“You’ve come equipped. Does this mean you’re ready to work?”
“I’m here for answers.”
Pescatore turned to a well-worn wooden side table. The filleting knife vibrated like a tuning fork after being stabbed into the wood. “You’re supposed to provide answers, not me.”
Guzzo stared into Pescatore’s eyes, the whites pink and glistening like fish eyes. “Last time I was here you were concerned things were heating up. I’m back to tell you they have. Did you expect me back, Pescatore? Are you part of a larger plan?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Vera’s gone.”
Pescatore paused a moment before answering, wiping his hands in his apron. “Gone? What can I do?”
“Talk.”
“About what?”
Guzzo moved closer, aiming the Glock where Pescatore knew he would receive a painful gut wound if he did not answer satisfactorily. “You can either tell me how you’re involved with Vera and a man named Yuri, or you can tell me how you’ll help locate them. It’s up to you.”
Pescatore glanced over Guzzo’s shoulder just as noise outside the office came inside. The door opened quickly, the two African-American men with handguns aimed his way. He turned to confront them but his cane slipped from beneath him when a blade sharper than any he could imagine sliced his throat. As he lost consciousness, the fish grinder in the next room vibrated the walls.
Voices, then something rattling. Janos opened his eyes, saw Mariya and Niki, but also Lazlo wheeling his IV and monitoring stand with one hand, his phone in his other hand.
“Did you get through to Kiev?” asked Janos.
“Yes, while you were asleep Chudin called back. They spotted Smirnov on a Zhulyany Airport security camera. A woman with two little girls pushed his wheelchair. A baggage claim camera spotted them again. On the way out with baggage, it appeared three men, one of whom was identified as working for Smirnov in the Ukraine SBU, followed. Unfortunately that was the end of the trail.”
Janos lay back on his pillows. Although he knew his right leg was gone, he could feel it in his mind. “Lazlo?”
“Yes?”
“The key taken by the man on the mountain is now in Ukraine.”
“How do you know?”
“Smirnov, the woman, the girls, and the three men following through the airport.”
“Not very strong evidence,” said Lazlo, glancing toward Niki and Mariya.
Janos looked to the three before answering. “If I can feel my leg, even though it’s in the deep freeze, I can feel other things.”
The two African-American men were busy behind the fish grinder, opening the trap door on a chute long enough to allow ground up material to fill a barrel before closing the chute and switching barrels. The business end of the grinder, a feeding trough shaped like a squared off tuba, was full, but sinking. During the holidays workers joked it jiggled like Santa’s bowl full of jelly. Atop the mishmash of fish guts and bones lay an arm, bleeding red like Santa’s suit. There was a tattoo on the unbloodied portion of the arm. Although most Desert Storm tattoos were made up of flags, eagles, and weapons, this one simply had the word STORM on the wrist with an arrow pointing to the hand.
As the workers made ready to dump more guts into the jiggling mass, one said, “That tattoo must have hurt like hell and took a while to heal.”
“That’s why I got mine on my upper arm,” said the other man.
A wooden cane leaned against the vibrating machine.
Outside, a flatbed truck half loaded with barrels waited. When full the truck would head to the drying and pelletizing mill. Eventually the final product would be sold to animal feed companies across the Midwest.
Chapter 33
On a drizzly October morning in Washington, DC, Walter Jacobson from Homeland Security held a meeting at World Bank headquarters on H Street NW. World Bank, FBI, CIA, State Department, and Attorney General office officials were present. Switzerland, Ukraine, Russia, and Interpol each sent a representative. Lazlo, Niki, Janos, and Mariya were also there. Lazlo’s arm still in a sling. Janos sat in his wheelchair.
Jacobson summarized events all the way from the aspirin company warehouse of heroin obtained by a Sicilian mob family in 1913, to the murder of Rose Buckles in 1939, to local justice initiated by men serving at the Manila, Utah, CCC camp, to subsequent questionable “accidents” of the men and family members, to recent murders in Utah, and finally the disappearance of an assassin and his family. Some at the meeting surmised the assassin mimicked the Chernobyl killer’s work when murdering Dr. Marta Voronko. During this part of the meeting an argument ensued between the Ukrainian and Russian representatives.
“Although the man contracted to assassinate CCC men and relatives has not been found, my Ukraine comrades were able to track down his family. Ukraine SBU agent Yuri Smirnov flew them to Kiev. Smirnov was disloyal, working with Russian intelligence, Mafia, and perhaps other agencies following money trail. He recently obtained a lock box key from assassin’s wife, killed her, trafficked two little girls, and in partnership with a Russian Jew posing as the owner of Swiss accounts, was able to get into them.”
“How do you know this?” demanded the Russian.
“We tapped Smirnov’s phone.” The Ukrainian representative turned on a tape player.
Smirnov spoke in Russian to another man. Jacobson had an aide interpret.
