A Dubious Position (A Colton Banyon Mystery Book 7)

by Gerald J Kubicki

  A Dubious Position

  Gerald J. Kubicki &

  Kristopher Kubicki

  Colton Banyon Mystery #7

  Prologue

  It was the middle of a hot Mexican summer in the war year of 1942. A heavyset man sat at a small table inside a tiny cantina in the dusty town of Guanajuato, Mexico. A bright sombrero clung to his back, held there by a thin leather strap around his thick neck. On the table in front of him sat a three-quarters empty bottle of the local tequila. There was a small glass, but nothing else adorned the scuffed wooden table. It had been a full bottle of tequila when the man first sat down. A huge Cuban cigar hung from his mustached covered mouth and smoke circled his big head. He paid little attention to the choking pollution.

  He was in a foul mood and anybody who approached him found that out very quickly. No one sat at the tables around him. The reason for his anger was that he had recently received some very bad news. He just heard from a contact that Mexico had declared war on the Axis that morning.

  He, unfortunately, was a member of an Axis based organization in Mexico. Although it had never been his intention, he was now on the side of the dreaded Germans. He pondered the impact this made on his organization. He was sure the hated Mexican President Manuel Avila Camacho would soon declare his organization illegal and they would lose much of their support in the populace. They currently had an army of over five hundred thousand members, scattered around Mexico — and it was growing. How long before they will all be gone? he thought.

  The man, Alberto Alverez, was a member of the Sinarquistas. While he was not a top leader, he was an organizer in the streets and small towns of Mexico. It was where the organization had the most support. The organization in Mexico had started in 1937, as a right-wing Roman Catholic religious movement. The political organization was based on the combination of religion and nationalism. It violently opposed idealism, socialism, communism, and liberalism. True, it was closer to national fascism then democracy, but it was a Christian religious organization. Religion was very important in the Mexican culture.

  The Sinarquistas movement gained strength quickly. Many people in Mexico felt that the government was too soft — easily pushed around — and too much control of the economy was in foreign hands, especially Spain. He muttered to himself as he got drunker. How could we have been so stupid? How could our leaders trust those people? he thought.

  The movement was not just in Mexico, but was already strong in several European countries like France, and Spain. It had been around since the 1920’s, but was more of a nuisance then a threat to the leadership in those counties. In 1936, things changed. A powerful new dictator named Francisco Franco took over the Spanish government by force. Franco’s ideals matched closely with the Sinarquistas in Spain. The political party that Franco consolidated and then led was called the Falange. Their origin was the Sinarquistas, but new agendas now emerged. Soon the Falange was spreading the belief that Spain was a world power and would be even more important, if only some former Spanish colonies aligned with Franco. There was a compelling reason for Mexico to be one of those entering the fold of the Falange.

  Much of the wealth and power in Mexico was still controlled by the Spaniards. They heavily influenced the politics of the emerging nation. In the 1930’s, sixty percent of the land was owned by Spaniards and almost all the major industries were controlled by Spanish nationals. Mexico was even one of the few countries that had aided and supported Franco in his grab for control of Spain. The other was, of course, Nazi Germany.

  And that was when the problems started for Alberto Alverez. The Falange poured into his country and soon had complete control of the Sinarquistas movement. Before the Falange involvement, Alverez had been one of the top leaders. He worked in the small towns and countryside of rural Mexico, enlisting and guiding the poor peasants into the movement. He was a grassroots worker. When the Falange stepped in, he was relegated to a low-level position. He was no more than a lackey. All of a sudden, he was not privy to the details and plans of his own movement. Priories had changed, as well. The movement seemed more concerned with spying on the dreaded, imperialistic, Americans than helping their own people. I should have realized what was really happening, Alberto thought, as he gulped down another shot of tequila. I have let my people down.

  Suddenly, a tall man entered the dusty cantina. He wore a black suit and had blond curly hair. He recognized Alverez and made his way over to the table. Alverez swore under his breath as the man approached. It was his new superior. The man had arrived from Germany only two weeks ago.

  “I have a job for you, Alberto,” the man said in accented Spanish.

  “I’m busy,” Alverez said with a swipe of his hand.

  Undaunted the man continued. “I want you to take ten men and go over the border as soon as possible.”

  “And why would I want to do that? America is now our ally.”

  “All the more reason for you to protect us,” the man retorted. “Word is that the Americans are planning to sneak some military into the country and attack our troops. The simple minded President of Mexico has given them permission.”

  “I’m to stop a military invasion with just ten men?” Alverez stupidly asked in his drunken stupor.

  “Not stop it, but allow us to prepare for it,” the man said reasonably. “You need to steal the plans from the military offices, over the border. I have all the information on where to look and I’m told the offices are empty at night. You and your men will easily pass as some of the cheap laborers on the base.” The German man spoke with an evil grin.

