THE GUARDIANS OF STAVKA
The Deadly Hunt for Romanov Gold
An Historical Novel by
Robert Egby
_
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Robert D. Egby
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews and books with suitable credits.
Published by: Three Mile Point Publishing, Chaumont, NY USA
http://www.threemilepointpublishing.com
Phone: 315-654-2060
First published: December 2011
Also by Robert Egby
Non-fiction
Cracking the Glass Darkly
The Quest of the Radical Spiritualist
INSIGHTS: The Healing Path of the Radical Spiritualist
KINGS, KILLERS AND KINKS IN THE COSMOS: Treading Softly With Angels Among Minefields
(autobiography)
*
Historical fiction
PENTADAKTYLOS: Love, Promises and Patriotism in the Last Days of Colonial Cyprus
THE GUARDIANS OF STAVKA: The Deadly Hunt for Romanov Gold
_
Except for people whose existence is recorded history, all characters portrayed in this novel are fictitious and creations of the Author’s imagination. The original manuscript was written between 1979 and 1981 three years before the CSIS - the Canadian Security Intelligence Service was created in June 1984 by an Act of the Canadian Parliament. Therefore, the Canadian Intelligence Service depicted in the novel is purely fictitious.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my
sisters Diane and Sheila
along with Paul and Tony
who first mentioned the possibility of the lost Romanov gold many years ago.
IN APPRECIATION
The author would like to express thanks to the Reference Staff at the Vancouver Public Library (Central) in Vancouver, British Columbia for their dedicated help in research and finding answers to so many questions, and to the staff at N.M. Rothschild & Sons Ltd., St Swithins Lane, London, UK for their description of a gold bar as it existed at the time of Tsarist Russia.
Many thanks are also due to my partner Betty Lou Kishler for her dedicated help in reading and proofreading this book and for her continued support.
PROLOGUE
Georgia, Russia. Summer - 1894
Ilya Nikolayevich Orlov squinted at the bright morning sun bursting across the high Caucasus. Already the intense heat waves were shimmering and dancing across the dried stubbly hay fields and the ripening fat golden wheat in the distance. Occasionally a rebel breeze born among the lofty distant snow covered peaks, swept down the gullies and ravines and brought welcome relief to the townspeople of Gori.
The l4 year old boy loved the mountains, so massive and rugged, so proud and nonconforming. Pushing back a mop of fair hair, tinged almost imperceptibly with red, he shaded his pale face and light blue eyes unaware these features isolated him from the other townsfolk. They were all dark skinned, their eyes were dark brown, almost black, and their heavy features were reminiscent of the Turks, Iranians and other Middle Eastern people living to the south.
The boy was a northerner. His long legs pumped him effortlessly along the dusty street. Two men, one attired in the traditional Caucasian tunic and the cape of a shepherd, argued noisily outside the inn over the cost of replacing a sheep killed by a horse and cart. Fascinated and unconscious of his path the youth collided with two elderly women, one of whom carried an old metal milk churn.
"Hey! Are you rich enough to spill milk?" the heavy woman cried, winking broadly at her equally heavy friend.
"It's the teacher's son," remarked the other, her dark Georgian features full of warm adulatory smiles. Everyone knew the boy was a brilliant student. "What have you learned today, Ilya Nikolayevich?"
The boy flashed a polite smile. "Nothing!" Then not wishing to appear rude or terse, he added, "School is finished for the summer."
The woman really did not care a sow's ear about Ilya's education but referred to the fact his father held the esteemed post of Russian teacher at the school. No one cared for Russian. They saw no need for it. The old Ossetic Georgian language had served them for centuries through countless invasions wars and occupations.
However, since Georgia, the rugged Caucasian land squeezed between the Black Sea in the west and the Caspian Sea in the east was now annexed to the great Russian Empire, the law required that every school student must learn Russian. Russification, they called it, and Ilya's father taught the language in the old two level pink sandstone school. He had taught Russian as long as Ilya could remember. The boy liked that. Teachers and priests carried considerable importance.
Ilya had been born in the rugged picturesque valley town of Gori which flanks the fast flowing Kura River. His mother, a native Georgian, was a fine upright woman of disciplined working stock who still felt uneasy in the presence of landowners or nobility. Her father had once been a serf in some northern village.
The boy's father was tall, refined and delicate and most people respected him not only for his profession, teaching, but for his breeding. Nikolas Orlov was unmistakably an aristocrat. Poor, yes, but still an aristocrat. The Gori townspeople failed to understand Orlov senior. "They say he was embroiled in a terrible scandal," said the clockmaker a prominent rumourmonger. "A seduction! The wife of a prince! Orlov was personally exiled by the Tsar."
Years later Ilya discovered the truth about his father. Among the Hussars of the Guard a bond of support was an unwritten rule among the officers. Many families whose sons served with distinction in elite regiments were forced to sell valuables, livestock, even property so that their officer-sons could assist brother officers in distress. Gambling was usually the most disastrous pitfall for creating enormous debts.
Nikolas Orlov had been a young Hussars officer. He had served with distinction and valour in the Polish uprisings. One day, a senior officer, a prince, ran into substantial debts. Half a million roubles! He was unable to repay it. When creditors threatened exposure brother officers raised the necessary money. Honour was maintained but the repercussions were disastrous. Twelve officers declared bankruptcy and were forced to leave the service. Cornet or Second Lieutenant Nikolas Orlov was one of them.
Ilya often heard his father talk fondly and nostalgically about St. Petersburg, the capital city far to the north with its wide boulevards, grand palaces, towering ornate churches, great bridges and magnificent homes. Ilya's mother hated to hear such talk. She had never left Georgia. Tiflis and Baku were the far limits of her world. Anything else was totally alien.
Ilya pushed through the hot crowded market with its heavy aromas of spices and coffees. The fortunate were buying vegetables meats and delicacies such as pheasant octopus and caviar, while the unfortunate stared with hungry and resigned eyes and then quietly went home to bread and onions and the occasional luxury of a boiled potato. The narrow dusty street wound up the hill through a maze of small shops from where one could see the ancient fortress perched on a rocky hillock.
Outside the school a group of youngsters was shouting furiously and goading two of their kind to greater acts of brutality in a fist fight. For a moment the fighters stood there, clenched and bloodied fists held poised. Their dark scowling faces were lined with sweat while smouldering black eyes regarded each other with murderous hostility.
