Ghosts of the Past (19 page)

Financial instruments were established, providing vast resources to be drawn upon in the future to affect the group’s long-range goals. However, initial efforts concentrated on securing the disappearance of many of the murderers to other countries. Many others never left Germany. Operating under new identities, they blended into the populace, and went to work setting up political and financial networks, right under the watchful eye of Allied rule.

Heinrich Muller remained loyal to Adolph Hitler to the very end. All trace of Muller was lost on April 29, 1945, and to this day, his whereabouts could never be confirmed.

Erwin Leiter never left Germany. There was never a shred of evidence that he had any affiliation with the SS. His father had gone to great pains to provide for that. His Luftwaffe record was unremarkable, and even though he served on Goering’s staff, his age and the fact that he never officially joined the Nazi party, precluded him from being connected to any responsibility of the atrocities wrecked on the European continent. He was the perfect choice within ODESSA to manage and grow the collective financial wealth the organization had cultivated in the closing months of the war. After serving the required two years in a prisoner of war camp, he was released, and immediately began exploiting the untapped financial resources in a post-war reconstructive Western Europe. He never disappointed, exceeding even the wildest possible scenario for success.

The Mercedes sedan returned to the street corner outside the Bayersicher Hof Hotel. Alden prepared to exit the vehicle as it came to a halt.

“Enjoy your stay Gerhard. Get some rest. We will contact you the minute they arrive in Zurich,” said Leiter.

“
Danke
Herr
Leiter!
I’ll be ready.”

Alden exited the car with some pain. Before he could reach the front door, Leiter’s Mercedes had disappeared.

The Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International airport is just under 70 miles from downtown Prospect. Uncle Max’s fully restored 1968 Triumph TR250 made it into the long-term parking lot in 66 minutes, 40 minutes ahead of their 11:00 am departure time. For Ferguson and Courtney, the ride up Interstate 71 in the old convertible was exhilarating. The prospect of flying off to Switzerland in search of lost treasure, the lingering effects of the day before, and the crisp spring air rushing over them had fine-tuned their senses.

Earlier that morning, after making substantial withdrawals from their respective bank accounts and retrieving his passport, they had driven out scenic Covered Bridge Road on their way to accessing the Interstate. Stopping at the Crestwood exit to fill up with gas, they placed a phone call to detective Shutt’s office from the pay phone in the parking lot. He picked it up on the third ring.

“Detective Shutt speaking.”

“Detective… Matt Ferguson here. Before you jump all over me, please let me explain why we have not come in.”

“I’m listening.” Shutt stood up from his desk chair, covered the mouthpiece, and yelled at Stewart from his cubicle, “Steve, get a trace on this call, hurry!”

“We got your messages. Based on what you said, Courtney and I still feel we cannot come in yet.”

“You two better get your asses in here, and quick!” Shutt interrupted, stalling for time.

“Please detective, let me finish.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “As I told you before, we are in possession of knowledge that is potentially worth a lot of money, I mean a lot of money. There is nothing illegal about it, but apparently, there are people out there that have discovered what we know, and feel a need to get the information and the financial return it can offer. Obviously, at any cost. Unfortunately, the only link to who they are, escaped from Courtney’s apartment last night, before you were able to get him. We would have been willing to come in if you had gotten him. There is no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the death of Dr. Karl and the other two killed with him. He definitely was responsible for the murder of the guy in Courtney’s place. We have no clue who that fella was, but it appeared as though he was trying to help us before he was shot. If I had the opportunity, if… if I could have found one of the guns last night, I would have killed the bastard that got away.”

“You’re not telling me anything I pretty much don’t already know.” Shutt admonished. “Do you have any clue who the gunman was that you knocked unconscious?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea who he was, and therein lies the problem.”

“And what would that be?” Shutt asked.

“Without him, we have no way of knowing who he is, or more importantly, how many more of him is there. I can assure you he is not alone.”

“The more reason for you two to turn yourselves in so we can protect you.” Shutt stood up to face Stewart, who was circling the pointed index finger on his right hand, indicating to keep the conversation going.