  So, this is what it has come to, Alverez thought as he tried to look the man straight in the eye. He wants me to become a spy for Nazi Germany. Alverez knew the Falange was filthy with men of German origin. They came and went from the movement offices like flies. They both gave information and issued orders on a routine basis. He knew they were spies and there were thousands of them. He realized Franco and Hitler were friends and even though Franco remained neutral, so far, during the war, he still had Axis fascist motives. The Falange had become the conduit for Nazi German spy activities in Mexico. Alverez had been approached by several other members of the Sinarquistas who had told him the movement had become corrupt. Now he had real proof.

  “And if I refuse?” Alverez announced.

  “Then I’m afraid the movement has no further use for you,” the German said as officially as if he was a General.

  That cut it for Alverez. “Get out of here before I put a knife into your neck. I will not spy for Germany. You’re a bastard Nazi,” Alverez roared with as much machismo as he could muster. He quickly unsheathed his large knife and held it out for the man to see. People at the other tables scattered.

  “No need to call me names Alverez,” the German replied as he got up and left, making sure that the Mexican was not following him. “This isn’t over,” he pointed his finger and said just before he passed through the doorway.

  Alverez wondered what he should do. Should I continue to work for the Cause, or should I disappear and do something else. As he finished the bottle of tequila, he decided to find another vocation. His brother was a smuggler, which sounded like easy work. He realized the Nazis were in Mexico to stay. They would never be completely driven out.

  He staggered out of the cantina into the bright sunlight. He didn’t get very far when a man stepped out of the alleyway and thrust a knife into his back. Alberto Alverez died on the dusty street thinking at least he gave his life for the movement.

  Part One

  A New Position

&n
bsp; Chapter One

  Colton Banyon strolled casually down the sidewalk on Hubbard St. just north of the loop in downtown Chicago, IL. He was currently only a few blocks from the famous Michigan Avenue. He had parked his car at his son’s house and walked the several blocks to his destination.

  It was a bright late-spring afternoon. The temperature hovering at seventy degrees and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was a beautiful day. His black Tumi satchel slapped at his side as he walked, reminding him that he had work to do today. As he neared the restaurant, he noticed several people across the street milling around the Marriot hotel. Some had on Cubs hats and jackets and some wore Yankees hats and shirts. He immediately realized they were all going to the game scheduled at Wrigley field today. He knew a bus ran from the Marriot directly to the ballpark and the people were waiting for their ride.

  It was rare for the Yankees, his favorite team, and the Cubs, to play each other except in the World Series and that hadn’t happen since 1902. But interleague play had changed that. The Yankees were in town for a three game series starting tonight at seven o’clock. He looked at his Movado watch and noted that it was only a little after one o’clock in the afternoon. The people had a long wait before the game started.

  He suddenly realized the baseball fans across the street would spend most of their day just going to a baseball game. How great it must be to have that much free time, he thought. He was envious. Although, he was supposed to be retired himself, he was always busy and today he would be starting a new career. He was heading to a luncheon where the details would be explained. This was, however, no ordinary position. It had been arranged by the President of the United States.

  As he neared the entrance to Shaw’s Crab House he spotted a black Cadillac Escalade parked illegally on the street, right in front of the restaurant. Two men in black suits and sunglasses stood at both ends of the vehicle and scanned the surrounding area with watchful eyes. One noticed Banyon and kept him in a steady gaze as he approached.

  “Good afternoon Mr. Banyon,” he spoke with a slight southern accent.

  Wondering how the man knew his name, he responded with, “Hello”.

  “The Secretary is waiting for you, but first we must scan you,” the man said evenly and motioned for Banyon to move alongside the SUV and out of the line of sight of the fans across the street. He opened the back door of the SUV and produced a hand held scanner. The second man grabbed Banyon’s bag and rummaged through it as the first man passed the device over Banyon.

  Satisfied with the results, the first man announced, “Clean”.

  “I did shower this morning,” Banyon joked, but it was lost on the serious Secret Service men.

  “Follow me; I will take you to the private dining room,” one said.

  They entered the busy restaurant and weaved through the crowded serving floor. They soon came to a closed door. The man opened it and Banyon walked inside.

  The room was small. There was only one person in it, The Secretary of the U.S. Department of Justice. The Secretary did not get up to greet him, she was a woman. Banyon stepped over to her and extended his hand. “I’m Colton Banyon,” he said.

  The Secretary said nothing and didn’t offer her hand. She was munching on a piece of bread. Instead, she motioned for Banyon to sit next to her at the small table. She continued to chew for a full minute as she sized up her visitor.

  Finally, she asked, “Want a drink?”

  “I’ll have a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime,” Banyon told the waiter who had been all but invisible in the corner of the room.

  “Do you have a preference for the vodka?” the waiter quickly asked.

  “Stolichnaya,” Banyon replied.

  “I’ll have a Jonny Walker Red, neat,” added the Secretary. The waiter left to fill their order.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam Secretary,” Banyon started, but was waved off by the DOJ.

  “We’ll talk after he brings the drinks,” she announced dismissively and went back to eating more bread.