Ilya immediately recognized one fighter, his friend Soso. The other boy was a stranger, an Armenian, said someone, from the other side of town. No one liked the Armenians. "Punch the chicken-head," screamed someone. Soso lashed out. His small steel fist hammered the other boy's swollen face. A fist sliced back. Soso anticipated it and warded it away easily with an arm.
Smack! With lightning delivery his fist ploughed into the Armenian's right eye. Blood trickled down. The crowd became incensed. "Kill the chicken-head," yelled a boy close by. Ilya immediately recognized his friend Lado Komadze and quickly pushed through the crowd to his side. "Soso's a great fighter," said Lado with a grin. "Truly, he is a master of punishment."
The crowd roared with delight as Soso despatched a series of devastating punches to the other boy's face chest and stomach. Gasping and screaming for air, the youngster staggered away to the merciless jeers of the spectators. Soso, breathing heavily, his face bathed in perspiration that accentuated the smallpox scars, came and leaned on his friends and paused to collect himself.
"What happened?" Ilya asked as the three walked down the hill towards the river.
"Nothing!" Soso was a youngster of few words. "Nothing happened."
"Aw! Come on," insisted Ilya, grinning. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Lado chipped in quickly. "The chicken-head was a Jew. That's all. It's of no importance. Jews aren't important."
Outwardly, Ilya appeared amused at their strange and blunt logic. Inwardly, he admitted he would never understand these Georgians in spite of many years of close friendship in which they had played, studied, adventured and sung together. They enjoyed doing things together whether it was a trek to a battered fortress on a remote hilltop, a swim in the river, a lazy afternoon in the orchard reading books or staging wrestling contests in the hay barn. Soso always won at wrestling.
Until recently when their voices had finally broken, they had performed regularly in the choir of the Georgian Orthodox Cathedral. Their shrill melodic voices pure and perfect like a heavenly chorus enchanted the congregation. Soso's mother, a seamstress whose cobbler husband had deserted her for work in Tiflis, always had tears of joy when Soso performed solos.
"My heart is so proud of you, Joseph,” she said, using his proper name. “You will make a good priest, my son. God will bless you."
The lad always displayed a remote detached air whenever his mother mentioned the priesthood which was quite often.
"Let's go swimming," cried Soso suddenly, tossing back his long black hair. "My body is burning and the river will refresh us."
"It's too fast," said Lado as he tossed a small stone in the direction of some grazing sheep. "The summer melt is furious this year."
Soso grinned challengingly. "Scared?"
"Me? No!"
"You want to stay with the Jewish bastard? Make friends with your father's murderers?" Soso put the questions quietly, knowing full well they hurt Lado whose father had been ruined and driven to suicide in Tiflis. People blamed the Jews. It was easier than blaming alcohol. He hated anything Jewish.
Lado was short like Soso. Ilya towered over both of them. However, Lado was thin and not very strong unlike the tough muscular Soso who frequently boasted and demonstrated his physical prowess. Lado for the most part was a silent youngster, an observer, a follower. Schoolmates suggested Lado was abnormally intelligent because he appeared to spend most of his time absorbed in thought. Others felt he had little intelligence and therefore had nothing to say. In spite of this the teachers and priests at the Gori Theological School decided that silence in a boy was an unwholesome quality.
"There's something wrong with that Lado Komadze," said a priest. "Something bad. Why can't he be like that young Soso? Now there's a good intelligent boy." The other priest smiled approval. "Little Joseph Dzhugashvili? A clever lad that one. Nevertheless he has a strange inclination -- always reading dangerous books. School Inspector Butyrsky says he caught the boy reading books by Chonadze, Chavchavadze and Kazbegi -- all fervent Georgian nationalists."
The older priest stroked his long white beard. "Soso is predictable. He worships heroes, warriors, fighters...and God. He'll go far. The other boy? I'm not so sure."
"Lado?"
The older priest nodded. "Lado is much too moody. Those black eyes hold fires of anger. He could be dangerous."
"Come now! Don't imagine things. Admittedly Lado is intense but not dangerous."
Ilya had overheard the priests' conversation and moved on troubled that adults -- no, men of God, -- had so freely and unfairly criticized his two close friends. They did not understand Lado that's all, he told himself. The friendship that existed between the three boys had matured over many years longer than any of them could remember. They were all born in the same month, December 1879 and had played, gone to school and become friends as they grew up. Now in the hot summer of 1894 they were fourteen years old and getting ready to go to the higher schools to learn a trade or a profession.
The three boys moved away from the little white houses with their red tiled roofs wooden balconies and rickety steps and walked through the long dry grass lining the banks of the Kura River.
"You see," cried Lado jubilantly, "the water is much too fast for swimming." Soso's dark eyes peered from under the thick black hair draped across his forehead. He watched the river with silent apprehension. It was fast, very fast, but he was not prepared to show concern let along alarm or cowardice.
"The river is like that snotty bitch with the large breasts that roasts her fat haunches by the school stove. Both must be made to succumb to power."
The others never argued with Soso when he talked of power.
"Let's move down river towards the trees," cried Soso pointing towards a cluster of brilliant green and silver birch. He kicked off his boots and trousers, tossed his shirt to the ground and wearing only rough cotton undergarments, slipped through the reeds into the water.
Lado followed closely then gasped. "The water! It's direct from the devil's icebox."
"It has power! It purifies! It cleanses the body and the mind," cried Soso. Suddenly he turned and spotted Ilya's lanky body still fully clothed reclining in the shade of a birch. "What makes you so special, Your Highness?"
Ilya flinched. Little Joe rarely mentioned the Orlov's origin and their aristocratic connections at St. Petersburg except in an angry outburst. Ilya ignored the sarcasm. "Go and swim! I'll stand guard over your clothes...in case brigands come down from the mountains." The youth mustered a smile, but it was true. Bands of brigands still made occasional raids on villagers and travellers.
The boy lay there, his pale blue eyes regarding the rugged inhospitable mountains thrusting themselves up against the clear blue sky. Deep in those mountains among the valleys and on the grassy plateau reigned remnants of wild and violent tribes some of whom were still attired in ancient medieval doublets with embroidered crosses, long woollen stockings, blouses with puffed sleeves and hair trimmed with heavy fringes.