“Actually that’s the reason for us not to turn ourselves in right now. Neither one of us wants to be held captive in protective custody, over something we may, or may not know. Particularly if its going to be for an indefinite period of time that we have no control over. If you can’t find out who they are, then they are waiting for us as soon as we’re back on the street. In the not-to-distant future, we can prove whether the information we have is worth what we think it is. If it is or is not, we will have the opportunity to make it public knowledge, which will eliminate the need for anyone to harm us in the future. That may not solve your case, I realize, but I’m more concerned about saving Courtney’s and my life.”

“We have a line on the suspect. We are running information on him as we speak. We’ll get him, I’m certain of that.” Shutt lied.

“Who is he?” Ferguson asked.

“That’s privileged information, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to jeopardize our investigation.” Shutt replied.

“Well, until you can, we are not turning ourselves in.” Ferguson called his bluff.

Steve Stewart flashed the thumbs up sign with his right hand.

“Well, let me explain something to you Mr. Ferguson. Right now, you and Miss Lewis are witnesses in a capital murder case. If necessary, I will change that to suspects, and issue warrants for your arrest. I can appreciate your interest in trying to save your bacon, but I think we are probably the best outlet to do that for you. So get your shit together, and get you and your girlfriend down to the station where we can put you somewhere safe until we find out who’s responsible for all the hell that’s breaking loose.”

“Let me think it over. I’ll call you back first thing in the morning.” Ferguson waved at Courtney, who was leaning on the hood of the car sipping on a Coke, to get back in the car.

“Make it first thing. After that, we will be coming for the both of you. Understood? Shutt asked.

“Understood.” Ferguson hung up the pay phone receiver and joined Courtney in the car. They exited the gas station parking lot, turned right up the entry ramp to Interstate 71, accelerated into the right lane and settled in for the one hour drive to the Cincy airport.

“It’s a pay phone out in Crestwood. A Shell gas station.” Steve Stewart said, handing Shutt a small piece of notepaper with the address on it.

“Get a uniform over there ASAP!” Have them check it out, and call me back. If they’re still there, arrest them both.” Shutt grabbed the back of his neck with his right hand and started to rub the kinks out. “Crestwood? What the hell’s in Crestwood?” He yelled at Stewart as he was walking away. “Steve, also start canvassing Crestwood and Pewee Valley for anything that resembles a hotel, motel, bed and breakfast, anyplace they could be hiding out. We also need background checks and bios on both Ferguson and Lewis. Get whatever you can on the two of them. Immediate family, phone records, contacts at work, banking info, credit cards, the works. You and I can sift through it later tonight.”

Shawna Hammer waited for Stewart to leave before intruding on Shutt. “I’ve got some good news and bad news. The bad news is we got a big fat zero on the face from the garage video.”

“FBI?” Shutt asked with a look of bewilderment.

“Notta. We ran it through every data bank we have.”

Shutt was confused. This person was no doubt a professional. The hits at Karl’s house were way too clean. People like that usually always have some kind of history on the radar screen. He plopped down in his chair and stared at his bulletin board. “And the good news?”

“Our dead Latino is Carlos Garagua, Bolivian. He rented a car after flying in two days ago. Get this…” she threw down the file labeled
Garagua,
“he flew in on a private jet. Belongs to an outfit called Rocca International, solely owned by some highfalutin, richer-than-god, businessman playboy from South America.” Shawna turned to leave.

“Wait!” Shutt called to Shawna. “Karl was German. Our stiff is from south of the border. This is starting to have an international flavor about it. Did you try Interpol?”

“No! Everything we ran was domestic.” Shawna replied.

“Send our shooter again. Try every avenue outside the borders. In fact, make sure we run him through German police agencies; maybe this Nazi connection will bear some fruit. If need be, get the Feds to help you out with the overseas stuff.”

“You got it boss.” Shawna exited down the same hall as Stewart had five minutes earlier.

High pressure dominated the weather pattern in the northeast, so the flight to Newark was pleasant and unremarkable. After making their connection, Ferguson and Courtney boarded the L-1011 for the balance of the 18-hour flight to Zurich.

