Chapter Eight
Felipe Culdero was a very successful bomber. His technological skills were undeniably expert level, his bomb placement was pinpoint accurate for maximum destruction, his radio signals were timed just right, and his kill rate was high. He loved everything about bombs—the nerve-wracking process of building them, the planting of them in the most logical and effective place to ensure a proper assassination, the thunderous reverberation, the shock, chaos and fear it produced, the wreckage and devastation left in its wake. Culdero considered himself to be a consummate artist of bombs, a Michealangelo, a DaVinci of death.
Thus, his mood was not good as he sat in his car, fuming over Maxwell's apparent survival of the mantle explosion. He had been outside the condo when they arrived, ready with his radio signal device, knowing instinctively how long to wait to ensure Maxwell and his partner were inside, and vulnerable to attack. He had pushed the button, the bomb had naturally exploded. But, instead of Maxwell being crushed and torn apart by beams and brick, furniture and walls, he had flown out the window, his main fall broken by a truck and a car, dampening the effect of his landing on the hard ground. Culdero's face was twisted into frustration—his first bomb survival in over six years. As for Maxwell's partner, Ralph, he had been nowhere to find. Gone. Disappeared. Vaporized. But, Culdero was sure he was alive, too and must have escaped in all the confusion and milling about, so that even Culdero's eagle eyes had not espied him. Culdero disdained Ralph. Some partner. Not even going down to the street to help his injured friend. Hinkley's survival equally was as important as his abandonment of his partner. Both of them made him consider Hinkley to be lower than a worm.
Culdero held loyalty in the highest regard—he was obsessed about it. In face, all these recent bomb attacks he had instigated were due to disloyalty, to men who treated vows and rituals and promises as trash to be thrown out come next garbage day. He despised men like that. Men whose word was meaningless, who laid heartfelt claim to an eternal motto only to one day, thirty years later, simply laugh at it, and call it silly.
Culdero had been involved in Alpha Alpha Omega thirty years ago, when he, at age twenty-nine, had been the National Prime Head Master of the Fraternity. One of the country's smallest Greek Fraternities, AAO only had a presence on six campuses-- Princeton, Temple U, Stanford, Rutgers, University of California at Berkley, and Northwest U--and members were invited individually to join. Born and raised in Spain until he was eighteen, his immersion in AAO during his years at Stanford had affected him deeply, enough so that he had committed himself to rising up the organizational hierarchy of the Fraternity for some years afterward. He had plans, Culdero did, and he saw right away that the motto of AAO—To Strive, To Commit, To Win—had possibilities for his own future he simply had to have the patience to see come to fruition.
He instituted a ritual change in AAO that entailed the men, upon graduation, were sworn to uphold whatever they were told to do, and then were given secret scrolls to keep in locked wooden boxes until they were contacted by an AAO member. Only he knew what the scrolls portended.
All the AAO men took this oath, and received their scrolls, for the next five years, until Culdero left the Head Master job. The practice was discontinued after that by the Fraternity. Culdero returned to Spain with his own business degree, but his job was boring and his paycheck repugnant. He embezzled some money from his employee, but it was unsatisfying and insubstantial for the risks involved. In an act he considered Fate, he befriended an old English OSS drunk in Madrid one evening in a ratty bar where Culdero occasionally picked up prostitutes. Culdero fell in love with the stories of his WWII bomb exploits, and like an alcoholic always remembering his first drink, Culdero never forgot the first explosion his friend showed him in a field on Saturday, made with home-made materials one could purchase in a hardware store. It was a religious epiphany for Felipe Culdero, at age forty-one. He was "born again" into detonations.
He became a bomb addict. He read everything he could and soon had a huge knowledge base of skills. Realizing that the best way to practice his growing skills was to take his book knowledge and apply it, he delved into the criminal world. Among those men he could gather decent supplies, including plastic explosives, and have his talent be used and appreciated. Which it was, now and then. His was a fine art, not to be abused. He was put on a steady payroll by the local mafiosa, and paid well when he blew someone up. He traveled regularly as part of his job and by forty-eight had an international reputation for efficiency and effectiveness.