When they plunged into battle they were armed with heavy chain mail and their hands clutched heavy swords and shields. Known as the Ingushi these peculiar tribes were said to be living descendants of the European crusaders who battled the infidels at Jerusalem centuries before. How could such people exist in complete isolation for hundreds of years? It baffled and intrigued the youngster and he never tired of listening to Georgians tell stories of the battling Ingushi.
The two boys, their black heads glistening in the sun, swam down and across the strong current to conserve energy and had now reached the other bank. They waved as they scrambled breathlessly through the long grass. Some goats grazing nearby suddenly scattered, bleating with alarm. Ilya could see the boys standing by a fallen tree. They talked animatedly and shivered while attempting to dry their bodies in the sun. Soso repeatedly hugged his left arm.
During the crowded Easter services two years before, the boys had been singing with the choir outside the Orthodox Church. Various affluent landowners naturally tethered their horses and carriages close to the stone water troughs in the square. One thoughtless man left his horse and carriage parked alone on the hill above the church. Tired, the animal knocked over a bucket which had frightened a dog which in turn had raced forward to snap at the horse's legs. Terrified, the animal had reared and bolted. The carriage harness snapped and the vehicle hurtled down the hill straight towards the choir and congregation. "Run! Run for your lives!" shouted someone.
People screamed and fled helter skelter in all directions. Nobody was killed but four were injured. One was Soso. A carriage wheel ran over the youngster's left arm. The injuries took months to heal and left the lad with a permanently shortened arm that he would attempt to hide for the rest of his life.
A shout! Ilya looked up. The two boys were again mid-stream and in trouble. He could see them clutching each other. Their heads appeared as one. Lado screamed something. The message was lost in the wind. Up on his feet, his face suddenly pale and drawn, Ilya raced to the river bank. He felt totally helpless. Soso broke away from Lado and struck out senselessly downstream. Then, correcting his course, he started for the bank but a moment later slipped from view under the fast running water.
"Wait! Soso! Wait!" Lado screamed desperately. He dived under. For a moment, his long, skinny legs waved futilely above water. Then he too was gone into the depths of the bitterly cold water direct from the melted snow on the high Caucasus.
Ilya clenched his fists and stared. If only he could swim. If only he had learned. Anguish and embarrassment ripped through his troubled mind. Suddenly, Lado surfaced coughing and spluttering. In his arms was the blue-white lifeless Soso.
"Ilya, get help! I can't hold him much longer," he cried. He jerked his head around in a desperate attempt to see something, a log, a boat, a tree branch. Something on which he could hold. There was nothing. "Get help! For God's sake, help us!"
The current was sweeping the two boys down river and away from the town reducing chances of getting adult assistance. Ilya raced along the river bank, his eyes scanning everywhere for possible help, possible solutions. If only his mind would stop panicking. God, how he wanted to run away. It would be easy. Forget the whole thing. It was an accident. No, I saw nothing. Anyway, they had been warned.
Ilya broke through some bushes and entered a clearing. Several wooden boats were up-turned on the grass. "Hello! Anyone here?" He screamed the question at two old stone cottages. No response.
He ran to the boats and picked the smallest. It was an old wooden skiff used by farmers to haul produce and supplies across the river. Damnation! It was heavy. Incredibly heavy! He could hardly move the thing let alone turn it over and drag it 20 paces to the river. He struggled with the boat until the veins on his arms and neck seemed ready to burst. Then he spotted the rope coiled neatly underneath the boat. In a flash, he raced down to the river. Lado and Soso were almost opposite, perhaps 25 metres away and moving away quickly. Both were suffering severe cramps and groaning in agony as they clung to each other for survival.
A chunk of wood! Ilya wrapped two strands around it and tied a knot. Waving it wildly about his head he tossed it with all his might. It splashed down well beyond the direction of the two boys but the current swept them into it. Lado immediately seized the rope.
"Soso's dead!" he cried. "He's stopped breathing;"
"Don't say such things," cried Ilya quickly.
"The cold. It's killed him."
"Shut your mouth!" admonished Ilya. "Hold on while I pull."
His hands tightened on the rope. Immediately he felt the current and the weight of the two boys. It was impossible to hold. Twice his bare feet slipped in the soft sand. Then he spotted help. An old piling. A wooden stake, driven into the bank. Feverishly, he raced across and wrapped the rope around it and tied a knot. Moments later the rope jerked tight under the strain of the boys’ weight. Ilya, free of the rope, rushed into the water.
"Don't let go," he cried wildly. "I'm coming. I'm coming." The solid earth was no longer there for his feet. Kicking out at the bitterly cold water he tried moving his arms the way the boys had shown him. Gulping mouthfuls of water, coughing and spluttering, he reached his friends.
"Come...let's get him to the shore," he cried and Lado now shivering and very pale smiled bleakly. Unknown to the boys the current had naturally swung the attached rope in towards the shore.
"Take him! Pull him up," muttered Lado. They dragged Soso onto the grass. "There's water coming from his mouth," cried Ilya alarmed.
"Hold him upside down."
Ilya seized his legs and stood up. Water drained from the youngster's mouth and nose but there were no signs of life. Lado sank to his knees and started pounding Soso's chest with his fists.
"My God! What are you doing?" demanded Ilya.
"Damn it! I don't know," screamed Lado, tears rolling down his white shivering face. "Damn it! I don't know. He's my friend. I don't know."
Suddenly Little Joe started to cough. The sound came as a miracle. A blessed relief. They stared in sheer amazement. Then they started smiling. Later when they had dressed and Ilya had dried out his clothes they sat under the birch trees looking at the Kura River and the field beyond with its ripening wheat and barley and beyond an apple orchard and vineyard and in the distance the blue hazy mountains.
They said nothing for a long time. The brush with death and the narrow escape had shattered their confidence and rudely jerked them back into the harsh reality of life. Finally Soso spoke his mind.
"A man could not want for better brothers than the two I have today," he said slowly, his gruff broken voice now deeper than ever. "In the great Kura I was confronted by death and found it ugly and terrifying and my heart trembled with great fear. In addition, today I have found supreme dedication, comradeship and brotherly love."
The two boys felt uncomfortable.
"It's not necessary to say such things," said Lado as he held his aching head. "It's not necessary."
Soso ignored him. "Whatever happens in the days and years to come, whatever our destinies, we shall always remain what we are this day -- brothers!" He stared at Ilya.
"Brothers," said the teacher’s son with a satisfied feeling of pride and accomplishment. He grinned easily.
