Ghosts of the Past (29 page)

“How can we contact your father?” Ferguson asked excitedly.

“Don’t need to, he’ll be here later this afternoon. We had planned to have dinner tonight and go fishing in the morning. I’ll speak with him when he arrives and maybe we can get together later tonight, or tomorrow afternoon. Where can we reach you?”

“We’re staying at the Hotel Hirschen,” chimed Courtney, “under the name of Ferguson. We would be happy to treat you and your father to dinner, if you would care to join us this evening. We’re also prepared to pay both of you for any assistance you can offer in helping us locate the area we’re looking for.”

“Thank you for the offer. I’ll talk with him and see if he’s up for it.” Batemann came from around the counter and walked to the front of the store where he flipped a sign in one of the bay windows that projected the word
CLOSED
out to the sidewalk. He looked at his watch. “He should be here in the next couple of hours. As soon as he arrives, I’ll talk to him and call you shortly afterward.”

Ferguson and Courtney understood the clue that their conversation with Rolf Batemann was over.

“Thanks for your help Mr. Batemann,” said Ferguson as he held the front door open for Courtney and shook Batemann’s extended right hand. “We’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

“Yes, thank you for your help!” Courtney said, as she led them both out of the shop and onto the sidewalk.

“Please call me Rolf.” Batemann stood in the doorway. “And I’ll be in touch shortly.”

The sound of the ringing bell signaled the end of their dialogue. Ferguson and Courtney walked north up the street, and then turned west onto Haupstrasse and headed back to the hotel. The sky was darkening, the white puffy cotton balls having given way to burgeoning gray storm clouds that had engulfed the warm sunshine from that morning. The desk clerk had been correct, a storm was blowing in.

The phone rang just as the two of them were headed out of the room in search of dinner. It was just after 8:00, and they had given up hope of hearing from Batemann and his father this evening. Courtney ran back into the room first, and cradling the receiver to her ear, answered on the fourth ring.

“Ms. Lewis? It’s Rolf Batemann; I hope I’m not calling to late.”

“No not at all.” Courtney nodded affirmatively at Ferguson still standing at the door and waved at him to come back into the room. “Matt and I were just heading out to find some dinner.”

“Oh, very good. My father was delayed getting here, and just arrived. We were also looking to go out for some dinner. Would you care to join us? My father would be pleased to talk with you and said he would be happy to help in any way he can.”

“We would love to have dinner with you and your dad. Please tell us when and where and we’ll be there.”

“Well actually, the restaurant in your hotel, the
Diesfurger
is excellent, and we haven’t had a meal there in weeks. Would that be acceptable to you and Mr. Ferguson?”

“That would be perfect, but please call me Courtney, and I know Matt would appreciate his first name as well.”

“Would 8:30 be okay with you?”

“8:30 would be perfect. We’ll head down in a few minutes, so you might look for us in the bar.”

“We’ll see you and Matt shortly. Thanks, and my apologies again for the short notice.”

The line went dead before Courtney could respond any further.

“Dinner here in a half hour,” said Courtney standing up from sitting on the arm of the couch.

“Perfect. Did I hear you say we’ll be in the bar?” Ferguson asked.

“Yep. You heard correctly. They’ll find us there.”

Ferguson returned to the door and held it open for Courtney as they exited the suite and headed downstairs. “After you madam.”

Courtney curtsied, “
Dankeshoen
.”

The young, dark haired waiter, who wore a nametag that identified himself as ‘Tim’, and had needed no introduction to the Batemann’s, was busy clearing away the dinner entree dishes while inquiring about dessert.

Rudi Batemann quickly interjected and authoritatively spoke for everyone. “Tim, please tell Chef Andreas we would like to have four of his famous chocolate soufflé’s.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Batemann. When I told him you were here, he predicted there would be a least one soufflé’ for the evening.” Tim dutifully scraped away some crumbs from the white tablecloth, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

The elder Batemann looked at the two American guests. “Andreas is an excellent chef, but his soufflé’ is out of this world.”