At the check-in counter in Cincinnati, while Ferguson had disappeared to the bathroom, Courtney had taken the liberty of checking on upgrades for the second leg of the trip from Newark. With several available, she had paid for two of them, and they were now being seated up front in the larger more spacious accommodations of first class, and the flight attendant was already asking for their drink orders.

“Are you responsible for this?” Ferguson cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Courtney.

“I thought we could stand to travel in style, especially for the long flight. My treat, I didn’t think you would mind.” Courtney replied.

“A very nice treat. Thank you!” Ferguson turned from Courtney to the waiting flight attendant, “I think we’ll have some champagne”, he looked back at Courtney, “my treat, is that alright by you?”

“Perfect!” She winked, with a slight grin.

Ferguson could not help but notice how incredibly beautiful she looked. He caught himself staring at her, and realized she was gazing back in return. Just for the moment, they were both aware of the chemistry that was fomenting between them.

After liftoff and three glasses of champagne, they spent the next two hours talking and laughing over a bottle of Trefethen merlot and filet mignon, an excellent meal by airplane food standards. The conversation was more discovery in nature, as they both let down any inhibitions they were holding on to, and began revealing more intimate details of their life’s histories. They were in their own little world. It was as if nobody was around them. No mention of the immediate problems at hand. Not a word about the adventure that lay ahead.

Once the movie started, and the alcohol and tiredness had set in, Ferguson found himself reclined and on the verge of sleep, while Courtney had strategically placed her pillow so that it gravitated onto his shoulder, and was already in a deep slumber. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt more relaxed. Sleep came easy.

“Excuse me Mr. Bolivar,” came an inquiry in heavily French—accented English. It was accompanied by a gentle nudge from a tall, lanky and very black servant standing over Bolivar, who was nestled comfortably in a rope hammock strung between two leaning palm trees.

Bolivar struggled with his eyelids as he slowly acknowledged the prodding by the servant.

“Mr. Bolivar,” Jean shook his shoulder with a little more force, “Mr. Rocca told me to bring you back up to the house.”

Awake, and now fully cognizant again of his whereabouts, Bolivar laughed at the mention of the word
house.
Castle
maybe, but not a house.

“Do you need any help with anything?” Jean asked politely.

“I’m fine, thank you… Jean is it?”

“Yes sir. I will go tell Mr. Rocca you will join him shortly. He said you will find him on the veranda.”

“Thank you Jean, tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

As Jean disappeared through the lush tropical growth that covered the steep bluff, Bolivar had rolled over to a sitting position in the hammock, and listened in silence to the slow lapping sound of the crystal clear water washing up against the sandy inlet beach. It was no wonder he had fallen asleep in no time. He shielded his eyes as he looked up to the sun high over his head. There was no question he had been asleep for several hours.

He lifted himself out of the hammock and followed the same path Jean had taken up the carved stone steps that zigzagged halfway up the cliff, before giving way to a walking path that wound around to the side of the property. The path eventually deposited out on the terrace of a multi-leveled stone swimming pool and hot tub overlooking the same view as the rest of the estate. Up a set of adjacent stairs and Bolivar was on the veranda again with Rocca, who seemingly had never left the table, which had been replenished with oysters on the half shell and boiled shrimp on ice, and a plate full of rare grilled tuna on a bed of shaved ginger. Rocca was eating heartily from it all.

“Join me Julio, you haven’t much time.” Rocca pulled back an empty chair and gestured to Bolivar to sit. “Please get something to eat.”

Bolivar sat immediately and began to add food to the plate that Jean had set in front of him as he scooted himself to the table.

“It seems our Miss Lewis has surfaced again. Thanks to one of my experts on loan from R.I.’s I.T. department, and the use of his extensive computer skills, we have dug deeply into Courtney Lewis’ background, including her credit cards and their recent usage. We discovered she is currently flying to Zurich, Switzerland. A little additional work has yielded the name of a young man accompanying her. His name is Matt Ferguson. He is the owner of the SUV Carlos chased around, and very likely the one in the apartment with her when Carlos was killed. It was very foolish of them to be using their plastic. If we can find them, I am sure anybody else can. That tells me that our other interested party, if he’s at all capable, shouldn’t be far behind.”