Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  “Did they become more sophisticated?” I asked.

  “Considerably,” Tomer replied. “And their missions more daring. They had two big plans: Plan A and Plan B. Plan A was to poison the water supply in Nuremberg, which would have killed thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. Kovner himself went to what was then Mandatory Palestine to obtain large quantities of poison, but he was arrested on the voyage back by the British and had to throw it overboard. So Plan B was implemented.”

  “Which was?” I asked.

  “To poison German prisoners of war being held by the United States. That plan failed, as well. The Nokmim got their hands on arsenic, acquired locally this time, and poisoned three thousand loaves of bread at the bakery that supplied the prison where the Germans were being held. But even though more than two thousand prisoners became sick, none died. The reason was most likely due to not enough arsenic in the dough.”

  Clegg said, “Afterward, the authorities arrested two members of the Nokmim on charges of terrorism, but the charges were later dropped due to what was called unusual circumstances.”

  “Seriously?” I responded.

  “Seriously,” Clegg replied.

  Tomer said, “In ’48, with the new Jewish state of Israel at hand, people had a strong desire to put the ugliness of the past behind them, to focus on the future, and to build a new life in their own homeland. Subsequently, the Nokmim lost support and money, and eventually disappeared.”

  “But now they’re back,” I said.

  Tomer sighed, “In the last year there have been several deaths around the world of men who we’ve long suspected were a part of the Nazi apparatus. Deaths that have no explanation, other than that all these men were killed by a well-trained and well-funded executioner. Tell me, Peter, these deaths you spoke of, was there any trace of poison found?”

  Clegg nodded, “Zyklon B at the recording studio. They were gassed before the building blew.”

  Tomer rubbed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, that is how they do it. And you say they took one person days before and tortured him before killing him?”

  “Correct,” Clegg answered.

  “That is how they get intelligence on other Nazis. They promise life for information, and then they kill the person. I presume all of those killed in the explosion were confederates of Strasser?”

  “They were in his daughter’s band. We presume the Lieutenant Colonel had known them for years. He probably once commanded them.”

  Tomer nodded. “Yes, that is most likely true.”

  Clegg went on. “Two of the six who died in the studio were actually the assassins themselves. We think Strasser and one of his men over-powered them somehow. Strasser and his man got out alive, as well as one of the assassins, a woman. Strasser’s man is now dead. Trip killed him earlier today. But that leaves Strasser and the woman still unaccounted for. We don’t know where they are, or if he’s holding her hostage.”

  Tomer said, “Well, unless he has a pressing need to keep her alive, she is most assuredly dead by now. The Lieutenant Colonel has no problem with killing his enemies, I promise you that. And he’s quite good at it.”

  I asked, “And what would be a good reason to keep her alive?”

  Tomer shrugged, “To get out of the country. Because if he’s out there, that’s what he’s trying to do. I promise you that too.”

  Clegg said, “Well, we’ve got the airports covered, as well as the train stations and the entire southern border.”

  Tomer nodded.

  I asked, “Mr. Hadad—”

  “Please,” he interrupted, “Tomer.”

  “Tomer, what was the name of Strasser’s wife?”

  Tomer Hadad leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Let me think, it’s been a long time since I…Maria,” he blurted, “That’s it. Maria Anna…something. I don’t recall her last name. It’s possible I never knew it. She was just Lieutenant Colonel Werner Strasser’s wife to me. Why?”

  I jumped up and grabbed Clegg’s arm. “Come on, we have to go!”

  “To where?” Clegg asked, pulling back his arm.

  “To Las Vegas. I know where they’re going.”

  Chapter 17

  The private jet we boarded that evening at Burbank airport was a Grumman Gulfstream II. I know that because I’m smart. I also know that because I heard Clegg tell Carson over the car phone to get the Grumman Gulfstream II at Burbank Airport fueled up, and for him and Stevens to meet us there.