Soso stared at Lado.
"Brothers," said the youngster as he stared at Soso with glowing admiration.
"How is it that you have such a wonderful way with words? Of course we are brothers."
"Yes," said Ilya feeling pleased. "Brothers. We shall always be brothers."
One month later in the summer of 1894 the brotherly trio split up. Nikolas Orlov was persuaded by a rich and influential noble uncle to send young Ilya to St. Petersburg where he would receive a "proper education in keeping with his breeding." In the years that followed Ilya Nikolayevich Orlov followed a colourful and distinguished military career in the elite Imperial Guards serving the Tsar and the Imperial Family.
When he departed the town of Gori on that hot summer's day in 1894, fighting to hold back welling tears, the youngster had no idea that the events in his life would be connected with those two scruffy, black haired Georgian youngsters -the brothers -- he was leaving behind. Once more in his life, in the spring of l9l7, he would meet Lado Komadze under vastly different circumstances. Lado would become a dedicated Bolshevik working under a fanatical disciplinarian named Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the CHEKA, the dreaded new Soviet State's Security Apparatus.
Ilya never saw Soso or Joe Dzhugashvili again, but his influence plagued him all his life. After the youngster entered the Theological College in Tiflis where his mother wanted him to train as a priest, Soso changed his name to Koba in honour of the Georgian nationalist guerrilla who had battled the Russian overlords. At the same time he joined the growing Bolshevik movement. With a remarkable ability to use words, he quickly became a forceful revolutionary, writer and agitator. It was a power not to be ignored. The Russian word for steel is "stal." In l9l2 the youngster from Gori again changed his name. This time to Stalin. Joseph Stalin.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 1.
British Columbia, Canada, October 1979
Clutching their rifles the two young hunters scrambled across the moss and shale flanking the great sun-bleached rocky bluff that bulged out above the stand of yellowish-green slender lodgepole pine on the western face of the valley slope. Then they slumped down and rested on a sandy patch in the pale but warm sunshine. A late afternoon breeze edged with the first warnings of winter, cooled their sweating faces. The hard climb across a slope of shattered granite had left them exhausted and impatient. It was getting late. There was still a long trek to the creek bed where they had parked the Jeep.
The tall young man, Robert Stuart McVay, his Scottish ancestry giving him a clean face with sharp intelligence and firm efficiency, frowned irritably as he sat up, unbuttoned his heavily padded vest and groped inside for the small but powerful binoculars. Focusing quickly, he scanned the rocky canyon below and the gullies that cut away to the south. Stretches of white spruce and alpine fir cluttered his vision.
"Anything?"
"Not a bloody thing. The bastard's intelligent," observed McVay. "He must have hid out someplace, turned back and rejoined the herd."
"That's crap! We screwed it. That's all, Rob. We screwed it and the critter got away," said the other man gloomily. Turning, he reached into the rucksack for a beer. "Shit! It's the last."
"Take it," snapped Rob standing up and pacing along the edge of the bluff to get a better view.
"You still mad at me?"
"No. We needed more experience."
"Look, we hit the bastard. Many hunters don't even get a crack at a sheep." "Great! I'm impressed!" snarled Rob quickly. "Let's hunt the big stone sheep, says Larry Denton. A handsome ram with long horns with perfect points -- it'll look great over the marble fireplace. A terrific talking point for parties, he says. Come on, I'll show you how to hunt, he says. Just like Hemingway."
"For Christ's sake!"
"What happens? The big safari man not only approaches downwind like the bloody U.S. cavalry but stumbles upon the herd by complete surprise." Rob turned and stared at his friend. "What sort of screwed up hunting is that? Where did you learn to hunt? In the local library?"
Larry Denton flinched. His hunting prowess had been an idle boast in the pub. His total hunting experience was based on a weekend trip with an uncle six years before when they had bagged a deer. Sure he had been surprised by the herd. Rob with more presence of mind had swung his 30-30 Winchester and rapidly fired off five shots at a large ram that had not raced off with the herd. One shot had sliced the animal's shoulder. Dazed and bleeding, it had fled away from the herd and disappeared in rocks scattered among low lying bushy dwarf juniper. After two hours of searching they had not found the ram.
"Listen, Rob, there'll be others. The mountains are full of them. We've got another three days."
"That one was special. Maggie's dad bet me a hundred bucks I couldn't get a mountain sheep,” sighed McVay.
"There'll be others."
Rob breathed deeply to cool his ragged nerves. "Damn it! The bloody animal was wounded, you know."
"Sure! He's dead already. Lying in some creek bed. Under a bush. That's why we can't find him," explained Denton shrugged.
Rob walked back and sat down close to his friend's side. "Maggie's dad warned me about you. He said you’re an auto mechanic. He said you’re all frustrated and crazy from working under cars."
The two young men sat on the great bluff for a long time relaxing their bodies and cooling their tempers as they regarded the magnificent great mountain peaks away to the south and west. Massive, rugged and totally inhospitable, the bare peaks were already powdered with the first traces of an approaching winter. Through the valleys carpeted with thick forests, a blend of spruce, fir and pine, they could see the Pacific gleaming and flawless like a misty mirror in the afternoon haze. They collected their things and moved out. The Jeep was a good two kilometres away and their camp was at the end of a disused logging road some twenty kilometres to the east. Both men realized it would be dark soon.
"Look! What's that?" Larry stopped suddenly and pointed across the valley. Rob viewed it with the binoculars. "It's white. Could be the ram. Let’s go!" With mounting excitement and no regard for danger, they scrambled down through boulders and frequently ran wildly across small grassy slopes, stumbled on aprons of unstable talus and often collided with bushes and dead branches.
Their eagerness was short lived.
The white object turned out to be an old but large wooden sign that had long ago fallen over. The words almost bleached out were still legible. WARNING! KEEP OUT! This is a Military Training Reserve. All unauthorized persons are forbidden to enter or trespass without the written permission of the Minister of National Defence, Ottawa.”
Rob kicked the sign. "Bloody bureaucrats!"
Disappointed, they cut across the valley, angled their way over a jackpine and shrub covered ridge, trekked across a sub-alpine meadow and started down a valley slope cluttered with rocks boulders and layers of fragmented granite.
