Ghosts of the Past (28 page)

“Your plane is fueled and waiting for us back at the airport Mr. Rocca,” the co-pilot’s voice chattered through the speakers in the main cabin. “We have priority clearance back to the hangar, whenever we decide to return. I will need to file a plan if we plan on flying out by this evening. Will we be returning today?”

Rocca waived and nodded affirmatively, as the co-pilot looked back over his left shoulder for some acknowledgement. He then opened the cell phone again and hit a recall button, followed by the call key. He waited patiently until Enstrada answered on the fifth ring.

Chapter
16
 

May
23,
2001.
Northeastern
Switzerland.

Hauptstrasse runs horizontally through the Toggensburg region of Switzerland, stretching along a natural valley through the Alps over to the border with Lichtenstein. Heading east on 16, following their brief respite just outside of Stein to watch the sunrise over the mountains, Ferguson and Courtney passed through Starkenbach, Alt Sankt Johann, and Unterwasser, finally arriving at Wildhaus.

In the exact center of town, on the south side of Hauptstrasse, where the roads bends abruptly south and then west out of town, stands the Hotel Hirschen. The five-story, white stucco, Chalet style hotel, consisting of 70 rooms, is typical of the Swiss mountain architecture. Charming and comfortable, it was exactly what Ferguson had been hoping for when he had researched it on-line.

The view to the south of the hotel was incredible. The lush green tentacles of the ski slopes carved amongst the evergreens and rocks, accompanied by a spider web network of lifts, were clearly visible up to the snow capped Gamesrugg and Chaserugg peaks. The balconies of all the rooms with the southern vista, were all adorned with large baskets of lavender flowers, while the sun that had so beautifully climbed the mountains that morning, was washing a blanket of Spring warmth over the entire town.

Ferguson pulled into the lower level parking area and turned off the engine. “Here we are.”

“This is where we’re staying? For at least twenty-four hours, please?” Courtney cajoled.

“Hopefully, a little longer than that,” Ferguson deadpanned.

“Excellent. It looks awesome. Can we go in?”

“Absolutely. Leave the bags; I’ll come get ’em when we get checked in.”

They climbed from the car and stretched their legs, walked through the nearly empty adjoining street cafe, and entered the hotel through an arched entrance directly off Haupstrasse.

The check-in went smoothly and quickly, aided by the reservation Ferguson had made the previous afternoon. Anticipating the agitation that he was going to cause by the stealthy, unilateral move from Lucerne, he had booked them into the finest suite in the hotel. Given the degree of dissatisfaction he had caused, he was having second thoughts of not having made reservations for two rooms instead of the one.

Keeping the quality of their accommodations secret, he dispatched Courtney upstairs to size up the room, while he returned to the car to park it in the first floor garage and retrieve their luggage.

Five minutes later Ferguson knocked on the heavy wood door to the Chirfirsten Suite, identified by an engraved brass plate attached to the wall just left of the cut glass door handle. Courtney answered immediately, opened the door with a broad smile and stepped aside to let him and the luggage inside the entryway.

The suite was indeed very nice. It was not the posh quality of a five star hotel, or even as nice as the suite they had had at the Palace, but it was excellent for a mountain chalet hotel. A large entry hall gave way to an arched entrance into a small, but very cozy living area of upholstered couches and chairs, a stone fireplace, and a glass double door exit onto the balcony with the identical majestic view of the southern mountain range. The bathroom was one big block of marble tiles, with a large whirlpool tub adjacent to a window offering the same panorama as the living area. The bedroom featured a king size bed buried under an oversize, pillowed comforter.

“First the sunrise, now this. Slowly but surely you’re working your way back into my good graces,” Courtney nodded to the interior of the room as she reached for her suitcase and bag.

“Thanks. I know it’s an uphill battle,” replied Ferguson with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Can I unpack my things without fear of having to repack in the near future?”

“You’re safe for the time being.”

“And that time being what?”

