on the barrel, his blue eyes hardened, and his mind traveled to another world and time, when he was not yet Carlos Fuerza of Argentine Interior Security, but still Franz Streiker, SS colonel.

It was Berlin, September of 1943. At a dinner party hosted by Admiral Raeder, he met a young, half-drunk Intelligence officer. This lieutenant was a lean, ruggedly handsome man of about his height—a type he was drawn to. Having had a few drinks himself, he took the younger man’s arm and made a friendly suggestion, inviting him to share his bed if he were so inclined. He expected, if not the hoped for smile and consent, at least a civil demur. But the lieutenant flinched, threw off his hand, and drew back. He took the young officer’s arm again, gripping harder, and reminded the man that he outranked him and, as a senior enforcement officer, could amply reward his cooperation, or punish the lack of it. But the lieutenant wrenched free of his grip, flung away his arm, and called him and his SS comrades gutter pigs. Then he spat on the floor and walked from the room without a backward glance. Now that officer, weathered and gray but unmistakable, was a cameo at the end of the lens. Streiker gripped the scope harder, as if to crush the image it transmitted: the angular, clean-shaven face of his nemesis.

Schweinhund, he murmured. Stinking traitor.

Perdón, mi Coronel, is there a problem?

He made himself breathe, relaxed his grip, and rose to face Juan Carrera, ready to be Carlos Fuerza again.

They are only tourists, Carrera. I stooped too quickly and suffered a slight vertigo. You understand?

Sí, mi Coronel, but—

"Do you understand, Juan Carrera?"

Sí, mi Coronel. The younger man lowered his eyes and nodded. Each word from Fuerza had been like a hammer blow. When the Coronel insisted, there was no second guessing.

You have done well, Sergeant Carrera. Now, arrange to bump into Vargas as he leaves the café and try to find out where he is going—without arousing suspicion, of course. Then take the night off. Go see your girlfriend. I will cover the watch.

Gracias, mi Coronel. If obeyed, Carlos Fuerza could be a generous superior. Buenos tardes.

Streiker sank into a chair, brooding. His hand cupped his chin, the index finger resting against a trim gray mustache that hid his thin upper lip. Roebling! Leutnant Peter Roebling! What was he doing here?

When the insolent lieutenant finally betrayed the Reich and defected to the Allies in 1944, Streiker had found a way to retaliate close at hand. He arrested the traitor’s mother and sister to ensure Roebling’s silence—or so he told his superiors. When everything fell apart in the Reich’s last months, he no longer needed to justify anything. As Commander of the Bonn detention facility for opponents of the Reich, he made sure the women did not reappear.

In the years of hiding after the war, he learned from Odessa, the SS brotherhood, that Lieutenant Roebling had reported him to the Americans as a war criminal, and later had become a professional hunter of Nazi fugitives like himself. Through his long exile, Streiker had lived in fear and uncertainty, harried from land to land. Now, at last, he was secure. With 22 years of Argentine residency, fluency in Spanish, and a rank equal to that he had lost, the future belonged to him. Franz Streiker was officially dead and Carlos Fuerza lived comfortably, at ease in his adopted country, one German Argentine among the ten thousands who had emigrated in this century.

But now Roebling had appeared without warning. A tremor of fear crawled up Streiker’s spine, no sooner felt than transformed into rage. Immigration, those fools, were they sleeping? These worthless Latins were barely better than the inferior races, the Juden, the Schwartzen. When it came to efficiency and discipline, they were hopeless, but they excelled at breeding, jumping their women like oversexed rodents. What use? A kilo of Aryan blood was worth twenty of theirs. Such a pity to waste himself among them because of treasonous vermin like Roebling.

But why was the lieutenant in Buenos Aires? It was better not to know. No inquiries, no way to trace anything to Carlos Fuerza—or worse, Franz Streiker. And for the plan he was now devising, he did not need to know. This concerned only him, Roebling, and the Third Reich. It might as well have happened in 1944. He rose from his chair, paused, and spoke to the image engraved in his mind as if to the man himself. I, Colonel Franz Streiker, have you, Leutnant Peter Roebling, a gift of fate. You will know it, and it will be the last thing you know.

CHAPTER 4

Manuel Vargas was sullenly quiet, held and perhaps cowed by Peter’s steady gaze. Elena waited, smiling a little, like a soccer player expecting a pass. Though he kept most of his attention on Manuel, Peter appraised his wife with a quick glance to his right and was reassured by her calm, bright presence. She was a neat, graceful woman, he thought admiringly, seeming younger than her 42 years. Whatever the situation, she refused a dull, heavy mood. It was nothing unkind: she respected valid sadness but lost patience with brooding or defeatism. She had absorbed her father’s doctrine of brisk efficiency and cheer so completely that it seemed instinctual, reinforcing her native buoyancy. Believing that he had too ample a reserve of pessimism, Peter noted with an inward smile, she tried to rid him of it by humor or reasoning whenever it reared up. In their work and social lives he tended to pursue matters doggedly, while she supplied patience and finesse.