Suddenly, while crossing a band of talus, Rob lost his footing. Noisily, he careered down the path of an old rockslide. Cursing wildly, he stood up but immediately started to slide again. This time the slide was fast. Screaming wildly, he attempted unsuccessfully to grasp a long, exposed tree root. It snapped in his hands. Now, amid a great cloud of grey, choking dust and rolling rocks, he was standing and running sideways, desperately trying to escape the sliding unstable talus.
Success! He plunged into what appeared to be a stable area, thick long grass at the base of a sharp cliff. "Thank God!" he gasped, holding his bruised and aching sides. "Larry, where the hell are you?"
Even as he spoke, the ground suddenly cracked and gave way. The young hunter screamed as he found himself plunging into complete darkness. Gripped with sheer panic, his hands tore at rocks as he swept on into the black void. Crump! He stopped falling.
Dazed and breathless, his hands and face bleeding, he cried in agony as he clambered to his feet. "Larry! What the fuck happened? Where am I?"
"Where am I?" It was an echo.
Suddenly, he realized he had crashed into an underground tunnel or cave. He had no idea how far he had fallen, and worse, there was no light. Everything was totally black. It seemed ages before a shaft of daylight appeared somewhere above and Larry Denton's face peered down anxiously through the opening.
"How bad are you hurt, pal?"
"Like I got kissed by a jackhammer," muttered McVay. "One thing's for sure." "What's that?"
"It's the last goddamned time we go hunting. You’re a Jonah, Friday the thirteenth, the evil eye and all that's unlucky and jinxed, heaped into one bloody disaster."
"You're still mad at me, huh?"
"Not mad. I'll bloody well kill you," he snarled wildly. "Move those bushes. Get some daylight down here. It's like a bloody tomb." He peered into the black, trying to adjust his eyes. "Perhaps there's a way out down here."
"There's a rope back at the Jeep," suggested Larry.
"That's not here. Besides, it'll be dark soon. Move the bloody brush so I can see," cried McVay.
"Move the bloody brush,,." The echo came mockingly;
As Denton cleared the entrance to the hole, daylight shone down and revealed a slope strewn with rocks.
"It’s steep but I can probably climb up through the rocks," McVay called out and started to move forward through the semi-darkness. It was sheer curiosity that made him turn and peer inquisitively into the black tunnel.
He moved back and felt the water about his boots and legs. It was warm. But there was something there. Something else. A Symmetrical form, a shape designed by human hands rather than by nature. It possessed an uncommon shape. A block? A brick? Frowning, he waded through the water with nervous apprehension, his eyes wide open, his heart pounding madly. Strange! He thought. The object was neither a box nor a block but a stack of small bricks. Hundreds of them lying in the water. He picked one up and stared at it in the dim light.
"For Christ's sake! A metal brick!" Curiously, he peered at it, then used his sleeve to rub away the messy film of slime. He stared. An unmistakable shine. Even in the dim light of the cave the metal brick had a ghostly yellow shine. Excited and almost unable to think properly he seized another brick. It was identical.
Where the hell are you, Rob?" Larry's head peered down through the hole above.
The young hunter below stood transfixed as if rooted to the ground. Breathing heavily, he was unable to believe the preposterous suggestion swirling uncontrollably in his mind.
"Rob?" The call was demanding, impatient.
"Sure! I'm coming." He tucked the two bars inside his thick hunting vest and started scrambling up the slope, levering himself on rocks, sometimes clinging dangerously to the wall as showers of rock and debris plummeted past in clouds of suffocating dust and crashed noisily to the bottom. One thing was paramount in his mind -- get clear of the cave. He felt Larry's hands pull him out and he rolled over, flattening the bushes.
"What's wrong?" demanded Larry puzzled. "You look as if the hounds of hell are after you."
Breathing heavily, he pulled out the two metal bars and gave one to his friend and watched in silent amusement as the auto mechanic examined it. "What is it?" Larry was suspicious.
"Gold, buddy boy. It's gold! Pure gold!"
"Nah! You're kidding. It's painted."
"Try it. Dig it with your nails," cried Rob now wildly excited. "Listen, it's real gold. Bullion. Pure gold!"
Larry leaned forward more puzzled than ever and for some inexplicable reason he suddenly felt a growing fear. His fingers explored the strange symbols embedded in the metal. There was a picture of a double-headed bird, and that bothered him.
"Where did you find it? Down there?"
Rob nodded, his eyes watering with sheer excitement. "There's more, Larry. Oh, Christ! Is there more! The place is loaded. Piles and piles of nothing but gold bars." He stopped talking and stared at the metal brick. "What does it weigh?"
"In pounds? Twenty-five. Maybe more."
"No. Ounces."
Larry Denton was pensive. About four-hundred, at a guess. Perhaps more."
"What's the price of gold? Eight hundred dollars an ounce?"
The figures turned over in the auto-mechanic’s trembling, impatient mind. "Hey! That's over... thirty thousand... No! That’s over three-hundred thousand bucks or more!"
"For two bars of gold?"
"For one, dummy. For one! That’s over half a million big ones for two."
McVay suddenly stopped and stared first at Denton and then the two pieces of gold. The bar in his hands felt cold and heavy. "Let's get the hell out of this place."
Moving quickly, they covered the hole with bushes and branches. McVay gathered several small rocks and hurriedly built an identification cairn twenty metres away.."Tomorrow, we'll drive in at first light and load up the Jeep."
They started marching across the valley searching for animal tracks that would make walking easier. The sun had long gone behind the mountains and darkness was closing in very quickly.
"Look, Rob," muttered Larry. "This gold...I mean, it's got to belong to somebody. All that strange writing..."
McVay waved his hand reassuringly. "If it's conscience that's eating you we'll only take thirty bars each. Okay?"
"Thirty gold bars each. How much is that?"
"Hell! Millions! I can’t think that high. But one thing is for sure, you'll be able to buy all the bloody Mercs, Jags, and Buicks you want. You won't have to work on rich bastards' cars. You’ll have your own. Isn't that great?"
"Sure!"
"Then shut up. I don't need conscience."
It was dusk when they found the creek. They could see the Jeep, an old but sturdy machine with no cover, just a couple of roll-over bars easily silhouetted against the white rocks. The creek was dry, but its bed ran through the valley, cutting a bare white path through the tall dry grass, clumps of brown moss and various bushes. Slim pines, standing like lonely sentinels, dotted the valley in the growing darkness. A grey rabbit sensing danger, hurtled away through the grass.