“How can you possibly gain access to funds from before the Great War?”
“The Jewish woman. You should know. You assigned her.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“After I take what is due for my services, as we agreed—Did we not agree?”
“Yes, go on.”
“Afterwards, the funds can be used to improve the future of the Russian people. Isn’t this, after all, what your leader requested?”
“Medvedev is my leader.”
“But when Medvedev’s term ends—”
“Stop. No need to say his name.”
“No need to say his name because he himself recruited me.”
“Yuri, you are worse than the Americans.”
“Which ones? The Democrats or the Republicans?”
“They are all crazy. Someday our leader will be able to lead them by their noses.”
When the Ukrainian representative stopped the recording, everyone in the conference room sat silent.
The Ukrainian and Russian had taken the meeting off course, even arguing about Ukraine’s entrance into the Council of Europe in 1995, thus eliminating capital punishment. The Russian complained the Chernobyl killer would continue to live behind bars, unless of course someone provided a convenient way for him to commit suicide.
Jacobson promptly ended the meeting.
By afternoon drizzle in DC had ended and the sun was out. Niki and Lazlo walked hand in hand while Mariya pushed Janos in his wheelchair. They made their way north of World Bank Headquarters, through Edward R. Murrow Park and up 19th Street to a Greek café. Because it was well after lunch hour, they had no trouble finding a quiet booth. The booth was small, but they managed to squeeze in. Mariya and Janos, out of his wheelchair, on one side, Niki and Lazlo on the other side. As they got comfortable Niki heard a woman at a nearby table comment in Greek that the couples obviously enjoyed close contact.
Before leaving bank headquarters, Jacobson told Janos and Mariya he would make sure their visas were reclassified.
“Was Jacobson implying you’d be allowed to move to the US?” asked Niki, refilling their glasses from the bottle of Retsina.
Janos glanced to Mariya. “I believe he was inviting us. Eventually I’d like to return to see if I can discover the ones who killed Sonia.”
“Why were the Russians and Ukrainians at the meeting?” asked Mariya.
“To stir the pot and get
to the sludge at the bottom,” said Lazlo.
“Can you imagine what 1930s mobsters would have thought if they’d known their legacy funds would eventually be used to fight human trafficking?” said Niki.
“Does Jacobson have the power to do this?” asked Janos.
“His idea of pairing up the World Bank and the World Court is a good sign,” said Niki.
Mariya held Janos’ hand. “I hope it comes true.”
“Too bad we lost our home,” said Janos.
“Your home?” said Niki.
“Our home on wheels. I miss it almost as much as I miss my leg.”
Niki turned to Lazlo. “Since I no longer have the van you and I should consider a home on wheels.”
Janos raised his wine glass. “To this I must conclude, bring on the Gypsies.”
The others raised their glasses, “Bring on the Gypsies.”
The waiter, with black hair slicked down in 1930s movie star style, arrived with the food, balancing four plates as if carrying priceless treasures.
All began eating except Lazlo. They paused when Niki said, “Lazlo, you’ve been quiet. Is something the matter?”
“I’m sorry, I was momentarily back in Green River. It had to do with Etta Pratt, the old woman in the Historical Society back room. She mentioned Rose Buckles’ father being a Gypsy and a fortuneteller and playing the fiddle, but I didn’t follow up. Instead, on a bookshelf—It’s crazy to think of it now—I noticed several history books about the Hapsburgs. Did you know there were redheads in the Hapsburg line, especially in the Kingdom of Hungary?”
“You think Rose Buckles’ father was from Carpatho-Ukraine?” asked Niki.
“Why all the Hapsburg books in Etta’s back room?” said Lazlo.
“Telepátia,” said Janos. “The Gypsy deserter you were forced to shoot?”
Lazlo leaned back and reached into his pocket. “Yes, the grandfather was a redhead, played the violin, and escaped to America. And even though investigators took most of the hair saved by Dr. Marta’s grandfather for DNA analysis, I did manage to keep a few strands.” He opened an envelope and placed the few strands of reddish brown hair stuck on new tape onto the table.
All four stared at the hair and thought a moment until Mariya said, “Assuming Janos and I return to the US soon, we might vacation together at Flaming Gorge and discover—I don’t know—something more about Rose Buckles’ father, and also about Jacobson’s mention at the meeting of the six degrees of separation.”
All four nodded and began eating slowly, obviously deep in thought.
Outside the restaurant a black Chevy Suburban with blacked out windows was parked across the street. Although it was October, the afternoon temperature had warmed and therefore telltale exhaust steam indicating the engine was running was not visible. Certainly, if there were one or more inside, it would have to be running to keep the air conditioning going because all the windows were closed.
With the street having dried in the sun, a puddle from the air conditioner condenser drain appeared below the Suburban. The air conditioning was running, the tubing from its condenser dripping onto the street. Any good investigator would see this.