  The flight from Burbank to Las Vegas would only take forty-five minutes, which meant because they were driving, Cabaneri, Miriam, and Strasser would have only been in Vegas no more than a couple of hours by the time we arrived. I had an outrageous theory as to what had happened at the recording studio, and if I was right, it was possible we could add some more time in our favor. I prayed I was right.

  Once we were airborne, Clegg, who’d been in the back of the plane conferring with Square Head and Tonto, came up and sat next to me.

  “Cabaneri’s driver was found dead in the desert outside Barstow,” he said. “One to the back of the head.”

  I shut my eyes and sadly nodded. But if I’m honest, the real sad thing—the truly disturbing thing—is I wasn’t sad at all. In truth, I considered it to be good news because it confirmed they were heading to Las Vegas. I suppose I had officially become a secret agent, with all the cold, ruthless, calculating detachment that came with it.

  “Okay, for the last time. Are you sure about this?” Clegg asked.

  “I think so is the most I can promise, but it makes sense.”

  “You think Strasser’s wife didn’t die in Italy in 1945. You believe she’s living in Las Vegas and being cared for by Anthony Cabaneri.”

  “I do,” I answered.

  “Why?”

  “That, I don’t know.”

  “Do you think Strasser knows?”

  “No,” I answered. “That’s why Cabaneri is taking him there.”

  Clegg’s eyes widened. “You believe it’s Cabaneri who’s taking Strasser to Vegas? Not the other way around?”

  “Yes, with Miriam’s help.”

  “Then why did Cabaneri kill his own driver?”

  “Who says the man was Cabaneri’s driver?” I asked back. “We just assumed he was Cabaneri’s driver because he was driving Cabaneri’s car. The man just as easily could have been working for Strasser. In fact, given what Tomer told us about how all those old SS guys are careful to the point of being paranoid, I’d be more surprised if the driver didn’t come here with Strasser from Argentina. I suppose we could ask Gabriella to know for sure, but I suspect we won’t have to.”

  Clegg stared at me, but I knew he was thinking. After a few seconds, he said, “Okay, walk me through it from the beginning.”

  I took a deep breath. “I think Anthony Cabaneri is the money and the brains behind a new version of the Nokmim. I think Miriam, Daniel, and Sid are, or were, Nokmim, as well. I believe everything that’s happened has been an elaborate plot designed for the sole purpose to assassinate Nazis who avoided justice by escaping to Argentina after the War.”

  “Sounds right,” Clegg said.

  I continued, “Cabaneri dropped off Goetz—sorry, I mean Strasser—at the recording studio, just like Gabriella said. Except, instead of going back home, Cabaneri circled around and waited in the alley at the studio’s back door for Miriam, Daniel, and Sid to come out after the deed was done. The Nazis would be gassed to death, the building would blow up, and they’d all ride off into the sunset in a black Lincoln, mission accomplished.”

  Clegg picked it up, “But something goes wrong. The twin who was still alive, Francisco, gets the jump on Daniel and Sid. They’re killed, so out the back door comes Miriam, with Strasser and Francisco, not Daniel and Sid.”

  “Right,” I replied. “But Cabaneri’s a careful man. He’s ready for it. He shoots the driver, if he hadn’t already, takes Strasser, and the twin bolts.”

  “How do you know F
rancisco bolted?” Clegg asked.

  “Because he came after me driving the same green wagon the whole band arrived in at the studio. Carson and Stevens saw them park it beside my car in the recording studio’s parking lot. If it had still been there when the studio went boom, then that wagon would have suffered the same fate as my poor Falcon.”

  Clegg said. “Okay, but why didn’t the gas in the studio kill Miriam, Strasser, and Francisco, like it did the others?”

  I shook my head. “Gas masks?”

  Clegg looked at me and chuckled. “Gas masks. Yes, that’s probably exactly right.”

  “Really?” I replied, genuinely surprised.

  “Sure,” Clegg said. “It makes perfect sense. Miriam, Colson, Daniel, and Sid arrived at the recording studio first. They had time to set the room up however they wanted. They planted the poison gas—I’m guessing in remote controlled canisters—preset their gas masks, probably in their instrument cases, and waited.”

