Ghosts of the Past (18 page)

“Sorry this one just arrived also.” Shawna leaned around the doorframe again and handed another file to Stewart as he popped out of the chair.

Stewart opened it up and leafed through a couple of pages.

“You’ll like this.” Stewart said.

“What do you have?” replied Shutt.

“Ballistics matched up the slugs from Jose here,” Stewart lifted a picture of Garagua, “and the two punks from the Karl house.”

“So we’ve got the same shooter from both scenes.” Shutt walked over to the bulletin board, stuck a pin through the close-up of Mr. Jones and added it to the collage. “My guess would be this is our gunman!”

“Looks like it.” Stewart walked over to the board.

Shutt scratched the back of his head, “Who the fuck is this guy, and why does he want these three people dead?”

“I’d say the secret lies with Ferguson and the girl.”

Shutt somberly stared at the writing board and saw only two names listed as
actors
under both crime scenes… Matt Ferguson and Courtney Lewis
.
“I’d say you’re right on the money.”

The gulfstream taxied to the private hangar on the west side of Barbados’ Bridgetown airport. The jet stopped short of entering the building, long enough to let down the fuselage door and expel Julio Bolivar, before slowly penetrating the large double doors that had just completed retracting open.

Bolivar walked across the open tarmac to an idling Land Rover, taking in the incredible orange, blue and purple pastel sky rising from behind the island’s mountain backbone. A large, native black man opened the back door to the vehicle and closed the door behind Bolivar as he eased his tired body into the leather seat next to Guillermo Rocca. The vehicle shifted into gear and slowly pulled away from the airport.

“Good to see you Julio. I’m sorry about Carlos.” Rocca said matter-of-factly.

“Good to see you Mr. Rocca. I’m sorry for the screw-up.” Bolivar replied, knowing full well the conversation was going to be a subtle ass chewing, with punishment masked as pleasantries.

Rocca crossed his right leg over his left and shifted his body position to face Bolivar. He reached out and touched his shoulder, as if a father would his son. “Tell me what happened.”

For the third time, the first face-to-face, Bolivar explained the sequence of events from the time they first got to Louisville, to his aborted attempt at trying to recover Garagua. The story never changed. Bolivar knew that Rocca was testing him, trying to find a crack or inconsistency that would indicate something other than the truth. He was okay with that. He would do the same if a subordinate had screwed up as badly as he and Garagua had.

Rocca listened patiently, and then said, “And you have no idea who the other man in the apartment was?”

“Not a clue Mr. Rocca. We never paid any attention to anyone going in other than Courtney Lewis and her man friend.”

“Well, I have to believe he knows what we know, and he is willing to kill for it. A very dangerous development. Have you given any thought to damage control?”

“Yes, I have some ideas, but I’m afraid that we’re not going to be able to keep the company out of this mess.”

“I didn’t think we would,” Rocca’s voice reflecting some of the anger that was bubbling under the surface. “Let’s hear some of your thoughts.”

“Well the biggest problem we have is they have Carlos’ body. I have his I.D. and other personal stuff he had with him, but I couldn’t find the keys to his rental car. I have to assume he had them on him and the police have them now. We made the mistake of using the corporate card to book the cars, so that will undoubtedly allow the authorities to discover Carlos’ identity and lead them back to us. That means they will eventually get to Juan, or quite possibly you.”

“Go on.” Rocca casually nodded his acceptance of the predicament. He had already informed Juan Sanchez, president of Rocca International, of the situation and given him some direction on how to handle any inquiries that might come his way. However, he was still interested in where Bolivar was headed.

“I’ll take the blame. I will say that Carlos and I had gone to meet Miss Lewis on your behalf to discuss an exhibition of a part of your collection at her museum. I went to meet her at her apartment, but two men were there. She asked me politely to leave, but there was obviously something wrong about her guests. After discussing it with Carlos, he decided to go back in to see if he could help. I told him to leave it alone, but he was adamant. I will say I think he was infatuated with her. He paid off a local pizza delivery boy for the hat and delivery bag, took a gun and went back up to the apartment. The next thing I knew, the place was crawling with cops. When Carlos did not come back out of the building, I knew something was wrong. I got scared and ran.”