Chapter 34
Fall, 1939. Life at Camp Manila back to normal. Some claimed it was because of the changeover—new enrollees freshening the mood. Others, who’d been around all summer knew better. It wasn’t simply the change of enrollees; it was the changes in command. Staff officers, including the superintendent, were weeded out following the “ruckus,” as everyone called it. The weeding out went all the way up to the company commander in Wyoming.
Decken MaCade was one of the LEMs who stayed on and would winter over with new enrollees. They’d open up the Barracks Five building because it had two stoves instead of one. Part of Decken’s role was to make sure the so-called “ruckus” that took place near the end of summer was downplayed. The new camp superintendent made it clear he’d be upset if he heard rumors concerning events that took place around camp that summer. For good measure he had the Barracks Three building boarded up.
Although the denim work uniforms remained the same, by the end of summer all the World War I olive drab surplus dress uniforms had been replaced by the new style tan dress uniforms. As Decken drove the canvas-covered Dodge truck with his load of men in their new uniforms to the Green River railroad station, he glanced in the side mirror at the GMC with its load following in his dust. Bela Voronko and Nick Gianakos rode shotgun beside Decken, men of few words since the “ruckus.” Because it was cool out, the windows were closed.
“What will you do now?” asked Decken.
Bela answered first. “I think it would be best to enlist.”
“Which branch?”
“Army Air Corps. I’d like to work on airplane engines.”
“You think you’ll ever go back to Europe?”
“That depends on war.
Decken continued. “How about you, Nick?”
“Back to Detroit. Even though we’ve got FDR’s neutrality act for now, Ford and GM are making tanks and bombers. If war starts I’ll join up. If not, my uncle has a restaurant.”
Ahead, cattle were crossing the road, a cowboy on horseback trying to turn them around.
“Back at camp they were bringing cattle down from the Uintas Range for winter,” said Nick. “I’m surprised to see strays this far north.”
Decken slowed the truck until the half dozen cattle were clear, the gears grinding as he went for first without stopping. “You guys think we’ll get into this war?”
Bela and Nick nodded and stared at one another. Then Bela said, “Unfortunately, the violence within some men can only be stopped with death.”
Decken glanced to both of them as he shifted to second. “These days, any time death gets mentioned, I think of Rose Buckles.” He shifted to third. “I’ll never forget what happened to her. I never told you guys, but when I was in LEM orientation at the Green River camp, everyone there talked about seeing her walking down the street in one of her dresses. I saw her once in the café over there. She sure was pretty. One crazy thing I remember hearing is how she used to tell a story about Marco Polo discovering fishermen in Arabia drying fish and hammering them with rocks to feed their cattle. Some of the guys who fished in the river liked to repeat the story.”
“A fine story,” said Bela.
There was little room on the floor of the Dodge to the right of the gearshift. Both Nick and Bela had their feet propped on their duffels. Not much in the duffels, but there was something in each Decken knew of but dare not mention. Perhaps the locks of red hair Nick and Bela had packed inside were the reason both weren’t very talkative as the Dodge drove down the main street, past the hardware store, Nan’s Drug and Sundry, the IGA, and the Green River movie house toward the Green River station.
Although it had been released in the summer, The Wizard of Oz finally arrived in Green River. To increase attendance, the old man who ran the movie house allowed Tom to arrive early each afternoon and play the recording of “We’re Off to see the Wizard” on his record player and amplifier system. Tom figured out how to get the record player to play the song over and over, allowing it to blast out on the speakers below the marquee all afternoon.
As he approached his movie house on foot with his newspaper in hand, the old man admired the marquee and smiled at the kids dancing in the November sun to The Wizard of Oz theme. Two trucks loaded with CCC men beneath their tarps drove past. The old man waved to them and the men closest to the backs of the trucks waved back through a wake of dust.
The old man could hear The Wizard of Oz theme in his office even with the door closed. Tom had made coffee and the old man sat at his desk with his cup and his Green River Star.
Nazis were closing Czech universities, murdering students, and sending hundreds to prison camps. FDR laid the cornerstone at the Jeffer
son Memorial and Al Capone was released from Alcatraz. Below the fold was the usual small headline, “Mystery of Rose Buckles’ Murder Continues.” Soon, with all the war news, it would be on page two.
The old man took a sip of coffee and turned the page.
Epilogue—2018 Genealogy Website Message
Dear Ms. Clancy Vargo,
Please excuse my English. Family tree study and DNA presents to me your name. I see you live in USA state of Utah and therefore find somewhat difficult my belief. Somehow great-great grandfather is possible relation of your aunt with name Buckles. I live in Ukraine near once southern Hungary. If it is worthy of note, many in family tree have red hair. Any information will be greatly appreciated. Please have wonderful summertime.
Anna Horvath
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 33
