The Zero Hour

The digging took eight days. Meanwhile, an ETA contact procured, from the Hernani Powder Magazine, two hundred kilos of Goma Two explosives, in tubular lengths like Pamplona sausages. Five packages of explosives were placed in large, square milk cans a few meters apart along the transverse of the tunnel. For a long time, Baumann wrestled with the conundrum of how to ensure that the explosion would throw up a vertical, upward, force; he eventually solved the problem by sealing the tunnel up with several feet of tightly packed dirt.

The night before the assassination, Baumann dined alone on fresh baby eels and black sausage, washed down with Oruja. The next day-December 20, 1973-Carrero Blanco’s black Dodge Dart turned the corner of Diego de León on Calle Claudio Coello. There, Baumann stood on a ladder, dressed as a house painter. When the vehicle was directly over the tunnel, Baumann threw an electrical switch concealed in a paint can.

There was a muffled explosion, and the burning wreck of the car was catapulted high up into the air and over the roof of the five-story Jesuit mission and church to the second-floor terrace on the other side. At the Ogro’s funeral, Madrileños and right-wing partisans loudly sang the Falange anthem “Cara al Sol.”

When the frantic investigation was launched, Baumann fingered, through an intermediary, each of the ETA volunteers who had dug the tunnel. The ten died during the vigorous police “interrogation.” Baumann had done the job he was hired to do, and no one alive who was involved in the conspiracy had ever seen his face.

Now visitors to Madrid can find 104 Calle Claudio Coello, the building in which Baumann had rented the basement apartment, still standing and looking rather shabby. Across the street from it, at the exact site of the assassination, a stone plaque is engraved:

AQUI RINDIO SU ULTIMO SERVICIO

A LA PATRIA CON EL SACRIFICIO DE SU VIDA

VICTIMA DE UN VIL ATENTADO EL ALMIRANTE

LUIS CARRERO BLANCO

20-XII-1974

A few years after the bombing, a book was published internationally in which the four Basque leaders claimed total credit for the assassination, neglecting to mention that they had hired a professional. This fraudulent account had been suggested by Baumann. Not only did it redound to the greater glory of the Basque movement, but it deftly covered his tracks. The world didn’t have to know that the Basque ETA were bumblers. There were rumors-which persist to this day-that the CIA provided the Basques with intelligence support, to help defeat Franco. (The truth is, sophisticated intelligence was hardly needed.)

By the time Baumann had returned to Wachthuis, the headquarters of the South African security police in Pretoria, word had gotten around of his accomplishment. A story was told and retold of how H. J. van den Bergh, the six-foot-five head of the security police, reacted upon learning what one of his agents, Henrik Baumann-cryptonym Zero-had just done in Madrid. “Jesus Christ,” van den Bergh is said to have exploded. “Who the hell is this Baumann? An intelligence agent, my arse. He sounds like the bloody Prince of Darkness!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

At eight-thirty sharp the next morning, Duke Taylor arrived at his office at FBI headquarters in Washington and was startled to see both Russell Ullman and Christine Vigiani sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of his closed office door. To either side of them, rising in three towering piles, were folders, striped with various colors. The two looked weary, disheveled. The normally fresh-faced Ullman had heavy purple circles under his eyes. Vigiani’s eyes, which usually bulged with ferocious concentration, looked sewn shut.

“Jesus,” Taylor said. “You two look as if you slept in your clothes.”

“Yeah…” Vigiani began with malice.

“Your office door was locked,” Ullman interrupted, his voice hoarse. “I hope it’s okay we heaped the dossiers here.”

Taylor glanced admiringly at the three piles again and said. “Gosh, I didn’t think you’d take me literally.” He shook his head as he unlocked his office door. “Who wants coffee?”

When they were all seated, Ullman said: “Let’s start with the most obvious ones. Eliminating all those dead or in custody, that leaves mostly Arabs. Also, most of the better-known terrorists are fairly old by now.”

Taylor nodded encouragement.

“Ahmed Jabril, the leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine/General Command. Former captain in the Syrian army. Ba’athist. Hard-line Palestinian. He and his group are responsible-”

“Jabril’s a creature of Syrian intelligence,” Taylor interrupted. “Go ahead.” He was leaning back in his office chair, eyes closed. Vigiani and Ullman sat in chairs sandwiched among pillars of dossiers. As Ullman made his presentation, Vigiani pored through a stack in her lap and made notes on her clipboard.