The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  “Right. Objects of great value, it says. Mentions a ship, so it all falls into place. This letter to Trotsky is where the excerpt you had came from.”

  “I assume you omitted the rest on the copy I had for security reasons.”

  “Not letting that out of the office! This is so sensitive we couldn’t share it with the local navy men—no need-to-know—gave you only enough that they’d cooperate. We arrived at the Santa Lopez through a process of elimination. It couldn’t be any other.”

  “That fits, too. I can tell you if they’re routing artworks through Mexico to New York it’s because that’s where the real money is,” Hawkins said.

  “Exactly.” An attaché came up and handed the general a telex. He gave it a quick glance. “W is flying in this morning.”

  -12-

  A slim silver plane emerged from behind another pristine Bermuda cloud. Moments later a Lockheed Electra, the same fast model Amelia Earhart piloted, zoomed in for a fast touchdown on the small strip. It belonged to the Royal Canadian Air Force but it was kept in civilian livery for covert purposes. After flying Hawkins in the previous day it’d repeated the early morning trip, flying in from an airbase near Ottawa, briefly stopping for an early morning pickup at the Teterboro Airport across the Hudson from Manhattan.

  Despite being the head of British Security Coordination in New York, the top man, W opened the door himself before the plane had stopped taxiing, flipping the three steps down, almost jumping over them, hands sliding on the handrails. W ignored protocol and seized Hawkins’s hand first, blond hair flying in the sea breeze, heavily lidded eyes squinting in the sun.

  “Hawkins, damn good, damn good! Knew I could count on you,” pumping it in his usual athletic way, then the general’s, striding forward, pulling him along to the waiting car, plucking Hawkins’s sleeve with his other hand. Stephenson was a short man, both Hawkins and Houghton towered over him, but Stephenson seemed to spin the other two around him the way circus rides spun little cars. “General, a pleasure again. How many have we got?”

  “Forty. Counted them this morning,” Hawkins said.

  “Forty paintings! Extraordinary.”

  After a fast drive through town to the Princess Hotel they followed W into the large penthouse suite where the Royal Navy had overnight moved all the cases from the Santa Lopez. The wooden boxes now filled the sunny room. First thing that morning Hawkins had picked all the locks, so now the doors on the cases were hanging open. A stenographer and a photographer, both women from General Houghton’s staff, were waiting on the sofa, nearly hidden behind the cases, peeking over at them.

  “Any papers or manifests inside?” W asked.

  “Not that I saw,” Hawkins said.

  W pondered the cases for a second, saw one was marked #1, and pulled the first painting on the end out, a rather dour picture of a gaunt man holding a book down at an angle, as if it was too heavy or he was too tired to read. It was all in shades of blue, except for the cadaverous bright green of the man’s lips.

  “That’s rather a gloomy thing,” Houghton said.

  “Yes. It’s Blue Period Picasso,” Hawkins said. “It’s a really good one.” W set aside the case and pulled another out. “That’s another Picass—er—no, it’s a Braque. There’s the signature. Picasso’s and Braque’s cubist paintings are often hard to tell apart. That’s a swell painting, too.”

  The general gestured to the women. They bounced up and strode over, one of them unlimbering her steno pad, the other lifting a Rolleiflex on a wood tripod. Alice, the steno, began talking notes in shorthand as Hawkins described the paintings. Lilly, the photographer, began photoing them.

  Hawkins had a limited arts experience. Even before he had joined the Secret Service, back when he was traveling around Europe selling industrial valves, he’d had idle hours. Instead of hitting a bar for drinks or a cinema for diversion like most commercial travelers his age, he moonlighted by rummaging through the local antiques shops and galleries looking for small treasures he could easily ship back to Manhattan. It turned into a profitable sideline, one he especially needed when he came into the Service because His Majesty’s government didn’t pay anywhere near what the industrial valve business did. There were, after all, no sales commissions in spying. Unlike many of the men in the SIS, Hawkins had no personal, family money. He needed the extra cash merely to stay even. But it was a useful education, doubly fortunate now. The fact he had no formal training in modern art wasn’t much of an impediment because where would you go to study something brand new like that anyway? You had to be there.

  “Is there any organization to these?” W said.

  “Let’s see,” Hawkins said. He went halfway down the row of cases and pulled another work out. It was a vibrant, lush scene of the tropics, with a dark-skinned woman in a grass skirt picking improbably large fruit. To one side a tiger peeked out from under a cluster of enormous flowers.

  “That’s a Rousseau! Look at the colors …”

  “So different, I don’t see how they have anything in common,” W said.

  Hawkins leaned the Rousseau against the box and drew another. It was blue, like the Picasso, but the effect was entirely different, full of rosy hues and sunny yellows, a couple embracing in the center, a traditional Jewish marriage canopy to one side with a rabbi flying overhead on the back of a large white bird.

  “In a way they do, yes, everything,” Hawkins said. “I know this one. A Chagall. A Jewish artist. These are all works the Nazis banned. Degenerate art, they call it, they despise it. To them this stuff is disposable. That’s why it’s here.”

  “If they hate it so much why didn’t they destroy them?” Houghton said.

