Poets and Chess Players #3-1: In Which Mr. Echevarria Becomes A Privateer (Part One)

Matia wondered if there was a really discreet way of looking around a place for exits. He'd been trying for years, but still hadn't found one.

This is chapter 3 (part one) of Poets and Chess Players, a WWII spy adventure and drama serial. Previously, Viktor and Nadya made a pact to investigate Dr. Haber’s fate as ruthlessly as necessary. In this episode, one of Viktor’s missing contacts washes up in the US, just in time to meet up with his old enemy, the consequences of his own actions…

After going back and forth on it for a bit, I’m going to be breaking each into three parts from here on out and posting on a Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday schedule. Check out my housekeeping post for more information.

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November 19, 1941
Port of New York and New Jersey, USA

“I’m telling you, there’s some kin’ of mistake here,” Echevarria said.

The Customs official looked up at him unsympathetically. “You affirm that your name is Matias Echevarria?”

“Tha’s one of them, yeah.”

“And you’re from Los Angeles, California?”

He grimaced, deciding at the last second not to point out that he sure didn’t sound like it. He’d spent the majority of his life speaking either Spanish or Navarrese Basque, and most people noticed that it showed. “I wouldn’ say that.”

“Well, you marked down that you were born in Los Angeles -”

“In Bahía de San Pedro,” Echevarria insisted. “On an American ship at anchor.”

The little man behind the desk ventured a truly irritated look, the most feeling he’d shown in the last fifteen minutes, before continuing. “- on February 7, 1915, to nonresident alien parents, both citizens of Spain. Yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“All right.” He set down the paper bearing Echevarria’s affidavit for entrance without a passport and reached for a Manila file folder, which he then flipped open with more dignity than his opponent thought was due. “And might you therefore be the same ‘Matías Echeverría’ listed as an able seaman for the Maria Haas when she docked at San Francisco in April, 1939?”

Matia wondered if there was a really discreet way of looking around a place for exits. He'd been trying for years, but still hadn't found one. 

“Well...maybe,” he said, his eyes flickering around the room anyway. There wasn’t much; it was a small place, the walls lined with maritime bric-a-brac that had been threatening to distract him since he walked in. The door behind him had come from the hallway, a long and crowded one that he didn’t like his chances of being able to bolt through, even assuming he got past the sharp-suited man waiting by it. Another door probably went to a neighboring office. It was an old building, so the window was big enough to jump through - but that glass also looked awfully thick. He sidled over to an end table, just to see what he could get away with, and began innocently examining a commemorative ship-in-a-bottle. “That was a while ago. You people are the ones wit’ the records.”

“So we are.” The Customs man turned another page, apparently unconcerned. “Here's a copy of the police report. White or possibly mixed male calling himself Matías Echeverría. Stands about five foot nine inches, small frame, weighs about one-forty, aged early or mid-twenties. Black hair, dark eyes, overall dark complexion, has a scar one-and-a-half inches in length across his nose and brow. Said by the other crew to be an American and speak good English. Except for the scar, matches the description of one ‘Matia Echevarria’...previously arrested twice in the state of California for disturbance of the peace and destruction of property...fingerprints should be on file with the Los Angeles Police Department. If found, coordinate with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Matia rubbed the scar on his forehead - a relic of his days fighting in Spain - wishing not for the first time that he’d been faster than that Nacionale’s bayonet. The only thing missing from that description was the pencil mustache he’d grown in the meantime. Yeah, they had him…and for a lot more than he’d been expecting, if the FBI were about to get involved. He looked over his shoulder to see the official staring back at him in tranquil self-satisfaction, and said, “So I guess this ain’ about verifying my citizenship.”

“Oh, no - this is about the nine Chinamen in the hold of the Maria Haas. Mr. Echevarria, it seems you’re wanted for alien smuggling.” The bureaucrat closed the folder again and tucked his glasses into a pocket. “We’ll be taking your prints for comparison, of course. Agent Calloway, if you could-”

“Wait, wait,” Matia said, turning and holding his hands up in a pleading gesture that he didn’t really think would work. “I told you there’s a mistake here. I wasn’ involved in any of that.”

“But you admit you were there.”

Shit. This was exactly how he was losing track of the number of prisons he’d been inside in the last four years. What he wouldn’t give to have his father back, or even Crazy Vic - somebody to stand behind him with one hand on the brake. “Well…yeah,” he said sheepishly.

The two Customs men looked at each other across the room, and the one behind the desk gestured to his agent friend to go ahead and take Echevarria for printing. Matia was just reconsidering the window when the other door swung open. “Hey, Frank, I’ve got a couple more I need you to pass through for the Coordinator…” The familiar face at the door broke into a grin. "Mat Azeri, you sonuvabitch!"

Echevarria threw his arms out cheerfully. He hadn’t heard that particular alias since - what, ‘38, now? It was the war name he’d taken as a guerrilla in the International Brigades: one of many variations of Azeria, the Fox. “Lou Brennan! Hey, don’ tell me you’re out here working for a living like a chump?"

Lou came in and clapped him on the shoulder. "It’s worse than that, but - long story, Matty. Long story. What are you up to?”

“You know, the usual,” Matia said, holding up his wrists together in a mime for handcuffs. 

“That bad, huh?” Lou looked around him to the customs man, Frank. “What’s he done this time?”

“Your friend here has a warrant out for smuggling people,” Frank said, in a tone that seriously questioned Lou’s association with such a devious criminal.

“Hell, is that all?” Lou said breezily. “I can fix that. Just put ’im on my list with the others.”

Frank looked downright scandalized now. "There are also some open questions from the FBI about his political activities..."

"Even better. That's Bill's favorite kind." He reached past Matia to slap down a piece of stationery headed up by the phrase Office of the Coordinator of Information in large, italic letters. "C'mon, pal, don't make me get my badge out. We both already know who the President likes more."

Matia grinned all the way across his face as the Customs man reluctantly uncapped his pen and wrote Matias Echevarria at the bottom of the list of processing exceptions. "Someday that's not going to work for you anymore, Brennan," the man grumbled. 

"Sure. That's why I'm enjoying it while it lasts,” Lou said. He was already heading back out the door, and Matia wasn’t going to wait to ask any questions either. He pulled his too-big sea coat more securely onto his shoulders, hauled his duffel bag off the floor, and scrambled out of the room after his friend before anybody could stop him. 

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