  “And because they knew Strasser and the tango band were always late, they had more than enough time to prepare the room to their liking.”

  Clegg nodded.

  I continued, “But Francisco must have known something was wrong the moment he arrived. His brother was nowhere to be found, and instead of seeing me, he sees Colson in my place.”

  “Which is how he gets the drop on Daniel and Sid,” Clegg adds.

  “Probably,” I said. “Once the gas was released, and he sees the others go for the masks—”

  “He starts shooting,” Clegg said. “He’s prepared for something, so he’s had his gun ready from the start. He grabs Daniel and Sid’s masks, gives one to Strasser, and keeps one for himself. Miriam is probably out the door already. And Colson—” Clegg stops talking.

  “What about Colson?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t have a mask,” Clegg answered. “There was no gas mask found. Colson never had one.”

  “He was sacrificed?” I asked.

  Clegg shrugged. “Makes you wonder whose side Colson was on.”

  “Cabaneri’s,” I replied. “I have no doubt about that. Remember, Daniel, Sid, and Miriam are all fictitious names. Colson made sure those specific people would be on Gabriella’s fake television show. Me as well. But I still haven’t figured out the reason for that yet.”

  “I might have,” Clegg said.

  “Really?” I replied.

  “We’ll deal with that later. So after Francisco shoots Daniel, Sid, and Colson—”

  “Strasser and Francisco go out the back door, where Cabaneri, and by this time Miriam, are waiting,” I said, finishing Clegg’s thought.

  “Which gets us back to where we started,” Clegg muttered, nodding his head. “Francisco bolts, they capture Strasser, put him in the car, and off they go. He forces Strasser to call his daughter after it’s over to tell her he’s fine, and to go back to their hotel, thereby getting her out of his house. Good work, Trip. Yes, I believe some version of that is most likely what happened. The evidence supports all of it.”

  “I know,” I replied.

  “It also explains why you weren’t there.”

  “I know that too,” I sighed. “Daniel and Sid drugged me and drove me out to the desert.”

  Clegg snickered, “They wanted to make damn sure you weren’t anywhere near that recording studio. Cabaneri did the same thing with Gabriella.

  “You know, had it not been for Gabriella coming over to my apartment and passing out, I would have spent the night with Miriam. When I called and told her I couldn’t come—”

  “They had to improvise,” Clegg interrupted. “Trip, it didn’t matter if it was at her house or your apartment, you weren’t getting near that studio. They didn’t want you to be collateral damage…well, at least I’m sure Miriam didn’t.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “But how did they know no one else was going to be in it?”

  “That’s easy,” Clegg replied, “Cabaneri owned the joint.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, Agent Stevens just told me they learned Cabaneri purchased the recording studio a year ago. This plan has been in the works for some time.”

  I nodded, “I’d say for about twenty-five years.”

  “Right,” Clegg replied.

  “You know, if Colson hadn’t been there in my place, Francisco might never had been tipped off anything was wrong. Saving my life cost Daniel and Sid theirs.”

  “Or whatever their real names were,” Clegg said. “Don’t forget that. These people aren’t who you thought they were, including Miriam. They’re assassins. Their job came with risks. And, I’m sorry, but I’m not crying any tears over them. Their vigilantism almost cost the lives of two of my best men. Carson and Stevens were blown halfway across the street when that bomb went off.” Clegg then smiled like a proud father. “Those are two tough hombres.”

  “Yes, they are,” I replied. “Speaking of those two tough hombres, did one of them contact Sam before we left?”

  “Carson did. Detective Barnard is meeting us at the airport.”

  “Good.”

  I sat back, looked out the window, and stared into the darkness. I’d been aching to get back to my friends at The Jam Jar and my gig at the Sands. But in a million years, I never dreamed I’d be returning to Las Vegas under such bizarre circumstances.