  “Because they’re greedy and corrupt,” W said. “It’s worth money.” He pointed at the Chagall. “Even if they don’t understand this, they understand that.”

  “Where’d the Nazis get them, then?”

  “They stole them,” Hawkins said. “Before I left Paris one of France’s leading art and antiquities dealers told me the Nazis had already looted the major Jewish collections in the countries they’d occupied. She was certain they’d do the same thing in France.”

  “What happened to the people who owned them?”

  “They’re probably facedown in the water, too, so to speak.”

  They all contemplated that for a long moment.

  “They’ve gone to a great deal of trouble,” W finally said.

  “Yes. But there’s great value locked up in these paintings, as much as real estate or securities. They’re worth it,” Hawkins said.

  “But won’t it take a long time to get the money?” the general said.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “As you know, I’ve dealt with these big New York auction halls before.” Houghton and W both chuckled. Yes, Hawkins irritably thought, you intercepted my invoices, didn’t you? Bastards. But he ignored their amused, knowing reaction. “If you go in with one or two items, it can take forever to get paid. You know that joke: you owe the bank money, they own you? You owe them a lot of money, you own the bank? It’s like that. If it’s big enough and valuable enough, they’ll advance you the cash right away. A hoard like this? Hell, they’ll practically spin on their heads and sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ for you to land a big, season-opening sale like this.”

  “How much money?” the general said.

  “I’m not sure,” Hawkins said. “Many millions, maybe tens of millions. We need to get an expert in here from London, from the National Gallery.”

  W cut him off. “We don’t have time. We’ve got to hurry or they’ll catch on.”

  “Why—what the bloody hell are they up to?” Houghton said.

  “That’s what’s worrying me,” Hawkins said. “It’s big, whatever it is.”

  “Absolutely,” W said. “This is more than you’d need for a usual spy ring. This could fund their opera
tions across the hemisphere, well beyond the US or Canada.”

  “But what for, specifically, what operation,” Hawkins said, “that’s the thing.”

  “Perhaps we’ll get another intercept,” the general said.

  “No. Only one way to go—put it back and follow it,” Hawkins said. “It’s the only way we can find out.”

  “I agree,” W said. “Again, no time.”

  -13-

  “Wait—you said this is all looted property?” Houghton said. Hawkins and W both nodded.

  “Why, yes,” W said. Houghton’s ample face started to redden. Two worlds suddenly collided, one that lived by rules, order and procedure, and a contingent, opportunistic and spectral one that did not.

  “We can’t do that. Under the Geneva and Hague Conventions we have an obligation to return looted property to its rightful owners. We should impound these,” Houghton said. “Send the empty cases.”

  “That won’t work,” Hawkins said. “The weight alone—”

  “What? My god—”

  “What choice do we have? We have to learn what’s going on,” Hawkins said.

  “And we can’t risk blowing our intercepts,” W said.

  “Isn’t there another way?” the general said.

  “No,” W said. “If we seize these paintings they’ll probably try it again, and we may not get a lead the next time.”

  “They could send something by U-boat, who knows?” Hawkins said.

  “We have to get at the people behind it,” W said.

  “Ah, Christ.” The general’s indignation and sense of rightful order began to wind down with a slow shake of his head. “I suppose they could. But—this is dreadful. If we keep it, it’s like we’re complicit.”

  “We’ll have to try and return them when this is all over,” Hawkins said.

  “But they’ll be out of our hands, in Mexico,” the general said.

  “We control them until they reach Veracruz, and once they get to the US,” W said, “the FBI will impound them after we tip them off.”

  “But what if we lose them—”

  “Why would that be risky? Wouldn’t the Mexicans seize them, too, if they knew?” Hawkins said. W shook his head, eyes closing to a slit again, grimacing slightly.

  “Mexico? Cárdenas? His party? Don’t count on it. Bunch of bandits,” W said. “Have you been paying attention to what they’ve been doing?”

  “Sorry, no. Who’s this Cárdenas?” Hawkins said. “You know how it is, one skips over stories about Latin America in the papers. I do recall we broke diplomatic relations with them a while back.”

  “That’s Lázaro Cárdenas, president of Mexico. Head of the Revolutionary Party. Two years ago he started expropriating foreign-owned companies, first cotton plantations, then oil, then railroads. Pulled the rug right from underneath the people who owned them, built them, mostly in Britain and the US. That’s when we, the Commonwealth, broke relations. Nationalized them, that was the word he cooked up, nationalized them,” his voice raising sarcastically. “Also stole half the properties of the big landowners, gave it all away to other people. Another flavor of Communist, that’s all. Little wonder he likes Trotsky, or all those other Reds who ran like rats out of Spain. As far as I’m concerned, not a penny’s worth of distance between them, or Stalin and Hitler, for that matter. Another dictator, taking things they don’t own. Rule of law? Bad joke. Watch, they had an election in July. He’ll find an excuse not to hand over power. Cárdenas created an entirely new force of popular militias, supposedly committed to their revolution. He’s got the means, he’ll be thug-for-life soon enough. So no, don’t count on him for a damn thing. Once you steal an oilfield, a pretty little picture isn’t a very big deal, is it?”