Admitting this, he glanced at her and nodded. In this situation, she should take the lead. She leaned forward and softly touched Manuel’s thick hand. The professor sighed, drew himself up, and patted her hand as it rested near his.

It’s all right, my dear. Your Gray Fox has stared me down. I apologize, my friends. I am afraid there’s not much left of the light-hearted grad student you partied with so long ago in Georgetown. The pressure of these last months . . . I am so tired of being careful. Soon I may have to take a permanent sabbatical.

Peter’s voice came softly, hollowly, from his lined face. "Yes, it is hard to be always on alert, but you must avoid pointless risks, Manuel. Honestly, we didn’t know things were so bad. That’s why we are talking to you, not some paid informant—to learn about the real situation.

Manuel sighed, rubbed his face with his hands, and let his shoulders slump in despair. What am I going to do? he said in a tone of quiet agony. What will happen to us?

My friend, Peter replied earnestly, I know the pressures you suffer. In the war I served in Intelligence, one of the only honorable military branches. Each of us was suspect, whether or not he actively opposed the Fuehrer. I lived with the same tension as you—spies everywhere, friends betrayed, imprisoned or killed. You know we abhor Fascism and we would not personally condone it here or anywhere, but our government doesn’t hold this view. They only value strategy, stopping Communism at any cost. So our situation is delicate. And though you may suspect otherwise, officially we are only attachés of our Embassy, encouraging cultural exchange with Argentina. We can’t interfere—only assess. Frankly, our only ‘covert’ assignment is to offset the negative image created by our country’s ex-president.

Manuel stifled a nervous chuckle and assumed a mournful expression for the sake of his friends. Yes, your Nixon’s really cooked his goose. He was at best . . . inopportune? It must be hard for you.

Peter passed his hands over his face to mask his embarrassment and gave a prepared response. Personally, it’s neither hard nor easy—merely a change of management. Our problem is to find ways to regain credibility, we who crowed about our morality.

Peter! Manuel exclaimed softly. Forgive me, but the U.S. has no problems—only inconveniences. They will pass, and you will elect another lawyer and go on. With us, it’s serious. We lost El Lider—Juan Perón—the only one who has even pretended to help the common man.

Peter’s raised eyebrows betrayed his astonishment and drew a smile from the big man. Yes, Vargas continued, I supported Perón, although he was a right-wing demagogue who gave asylum to Nazis before Jews. But even an idealist like me has to compromise in the face of political realities. Whatever his failings, Perón built up pride in this country and helped the working man and the poor. He held Argentina together or, perhaps I should say, Evita did. She died long ago, but he kept her myth alive. Now that he is gone too, my country has lost its soul. We will tear ourselves to pieces.

Peter kept silent and nursed his brandy. Now that Vargas was calm, his job was simply to listen. He gripped Elena’s knee to advise restraint, but she pushed his hand away and leaned across the table. He held his breath. She was no mere acolyte, and she could take serious risks. When she cared, she showed it. Now her jaw set stubbornly against Manuel’s despair.

You can’t mean what you say, Manuel. The Army swears allegiance to Perón’s widow. Isabel is La Presidente now, and they will support her. What can you achieve by giving up?

The big man drew himself up like a bison harassed by flies, but to Peter’s relief he continued quietly. You are an optimist, Elena. I admire that, but you are wrong. You know what’s happened, but not what it has done to our spirit. While Perón was exiled for twenty years, Argentines awaited his return as if he were the Messiah. We are emotional about our leaders—not like you Americans.

As if lecturing some invisible students, Vargas gazed over the heads of his companions and continued musing distractedly, face heavy with sadness, hands at first rising and gesturing but then sinking lifelessly to the table as he succumbed again to anguish.

No one ever captured our hearts like Evita Perón. She was a low-class actress and a whore, but with all her diamonds she did not turn her back on us. She forced the landowners to give millions, and Juan went along. When she died and Juan spent twenty years exiled in fascist Spain, he dried up like a seed rattling in a stale peapod, and brought Fascism back with him.

Manuel, Peter interrupted softly, are you safe here? The priest at the corner table—don’t look—has been there reading his breviary for hours. Even priests aren’t that devoted!

Don’t worry, Peter. I seldom come to the Estrella now. The Policía wouldn’t waste their time watching. If you suspect everyone, you can’t live—I’ve learned that much. It is too hard not to talk. I am a teacher. If I can’t speak out, what use am I?

