The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  He turned out the lights and closed the door, looking down the corridor to the stairs. He was about to run up, when he realized there was a large door under the stairs.

  -47-

  The door was unlocked. He went down, flashing his light. At the bottom of the stairs was a large switch panel. He yanked the lever down and stood taking it all in for a good minute or two, camera loosely hanging around his neck.

  A basement. A long row of overhead lights. A very big room, the entire floor under the building. In the center, on a table, a giant topographic map of Mexico and the adjacent American states, probably forty feet long. To the sides, rows of tables under regional maps on the walls, all lit. Phones on all of them. Pads, pencils, filing cases, all at ready. Beyond the map, two rows of tables with radio transceivers. In front of him, a low balcony with a bench all the way across, dotted with more phones. He went down the rest of the stairs. Under the balcony, a huge telephone switchboard, big enough for a couple dozen operators.

  But the forty-foot-long topographic map—all of Mexico from Tijuana in the north to Quintana Roo in the south—drew him over. Around the map were painted wooden markers with standard military symbols indicating regiments and divisions, field headquarters, fortifications, battle lines, along with air and army bases, waiting and ready. More symbols were stacked on a low shelf around the map. Pointers and hooks to move them all about the map were at ready, too. Mexican flags were dotted around the map, on the major bases, with American flags lined up on the US side of the border from Texas to California.

  The map, the regional stations to the side, the phones, the switchboards, the banks of radio transceivers, the raised platforms for commanders—incredible, he thought. This was a military command center of the highest order. The defense of an entire nation could be run from a room like this. There was even a table to one side with coffee urns.

  The whole setup was far too elaborate for training. Could they be building it as a fallback option, a hidden command center for the Mexican Army, Navy and Air Force? All they needed was to have the phone lines brought in.

  His eye shifted to the southeast. He walked over to look carefully. There, around Yucatán, was a set of red, white and black Nazi swastika flags. The naval bases on the coast. Farther inland, airfields, with more swastika flags. He picked up one of the swastika flags and twirled it in his fingers before snapping it back down.

  Oh, I need a cup of coffee, he thought. What in hell … What the hell … and then just, What? What!

  He had an odd lack of reaction, he realized, or conviction, or something. I should be horrified, he thought, or mad, or appalled, or astonished, or something. Alarmed. Above all, alarmed. But I don’t feel alarmed. Not at all. Irritated, maybe. Why? Something’s off, he realized. A mental guard dog was faintly barking in the back of his mind or in his gut. But what shadow was it barking at?

  He rested the Rolleiflex on the newel post of the staircase, took more pictures, then headed back upstairs.

  -48-

  There was no missing Eckhardt’s office: in between recruiting posters for the Camisas Dorades and a glaring Hitler labeled ein volk, ein reich, ein führer! were more copies of Eckhardt’s ancient macuahuitl, along with various obsidian knives and blades hanging on hooks. In the center, on a console, was a painted beaker. Hawkins picked it up, curious. A bare-chested man was bent backward over an altar, hands bound, with a priest slashing his chest open, blood flying, the victim’s head turned to the side, mouth wide open, eyes staring straight back at the onlooker, as if to say, See. He put it down with a shudder.

  A long table occupied the center of the room, loaded with a large quantity of newsletters, magazines and pamphlets from the Camisas Doradas, the Unión Nacional Sinarquista, Acción Revolucionaria, ultra-Catholic groups, too—a fairly comprehensive survey of right-wing, right-wing-leaning, Nazi, Fascist or generally reactionary Mexican literature.

  The desktop was clean and neat, not a paper on it, everything in its place, lined up in sharp right angles. More locked drawers, another rather easy challenge. In fact, this all felt a little too easy, but that was what it seemed to be.

  In the top drawer was a smattering of business records from Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner, employee time sheets, miscellaneous bills. On the left side there was a large volume of letters, invitations, copies of notes, all to and from the Camisas Doradas, the Unión Nacional Sinarquista, Acción Revolucionaria—political type things.