‘We’ll be here for a few days at the least. Again, I don’t think we should stay in one place very long, but I can tell you we’ll be here long enough to get comfortable. “We shouldn’t have to stray to far from the hotel for what we’re looking for.”

“Here, meaning this is close to the site?”

“As close as we’re gonna get. Like I said earlier, it’s in the mountains around here. Our next step is to locate a guide, and somebody that has been around this area for a while. Someone who has a memory dating back to 1945.”

“Okay. Do I have time to get a shower and unpacked?” Beseeched Courtney.

“Absolutely. I need a shower as much as anyone. You first, and I’ll go downstairs and see if I can come up with a name of someone in town who can serve as a guide. They’re bound to have some shops in this town that cater to hiking and camping, or an outfitter of some kind.”

“Are you sure you don’t need my help before I clean up?”

“No, I’m just going down to the front desk. The desk clerk had a reasonable grasp of English, so I should be able to communicate well enough with him to get some feedback on what we’re looking for.”

The shower and whirlpool had been therapeutic for both of them. Courtney had spent nearly 45 minutes sampling both, and the effects on her disposition were dramatic. She was energized, and the more she contemplated the nearness of their goal, the more excited she became.

Ferguson’s enthusiasm was subdued from a lack of sleep. It was all he could do to keep from nodding off in the whirlpool after Courtney’s persuasive recommendation.

While she had been bathing, Ferguson had spent almost an hour downstairs discovering all he needed to know about the best guide in town from the desk clerk, and from the very attractive blond waitress serving him another cup of coffee in the cafe. Both had suggested he go to only one shop,
Der
Bergsteiger
, and talk to the owner, Rolf Batemann.

He purchased a map of the town and surrounding area at the front desk, had the clerk indicate on the map with a red ‘X’ the recommended shop’s location, and reviewed it intently over the steaming cup of java. The shop was on the eastern end of town on Diesstrasse. As for the surrounding bodies of water, there were a number of lakes located on the map; however, if his attempted interpretation of the metric key was correct, he was guessing there were only three that had the capability of handling a landing aircraft. It was obvious there was only one that was significantly larger than any others in the area.

He closed his eyes, imagining himself behind the wheel of a distressed World War II vintage aircraft. Remembering Uncle Max’s voice, he allowed himself to create a panoramic view of snow covered mountains and valleys, as he was flying between them frantically searching for a place to land.

He opened his eyes quickly, startled by the waitress who was asking him in a broken mix of English, Swiss German and mime if he wanted a refill. He waved her off, left more money than necessary on the table and headed back to the room.

They had decided to walk to the
Der
Bergsteiger
. The day was gorgeous, with puffy white clouds gliding amongst the mountains through an azure sky. On their way out of the lobby, the same clerk had warned them to head back before late afternoon, because they were expecting rain for the evening.

Downtown Wildhaus was picturesque and steeped in history. Every bit the old world mountain town, oozing an aura of rich tradition complemented by modern culture. Courtney and Ferguson wandered aimlessly west, back toward Unterwasser, in the opposite direction of
Der
Bergstieger
, stepping in and out of retail shops that lined Haupstrasse and some of the adjoining side streets. Jewelry stores, leather goods, watch and clock makers, numerous restaurants and cafes, sporting goods and ski shops, even shingles for lawyers and insurance agencies… all blended seamlessly into contiguous facades and architectural relics that had stood for centuries.

After enjoying their walk west, they turned back east and returned to the middle of town, stopping for a leisurely lunch of omelets and champagne at the Haxa Stubbe restaurant in the Hotel Sonne. After an incredibly relaxing meal, and Ferguson nearing the point of dozing off, they pressed on several more blocks east, and then turned south onto Lochmuhlestrasse. Halfway down the street on the left is where they found
Der
Bergsteiger
, marked by a hand carved wood sign of a caricatured mountain climber over the door, with the store name painted brightly in red letters arched over the carving.

Ferguson opened the door and held it open as Courtney entered before him. A small bell rigged with a string signaled to the inhabitants their entry. Ironically, it went unanswered as the two of them looked at each other with mutual shrugs and began to browse the store in silence. After several minutes, Ferguson was about to announce the two of them verbally, when a young man, in his mid twenties, entered from an open door in the back and walked behind the glass and wood counter that surrounded all but the front wall of the shop.