Their coffee came, and Peter turned back to Elena. Be careful, he warned quietly. The waiter overheard, paused, and thinking something had spilled, glanced anxiously. Peter waved him away. Get out! his mind shrieked. Get out—they are watching.

Manuel sighed and gazed despondently at the dark fluid in his cup, as though he saw all his hopes dissolving in its bitterness. "I knew democracy was finished here when Córdoba’s Chief of Police jailed the liberal Marxist governor—a fascist putsch just like Hitler’s. Now the death squads, trained by American ‘technical advisers’ all over Latin America, are killing anyone of the Left. Why? To protect us from Communism, you say—but really, to protect yourselves from Communism. So, you save us from the Cubans and the Soviets by killing our liberal leaders and leaving the fascists in charge. Some mercy!"

Elena smiled and put a hand on Manuel’s arm. She was stung that he seemed to lump her and Peter into the accusation against her country. They—Peter more hopefully because of his higher position in the Agency—had been lobbying their superiors as best they could to try another approach. It was unfair of Manuel to accuse them of the very hard-line policies they had risked their own security to moderate. Both of them were torn by inward grappling between conscience and patriotism. Peter owed the U.S. for providing a haven and a chance to redeem his past, while she remembered her father’s fierce loyalty to his adopted country, which had offered a chance to raise a family free of fear. Both believed in the agency they had served so long, yet they could not embrace a policy that seemed both morally and strategically wrong. Manuel Vargas ought to know that, must know it, but he was overwrought and lashing out blindly.

Manuel, she said looking into his eyes and allowing herself a sad smile, we knew each other many years ago, and you know from our talks then that we are not simply mouthpieces for the policies of our government. Please don’t forget who you are talking to.

I know, Elena, of course I know you must have tried. But you have no influence. As I have none. And those who do are stubbornly and fearfully leading us down the path to destruction. Who can stop it? You think Isabel will save us because the U.S. supports her and the army makes cheap promises? It won’t happen. Your government destabilized Chile and ruined Allende because he was a liberal Marxist—little different from a democrat, but the name ‘Marx’ frightened your leaders. And worse, in their eyes, he tried to appropriate the foreign corporations bleeding Chile dry.

He paused and tossed back his coffee as if he wished it were the brandy he had been drinking earlier. His big hands covered his face and then slid down to lie inert on the table, like empty gloves.

I am so sad, my friends, because whatever you might believe I know that it will go the same way with my country: anything is justified to fight the ‘Red Menace’! We are not Cubans or Russians, but Argentines who only want a just government—but will your leaders ever grasp this simple truth? I’m afraid not. Isabel Perón is a bad joke run by Lopez Rega, the madman Minister of the Interior who co-authors books with the Archangel Gabriel. The Army won’t stand for that, and when they step in only God can help my country, because the United States will surely back them.

CHAPTER 5

Carrying a snifter of cognac to his office window, Arturo Bilbao admired the glitter of São Paulo thirty stories below, stretching from the bright lights of the Triángulo to the dim glow of the outer slums. He had created, and owned or influenced, much of what he saw. And now he was asked to risk it all for the sake of even greater profit and power. His eyes traced random patterns between points of light as his mind weighed the choices. Was it worth the gamble? He pondered the history and the likely outcomes.

After World War II, many surviving Nazis hid in Latin American exile, aided by the fascistic governments of countries with a large number of German immigrants—Chile, Paraguay, and Argentina among them. A dedicated group of high-ranking Nazis dreamed of reviving the fallen Reich in their adopted countries. Now they had progressed beyond dreams to plans and tactics, economic and then political, to take large bites of the wealth of Latin America, buy their way into governments, and create a bloc of fascist countries under their control. They had approached him, the leading industrialist of the most economically viable city in the largest country on the continent. He had been flattered and intrigued, and the flame of greed had enveloped him. But now he had second thoughts. It was too ambitious, too unpredictable. But in reality, already half-way in, he had no choice but to go on. These men were neither trusting nor forgiving and, though he smiled grimly at the movie cliché, he already knew too much. At last, he turned from the window and faced his guest, a small, quick man who had sat patiently waiting and now eyed him shrewdly.

You are certain, Senhor Russel, that your group is prepared to take on such a large commitment? Such complex requirements?

As Arturo Bilbao took a seat, Viktor Russel smiled, the smile of a father chiding a foolish boy. Surely our request is not so daunting, my friend, for the wealthiest industrialist in Brazil? At this point, we need merely funding—albeit substantial. The first step is to get rid of elements who would interfere with our plan—leftists and moderates. We have prepared the pattern and procured the yarn. Now we begin to weave. We must move carefully, and it will be some time before we complete the fabric, but I can assure you that we will finish what we are starting. As the son of a poor tailor, you should understand that success takes time.