  When Hawkins opened the bottom right drawer he discovered several thick folders full of bank envelope after bank envelope stuffed with cashed checks, all signed by Eckhardt, from Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner. He began cross-checking from month to month. The same names kept appearing. Every two weeks. All with Spanish surnames. Payroll checks, he realized. He flipped through, checking the sums. There seemed to be two, maybe three pay scales. Then he noticed a note on one: Lehrer—instructor. Right. Higher pay. He began looking for a note on the lower ones. Finally, Kadett—cadet. Interesting. Not Student. Or Lehrling—apprentice. Kadett.

  That aviation school—the students are being paid, Hawkins suddenly thought. Why? That meant the students couldn’t be from the ranks of Corrialles’s men, either the army or the air force. The government would be paying them.

  What the bloody hell? Then, Oh, wait … they were all in khaki … Not Corrialles’s men? A private force? Why? Those men in the street off the Zocalo were likely his students, Hawkins realized. Eckhardt probably brought them to the demonstration, gave them a taste of blood, to see what they’re made of, how committed they were.

  But what the bloody hell? If Corrialles is serious about staging a coup, if he’s almost there, how could he conceivably do it and not be using his own troops, men loyal to him? And his son was coming back to be with the army, command a company? Makes no sense to use anyone else. The missing piece, the one Hawkins sensed was in the very center of the puzzle, wasn’t here.

  At the bottom of the drawer was a steel fireproof box, locked. His pick set made easy work of that, too. Inside was what looked like a leather mail sack. Under the usual Nazi eagle standing on the globe with a swastika were the words “Reich-Außenministerium” and “Diplomatische Post.”

  Good god, Hawkins thought, a diplomatic pouch? Really? He began shuffling through the papers and letters. But a set of professionally printed leather-bound documents drew his attention. He flipped back the cover to read, in German:

  TREATY OF ALLIANCE AND MUTUAL ASSISTANCE BETWEEN

  THE DEUTSCHES REICH AND THE UNITED STATES OF

  MEXICO, SIGNED AT MEXICO CITY

  4 September 1940

  His Excellency, Adolf Hitler, Reichschancellor and Führer of the Deutsches Reich, and his Excellency General Miguel Corrialles, President of the United States of Mexico, desiring to confirm in a Treaty of Alliance between the Deutsches Reich and the United States of Mexico;

  Convinced that such a Treaty will further the spirit of mutual understanding of all questions arising between the two countries;

  Intend to strengthen the economic relations between the two countries to their mutual advantage and in the interest of prosperity;

  Resolve to cooperate closely with one another in preserving world peace and resisting aggression;

  Intend to resist in all ways the advance of the Commitern or Communist International and its atheistic and collectivist agenda;

  Determine to collaborate in all measures of mutual assistance in the event of aggression against the two nations;

  Have decided to conclude a Treaty of Alliance with these objectives …

  There were two copies, one in German, the other in Spanish, which appeared to be identical. Hawkins began hurriedly skipping through the attached letters. He stopped at what seemed to be a list labeled Appendix A—actually, he realized, a shopping list, and quite abruptly, the flight school made sense:

  To be supplied by Reichsluft
fahrtministerium:

  300 Bf 109 Fighters

  75 Bf 110 Attack Planes

  300 Arado Trainers

  200 Heinkel 111e Bombers

  Fuel Wagons

  Spare parts

  Training

  To be supplied by Reichminister für Bewaffnung und Munition:

  300,000 Mauser Rifles 98k

  10,000 Luger P.08

  50,000 Machine Pistols MP40

  15,000 Machine Guns MG34

  It continued for two full pages, everything from Panzer tanks to first-aid kits and helmets.

  On the final page,

  In consideration, the United States of Mexico agrees to:

  Supply the Deutsches Reich with 1.2 million metric tons unrefined petroleum annually;

  Grant to the Deutsches Reich military, naval, air rights as enumerated in Appendix and Map B.

