The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [92]
I nodded, waiting.
He glanced down at a notebook. “Freddie Bain was born Manfred Bannerhoff in the city of Omsk in the former Soviet Union. According to Interpol, Israeli police intelligence, and other sources, his father, Gerhardt Bannerhoff, was an officer in the Wehrmacht in World War Two. He was taken prisoner when von Paulus surrendered at Stalingrad. He survived the gulag, stayed in Russia, and married a Russian woman by whom, though well into his forties, he fathered Manfred. When he came of age, Manfred Bannerhoff changed his last name to Bannerovich. Then came glasnost. When Gorbachev opened the Soviet borders during the eighties to Jewish emigration, Bannerovich had himself circumcised, changed his name to Moshe ben Rovich, passed for a Jew, and made his way to Tel Aviv. Apparently a good number of Gentile Russians found themselves to be the sons and daughters of Israel during that time.”
“Yeah, a lot of Aryan-looking guys were walking around with sore dicks right around then,” Sergeant Lemure said, as though this time to deliberately irk the agent.
“History,” I murmured, “is full of ironies.”
Agent Johnson went on. “What Russia also exported to Israel was a criminal culture so cynical and cold-blooded in its operations it makes the Cosa Nostra look like a gentlemen’s club. Anyway, Moshe wanted bigger fish to fry than what was available in Tel Aviv. And besides, the Israelis are not that easy to exploit.”
“Yeah, they’ve all got guns and know to use them,” Sergeant Lemure said.
“So he emigrated to America?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“How could he do that? I mean if he was a criminal.”
“He’s also a businessman. He had accumulated substantial capital, enough to make himself respectable. His papers were in order. He didn’t have a record. He landed in New York, eventually morphing into Freddie Bain, all-American boy. Along the way, incidentally, he picked up fluent German, Hebrew, French, English, and some Nepali, along with his native Russian, of course.”
“He still has no record, officially,” Lieutenant Tracy put in.
Agent Johnson leaned back as though to give the floor to Sergeant Lemure.
“Right,” the sergeant said, “no priors, but he’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm. Extortion, armed robbery, prostitution, drug dealing, murder. But no convictions and no outstanding warrants.”
“Amazing,” I said.
The sergeant shrugged. “He has good Ivy League lawyers working for him. Anyway, he got in thick with the Russian mob in Brooklyn. Got right in up to his neck. The word on the street is that he crossed Victor ‘Dead Meat’ Karnivorsky on a million-dollar drug deal. Karnivorsky put out a contract on him. He’s called Dead Meat because once he says you’re dead meat, you’re dead meat.”
“But he’s still alive,” I put in, stating the obvious.
“Right. Freddie made a deal from what we’ve heard. He was allowed to live once he paid Karnivorsky twice what he owed him and agreed to disappear.”
“So he came up here.”
“Eventually. First he took off for Nepal for a couple of years. I mean he disappeared.”
Agent Johnson had the floor again. “Right. Then he landed here and quickly took over the Seaboard mob.”
“Seaboard has a mob?” I asked with some amazement.
“Every place has some kind of mob,” the agent said with weary cynicism. “Anyway, we can’t pin anything on him, but we think he’s mixed up in narcotics, prostitution, extortion, and probably quite a few legitimate businesses. He’s a very shrewd operator. He knows who to pay off and who to scare off. We suspect he may run a major pipeline for drugs moved around here and all up and down the East Coast. We think he uses the spices as a cover, but we haven’t been able to prove anything.”
“But why would he bother with Corny’s expedition?”
“He’s that kind of guy, Mr. de Ratour. He likes getting involved with things, weird things.”
“He certainly has Nazi leanings,” I said.
Agent Johnson nodded. “That’s been noted. But he’s also been a rabid Buddhist,