Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they derail a train. Leon is now a spy par excellent.
Leon did not fulfill his promise to kill Pookah upon his return to Eleuthura from Nassau because the dead plant in his pot was already askew when he walked down the dusty path to his home September 1937. The organization worked fast, he told himself, and it found him more useful alive than dead at this point in time. He found the note which instructed him to take the next ship leaving Nassau to Montevideo, Uruguay, and to await instructions there.
Before he left he whispered in Jessamine’s ear not to speak to Pookah until his return. She wrinkled her brow at first but then nodded. She stepped aside so Leon could say good-bye to his son Sidney. Leon extended his arms to hug him, but Sidney stuck his hand out. Leon didn’t hesitate to take it. His son was growing into a strong young man and hugs were beyond him now. Leon did take comfort that the handshake was strong, warm and held for a long time.
As had become his custom on ocean liners, Leon spent most of his time in his cabin, meditating and exercising. Leon still intended on killing Pookah when he returned, but this mission promised to be a very profitable one. It would fill his family’s bellies for a very long time. He rested his head on the pillow and thought of a conversation he had with Sidney before setting sail.
“Father, you’re always insisting it will be my job to fill my family’s bellies,” Sidney began in slow tones as they sat on the deck of Old Jinglepocket’s fishing boat.
“Yes, I’ve always believed that, and you must believe it too.”
“But you mean more than just physical hunger, don’t you, Father?”
Leon took a moment to reply to his son’s question. He had never thought of it that way. All his life his thoughts had never risen above getting actual food into his family’s bellies. But he had to admit he had created a life for his son in which just eating was not enough.
“Of course, Son, that’s what I meant. More than food. Safety. Security. Happiness.”
Those words continued to echo through his mind throughout the rest of the journey to Montevideo. When Leon descended the plank at port, a half-dressed native pushed a small pottery bowl into his hand.
“Here, here, what you need.”
Leon reached for his wallet to pay, but the beggar disappeared into the crowd. Leon took a note jammed into the bowl.
Hotel Carrasco.
Hailing a cab, Leon instructed the driver to take him to the hotel. When he arrived, Leon paid the cabbie, stepped from the taxi and noticed a small boy sitting on the curb. Leon took a few pesos out of his pocket and dropped them into the bowl which he handed to the child.
“Here, fill this with food for yourself.”
“Gracias, senor.”
Leon entered the elegant lobby as though he owned it, approached the desk and signed in. A bellhop took the key and his luggage and went to an elevator. On the way up, he muttered to Leon, “You should see the sunset atop Fortress Carro. It is quite impressive.”
The sun had just touched the far horizon on the observation deck of the fortress when a man came up behind Leon.
“Don’t turn around.”
Leon recognized the American southern accent he heard when he was tied up on the Nassau wharf. At least this time he didn’t have a sack over his head.
“The organization doesn’t know what to do with you, Mr. Johnson. Your insolence merits instant assassination, but you are our best agent. The commandant selected you personally for this assignment. Beginning tonight, you are to roam the casinos of Montevideo until you find a man named Amleto Battisti. I won’t waste your time describing him. If he is at the tables, everyone will be saying his name. He is known as a mathematician with the memory of an elephant. He is also vindictive, so don’t cross him. Senor Battisti lost a million dollars at Biarritz on the Atlantic coast near the border of France and Spain eight years ago. He came home to Uruguay to lick his wounds and hone his skills. Next week he leaves for Biarritz to break the bank. The organization, for a sizable cut, is bankrolling his endeavor using a syndicate of Cuban, South American and French adventurers as a front.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Biarritz Hotel du Palais casino has paid Spanish guerrillas to kill him if it looks like he will succeed.”
“And you want me to kill them as inconspicuously as possible.”
“But of course.” He paused. “Damn, the sunset over the mountains is spectacular. Anyway, find him, learn his habits, keep him alive, but never let him know you exist.”
Leon had a light supper in the Hotel Carrasco dining room before hailing a taxi to take him to the nearest casino.
“No need for me, senor,” the driver said with a smile. “The best casino in town is just down the street.”
Leon pressed some coins into the man’s hand, tipped his hand and sauntered in the casino’s location. When he arrived he saw a line of cabs waiting to unload their passengers. He passed two elderly, well-dressed men getting out of their cab.
“Do you know if Amleto is here tonight?” one said to the other.
“I believe I heard it rumored, yes,” his friend replied.
“Oh hell, let’s go someplace else where at least I’ll have a chance,” the first man said, pushing his companion back into their taxi.
Once inside the casino, all Leon had to do was follow the excited whispers to a faintly lit corner where men in tuxedos sat around a poker table. Stylishly dressed women leaned over all the players except one slender man who sat apart from the others. Two large men with their arms crossed in front of them flanked him. Leon had been in the business long enough to know that the men were bodyguards, probably from the Mafia. The man himself was thin, unassuming, approximately forty-something years old. Balding. Expensive suite but unaccompanied by any jewelry except for plain wedding band. He neither smoked nor drank.
