Steve’s Shorts: Mayhem, Murder, and Music’s Zamba Argentina…Part Two of Two
[Note from Steve: This is the continuation of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs. Some you might know, like the Billy Joel classic, “The Piano Man,” motivation for the first story; others, like this one, homage to “Zamba de Mi Esperanza,” sung by the Chachaleros, are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available). They’re freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is. The Argentine zamba, sometimes written samba (technically a mistake and one I made in the title of one of my ebooks), isn’t a dance, as Wikipedia claims, and shouldn’t be confused with the Brazilian dance. Enjoy!]
Zamba Argentina (cont)
Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore
When Marco arrived, he saw the German Karl Brandt talking to the Sub. Is he complaining about me? He regretted his slipup. While it was true that South American countries had provided safe haven for many Nazis during and after World War Two, some Germans, like Italians and other nationalities, had just been fleeing the violence in Europe. Because of his family’s history, though, he firmly believed that the influx of people leaning toward fascism had sowed the bitter seed that led to the Junta and their Dirty War.
He put such thoughts out of his mind and called Interpol. His friend there promised to dig into the lives of Klaus Ihlenfeldt, Melissa Brentwood, and, for added measure, Karl Brandt. His friend said it would take at least a day.
He also had a contact in Scotland Yard. He called and asked her to check on the British side of the victim’s life.
Someone turned on lights. It had started to rain again, bringing gloom to the port city and the office.
He was reviewing the case file and the new forensic information when two shadows created from the flickering fluorescents fell over the papers. He looked up.
“Inspector, I learned you’ve already met my old friend, Karl,” said the Sub.
Brandt smiled at Marco. The Sub wasn’t smiling.
“Yes, he was good enough to let me get about doing my job. What can I do for you, Brandt?”
“Just saying hi to Raul and checking in with you. Any news about the case?”
“If you have contacts with the German police, information about the victim and her husband would be helpful. Forensics and ME results show this wasn’t a robbery gone bad or a random act of violence.”
“I concur. Someone wanted Melissa Brentwood dead. The two are married, by the way; she didn’t take his name, but that’s common nowadays. Anything else I can do?”
“I might interview Herr Ihlenfeldt again today. He was distraught yesterday, so I’m assuming he wasn’t thinking too clearly. He has problems with English and Spanish, and my German is worse than my English. I was planning on taking a translator, but if you’re there, it might be better for him.”
“Of course. Set it up. Give me some warning, though. Our Ambassador tends to improvise on his schedule a lot. So far he’s sleeping off cocktails and canapés at La Casa Rosada, but that could change at a moment’s notice.”
“Understood. I’ll give you fair warning. I’ll keep you posted too. Or, do you prefer to handle that?”
The last question, aimed at the Sub, who had been staring out the window at the downpour, caught his boss by surprise.
“No, you can inform Karl of developments in the case. We need to avoid any international repercussions, of course.”
“Of course,” said Marco.
***
Marco entered the interrogation room and recoiled a bit. A witness had come forward in response to the police request for information, no questions asked. He was a slovenly dressed bald man with a straggly beard turning to gray who seemed at ease in the old wooden chair that was probably older than Marco.
“I’m told you have information about our victim.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Marco thought a second. “A good meal and good karma for doing something to help the victims’ relatives deal with this crime.”
“The good meal sounds good. But no one cares about me, so why should I care about anyone else?”
“So why come forward?”
“The victim was a woman. No lady deserves that kind of violence.”
“So, describe what you saw.” His description of events matched forensics and the ME’s results. “There’s some evidence the victim scratched her assailant.”
“Yes, I saw that. She was trying to take off the mask as she went down. I only saw the back of his head, though. Long, black hair, short neck. I think she scratched his face.”
“Did you see what he did with the knife?”
“It was one of those illegal things. He wiped the blade off, clicked it shut, and put it back in his pocket. This guy was a real pro. She didn’t have a chance. No one would.”
“And he was definitely stalking her?”
“Oh, yeah, I was watching the whole thing from behind those shipping crates. Went there to take a pee when I heard her high heels clicking on the wharf.”
“Any idea what she was looking for?”
“She seemed to be looking at the boats. They’re all freighters, but she was looking at their names, I think.”
Marco looked at the file. The murder scene had taken place in front of a freighter named Brisas Pacificas. He frowned at the irony. “Did she stop in front of the freighter and study it in detail, or was she moving along the docks when attacked?”
“She was looking at some ropes dangling from the boat and others used to tie it up.”
“Was she thinking about boarding it?”
“In high heels? I doubt it. Well, maybe. She was acting strangely, that’s for sure.”
“You said you had to pee. Were you drunk?”
“Nope. I was scavenging. You’d be surprised how many bottles sailors throw into the trash with some good stuff still in them. They’re so drunk they can’t see there’s something left. I can generally party the night with that.”
Marco sighed. How much can I trust this fellow’s testimony?