  “Bloody wogs,” Houghton said. “What do you expect? When President Wilson sent General Pershing and the US Army in after Pancho Villa in ’16, they didn’t finish the job like they should’ve! Had a chance to clean the goddamn place right out, they did! Make it another Philippines. Softheaded, the Yanks.”

  “And it’s even worse now because oil is in such short supply because of the war. He’s got the whole world in a corner,” W said. “When the war started, the Yanks asked Cárdenas for bases to help defend the Panama Canal. Had the gall to turn them down flat. Can you imagine that!”

  “I had no idea,” Hawkins said. “Very well. Got that.”

  “Back to your original question—there is some risk there with the paintings. You’ll have to handle it, Roy.”

  “What about Captain Perez?” Hawkins said.

  “Do you trust him?” Houghton said.

  “Not a question of that. He was smuggling, he’s no saint as you were saying. He’s with us now but what if he runs into someone else down the line, flips back? Not because he cares about our side or theirs, but because someone makes him a better offer? And what do we really know about him? We have to plan for that. You can’t be sure about people, there are gray areas, and info—like about him—more often than not isn’t fully complete or reliable, and it’s sometimes contradictory. Half the time we’re groping around in the dark, can’t see what’s going on at all. That’s why espionage work is so dangerous.”

  “What we’ll do then is replace his sailors with Royal Navy men,” W said. “Keep an eye on him, the ship.”

  “But we don’t want Perez to know that,” Hawkins said. W pondered that a moment.

  “Then we’ll let him hire off the docks in Hamilton harbor, we’ll make sure the only men there are ours. Pay him off once you get there, if he sticks with us. You’ll have to go on your US passport, of course, since we have no relations with the Mexicans.”

  “You’re going into a hostile country,” Houghton said.

  “Nothing new there,” Hawkins said.

  A sergeant came and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

  “Sir? Your prisoner is awake.”

  -14-

  “You asked me not to kill you. Said you’d do anything,” Hawkins said.

  The translator, a round-faced and well-tanned young woman with curly hair, a member of General Houghton’s small army of mail cover clerks, quickly began a running translation. They’d already determined from his papers he was Romanian. The man grimaced as the nurse cranked the head of his bed up slightly, checking his IV. The man’s right arm and shoulder were canted up at an angle, supported by a brace, encased in a thick cast. The left was packed in a large bandage. They’d tapered down his morphine so he could talk. He obviously was in considerable discomfort.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “What’s your story, then?” Hawkins said.

  “I suppose you’ll shoot me if I don’t talk.”

  “I shot you twice already, why wouldn’t I do it again?” Hawkins drew his Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster and gently set it on the stand. “You better understand I have the authority if I need to.”

  “Hawkins, put that away,” W said. He acted cross, but Hawkins knew he wasn’t. He reholstered the gun.

  “Very well,” Hawkins said.

  “We don’t have to shoot you,” W said. “If you don’t fully cooperate with us we’ll have no choice but to turn you over to the civil or maritime authorities. That man you bludgeoned?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s in a coma here in the hospital, likely to die. If or when he does, you could be charged with murder and piracy.”

  “A pirate?”

  “You tried to hijack the ship. That’s piracy under maritime law. I assure you, you’ll hang,” W said.

  “We’re your only hope,” Hawkins said.

  “What’s your name?” W said.

  “Constantin Marinescu.”

  “You’re a Romanian citizen,” Hawkins said.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get into this?” W said.

/>   “I was in the Green Shirts—”

  “The Iron Guard?” Hawkins said, referring to Romania’s native Fascists. He was sitting across the bed from the young woman translator. Her face froze, lips tight. She’d originally come down from Toronto. She’s probably Jewish, a refugee, Hawkins thought. The Iron Guard were worse anti-Semites than Hitler and the Nazis, ultraorthodox Christian nationalists. They’d launched pogroms before the Depression had hit or Hitler had come to power. Her English was perfect, she’d clearly been in Canada for quite a while.

  “That’s right,” Marinescu said.

  “Why’d you join the Guard?” Hawkins said.

  “When I got out of university I discovered the Jews had all the jobs.” Hawkins noticed W slightly touching the girl’s elbow … steady. “Imagine that! No job. I had to go to sea, off and on.”

  “Keep going,” Hawkins said.

  “But then I got a position, a good position, as a paid officer in our party. I was marked for a ministry position when we came to power.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with all of this, other than that you spent some time as a merchant sailor,” W said.

  “Our German friends were helping us financially. Of this we were deeply appreciative.”

  “They were paying your salary,” Hawkins said.

  “That is correct. And we got to know them. They invited me to Berlin for a fraternal party conference. They put me up in the Kaiserhof ! Like heaven. When Reichsmarschall Göring shook my hand he told me he was married there!” He smiled slightly and nodded his head in pride and satisfaction at the happy memory.

  “And …”

  “They asked for a small favor. Of course we were more than happy to help. And they were going to pay me for my time.”

  “How much?” W said.

  “Twenty-five hundred reichsmarks before we left, then twenty-five hundred later.”

  “The others, too?”

  “No, the others got seven hundred and fifty.”