The Intelligence Page

Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Part 15:
Martin Bormann, 1957

by Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco


“Have you the pictures of the two children?” he asked.

It was always as ‘the children’ or ‘that boy’ that he referred to them throughout, never giving a hint of his relationship to them, if any. I only knew the boy’s name was Adolfo and he was then about sixteen. The girl’s name was Stern; German for Star.

When he asked, I produced a pack of some fifty or sixty photographs of the children. I told the Führer that they seemed well and happy. As I spoke, he pored eagerly over the pictures and when I had finished, the questioning ceased. Without further sign from the old man behind the desk, the interview was over. One of the others in the room stepped up and tapped me on the shoulder, motioning me silently to leave. I rose, bowed slightly to the man at the desk, and left the room. The following day, I was flown back to Argentina.

I never again saw the man they called the Führer.

Throughout the flight, I cast my mind continually back to the macabre meeting with the hunched, shriveled man sitting in a Swastika decorated room in that little hut on the South Polar ice cap; the man his companions referred to as ‘the Führer’. Could this shrunken old man have been the one-time ranting, dominating dictator whom I had last seen in the Berlin Führerbunker during the collapse of Nazi Germany?

Was this poor creature, now presiding over a million square miles of nothing, the same as he who had conquered a continent? Was this Adolf Hitler?

I remembered the long conversations I had had with Hitler’s deputy Martin Bormann, during our long flight together out of Europe six years before. Then, Bormann told me how he had planned the escape of the Führer from the flaming hell of Berlin and how he planned to keep him hidden away until Nazism was again strong enough to lead Germany to freedom.

Now, as our aircraft droned on towards South America, I was filled with excitement. It seemed likely that all Bormann had told me was perfectly accurate, and that the Nazi Party would indeed prove strong and resilient enough to re-emerge.

Upon my return to my home in Cuidad Juarez, a little Mexican town close to the U.S. border, I settled down to await orders from the Nazi underground movement which I still served. My task - under the guise of working for a newspaper group - was to organize and seek contact with Nazi sympathizers in Central America, and to this end I received orders on a radio receiver-transmitter which I kept in the bedroom of my house.

It was just strong enough - it had a range of some 100 miles - to keep me in touch with the next link in the chain of Party workers strung the length of South America. But the days of waiting for the big news stretched into weeks; the weeks into months; and the months into years. The messages I did get were trivial. There was no sign of a call to arms from Bormann or any of the other high-ranking Nazi Party chiefs who had escaped to the sub-continent.

In early 1957, I decided to quit working for my Nazi masters. I yearned to return to my native Spain and settle there once more with my wife and children, and spend the rest of my life making up to them the time I had spent on the Nazis. But my plans were delayed.

On June 6th, 1957 my radio receiver brought me news which was to send me chasing through South America for yet another meeting with Martin Bormann. At first I balked at the uninformative order to proceed to Panama City and await further contact with another Nazi agent. Instead of following my orders as I had done for so long, I decided to take the bold step of flying direct to Germany to make contact with the men at the heart of the Nazi cause.

Here I hoped to get more definite instructions. If I did not, I resolved to quit the organization altogether and move back to a quiet life in Madrid.

To cover my trip, I proposed to my newspaper boss that I fly to Europe for a series of interviews. I managed to arrange one with General Franco, and this was sufficient to justify my journey, and I duly left. But immediately after my audience with Franco, I set out across Europe to the German town of Köln. Köln had replaced München as the new shrine of Nazism and it was here, I knew, that men such as Bormann came from all over the world for top-level talks on the Nazi situation at least once a year.

The way I made contact with the Nazi underground movement was to insert a specially worded advertisement in a Köln newspaper, giving my whereabouts. The day the ad appeared, I took a telephone call at my hotel and was instructed to attend a rendezvous at a certain cafe in the city.

There I was met by a man I had known during the war - a former SS officer, who is now among the group of highly important men who control the new Nazi party in Germany. This man took me to his home on Wagner Strasse where I stayed for two days. I explained my feelings to him and asked him to be more explicit about the trip I was supposed to make from Panama City, but he refused to be drawn. He simply said that the High Command had requested me to attend one of their meetings somewhere in South America. He only added that when I got there, I would appreciate the reason why I had been sent for.

This news reversed my pervious decision not to go. I resolved that I would make one more journey into South America, for I guessed that a request from the High Command could only lead to a meeting with Martin Bormann - the Nazi fugitive I had not seen since the day we stepped from a ‘pirate’ U-Boat off the coast of Argentina ten years before.

I returned immediately to Mexico and laid plans for my last journey at the bidding of Nazi Intelligence. First, I packed my wife back to Spain and told her I would rejoin her quite soon. Then, with my eldest son Angel, I moved to Chihuahua.

The next step was to shake off the American counter-espionage agent of the C.I.A. who had me under observation. This was not difficult since I had passed on considerable information about the activities of a Communist cell in Mexico to the U.S. military attaché in Mexico City. The CIA agents who kept tabs on me did not seem unduly interested when I let it be known that I was to embark on a tour of Latin American countries with a bullfighting circus. I had great fun setting up my traveling bullring. I’d been a pretty good bullfighter myself in the arenas of Spain in the early 1930’s and I looked forward to the trip as a pleasant holiday.