  “Clegg?” I muttered, still looking out the window.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “Strasser’s a Nazi. We know what he did. Why are we—” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  “You want to ask why we’re trying to stop Cabaneri and company from doing to him whatever they want, what he probably deserves.”

  I nodded.

  Clegg sighed. “I suppose—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “You’re going to say it’s because we live in a nation of laws. That the hallmark of any civilized society is how it treats the worst among us. That even someone as despicable as Strasser deserves a fair trial, and that revenge should never be a substitute for justice.”

  “No,” Clegg replied, “I was just going to say because it’s our job, but what you said is good too.”

  I let go a small chuckle, and Clegg returned it with a smile.

  I looked back out the window and decided to force myself to think about happier things. A Dizzy Gillespie solo came to mind, as did Luther’s gumbo.

  At some point, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Clegg was jostling my shoulder. “Wake up, Trip. We’re landing.”

  “Her name is Maria Anna Jilani,” Sam Barnard said as we stepped off the private jet and onto the tarmac. “She lives on forty acres out near Red Rock, around the Calico Basin area.”

  “Any sign of Cabaneri?” Clegg asked, walking with Sam toward his car.

  “After Carson called, I put out an APB on Cabaneri’s black Lincoln. It was spotted heading west toward Route 159, the only road that goes out that way. I had just enough time to stage a car accident. It delayed them, but I couldn’t keep it going on forever. They arrived at the house an hour ago.”

  “Good work, Detective,” Clegg said.

  “Yeah, nice job, Sam,” I added.

  Sam shot me a sour look. “You sure have a way of making my life more complicated. You know that, Callaway?”

  Clegg and I squeezed into Sam’s rusty Plymouth, while Square Head and Tonto joined two of Sam’s men in their car. Fifteen minutes later, we were out of the neon jungle and had entered another world.

  Red Rock Canyon is located about twenty miles west of Las Vegas and is one of the more scenically spectacular places in the western part of the United States. I’d only been to Red Rock once before while on a date with a lovely young lass from England named Beatrice…can’t recall her last name. Anyway, Bea, as she liked to be called, saw herself as a female David Livingstone. She loved exploring the rugged, great outdoors—the more rugged, the better. As I’ve previously mentioned, me and the great outdoors—rugged or not—don’t get along.
Thus, Bea and I were a match not meant to be.

  Calico Basin is an oasis tucked between the gray limestone La Madre Mountains to the north, the red sandstone Calico Hills to the west, and a desert ridge to the south. Natural springs run from the base of the red sandstone cliffs and support all species of flora in the basin, including a beautiful marshy grassland. I suspected that was where Maria Anna Jilani’s estate was located. I was right. Soon after entering the basin, Sam turned off of Route 159 and onto an unpaved road. I saw the lights of a massive house up ahead.

  “So, how are we doing this?” Sam asked. “Quiet or loud?”

  “I was thinking we’d walk up and knock on the front door,” Clegg said.

  “You’re no fun at all,” Sam replied.

  The house was asymmetrical, with a tall tower on one side and a low, protruding, pitched roof on the other. It was finished in smooth, white plaster and boasted dozens of long, framed windows from corner to corner. It appeared every light in the house was on, which against the dark, desert sky gave the whole place an almost ethereal glow. It was certainly more Italian villa than adobe desert, and had Marc Antony stepped onto the porch and began addressing his friends, Romans, and countrymen, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

  Clegg was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop. He ran back to Square Head and Tonto and said something to them as they were getting out of their car. Sam conferred with his two men, as well.

  Square Head and Tonto took off around one side of the house, and Sam’s men fanned out in opposite directions. Clegg nodded to me and Sam, and we proceeded onto the porch. Clegg, without hesitating, knocked on the front door.

  To my surprise—I think all of our surprise—it was Anthony Cabaneri who greeted us. He was wearing a dark blue silk smoking jacket and holding a half-filled brandy snifter.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling as if he’d been expected us. “What a delightful pleasure. Please, do come in.”