The two hunters were less than a hundred metres from the Jeep when they saw the horseman. Like a statue, he sat motionless astride his animal.
"A bloody cowboy," snapped Rob suddenly annoyed that somebody was watching them. "How long has he been there?"
"Christ knows! What's he looking at?" muttered Denton walking on, while McVay stopped and stared through the binoculars. "What's he doing?"
"He's no bloody cowboy. Maybe he's headed for a masquerade party. He's a real oddball." Rob hurried after his friend. "He's wearing a red shirt, baggy pants, tall boots with some kind of round cap...perhaps a fur hat stuck on his head."
Larry stopped and seized the binoculars. Two seconds and he confirmed Rob's report. "Shit! There's more now. Four...five. They're all carrying bloody great swords."
Arrows of fear laced with adrenalin speared their tense bodies. Instinctively, they started to run for the Jeep. The vehicle was less than fifty metres away but to the eyes of the panic-stricken it could have been a hopeless dot on the horizon, a place of refuge out of reach, just one step too far. Even as they ran, the mysterious horseman started down the valley slope. The sturdy, sure-footed animals with thin legs, barrel bodies and long manes and tails, knew the routes, and moved rapidly. Within a few seconds, the horsemen reached open country and the horses moved faster. Finally they broke into a gallop.
"That's crazy!" Rob screamed. "Crazy! Crazy! Crazy!" Wild eyed and gripped with sheer panic, they threw themselves into the Jeep. Larry had tossed his rifle into the back of the vehicle and was now fumbling with the ignition.
"Get going, man. Those maniacs are almost here," screamed Rob.
"For shit's sake. I'm trying." Suddenly the engine roared to life and the vehicle started moving, its wheels kicking up dust and small rocks. The horsemen were fifty metres away and coming in fast.
"God! They're going to kill us," screamed Rob, his body shaking with fear, his eyes rolling wildly. "They're going to kill us."
"Fire your rifle," shouted Larry as the Jeep crashed and bounced over the rough terrain of the dried creek bed. "Fire at the bastards."
“My rifle is at the bottom of that bloody hole,” snapped Rob. A fleeting thought. How would he explain the loss of his father’s 30-30 Winchester?
“Fire at the bastards,” screamed Larry.
“I’ve lost my gun,” yelled Rob.
“Are you nuts? Use mine, you bloody fool.”
Somehow it had never occurred to Rob that rifles could be used for protection as well as hunting. Standing up, he scrambled into the back to get Larry’s rifle.
The horsemen were a few metres away, galloping wildly through the Jeep's dust.
"Gik! Gik Gik!" The pursuers shouted above the thunder of hooves and the roar of the Jeep engine. "Gik! Gik!"
The Jeep bounced off a large boulder and veered sideways. In a moment, Larry had it back on track. The impact had sent Rob crashing against the rear seats of the vehicle. A muffled shot sounded beneath his body, but Larry behind the steering wheel did not hear it. His terror-stricken mind was now totally engaged in a life and death race with these incredible, deadly horsemen. Gunning the vehicle across an open stretch of cracked and baked mudflats, the accelerating tires churned up great clouds of dust and fine rock splinters. For a moment the horsemen disappeared.
"Fire some more shots," Larry bellowed as the Jeep plunged down a hidden gully and swept up the other side.
Hissssss!
A sabre sliced its way out of the sky. It slit his shirt and gashed his arm. The horseman, cold and mechanical, moved his racing animal closer to the vehicle for another strike.
"Bastards! I'm bleeding!" screamed Larry. "Get away you murdering bastards!
"Hisssss! The sword fell again and sliced off some hair and the tip of his left ear. There was no pain, just a tingling sensation to indicate that it had happened. He screamed and looked round for help. "Rob! Get up and kill the bastards!" he shouted, as he struggled with the gears and the vehicle ploughed through the series of rocks.
Rob staggered to his feet, one hand clutching Larry’s old 30-06 Springfield, the other gripping the roll-over bar. Blood oozed from the self-inflicted bullet wound in his neck. Desperately, he tried to raise the rifle but his arm failed to respond. He stood helpless, his face covered with sweat, dirt and blood, his eyes a glassy lifelessness watched as the strange horsemen closed in through the swirling dust.
Hissssssss! The sabre moved quickly and efficiently. In a split second it flashed across the top of the Jeep, killing Rob instantly. His head spun off one way and his body toppled sideways from the Jeep and hit the ground.
Larry screamed, slammed the brakes and turned the vehicle at a corner in time to see the horsemen gathering around the still body. One horseman leaned forward and sliced the thick hunting vest with his sabre. A gold bar slipped out.
Hoarse from screaming, Larry gunned the vehicle again along the twisting creek bed, his crazed mind holding onto sanity long enough to pick a safe passage. Dazed and suffering severe shock, he just kept on driving and trying to scream. Big tears rolled down his dusty face. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. There was one objective in his crazed mind, keep driving. There was no indicator, no realization of how far he drove or how long he took. It was night when he hit a tree.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 2.
Cologne, West Germany
Gerald W. Kirke was drowning in fear. It engulfed his flabby body and twisted and swirled through his battered and bewildered mind like a powerful, devastating maelstrom. Ever since he had arrived in Europe, the fear had been with him -- fear generated by the wretched brown leather attaché case chained and locked to his left wrist. How he hated it!
The case was secure against snatch-and-grab raiders but in living with it, day and night since Montreal -- three long days ago! -- Kirke realized with growing helplessness he had become the servant -- no, prisoner! -- of the case and its unique and valuable contents. The high Arctic wind which had crossed Scandinavia and the Baltic, swept mercilessly down the narrow cobbled street as he attempted to slip unobserved from the small, inexpensive family hotel a short distance from the Hauptbahnhof and the great Hohenzollern bridge spanning the Rhine. Instinctively, he pulled the heavy woollen New York coat closer to his shivering body and clamped the dark grey homburg firmly to his head.
The street was clear. Good! Time? 1:57 p.m. An hour to the auction at Marienburg. He nodded. Ample time to exercise complete care and discretion. The Marienburg auction at the Richler house was home. The target. The end of the run. The wretched brown attaché case would be gone. So too, would be the contents. The idea raised his spirits but he quickly suppressed them. Optimism was a luxury he could ill afford. Carelessness could be deadly.