There was no disagreement between Ferguson and Courtney, their dinner had been wonderful, and Rolf Batemann was nodding his head in agreement with his father.

Two hours earlier Ferguson and Courtney had reached the bar prior to the Batemann’s arrival, they spent a few minutes choosing a glass of wine for themselves, and then noticing a crowd developing in the dining room, decided to claim a table. After the Batemann’s arrived, and formal introductions were made by Rolf, Rudi Batemann changed up the table so Tim could wait on the four of them. It was quickly revealed that Tim was a local ski instructor, who had worked for the Batemann’s as a teenager, and continued to direct quite a bit of tourist business to the three
Der
Bersteiger
shops. The Toggensberg region, as Courtney and Ferguson were beginning to understand, was a small world.

Rudi Batemann had been delightful. At 79, he was remarkably well preserved. His tanned complexion was considerably weathered and accentuated by a full head of combed back silver hair. Physically, he looked twenty years younger. His six-foot frame was well conditioned and he was dressed impeccably in a pair of loose fitting corduroy trousers, a tight fitting silk turtleneck and a plaid fleece pullover.

Most of the evening’s conversation had funneled through him, which had been perfectly fine for the other three diners. He was charming, witty, and his knowledge of the area, and local history had been fascinating for Courtney and Ferguson.

As Tim placed the four desserts around the table, Chef Andreas walked up with a bottle of Gaston De Lagrange brandy and four snifters.

“Ah, here is the creator of these masterpieces,” said Rudi Batemann, as he stood to greet all six feet and 330 pounds of Andreas Kline.

After several hugs and warm handshakes all around, followed by an excessive number of compliments regarding the food, Chef Andreas poured four generous servings of brandy on the house, thanked everyone at the table, and retreated to the kitchen with Tim and the bottle in tow.

“Andreas has been a chef around here for almost twenty years. He’s a fixture in Wildhaus,” said Rolf Batemann.

His father sipped at the brandy. “I’ve been a fan of his food for as long as he’s been here. We’ve spent many a long evening partaking in his passion and mine, French cognac and brandy.”

After a brief silence, as everyone sampled their respective spirits, Ferguson resumed the discussion that had developed during dinner, in which the senior Batemann had taken a keen interest.

“So, Mr. Batemann, you’re convinced that the Voralpsee lake is the only lake capable of handling an airplane landing?”

“A twin engine like you’re suggesting… yes. I don’t think there is any margin for error on some of the other choices, but, as I said earlier, I’ve been around this area for the better part of 60 years, and I have never heard of anybody landing a plane on the Voralpsee when it was frozen over. Intentionally.

“I also have never heard of any rumors or stories of drug smuggling going on in this region either. There’s no doubt that our banking industry has probably been very kind to the drug smugglers, and the cartels that operate that industry; however, Switzerland as a whole does not approve of illicit drugs and smuggling in our country and does not have an excessive drug abuse problem.

“Why is it you keep referring to a twin engine? Do you know something more specific about the type of aircraft that you believe has landed in this area?”

Ferguson didn’t flinch externally, but his heart nearly skipped a beat internally. The old man had just caught a mistake. He had given up too much information. “No, not really. The information I had regarding the amount of smuggling, total quantity or weight, would require a dual engine versus a single.”
When
confronted
with
a
hard
question,
always
respond
with
a
question.
“Why, would it make a big difference?”

“Absolutely, it might be the difference in a few hundred feet of landing length,” said the father.

“Which could open up a few other bodies of water around here,” interjected the son.

Courtney sensed the need to squelch any further interest of the details. “Well, I think we should start with the… Voralpsee? Is that how you pronounce it? It sounds like the best candidate for now.”

“I agree.” Ferguson concurred quickly.

“Yes, your pronunciation is correct. Moreover, the Voralpsee is very close. Rolf and I can drive you up in the morning and show you around. It’s part of a natural preserve and is owned by the state.”

“I’ll need to be back by 3:00 Dad, I’ve got two climbers coming in to the shop for outfitting. We’ll also be climbing the next day, so if we don’t fish in the morning, it’ll be next week before we can go again.”