As I say, I took my son with me and also recruited a young woman who was trying to make a name for herself in the somewhat crude bullfights of Latin America. It would be useful to have her along, I thought. Having her in the show gave it an attraction and made my travels appear to be a serious business venture. I bought all the equipment we needed in Mexico City. We set out for Panama, traveling via El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. All the way down, my little show and the woman bullfighter, whom I had christened ‘Lola Montez’ proved a big attraction.

Just outside Panama City, in a little town called Davis, I met my contact agent. He was a German named Karl who had taken up cattle breeding, he had apparently been in the business since about 1947. I guessed his story. Anyway, he informed me that I was to travel to Ecuador, and he gave me the location of a farm in the state of Cuenta in that country where, he said, the High Command meeting was due to take place.

I plodded on with my traveling bullring. It was hard work, since I found myself having to go into the ring myself to rouse the bulls sufficiently to make a show of it for the now deadly efficient Lola. It was usual when we arrived in any town, for me to travel around searching for reasonably impressive bulls, which were hard to come by. Consequently, when we finally got to Cuenta, I hired a truck and gave the driver the address of the farm, as told me by Karl.

Unfortunately, the truck was unable to go the whole way and I had to resort to hiring a mule, which picked its way towards the farm, nestled in the foothills of the Andes. The journey on the back of a mule proved as hair-raising as any I had ever made. Some of the ravines we were forced to cross here were spanned by planks of wood, no more than 18 inches wide, and I found myself hanging on, terrified, to the neck of the mule.

Worn out but thankful that I had not come to any great harm, I reached the farm. It was a large, splintery wooden house with several smaller cabins dotted around, and as I walked across the dusty ground towards the house, I was approached by the apparent owner, an Ecuadorian, and a posse of about fifty indians. Quickly, I explained that I had come for the meeting.

“Meeting, Senôr?” said the man without emotion. “There is no meeting here.”

Mystified and more than a little annoyed, I turned to go. But the man called me back and said that since I had obviously come a long way, he would be pleased if I would join him in a drink. He led me into the house and poured me a glass of the local spirit, a rather fierce drink rather like brandy to taste but with twice the kick. We talked in Spanish about nothing very much for a minute or two at the end of which, I drank up and made my farewell. I was just about to leave the house when a sunburned but obviously European man appeared in the doorway.

“Are you Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco?” he asked in German.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Then come this way.” he said and led me through a door and up a flight of narrow wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated a moment, then threw open the door and bade me enter.

I walked into a very large room where seven men were seated around a long, cloth-covered table. And there, smiling a welcome from the top of the table, was Martin Bormann. I recognized him instantly, but ten years had left their mark on his features. He was now almost completely bald and had deep pouches on his cheeks, but in his eyes and smiles there was no mistaking the man I had brought out of Europe.

I made the Nazi salute as I entered the room and the group responded immediately by rising and answering “Heil Hitler!”

Martin was first to speak: “Man, you’ve grown old, Angel.”

“And the years have made a difference to you, too Martin.” I countered with a chuckle.

Bormann invited me to sit down at the table and join himself and the others for coffee. He made no attempt to introduce me to these men, mostly Germans, and I recognized none of them.

More Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Note:

This story began in KTB #110 and is quite an eye-opener, but this is only the tip of the iceberg! The first part of this incredible story is the very long letter sent to us some years ago by DON ANGEL ALCAZAR de VELASCO (158-+-1985), Chief of the Spanish spy ring working for the Hitler Government during World War II.

Was he really a spy working for the Hitler Government? Yes, we confirmed this with CAPT BOB THEW (333-+-1987) when BOB was in our HQ some years ago. He said that DON ANGEL was not a very good agent, but he certainly was one. And from the other side, PETER HANSEN (251-LIFE-1987) also confirmed DON ANGEL was an agent for Germany but not a very good one. Is everything in the letter from DON ANGEL true? Judge that for yourself - but wait until all the data has been presented.

Please remember that we ask you to keep these facts in mind while reading this incredible story by DON ANGEL.

    1) DON ANGEL was an ardent NAZI throughout the War and up to the time of his death. This is obvious from time to time in the text of this letter, so don’t let it bother you.
    2) Spies and agents usually tend to embellish their feats and DON ANGEL was no different, so we must ‘add a grain of salt’ to some of these revelations.
    3) There are twists and turns in this long letter; some HARD facts in our files we’ll print after this letter. DO NOT FORM AN OPINION until you have read all the amazing facts you’ll see here on our INTELLIGENCE PAGE.

Back to KTB #124 Table of Contents
Back to KTB List of Issues
Back to MagWeb Master Magazine List
© Copyright 1996 by Harry Cooper, Sharkhunters International, Inc.
This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com
Sharkhunters International, Inc., PO Box 1539, Hernando, FL 34442, ph: 352-637-2917, fax: 352-637-6289, e-m: sharkhunters@hitter.net