The great square in front of the ancient Cologne Cathedral with its famous twin spires vibrated with the joyful shouts and running feet of several hundred Belgian schoolchildren bussed for a day-tour of the Rhineland city. Kirke ignored them and moved briskly into Hohestrasse, the pedestrian shopping street, and tried to walk casually as he mingled with hundreds of shoppers.
The man in the white cotton jacket! Kirke's heart missed a beat. His mind started to race. The man had been at the hotel. In the restaurant! At breakfast! Now he was standing outside the Leica store. Kirke wanted desperately to believe it was pure coincidence but fear and imagination were loathe to be logical. The man disappeared into the camera store. Kirke seized the opportunity and sidestepped into a large department store, pushed through shoppers watching a shampoo demonstration, and walked out another door.
"Be careful. It is impossible to be too careful," he muttered the words softly but mechanically. His father had drilled the words into his mind. But old Auguste Kirke had not been careful. While transporting a richly embroidered velvet cape lined with blue arctic fox fur and decorated with 26,000 pearls to a buyer in Denmark, something had gone wrong. Critically wrong.
Russian agents had attempted to seize him. Grabbing a fire-bucket loaded with sand, he had tossed it into their faces and ran off into the night. A Canadian who claimed to work for the embassy had found the old man collapsed and gasping for breath. Danish doctors had saved Auguste's life but the coronary left him partly paralyzed. That was in 1972.
Consequently, the Kirke jewellery stores in Montreal, Toronto and New York had become the responsibility of Auguste's son, Gerald whose conservative upbringing insisted the long respected firm be quietly progressive and yet remain the epitome of good taste. Under the guidance of the younger Kirke, the stores built up a distinguished clientele that boasted one Middle East monarch, three OPEC sheiks, a prominent Central American president, two British dukes, numerous actors and actresses and the wife of a former president of the United States. Everything was indeed high class and in good taste. That is until the messenger arrived.
The man was massive. A grey suit and gabardine raincoat appeared hopelessly inadequate on the broad shoulders, the great barrel chest and the long arms. The heavily tanned face with a broad forehead, high cheekbones and arched brows over dark black eyes oozed strength and superiority.
"Management has changed. Our firm is unable to provide any special sale arrangements for the disposal of your goods," Kirke had said politely after hurriedly ushering the big man into a viewing room. "My father is very sick."
"We are sorry," the big man declared in a deep rolling voice. "Mr. Kirke served my people well."
"Then you understand my predicament."
"Your commission was always excellent. More than generous."
"My father almost died."
"But our people urgently require supplies. It is necessary to get money."
"Who exactly are your people, sir?" Gerald Kirke had always been curious about his father's special clients.
The big man ignored the question. "It takes time to establish new contacts, people who can be trusted."
"Look, sir, I have a client waiting .... from Tokyo ...."
"The jewellery. The Council did not make the decision lightly," said the big man, standing alone in the centre of the viewing room. "Parting with any of it pains us."
"Sir, you don't understand," snapped Kirke irritably. "My father was foolish taking unnecessary risks. We cannot handle..."
The man pulled open a brown paper bag and drew out a bundle of woollen material. It was a protective packaging material. Carefully, he extracted a small tiara and set it on the velvet pad in front of Kirke. The jeweller gasped lightly.
The white lights beamed down on the sparkling coronet, bringing out the stunning beauty of the gold bands encrusted with diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds and topaz. The tiny headdress breathed fire and glory. It breathed exquisite workmanship by master craftsmen of an age long gone. Kirke was staggered by the aura emanating from the tiny masterpiece.
"To whom did this belong?" he asked hesitantly.
"Does it matter?"
"History fetches a better price."
"The Empress."
"Alexandra?"
The big man nodded slowly. “People knew it as the Finland tiara.”
Kirke moved closer to the big man and stared at the strange face. "My father was convinced the seven pieces he handled for your people were from the Imperial Russian collection, commonly known as the missing Romanov treasure. People would dearly love to know its location."
The big man stared at the jeweller as if he had not spoken. "Will you handle it, Mr. Kirke?"
The jeweller hesitated. Wariness and the desire for a substantial commission were battling logic inside his mind.
"It must be sold in Europe."
"Any particular reason? Money? Security? Opportunities for a higher price are greater in New York."
"Those are the conditions. Will you handle it?"
Kirke was hypnotized by the dazzling beauty of the royal tiara.
"Of course. It will be a pleasure," he said. After settling various formalities including banking and money transfers, the big man left.
That had been ten days ago. Kirke had telephoned Leon Richler, an old and trusted friend, a man successful and familiar with private auctions and potential buyers, and someone who would exercise maximum security and privacy. Travel security was uppermost in Kirke's mind as he flew across the Atlantic to Amsterdam, doubled back to London, caught a boat-train to Paris, rented a car to Dusseldorf, then took a bus to Cologne. Installed in a small, insignificant hotel, Kirke became convinced he was under observation. The fear was now acute. He was sure the man in the white cotton jacket was following him.
As he stepped onto Hohestrasse again, his face blanched. The man was there, less than thirty meters away. Thick set, close-cropped black hair -- the old Nazi Youth cut -- the man stared straight at Kirke. The jeweller gasped. There was no pretence this time.
Sheer panic gripped his body. Pushing through startled shoppers, he sprinted down an alley, the brown leather case slapping against his legs. He ran into a large open square.
"Taxi! Taxi!" A car was there. Quickly but clumsily, he scrambled inside, pulling the leather case after him. "Marienburg!" he gasped. "Marienburg! Quickly!" As the car moved quickly across the Heumarkt, Kirke's terrified face anxiously scanned the crowds, his bulging eyes searching for any signs of the white cotton jacket. The pursuer was nowhere to be seen. Finally, Kirke took a deep breath and gave the taxi driver the address of his friend in Marienburg, an affluent residential suburb in south Cologne.
Leon Richler was a millionaire several times over, an industrialist who had made a fortune in real estate in Europe and South America immediately following World War II. A noted international play-daddy, he enjoyed fraternizing with the gold and diamond set -- wives of rich industrialists, ladies of chief executive officers of multi-national corporations, in fact anyone interested in diamonds, gold and money.
Richler owned a l5th century schloss overlooking the Rhine near the famous Lorelei Rock, a spacious chateau at Cannes and a penthouse apartment in Las Vegas, Nevada. The Richler home in Cologne was a huge, rambling, half-timbered black and white house. Used during World War II as a Gestapo officers' residence, Richler bought it for a paltry sum from a family of Jews he had traced through Britain to Israel. "We Jews must stick together," he had told the family. The money was sufficient to buy a small used car.