“
Darf
ich
Sie
helfen
?” The young man queried.

Courtney acknowledged her understanding to Ferguson, and stepped forward and spoke in a stuttered, unsure German. “Yes, you can help us. We’re looking for the owner, Rolf Batemann.”

“You’re speaking with him,” Batemann replied again in German.

“
Guten
tag.
You wouldn’t speak English by any chance?”

“Just enough to be dangerous, and probably better than your German. I spent four and half years in the United States at Georgetown University.” Batemann shuffled some papers into a lockbox and leaned his left elbow on the counter top. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you sooner, but I was on the phone in the back office.”

“That’s quite alright, we were enjoying looking through your store,” said Courtney, walking to the back of the store and extending her hand over the counter. “My name is Courtney Lewis, and this is Matt Ferguson.” She pointed to Ferguson walking down one of the polished hardwood aisles from the front of the shop.

“Its a pleasure to meet you both.” Batemann took turns shaking both of their hands. His grip was powerful and reflected his stout and muscular build, honed from years of rigorously delightful outdoor activities. He was dressed as if headed to the mountains, in a black turtleneck sweater, a pair of olive wool trousers that matched his eyes, and Patagonia hiking boots. The locks of black curly hair flowed freely to his shoulders.

“How may I help you?” Batemann continued.

Ferguson spoke first this time. “We need some help locating a lake around this area.”

“We’ve got several of those. Any one in particular?”

“We’ll, therein lies the problem,” continued Ferguson. “We don’t exactly know which one.”

Batemann’s face contorted with a puzzled look, as he directed his attention first to Ferguson, then to Courtney, and back to Ferguson.

Ferguson held up the palms of both hands. “Let me explain. We’re trying to find a body of water, that is…” he hesitated, not sure of how much information to divulge, “well, something big enough to handle a twin engine aircraft, say if it wanted make a landing.” Ferguson was gambling that this young man would haven’t the slightest idea of what he was talking about unless he offered some more significant pieces of the puzzle, of which the truthful portions he was not willing to tender at this time.

Batemann’s eyebrows raised and his look of bewilderment faded quickly to one of curiosity. “I’m not really qualified to know what type of runway length a twin engine airplane might need to land, but if I were to make a guess, there’s only one lake within 25 kilometers of here that would probably fit the bill. Voralpsee. It’s probably long enough to handle a landing, but it would have to be in the dead of winter or early spring, when it would have frozen over. If you don’t mind me asking, why an airplane, unless it was an emergency?”

Ferguson had already formulated a reply. “Courtney and I are doing some freelance investigative research for a magazine on drug smuggling in Europe. We have reason to believe that Middle Eastern drug operations may have utilized aircraft, landing on the frozen lakes in and around this area. We also believe it’s been going on for decades.

“In fact I was hoping to find someone who may have lived in this area for the last 50 to 60 years, anyone who might have heard rumors over the years, or actually may have seen something that might get us jump started in our investigation.”

Batemann smiled. “I’ve certainly never heard of anything like that in this area, but it’s certainly plausible. I know someone that fits the bill perfectly.” He paused for effect. “My father. He lives in Walenstadt now, which is less than an hour south of here, but he spent most of his adult life in Unterwasser. This is actually his store… was. We came to a father son agreement two years ago on this store and another one in Stein, not long after I returned from America. We have a third location in Walenstadt that he minds. It keeps him busy and allows him to remain active in the business.”

“So he knows a thing or two about this area?” Courtney asked.

“Like the back of his hand. Not only that, but he was a pilot. Technically, I guess he still is, but he hasn’t flown in several years. He owned a pontoon plane for years, and ran fishing trips in and out of the mountains as part of the business. He sold it two or three years ago, and hasn’t been up since. But he would definitely know if Voralpsee, or maybe something smaller would be able to withstand twin engine landings.”