Rocca stroked his chin with his right thumb and forefinger, while he shifted his gaze out the window. He said nothing. The Land Rover came to a stop outside two large iron gates that seem to grow out of an enormous outcrop of local vegetation. The gates opened and another native islander, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, waved at them as they drove through the gates and down a tunnel of palm trees lining a shell gravel road.

As they emerged from the trees, Rocca’s palatial estate came into full view. Perched upon a bluff overlooking the Caribbean from the northern side of the island, Bolivar was privy to a magnificent sunrise out his side window, as the large, orange, hazy ball was radiating an intense streak of light across the placid blue and green sea.

They arrived at the front entrance of the white stucco, Mediterranean style mansion via a circular driveway, and were escorted by three houseboys from the truck, through the large foyer and hallway, to the large semi-circular veranda on the backside of the house. Along the way Rocca ordered champagne and breakfast and then guided the two of them to a round, umbrella’d table at the edge of the railing overlooking the 100 foot tiered drop to a secluded bay below. The white sand beaches and turquoise water were coming to life under the rising sun.

“It’s a good story, very plausible.” Rocca spoke first.

Bolivar sat at the table but offered no response.

“They’re sure to find the bugs in her apartment. How would you suggest we handle that?”

“Carlos and I paid cash for the surveillance equipment. The bugs were all made from domestic, off-the-shelf stuff. They cannot trace that to Carlos or me. I’d say we play dumb on that one, and let them infer they were planted by the shooter.” Bolivar replied.

The eggs benedict, toast and jam, sausages, assorted fruits, and champagne arrived accompanied by two servants, and Rocca pulled the bottle of Tattinger from the large silver ice bucket and poured two glasses. Bolivar visibly relaxed, sensing this may not be as big an ass chewing as he thought it was going to be.

“Here’s to Carlos!” Rocca said, as he raised his glass right-handed, while handing Bolivar the other glass with his left.

Bolivar received the offering and lifted it to meet Rocca’s with a gentle clink of the crystal. “To Carlos!”

They both sipped the sparkling wine simultaneously, and returned the glasses to the table. Rocca looked off at the rising sun just as it crept higher over the watery horizon, and then returned his piercing brown eyes to meet Bolivar’s.

“If you fuck up again like that Julio, you’ll be eating dust in the mines. You understand me?”

“I understand completely.” Bolivar replied somberly.

Rocca stabbed his fork at a plate of sliced fruits that rested between their plates and called out for the servants. “I’ll have them set you up on the beach. It’s a wonderful place to take a nap. I’m sure you could use one.”

“Very much so!
Gracias.
”

It had been raining in Munich for hours, with no sign of letting up. Between the wind and the three broken ribs, Mr. Jones was struggling to keep the umbrella up over his head as he walked south down Maximillianstrasse.

The flight over from New York had been easy. A hydrocodone for pain, two ambian for sleep, three martinis to enhance the effect, and the majority of the first class flight had been consumed by half sleep, half coma. The bumpy approach and landing had signaled the return of the pain he had been in since he had stumbled out of Courtney Lewis’ apartment less than 20 hours earlier, minutes before the police had arrived.

He had settled himself in the Bayersicher Hof Hotel roughly one hour earlier, and as instructed by the message at the front desk, he was strolling along Maximillianpaltz, one of Munich’s most splendid boulevards, waiting to be picked up by a passing auto.

Not more than five minutes after embarking on his walk, a large silver Mercedes sedan pulled to the curb just in front of him and stopped. Out popped a chauffeur from the driver’s side who promptly opened the rear door and offered an open palmed entrance to the car with his right hand. Mr. Jones limped noticeably to the open door and climbed in.

Seated to his left was a very distinguished, silver haired gentleman, impeccably dressed in a three-piece Armani suit, who gave a brief smile of greeting as the door closed behind him.

“Guten
tag,
Gerhard,”
said Erwin Leiter as he waved at his chauffeur to proceed.

“Good to see you Herr Leiter,” replied Gerhard Alden.

“Was it as bad as you look?” Leiter inquired.