  Hawkins skimmed back through the document, then noticed an oddity: There were multiple cover pages. The first was dated September 4, 1940. The second, September 18. The next, October 4, and so on, to the end of the year. He flipped to the back and glanced down at the signature line.

  It was already signed by “President Corrialles”? This wasn’t a draft, Hawkins thought, an option to be explored, or a proposal. This was an actual treaty. He dug around in Eckhardt’s top drawer and found a magnifying glass. He held the sheet under the desk lamp, looking at both signatures at all angles. They weren’t printed. They were real signatures, done with fountain pens in blue ink. Could the Führer himself have personally touched these papers at some point? Extraordinary, if true, Hawkins thought. Simply mind-boggling to think Hitler may have held this damn thing.

  But what about General Corrialles? Both the German and Spanish copies were here. If he had signed it, why wouldn’t he have taken his copy? What were they doing in Eckhardt’s desk?

  The mental guard dog was still barking. But at what? he thought. The puzzle isn’t complete, Hawkins simply felt that in his gut. Something’s wrong. That Corrialles wants to overthrow the government, the coming election here? Sure. Corrialles and his rich friends want their land and status back, Hawkins thought. They want to be the grandees they once were. Selfish, conscienceless it may be, but it is an understandable reason. Hitler, Eckhardt, Falkenberg, all the Nazis here and abroad, they want to advance their system. Morally deprived, but logical. And if Corrialles successfully overthrows Cárdenas, the election, and takes over the government, he’ll restore diplomatic relations with his Nazi friends that Cárdenas severed.

  But this treaty doesn’t make sense, Hawkins thought. It was a sort of irritable shiver he felt. For one thing, how would Germany get this awesome pile of stuff and duff to Mexico, past not only the Royal Navy, but the American Navy? Then there was the command center in the basement. All too obvious someone was considering the possibility of a war with the United States. But even so … if they somehow got them here—a very big if. Of course, the Messerschmitts would no doubt be superior to the American P-38 and P-40. But in a dogfight with the superbly trained and professional US pilots the neophyte Mexican trainees would be cut to pieces in minutes.

  This is bullshit, Hawkins realized. Suddenly he thought back to Cárdenas’s speech. The vehement way he rejected foreign bases, what a cheer that brought from the crowd in the Zocalo, how they’d chanted, Ningunas bases, ningunos concesiones … Ningunas bases, ningunos fascistas …

  That was the final touch that tipped him over. This is bullshit and that signature is a forgery, he thought, knew, with the cold certainty that two and two equaled four. Not even Corrialles would agree to foreign bases on Mexican soil. He’d made that clear over dinner. Oil? An alliance? Maybe. Bases? Never. No one in this country, Hawkins thought, don’t care who they are, left, right, up, down or sideways would ever agree to foreign bases on Mexican soil. Anyone who had any concept of this country, its sensitivities, how it lost half its territory to the United States a century ago, how they threw out the French seventy-five years ago, how they threw out the foreign-owned oil and railroad companies, how hundreds of thousands of people gave their wedding rings and last chicken for the independence of Mexico, how Latin Americans generally feel, no one who knew any of that would think this was remotely credible.

  Except the Americans.

  What were they doing right now? Demanding bases, that’s what. They don’t get it. And the Nazis are banking on that, playing on that, that was why the proposed U-boat bases were as close as possible to the Panama Canal, to touch the Yanks off. This treaty, Hawkins realized, the blueprints, the command post downstairs, none of this was real. It’s for show, a form of theater, like a stage or film studio set. That was why the phone lines weren’t installed. That would expose too much to the wrong people.

  That’s why all this is here, Hawkins realized, the Nazis are trying to start a war between Mexico and the United States. Coldly. Deliberately.

  But how would they get the audience into their little theater? Something’s still missing.