Bilbao shifted uneasily in his chair. I have never mixed in politics, Senhor Russel, more than necessary to further my interests and provide for my family. Certainly, I fear the communists, as every man of business should, but you are proposing more than local measures to defeat them. An action of this scope, with continental ambitions, has not been entertained since the Second World War.

Russel displayed the iron confidence and conviction he had always been able to put across, from his earliest years in the Nazi Party to his management of an IG Farben slave labor camp that produced armaments during the war.

You are not fully aware of our plans, Bilbao, but let me reassure you. Germany still exists—the real Germany, efficient and supremely capable. It is represented by my elite colleagues here in South America, not that poor, divided excuse for a country that rots in Europe. We have not disappeared, merely postponed, and we are well prepared to unify this continent under our banner. But we have learned to proceed with care and not move rashly, Senhor, and that is why your worries are unfounded.

What about the Russians? Do you think they will sit quietly while you suppress the Left and promote fascist enemies of Communism? And the Americans, if they discover Nazis are involved?

Russel gave an arid laugh, patted his mouth with his hand, and took a discreet sip of cognac. "Forgive me, Bilbao, but now you do sound like a little tailor, and not the one who killed seven with one blow! We live in the modern world, not the Dark Ages. To speak of enemies! All that is finished! The Russians are men of business, like you and me, the Americans, and for that matter everyone except the leftist fanatics. We will not harm Russian interests by suppressing liberals and anti-Soviet socialists. That can only strengthen legitimate communists loyal to Moscow. They will thank us and help us, since they will have no idea that, as during the war, our ultimate goal is to conquer and displace them as well. They must have no idea, Arturo, and you and everyone else partaking of our plan will ensure with the utmost vigor that this secret is kept. And if the Americans find out we are involved, they won’t care, because they will support anyone planning to destroy the Left and enable them to make more money. But enough—you know this as well as I. Are you in, or shall we bypass you? I am sure you would regret it. Have you—"

I’ve made the arrangements, Bilbao snapped. He took a gulp of water, paced quickly to the window, and turned to his guest again, his face tight with greed and anxiety. My conglomerate is in agreement. Porchería will handle our part of Internal Control. He is willing to coordinate under Fuerza and the Argentines, although I had to promise him much more than I would have liked. But he is ultimately dispensable. The job is more important than the man—and he knows it.

Good, Bilbao, very good. The Euro-South American Consortium, our shell company, has contacted the other principals. We expect their commitment soon—I dare say with less resistance than you. Alex Gordon will coordinate: he and I have established the funding exchanges. We have arrangements with Hamburg, Johannesburg, and of course, with your kind assistance, São Paulo. Don’t worry: I am confident that our sources will be untraceable.

Arturo Bilbao coughed nervously. He felt as if Russel’s predatory eyes had seized his throat, and he had to work hard to force a question past their grip.

"Senhor Russel, I hesitate to question a man as careful as you, but can we really trust Gordon? His resources are massive and necessary—but why assign him a pivotal position? He has important contacts, yes, but he is known to be too . . . independent . . . to put it diplomatically."

A half smile stretched across Russel’s face as he nodded agreement. Alex Gordon, née Alexei Rogov. He is a brilliant exemplar of the best of two cultures—half British by his mother and half-Russian by his father. He understands both East and West, but commits to neither. He is devious, yes, but you don’t became a financial colossus without superb skills of deception. Gordon gives allegiance only to himself, and values only money, and that is how we will keep him honest. He is a consummate gambler and knows that it takes a big risk to win big. He also knows that if he collaborates with us he will profit far more than by selling us out or going it alone. I know his type, and I would be very surprised if he were not true to form. But your concerns are valid. We will watch him closely.

There is talk of a meeting? Bilbao interjected, giving in on Gordon.

Yes. The meeting will be important for you, Bilbao, to understand the full scope. The location is set, and the time will be fixed depending on the schedules of the others. I will not attend, as our European end demands my full attention. The Hamburg network must be placed, and then of course the Johannesburg channels connected. But Gordon will be there. He will answer any questions you might still have.

Bilbao grunted and drew his hand across his rough features. His fingers fit the deep grooves in his face exactly, as if his own hands had gouged them. He couldn’t explain it, but in the framed photo of wife and family that adorned his desk, their eyes seemed to focus on him, not the invisible camera.

Is there anything else? he asked wearily.

Not at present, Bilbao. Relax. Enjoy yourself. You worry too much for a man who has climbed so high. The hard part is behind you. To continue my analogy: the loom is set and awaits only the yarn. A European knows how to wait, to set a course and let it evolve, with a guiding hand at the right moments. A German knows the consequence of hasty action, especially an old German like myself. Be patient, Senhor, and watchful. That is a lesson you Latins must learn.

Rising from a padded leather chair, Russel