***
Marco returned to his desk to access some databases. Brisas Pacificas had been commissioned in San Francisco, sold to an Argentine firm, and then sold to a German firm in Hamburg. That wasn’t uncommon. Merchant vessels were traded around like cars as different shipping firms had their economic ups and downs in the world economy. Customs would have a list of crewmembers—they were usually from all over the world. They would also have a description of the cargo offloaded at the port. Both needed a phone call and probably at least a day’s wait.
Marco looked at his watch, called Klaus Ihlenfeldt to set up another visit, and then called Brandt, who agreed to make the 3 p.m. appointment at Klaus’ hotel.
Ihlenfeldt looked better this time.
“My business is almost finished here. When will I be able to take Melissa back to Germany?”
“Won’t her family claim her?” said Marco.
Ihlenfeldt looked confused. Brandt translated.
“No, no, Melissa was raised by an aunt who died two years ago. She has no close family left. She was well integrated into our family. My parents already have a plot for us.” Marco raised his eyebrows. The German smiled. “A bit morbid, I know, but it’s a family plot. We never thought we’d use it because we’re young. And we were planning to start a family of our own. We’d need more room. Again, morbid, but burial plots won’t get any cheaper.”
“Does your company own any merchant ships?” Marco said.
“My company’s a holding company for many other companies. I’d have to check on that.”
“Could you, please? I’m trying to determine why your wife would be interested in a ship named Brisas Pacificas. Ever heard of it?”
Ihlenfeldt looked at Brandt. He translated, ad-libbing another form of the question.
“No, you have to understand, I don’t get down into the details about any of our holdings. I manage only a bit up and down, from CEOs or VPs in our companies up to the general corporate staff, including the CEO. Think of it as an iceberg where I work at the tip.”
“There’s a lot of iceberg under that,” said Brandt.
“And a lot of it under water and not visible to the eye,” said Marco. “Is there such a thing as being too big?”
“Not for Germans,” said Ihlenfeldt with a smile. “Do you need anything else from me?”
“Only your promise not to leave town just yet in case I do later.”
“Is Herr Ihlenfeldt a person of interest?” said Brandt.
“For now, only a person who has contacts I don’t. Thanks for coming, by the way.”
“You could have told be about the ship,” said Brandt.
“You didn’t look too surprised when I mentioned it.”
“Only because I assumed it was random chance that it was there at the dock. As you say, it’s a big port.” He smiled.
***
Marco returned to the station. A message from the Interpol agent was waiting on his laptop, together with attachments.
The information about Ihlenveldt and his wife was a boring confirmation of what he knew already, except for the fact that the husband had enjoyed a rapid rise in his firm. Information about Brandt was more interesting. He had worked in West German intelligence before the wall fell. He was older than he looked. Is he still working in intelligence at the Embassy? Marco knew embassies and consulates had employees who were undercover intelligence agents. It was a worldwide phenomenon. But why Buenos Aires?
He decided that didn’t matter, not for this case. But intuition told him the ship was somehow key.
He packed up and went home early, justifying his behavior by the long day before. Angelina was happy to see him.
***
The customs information he received the next day about Brisas Pacificas’ cargo troubled Marco. Bales of Egyptian cotton? The ship had come from Cairo, so that matched, but Argentina had access to plenty of cotton, a bit of its own and from around the region. Is there something special about Egyptian cotton?
He decided to find out. The cargo destination was a textile factory in the western suburbs. He called and was finally connected with a knowledgeable person who spoke perfect Spanish—no Porteño or other Argentine accent.
“It is rather simple, Inspector,” said Julio Salazar, “many buyers of fine linens assume it’s only about thread count, but I guarantee that a 220-count sheet made from Egyptian cotton will be superior to a 220-count sheet made from another cotton. Egyptian yarns can be spun thinner, providing more count, but at the same time they’re stronger and have lower lint so they don’t pill so easily. Our sheets are the best in South America.”
“Even if other companies make them from Egyptian cotton?” said Marco with a smile.
“Many linens made in South America are made from local cotton. Some of the cotton in America is almost as good, but you will pay a premium for linens imported from America compared to ours, and they’re made from the best Egyptian cotton.”
“Slight change of topic: have you already used those bales of cotton coming from Brisas Pacificas?”
“Let me check.” Marco waited. “No, señor, we have yet to use them. They’ll be used shortly, though. We don’t like to store the cotton too long.”
“Mind if I drive out and take a look?”
“I suppose that could be arranged.”
***
Julio Salazar could have been a jockey. About 1.2 m in height, he was a bald Yosemite Sam, only his drooping mustache was black. Thick, curly hair spewed out of his collar like some black, shaggy dog was hiding in his shirt.
“Here they are, Inspector,” he said to Marco. “At the gin, the seeds are removed and what we call the lint is banded together. For overseas shipment, we usually encase the whole thing in plastic, as you see. You can see we haven’t opened any of these bales.
The bales looked like what Marco imagined bales of cotton would look like. They sat on a wooden floor—there must be a basement.