Leon settled into the bar across the room but still in good view of Senor Battisti. Nursing a glass of champagne for the rest of the evening, he wondered why the organization would be concerned for the gambler’s safety if he were under the protection of the Mafia. Battisti rarely moved his face as he reached for cards and then discarded them. His eyes were dark and never revealed any emotion. As the game progressed, other players threw in their cards until only one remained, a silver haired gentleman in a white linen suit similar to what Leon wore. Eventually the old man conceded, stood and extended his hand. Guards stepped forward. The old man withdrew his hand and stepped away.
When Battisti stood to leave, the crowds moved back. One guard walked in front and the other followed behind. Leon leaned into a shapely blonde seated next to him, smiled and began a conversation. He smiled and extended his hand to her knee, and she didn’t flinch. In a few minutes, Leon noticed the whispers in the casino had subsided, indicating Battisti had left the establishment. He winked at the woman, paid for her drink, glided off his chair and left.
Leon slept in the next morning. He wanted to be fully rested when he arrived at the casino that evening. Over lunch he decided to buy a black tuxedo. His white linen suit was his favorite. It made him stand out, but Leon knew he did not need to stand out on this mission. He must blend in, be invisible. Good bodyguards would notice if the same black man in a white suit appeared every night at the casino. Leon even took the precaution to hire a native Uruguayan lady, whose complexion matched his own, to be his companion. She wore a filmy chocolate brown gown slit low to display her décolletage. If anyone in the casino glanced at them, they would assume Leon was more interested in his escort’s bosom than the gambling.
Battisti and his guards arrived promptly at eight o’clock and the maître‘d showed them to their corner table. Leon realized that from his seat Battisti saw the entire room, the entrance, the door going to the kitchen and the fire exit. His guards filled the space behind him and the wall. No one could pass behind the gambler. Battisti never drank during the evening. That would necessitate a trip to the men’s room sometime during the game, and he didn’t move from his seat. As far as Leon could detect, the gambler had no discernible tells. The mercenary was not worried, however; he still had several nights to observe before they moved on to Biarritz.
When Leon returned to his hotel that night, he requested the desk to send him every morning newspaper published in Montevideo. He ate his breakfast in bed as he read every paper where he found several accounts about Senor Amleto Battisti. While he was indeed a native of Uruguay, Battisti now resided in Havana, where he owned the largest, most opulent hotel/casino in Cuba, and was close friends with the president. He held interests in the transport of liquor and in the entertainment industry. Taking into account the nature of the syndicate members who were financing his foray into Biarritz, Leon judged with confidence Battisti was a leader in the Mafia. He also speculated the Spanish guerrillas had more than one reason to assassinate the Uruguayan. As communist freedom fighters against fascist dictator Francisco Franco, they would considered any member of the Mafia as a mortal enemy.
Leon arrived early at the casino that night wearing ordinary street clothes and entered through the kitchen where he bought a waiter’s uniform from an employee. It consisted of black tuxedo slacks, white linen shirt, black bowtie and red silk vest. As he moved from table to table, Leon concentrated on habits of the body guards.
Both were wide at the shoulders and thick of waist. One was as dark as Leon, but the other looked more Latin, perhaps from Cuba, Italy or France. The Latin was stolid, rarely moving his head either way. About halfway through the evening, The Latin motioned to his partner he had to make a trip to the men’s room. The darker guard’s face showed every emotion he was feeling as he scanned the room. Once in a while he lingered over the figure of a voluptuous woman. As a test, Leon let a glass slip from his tray and crash on the floor. The guard jumped and his left hand went involuntarily to a concealed shoulder harness.
The fourth night Leon returned in his white linen suit and sidled up to a blonde at the bar. Neither guard noticed him. Battisti used a handkerchief several times during the evening, but Leon couldn’t make out a pattern to his behavior. Perhaps he just had a cold. On the last night, Leon arrived in his tuxedo and the woman in the chocolate gown. Toward the end of the evening, as another experiment, he accused a man of brushing up next to his lady friend. The man was startled and stepped away, but Leon continued his loud, aggressive accusations. Battista and his Latin guard ignored the confrontation, but the black guard stirred and began to move in Leon’s direction when the gambler discreetly touched his sleeve. The accused man exited without a word, and the room resumed its normal atmosphere.
As a final test, Leon stepped in front of Battisti and his entourage as they left. None of them broke their stride or glanced Leon’s way. He not made any impression on them, a good sign for the upcoming occasion in Biarritz. Leon felt satisfied he was ready for anything that might arise on the hot border between France and Spain.