He aligned himself with the Irish Republican Army, for the sheer pleasure of being actively busy exploding bombs in England. He trained other IRA bombers too, such as the infamous "Balcombe Street Gang", which set off five bombs within ten days in England. He had liked England and aligned himself with the crime syndicates there.
Interpol set up a High Priority file on him, but he was never caught, never arrested.
But, Europe did grow hot for him. He escaped three assassination attempts of his own, from family members of those killed by him. Police tracked him down a couple of times, and if he hadn't be so meticulous about always having escape routes planned from his living quarters, he would have wound up rotting in jail. He also grew tired of taking orders from others and slowly, over the years, began setting up his own syndicate based in England, until now, at sixty-two he felt he was on the verge of making it big. His organization did a little bit of drug trafficking, protection services, prostitution rings. A smaller organization than the more established, older ones, he was still developing, still coalescing his power, still earning respect as a boss, not an underling. He knew he was looked on warily, but had confidence he would show the others he was a man to treat equally. He decided to move his base of operations out of Europe, into a country which hardly knew him. He brought in a handful of close criminal friends, who, like him, could use a place to start anew and reign a little havoc. Gerard was one of those men, sickeningly effete to Culdero's Catholic upbringing, but one of the best phone tappers in the business. It was Gerard's handiwork on the Popolopokis' phone that had enabled him to learn Bill Maxwell had discovered his connection to the recent bombings. Taking him out before he and the FBI could put the whole scenario together was absolutely necessary. Gerard had followed directions perfectly, directing them to a sham condo that Culdero owned but did not live in. Extra apartments were useful, to hide in and to lure others to. No need to actually destroy his own living space, set up under an alias. Gerard had done admirably, his note had drawn them into the apartment, and his bomb had been magnificent. It was a simple plan, perfectly executed.
Only, Maxwell was still alive. Even accounting for the unfathomable placement of vehicles, breaking Maxwell's fall to the ground, how that car how not run him over was unfathomable. And that niggling problem of Ralph's survival made his day doubly bad.
Both of them had to be taken care of.
His plans were too grandiose, to attainable to have them be curtailed now. He would eventually link his American syndicate with those he knew in Europe, to make a world-wide criminal empire, run from the sunny skies of Los Angeles, California, where his chilly blood would enjoy the year long warmth.
Money and supplies were what he most needed. Having made a good income as a bomber, he had also lived luxuriantly; saving money had never been his priority. He couldn't pass up a new suit, a new watch, an expensive female escort, a fabulous bottle of one hundred year old scotch. There were also payroll and supply monies to constantly dole out. His art gallery, condo and home had cost considerable funds, even though his condo was insured under another alias. He didn't dare attempt to claim anything on it, now.
Their little crime wave in California and Phoenix had been helping out with start up costs. Culdero had also decided, after thirty or so years, to call in his AAO ritual promises. It had been easy at first. AAO graduates had kept in touch with him for nearly ten years, sending life updates to him, so many were easy to track down. The Colonel in the Air Force, stationed at Malmstrom, hadn't had $100,000 to give him, so he "helped as specified" by turning bomb materials over to one of Culdero's men. The Colonel had not been able to break his ancient vow--to aid the AAO when required-- although he had committed suicide not long after his treasonous act. Military men understood vows, understood how one's honor depended on remembrance of rites passed, and sworn oaths.
But, the other Americans contacted had not been so amenable. Americans were soft, weak, and made promises which melted, dissolved, over time; they had no sense of history, of dignity, of honor. The four businessmen Culdero had contacted had all refused to give him money, or help him with his illegal actions, and so had been killed. Tit for Tat. Vow breakers deserved no less.
Culdero decided to give up on flawed American businessmen and focus more on thefts than AAO scrolls, as a way to garner the money needed. His sense of pride, his egotism, demanded he also finish the job with Maxwell and Hinkley.
And sooner, much sooner, than later.