Alden had removed the sunglasses he was wearing, revealing the multiple bruises on his face. “Just as bad, if not worse!”

“Well, you will have some recuperation time. I’ve decided we will not pursue the letter.”

Alden had an initial look of confusion, but quickly disguised his dismay. “As you wish Herr Leiter.”

“Don’t be discouraged Gerhard, we are not giving up. Quite the contrary, we have been able to track Mr. Ferguson and Miss Lewis via their credit cards. They are both booked on flights that will take them from the U.S. to Zurich. We will trail them from there, and let them lead us to the crash site. If and when they discover it, we will be there… excuse me… you will be there to clean up this little mess once and for all.” Leiter’s eyes bore a hole through Alden. “And please, don’t screw it up this time, or it will be the last thing you will do in this lifetime.
Verstehen
Sie?
”

“
Jawohl
Herr Leiter,” Alden sat up rigid, “I understand completely.”

Erwin Leiter, at the age of 79, was one of the wealthiest industrialists in all of Europe. He was a principal shareholder in Allianz, Siemens, Volkswagen, UBS, Robert Bosch, BMW, Bayer and AXA. He privately owned, or held controlling interest in another dozen companies located in France, Denmark, Switzerland, Italy and Saudi Arabia. Additionally, his real estate holdings rivaled the largest private holdings in Western Europe. Well respected among his peers, he had endless political and social clout, money, and above all else… charm.

Leiter controlled enormous purse strings. He doled out large sums of money from his wealth to a variety of persons and organizations all over the globe, and in return poured vast sums back into his coffers through his actions and the actions of those he impacted. Without a doubt, he was one of the most influential men on the planet.

Born in Munich, Germany in 1923, to Sophia Leiter, he was the illegitimate son of Heinrich Muller, one of the most notorious and powerful SS officers in the Nazi state terror system.

Sophia Leiter had been widowed in 1922 at the tender age of 22. Relying on her incredible beauty, a product of her northern Italian heritage, and blessed with a wonderful singing voice, she began performing in the burgeoning nightclubs of Munich to make ends meet. It was at the
Club
Decanter
, she met a young police officer by the name of Heinrich Muller. They had a torrid love affair that lasted almost two months, and consumed all of Muller’s attentions. It ended when Muller’s immediate boss, Reinhard Heydrich, the Bavarian Police Chief, politely suggested the tryst end or Muller risk the end of his career in the increasingly influential Gestapo wing of the Nazi Party.

It ended abruptly. Later that fall, Sophia gave birth to her one and only child, Erwin Leiter. The following spring, Sophia and Erwin moved to Berlin. It would be ten years before Muller found out about the child. He would eventually provide Sophia with a considerable stipend for her and his young son, set her up in a comfortable apartment and managed to wield his growing power and import to set up Erwin in the finest schools in Berlin. His impact came to fruition during the war, as he was able to implore his friend from the old Gestapo days, Hermann Goering, to take a young Erwin Leiter into the Luftwaffe as an officer, and assign him to the general staff, well out of the way of the action. Muller went to great pains to keep the existence of his son a secret. No one was remotely aware, or ever discovered the connection between the two.

Ironically in the latter stages of the war, as Hitler’s paranoia grew demonstrably, young Leiter was recruited by his father to help spy on Goering and his staff for the SS, and to report of any possible actions that might appear as though Goering intended to remove Hitler from power. For this, he was greatly rewarded both personally and financially. He achieved the rank of Captain at the very young age of 22.

In March of 1945, with the war undeniably headed to a close, Muller met with Leiter and revealed his long kept secret. One week later Leiter joined a very select group of SS officers at a remote chalet in the Black Forest on the outskirts of Stuttgart. At that meeting were senior members of what remained of the vaunted SS. Realizing the inevitability of the war’s outcome, and recognizing the resultant fury civilized man would loose as a result of their actions, a master plan of action was conceived to enable the escape of it’s members and to afford them the opportunity to integrate back into the world’s societies. As a result of that meeting, the
Organisation
der
ehemaligen
SS-Angehorigen
or Organization of Former Members of the SS was created. Commonly referred to as ODESSA, the organization was formed to help facilitate the means by which this master plan could be fulfilled.