Richler waved away the liveried usher so that he might be permitted to welcome the jeweller himself but the Canadian's hurried entrance and undisguised apprehension surprised the German. Quickly, he ushered Kirke into a large private study, ordering liqueur, sugared fruits and coffee as they went. The door was closed. "My friend, what's happened? You look terrible .... "
"Someone in the city...someone was following."
"Nonsense! Your imagination is playing tricks. That unfortunate incident with your father in Copenhagen. It's understandable," said Richler soothingly, then he smiled. "Besides, you're safe here."
The German offered a highly sweetened liqueur, Fior d'Alpe, which, he said, was a drink flavoured with flowers and herbs collected from the Swiss mountains. Kirke was not interested in polite conversation. "The auction?"
"Everything is fixed. We have a small but exceptionally affluent group. Two are from the Persian Gulf. The photos, diagrams, and history were all very impressive. A lively and lucrative auction is guaranteed, my friend." Richler grinned and clasped his hands together expectantly. "May we view the item?"
Kirke reached down, pulled up his right trouser to reveal a small key taped to his leg just below the knee. Moments later the case chain was freed from his wrist and the tiara lay exposed, its diamonds and other precious stones glittering magnificently.
Richler gasped in admiration. "What exquisite beauty! It is incredibly lovely, no?"
"Of course! The finest craftsmen in Europe made it. It was worn by the Empress during Kaiser Wilhelm's visit to Russia in l9l2."
"The Empress was German, you know," put in Richler knowledgeably.
"And a granddaughter of the British Queen Victoria," added the jeweller, beginning to feel better. "Who's the auctioneer?"
"Otto Gernreich of Vienna."
"The name is not familiar .... "
"Otto's the best in Europe. A specialist in the estates of former monarchs including tsars," said Richler. "Let us go and have the tiara placed on view. They are anxious .... "
"I would prefer to wait here."
"Something is wrong?"
"The excitement. It is too much..."
Richler departed with the tiara and Kirke promptly relaxed in a deep leather chair, smoked a cigarette and sipped coffee. The quiet of the luxurious study, its great marble fireplace, antique furniture and rows upon rows of literary masterpieces, soothed his raw nerves. It felt wonderful.
The study door opened quietly.
Kirke's strained and sensitive ears heard it. Immediately, he spun round and stared helplessly as a young man, well dressed in a European conservative suit and finished with an expensive musk perfume, quickly crossed the thick Persian carpet and confronted Kirke.
"Herr Kirke .... you don't know me...but I represent a large group of influential businessmen-an important consortium. To be blunt, we're very interested in commencing negotiations with your principals..."
"Christ! What are you talking about?" Kirke stood up.
"The Romanov treasure," replied the young man in clipped but otherwise perfect English. "There is evidence your principals are hiding the Tsar's immense personal effects and jewellery plus a considerable amount of gold bullion. Of course, you are well aware that international gold prices are increasing daily..."
Kirke gasped and turned white. This was not supposed to happen. Richler had given guarantees. Richler had given assurances he would organize the auctioneer and conduct the sale. There would be no connection between Kirke and the sale of the tiara -- nothing! The old fear suddenly swirled uncontrollably through his mind, smashing the rebuilt pillars of confidence. The young man, this intruder must be one of "them". They always referred to the terrible men who chased his father in Copenhagen as "them".
Kirke's eyes rolled. He tried to scream but his throat was clogged. Shaking his head at the bewildered young man, the jeweller charged across the study. Lamps and vases went crashing in all directions. Rushing along the hall, a manservant unwisely tried to stop him. Kirke swerved and barged wildly into the auction salon. Thirty faces turned and stared at the noisy intruder.
"They're here!" screamed Kirke waving his arms wildly. Panic now dominated his mind. Reeling backwards, he struck out at ushers, raced through the hall, seized the main doors and a moment later, shrieking like a wild lunatic, fled into the street. Kirke never saw the Volkswagen. It sent his body crashing into the middle of the road. Still conscious, blood pouring from a large gash in his thigh, he staggered to his feet and saw the flashing blue lights of the approaching ambulance. Before a crowd could gather, before anyone could ask how the ambulance had arrived so promptly, the attendants hustled the stricken Kirke aboard. In a moment the ambulance was gone, weaving its way through the afternoon traffic.
"Don't worry, Herr Kirke. My friend is a doctor. We need information. You understand?"
Kirke's eyes jerked. He screamed in sheer terror. It was the man in the white cotton jacket.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 3.
Santiago, Chile
Harry Travis perched on the old and heavily worn wooden cot, his bare feet tenderly feeling the filthy stone floor. Still, the touch of the cool concrete brought pleasure to his sweating, aching body. He cursed the merciless humidity, the stench of unwashed bodies and the sight of the unemptied urine bucket in the corner, the worm infested food and the lack of intelligent company. And he cursed the entire Santiago jail.
"Snow? They got you on snow?" muttered the big Oklahoma truck driver with long auburn hair who resembled a hippie from the late l960s. A relic from a bygone era, he had operated giant trucks at a copper mine in northern Chile until one night the flower power, the philosophy of love had been dumped in favour of fists. A Chilean manager was now in hospital in critical condition. The Oklahoman stared from his cot. "Snow? That's five years in the hoosegow, Big Daddy. Automatic!"
"Five years?" Travis was stunned.
"Five years!" said the other Americans in chorus. "¡Cinco años!" agreed the Chileans.
The trucker leaned forward. "You a snowbird?"
"Snowbird?"
The other spat contemptuously. "You use snow?"
"Hell! No!" snarled Travis. "The airport police pulled me over as if I carried a sign. They knew I had coke in my bag." He refused to mention Gabriela. These hardened jailbirds would mock him mercilessly. They would not understand. Bastards!
Gabriela had been a beautiful but wild creature. Young and vivacious, the daughter of a rich Viña del Mar hotelier, she had graduated as a buxom bunny-waitress at one of Santiago's oldest strip joints, flashed her flesh in a couple of dubious Buenos Aires movies, then married a Valparaiso businessman three times her age. He was also a close friend of the military dictator General Augusto Pinochet whose Caravana de la Muerte, the infamous military death squad was sworn to eliminate left wing supporters in Chile.