  Next to the desk was a table covered with a thick linen cloth. He’d ignored it until he turned and hit a glancing touch on it with his toe. A mental alarm went off: heavy. He looked down: the shape. Under the drape was a strongbox with one of the new circular-key type locks.

  It took him a full half hour to pick the complex lock without scratching or damaging it, his back and knees aching from bending down to get at it. When he swung the door open there was surprisingly little in it—a petty cash box, which made sense, and a thin folder of grainy photos of various men on the streets of Mexico City. All were wearing business suits, the usual fedoras, often carrying briefcases. The photos were taken at various angles and had the look of being done covertly. Several showed the men exiting hotels, particularly the Reforma. Then Hawkins found one, and then farther on a second, showing those men leaving the same building. On one photo a plaque could be seen next to the door. It read embassy of the united states of america. Safe assumption they were Americans, going from their hotel to the embassy.

  At the end there was a single carbon copy sheet. It’d been folded several times. At the top was a letterhead:

  el ministerio del interior

  policía judicial federal

  And a simple list of seven men’s names and the hotels they were staying at, a few with addresses back in the United States. No indication of who they were, why these men were of interest, nothing. Hawkins quickly copied the names, closed it all up and headed out.

  Hawkins hurried down the stairs, wondering how Eckhardt and Falkenberg had a contact at the Interior Ministry, how they got this thing.

  Get out of here, he thought, get back to Lilly. Rush order job. I think have what I need.

  -49-

  It was near dawn. He got an envelope from the desk clerk at the Reforma Hotel, put in the list of names, with a quick note, and had it placed in Lilly’s box.

  It was noon when the bellhop at the Imperial woke him. Fifteen minutes later he was waiting in a phone booth at the Reforma. Lilly walked by, glanced at him slightly with a small nod, stepped into an adjacent booth across the aisle and dialed his phone.

  “I should be a secret agent. Then I could sleep as late as I want,” she said.

  “I wish I could say I was dancing till dawn.”

  “Maybe when we get back to Bermuda, but they’ve always turned in rather early there, or so I’m told. It’s not Montreal, I’ll have you know. Far better than Toronto, though. Anyplace is better than Toronto.”

  “What’s the matter with Toronto?”

  “Haven’t you heard it called Toronto the Good? The bars close at ten. Ten! Worst blue laws in the world.”

  “Sounds like prison. What’ve you got?”

  “New York was able to identify them. W made some calls, including to a Mr. Kelly, who I gather you know?”

  “I do. He’s a special
agent at the Bureau.”

  “Kelly confirmed they’re all with the FBI.”

  “I thought so.”

  “W says Mr. Hoover’s trying to move into Mexico.”

  “No surprise.”

  “Why are the Mexican police following these men?”

  “Because Hoover’s trying to move into Mexico,” she lightly laughed, a snorting sort of giggle, “and they’re dumb enough to work out of the embassy.”

  “Kelly asked for a favor in return. He’s concerned where this list came from, how the Policía Judicial Federal know who they are.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Got your pad? Ready?”

  “Fire away.” He quickly began dictating his report. Only this time instead of um-hum to go ahead, she interjected with a soft, lilting “god” or “really?” And finally a breathless “mon Dieu.”

  “It’s all fake?”

  “Yes.”

  “To start a war between two other countries.”

  “That’s it.”

  “General Corrialles?”

  “He’s a dupe being played for a sucker.”

  “And Mexico?”

  “The next Belgium. They’re expendable. Nothing in it for them.”

  “Seems like a great deal of effort.”

  “Compared to the potential cost of the US helping Britain? Maybe coming into the war someday? It’s nothing. Petty cash. Right at this moment Roosevelt wants to trade fifty destroyers for British bases in the Caribbean. Stopping that alone is worth this. But triggering a war between Mexico and the US could tie the Americans up for years, keep the Yanks out of the war in Europe, keep them from helping Britain. It’s absolutely worth it if they can pull it off.”