“How do I see what’s inside?”
“Inside? There’s only cotton inside. Pure, Egyptian cotton.”
“Can you still use the cotton if I burrow around in one?”
“I suppose. Let me do the borrowing. Like I said, we were going to use this soon anyway. Take your pick.” Marco picked one at random. “Let me go get some keys.”
When Salazar returned, he hopped onto a fork lift and moved the bale close to a conveyor belt. He pulled out shears and wire clippers from a tool box on the lift.
“You can help me load it onto the belt,” he said.
“As payment for causing you so much trouble?” said Marco.
“That, and because your time is short here. Your wife is on her way to the hospital.”
“Mierda! Forget about it. I’m off. I’ll be back.”
“This will take only a minute. Your sister-in-law said she thinks the contractions are a false alarm, that it’s too early.”
“It is, but I should be there.”
“Then help me. We’ll be done in a flash.”
A few minutes later they looked at the thin plastic crate that had made the journey inside the cotton bale. A surprised Salazar helped Marco open the crate. It contained sheets of newly printed Euros. Marco whistled.
“Just off the press, I’m guessing. If counterfeit, they’re an A-1 job. I’m going to trust you with this, Señor Salazar. The police will be here in minutes.”
“How could this happen?”
“Somebody’s sending strong currency here in exchange for something, and I’m betting it’s not linens made with Egyptian cotton.”
“You’re thinking drugs?”
“Not unless the something comes from farther north. Don’t betray my trust.”
“I won’t. Make your call and then go to your wife. I’ll be waiting for your buddies. This is a disaster.”
“You never opened the bales?” said Marco as he searched on his speed dial.
“No. My helpers do that now. Go, go. Your woman will expect you to be there!”
Marco spoke to the closest precinct and took off.
***
Lisa had been correct. The contractions were a false alarm, but the doctors wanted to attend to Angelina overnight in order to run some more tests. Marco returned to his unit. Brandt was talking to the Sub. Both approached Marco’s desk.
“Good work, Inspector Montanari,” said the Sub.
Brandt nodded. “You blew this case wide open. We still have some work to do on both ends of the merchant ship’s voyage. Our information was sketchy, but Melissa was a smart operative.”
Marco looked at the Sub and then back to Brandt. “Is Melissa Brentwood a German agent?”
Brandt nodded. “She uses her husband’s many trips as a cover.”
“And he knows about that?”
The German shrugged. “We’ll have to tell him now, I suppose.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I suppose you’re an agent too.”
“Ja, that I am. Stationed temporarily here in your fair city. I don’t move around that much anymore, though.” He smiled. “Melissa outranked me, by the way. We Germans aren’t so macho now.”
“She was tracking down counterfeiters?”
“No, artworks stolen by Nazis originating in this area. The black market’s in Europe, everything from those auctions on cruise ships to calls to private collectors. We traced payments to Cairo, and now to here. Those are real Euros.”
“There are groups here in the region,” said the Sub. “Always have been. We suspect there’s are several old caches. They’ve been known to sell them on the black market and use the proceeds for all sorts of mischief.”
“Our Dirty War?” said Marco.
“Heavens no,” said Brandt. “That’s ancient history, and everyone knows that the CIA was the instigator in that mess. At the time, they thought Communists were coming out of the woodwork everywhere. Your Junta used that to their advantage.”
“So what are the old Nazis doing with the proceeds now?”
“We’ll find out soon enough because we’re questioning the workers. They will lead us to the suppliers of the stolen art, which has probably been here since right after the war.” He winked at the Sub. “They aren’t old Nazis, by the way. There are fascist movements in Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile. These are new Nazis, young thugs who think Hitler’s ideas are just what the region needs. Fascist sentiments go hand and hand with graft and corruption, though.”
“That’s a very bleak portrait, Karl,” said the Sub.
“I’m just tired. And our work is just beginning.”
“What are the next steps?” said Marco.
“You people can help, obviously. You already have. We need to find who was receiving the paintings here if the workers don’t break. Obviously, workmen at that textile plant had to be involved, but they’re not the final recipients. The consignee in this case was just a front. And tracing forwards from them might lead us to the cache.”
“Sounds like we need a task force,” said the Sub. “Should we get Interpol involved?”
“Definitely. We don’t want any Latin American nationalities to get in the way. Or German ones, for that matter.”
“Interpol’s already involved,” said Marco. He told them about his call to his contact.
“That’s a start,” said the Sub. He saw Marco closing his laptop. “You’re not declaring victory already, are you?”
“No. I’m calling it a day. I want to go hold my wife’s hand. She’s in the hospital.”
“Is she OK?” said Brandt.
“False alarm. But she needs a friendly face beyond the young doctors who will be ogling her beauty.”
“Go then,” said the Sub.
“Yes, please,” said Brandt. “Lucky you. I have to go talk to Melissa’s husband.”
“Tell him we’ll find who killed his wife. It’s only a matter of time.”
***
In elibris libertas….