  Banyon already knew a few things about the woman next to him. The Secretary of the Justice Department was a cabinet level position. The DOJ was a political appointment made by the President. Her name was Marlene Moore and it was rumored that she was very close to the big man. It was also rumored that she was a control freak, and ice queen, and never said anything more than was absolutely necessary. As he studied her, he realized she had once been very attractive, but the weight of her position was taking its toll on her features. Her clothes were fashionable and sexy. However, she looked more like a woman that had passed her prime, but refused to believe it. He was sure she recently had plastic surgery.

  The waiter returned with their drinks and served them. “We will have our preordered lunch in exactly one half hour,” she informed him. “Until then, leave us alone.” The waiter left the room.

  Banyon took a sip of his drink and noticed her staring at him. She had dark green eyes and they were full of resentment. “Frankly,” she started, “I resent that you have been forced upon me and I want you to know that while working for me you will do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?”

  Banyon had been told that the DOJ would attempt to intimidate him and make an untold number of unreasonable demands on him. In the business world, he had run across many such women. They thought they had to be tougher than any man and used their positions of authority to keep their male underlings off balance. Good communications and terms never resulted in those relationships.

  Fortunately, he knew what to do. “Excuse me a minute,” he replied as he pointed into the air and opened his phone.

  “No phone calls,” she demanded.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll soon pass the phone to you,” he offered.

  “Who are you calling?” she suddenly demanded.

  “I’m calling my real boss. I only report to you for political reasons and convenience. You know that, don’t you?”

  He noticed a sudden change in her. “No need for the call,” she quietly replied. Banyon knew intimidation worked both ways on this type of bureaucrat. He hung up the phone and turned towards her.

  “I believe you have some papers for me to sign and some information as well,” he said smoothly with a smile on his face.

  “Who are you Mr. Banyon? Why do you have so much clout? What is it exactly that you do?”

  “I’m afraid only one person can tell you that,” he replied. “If and when, he tells you, I will fill in the blanks, until then everything is on a need to know basis. I’m sorry, but those are the rules for now.”

  Suddenly, changing her tune again, she sweetly said, “Call me Marlene.” She shifted her seat to be closer to Banyon. He was sure she flashed him some thigh while doing it.

  “You can call me Colt,” he offered, attempting to be conciliatory.

  “This is all so strange. Why does the President want you to report directly to him?” she asked as an inquiry.

  “Because, I can do things for him that no one else can, Marlene. Sometimes these things are too sensitive for the general public. He is afraid of leaks, and so am I.”

  “But I’m in charge of the best law enforcement agency in the world, the FBI. We can keep a secret.”

  “Sometimes, I’ve used the FBI as well. I know they can keep a secret, but some of the other people in government can’t. I expect I will continue to use them in the future,” he said as he looked directly into her eyes.

  “The President told me you are a ‘finder’. What does that mean? I mean, I checked up on you and found out that you and your team have an excellent record of recovering artifacts and solving mysteries. It’s better than the FBI, which, as you know, reports to me. How do you find things so easily and quickly?”

  “I may tell you sometime, but not today.”

  “But you have worked with the FBI before, right? We work together and yet I know so little about you.”

  “I have worked with the FBI many times, but th
ere is no record. Agent Gregory Gamble was my main contact.”

  “Yes, it was a major tragedy to lose him,” she quickly replied. “It happened during a shootout in Wisconsin, as I recall,” she added.

  “Yes it did, I know, I was there,” he replied as he watched the shock fill her face. Agent Greg Gamble had been part of Banyon’s team and was also a full-time FBI agent. In addition he was a member of a clandestine task force set up by the President to rid the government of an insidious evil force that had infiltrated deep into American politics. Banyon’s team hunted old-line Nazis and the new American version known as the Effort. Their tentacles were deep into several government agencies and tracking them required complete secrecy. Agent Gamble, and others, had been protecting Banyon and a defector at a safe house when he was killed by Effort people. Word had leaked out through government employees. The President attended the funeral and recruited Banyon to help him in his fight.

  Suddenly, Banyon’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and said to the DOJ,” It’s the President.”

  Chapter Two

  “Are you done yet?” the President said without preamble.

  “We haven’t started yet,” Banyon answered.

  “Well, God damn it. I have an urgent assignment for you. Call me back as soon as you are done with her,” the President blustered.

  “Yes, sir, I will do that” Banyon replied as he watched a suddenly nervous Marlene fidget in her chair.

  “Now, give the phone to Marlene,” he ordered. Banyon handed her the phone. Her eyebrows revealed her shock.

  “Yes, Mister President,” she said as she rose from her chair and began to pace the small room. Banyon found himself admiring her slim toned figure. She didn’t just pace, she strutted as she talked. He heard many ‘yes sirs’ in her replies. Soon she was off the phone and handed it back to Banyon.

  “Whew, that was fun,” she exclaimed as she returned to her seat. Banyon noticed the slight shaking of her hands.