“We don’t want to interrupt your fishing trip,” said Ferguson apologetically. “How about if we follow you to the lake, you give us a quick lay of the land, and then you can go on fishing. If we have any questions, we can come by the shop later in the afternoon.”

The Batemann’s looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in agreement.

Courtney signaled Tim as he approached the table with the bill in hand and proffered her American Express card. It took him less than five minutes to return with the processed card and check copies, where Courtney added an exorbitant tip, signed and returned the merchant copy to him as he tended to an adjoining table of diners.

During the wait, it was determined that the Batemann’s would arrive at the hotel in the morning at 8:00. From there, Ferguson and Courtney would follow them into the mountains, assured that they were within a half hour drive to the lake. They were also forewarned that there would be some walking necessary to get to certain areas of the waterfront, if that was their intention.

Everyone thanked Courtney for her generosity in paying for dinner, another round of handshakes was realized, and the Batemann’s left Courtney and Ferguson in the lobby area of the hotel.

“A nightcap?” Courtney asked a yawning Ferguson.

“Absolutely, but keep nudging me if I try to nod off.” The lack of sleep over the last 36 hours, coupled with the wine and brandy at dinner, was turning Ferguson into a walking zombie.

Ferguson ordered a port, and Courtney doubled it, as they commandeered two stools at the nearly deserted bar. The fresh logs in the nearby fireplace popped and hissed while a Frank Sinatra ballad played softly in the background.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” said Courtney. “Do you have a clue what you’re looking for?”

“I’ve got a general idea. There was a little more information that Uncle Max had left that you and Karl didn’t get an opportunity digest. Given that, and what I heard Uncle Max talk ramble about for years, I’m pretty certain I can draw some conclusions. I won’t know for sure until I look around. We’ll see tomorrow.”

“Thanks again for letting me be a part of it. I know if you had your druthers, I wouldn’t be here today.”

“Probably, but the way it’s worked out has been better than the alternative. I’ve enjoyed the company, and if we’re lucky it’ll be fun to share the experience, particularly with you.”

“Thank you, my sentiments exactly.”

Courtney emerged from the bathroom, refreshed from a short stint in the whirlpool again. The fire in the fireplace was struggling, but still emitted enough flame to produce dancing shadows in the darkened room. Ferguson was stretched out on the couch.

She checked the lock on the door again and took a few steps into the living area, a large white bathrobe the only article of clothing covering her soft, warm body. The conjugal thoughts she had harbored in Lucerne had returned as she sat in the watery massage, and she felt the urge to test the sexual waters with the handsome young man in the next room.

“Is there any room on that couch for me?” She asked softly.

There was no response from Ferguson.

She loosened the tie on the robe slightly, enough to expose a sufficient amount of cleavage. She shook her hair and ran her fingers through it as she approached the couch.

“Have you got any room for me?”

Ferguson didn’t move, and as she leaned over to his face she realized he was sound asleep.

I’ll
be
damned.

She debated waking him up, but realized his exhaustion. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, pulled a fleece throw from a wicker basket next to the couch and laid it gently over him as she retreated to the bedroom.

Slipping a large Chicago Bulls T-shirt on, she was pulling back the covers to the bed when she heard the muted ring of her cell phone. Tracing the rings to her purse on the floor in the closet, she pulled out the phone and looked at the caller I.D… ’Dad-Work’.

She decided this is one call she could answer. “Hi Daddy”.

Chapter
17
 

May
24,
2001.
Chicago,
Illinois.

Miguel Enstrada had no difficulty tracking down Jason Allen. The phone call from his Uncle earlier that morning had interrupted what little sleep he had managed after an evening of carnal lust with Sabrina, and the excessive consumption of alcohol and a half a gram of nearly pure Bolivian powder.

His head was a train wreck and he was in no mood for uncooperativeness. After Allen’s initial balk at his request to meet with Grayson Lewis that afternoon, Enstrada made very clear the consequences of not complying with his request. Not only would it be significantly distressing to Mr. Rocca, it conceivably could jeopardize Mr. Allen’s physical well being.