Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  Once the plan was evaluated, the Russians put it on the back shelf; it was assessed that the amount of counterfeit money generated would not impact the American economy sufficiently to destablise it.

  However, the Stasi, with Werner leading the counterintelligence, was not willing to put it away so quickly, and had been working on the plan and converting dollars for five years before the Berlin Wall came down. If not for the communist cause, Werner was happy to proceed for his own greed.

  Cutler stood in the warm sunshine at the bottom of the concrete bobsled run. He was just another tourist visiting this place of past sporting triumphs and beauty. The difference was he was looking through his 10x50 WB Swarovski binoculars at the parking lot instead of looking at the lake. The binoculars were amongst the best in the world. They gave Max a clear view of the Mercedes van as it drew up alongside the white Ford transit van with the oval Austrian vehicle registration sticker, designated by the black letter ‘A’ on the white oval background.

  Cutler knew from previous observations that the counterfeit money would be moved from Konigsee, a few miles to Obersalzberg, down the steep, cobbled Alpen Strasse until it flattened out on the outskirts of Salzburg. Then it would be on the autobahn down to Vienna and then moved on again in several directions to their distributors in Hungary, Slovakia, Italy, and Switzerland.

  The counterfeit dollar bills in ten large brown packets were being transferred from the Mercedes to the Ford, which took several minutes. It took far less time for the five suitcases filled with $100,000 in genuine bills to be handed over from the two men from the Ford. Werner went inside the Mercedes van, to check the suitcases. Five minutes later, Werner emerged and nodded to the drivers of the Ford, who already had the engine running and ready to go. Cutler observed the transactions.

  Cutler, in liaison with the local police, had three police vans waiting on the Alpen Strasse to set up a roadblock immediately after Cutler gave the go-ahead.

  Cutler’s third team member was in a blue Nissan Micra, a nondescript car which would not draw attention. He would follow the Ford van, and radio Cutler when they were approaching the section where the police vans had parked. Cutler would then inform the commander in charge, and the van would be hemmed in on both sides, with nowhere to go. Where the roadblock had been situated was not Cutler’s choice or first option, but in line with working in partnership with the German police, he had reluctantly agreed to the commander’s choice of location.

  The route was steep and cobblestoned, with minimal turning opportunities. There were sheer rock walls on the driver’s side and deep gorges on the passenger side.

  Werner and his two henchmen would be going in the opposite direction. They would retrace the road Cutler had taken from Berchtesgaden. Cutler fell in love with the area with its small, picturesque villages with chalets adorned with paintings on the side of a man baking bread, or working the field, primarily depicting what the trade of the family that lived there.

  As the road started to descend outside Berchtesgaden, you could either continue the high route towards the Austrian ski resorts, or take the road leading down to Bad Reichenhall. As the gang’s headquarters was in Bad Reichenhall, Cutler had set up a similar trap on this road just north of a small town called Bischofsweisen.

  Again, the German commander had chosen the area to block, which was the village’s alpine railway crossing, a natural place for a roadblock, the leader had told Cutler. Again, it would not have been Cutler’s first choice.

  Radio masts were few and far between, and not allowed in the alpine area. As a result, the reception was abysmal. Still as a precaution, Cutler had agreed with the police to ensure the masts were offline while the operation was underway. He knew Werner never used mobile phones as he did not trust them, but his men may have them as backup.

  Because of the separate vans going in opposite directions, the last thing Cutler needed was one van to inform the other they had fallen into a trap.

  Cutler, from earlier stakeouts of the gang, had already identified that they used shortwave radios with encrypted transmissions. Werner had taken technical equipment and weapons from the Stasi armoury on its demise. The problem was the technology was outdated and Cutler could listen in unhindered to their transmissions.The lack of new technology was a flaw in the gang’s communication capability—a significant weakness, as far as Cutler was concerned.

  The Ford van navigated the cobblestoned hairpin bends slowly, as the road almost came parallel with the road back, which was now several metres higher. As soon as they had cleared the bend, they could see the police cars some hundred metres ahead.

  Maybe it was the ten years they were almost certainly going to face in prison that made them make the foolish decision to try to navigate the roadblock. On the other hand, maybe as they came round the corner, the roadblock was on them too quickly, and they could not reverse, nor did they have any other escape routes.

  In the blink of an eye, they skirted the roadblock, the left front and back wheels teetering on the edge of the cobbled road, the left-hand tyres spinning in open space above the 200-metre drop.

  The centre of gravity is a moveable, invisible force, and gravity is forever the winner in battles of height and open spaces. The weight of the van and lack of support on the left-hand side began, slowly at first, to incline the van downwards over the open space. The right-hand tyres’ grip on the road began to slip, and the force trying to keep it on the road was not sustainable.

  The two occupants, the driver and his accomplice, were both hard men. When not plying their illegal trade, they visited the gym and worked out for most days of their adult lives. They were large men, with T-shirts that were stretched taut against their bulging muscles. They were men who had known violence, had seen grown men pleading with them as they had beaten them close to death. Today it was they who screamed like frightened little boys, tossing around as if they were in a tumble dryer as the van spun slowly and hastened its descent onto the boulders below.

  Immediately upon impact, the two men were no longer screaming. Both men had died immediately on impact, their heads no more than a wet stain inside the demolished vehicle.

  Fire needs three things to ensure that ignition can start and maintain the inferno. First, it needs oxygen; the clean mountain alpine air, sweet to taste, if a little sparser than at sea level, would do. Fire also requires an ignition source, and there were certainly enough sparks as the van hit the stony bottom of the gorge. Finally, fire needs fuel, and the petrol tank ruptured giving way to a deafening explosion, milliseconds after the engine was forced through the car, exiting the car’s rear. Once the petrol had been spent, the fire sought out other sources of fuel to maintain the fire, and it found some. The cartons of money that were in the van seconds before the explosion now rained down to earth on fire. The vehicle’s plastic components plus the fat and muscle of the two occupants, all added fuel to maintain the fire.

  While the fire consumed the Ford van, Agent Johnson had come down from his observation point behind the trees on the hill. Johnson had joined Cutler in an unassuming Opel. They drove out behind the Mercedes van in which Werner and his bodyguard were exiting the parking lot.

  Cutler was not worried that Werner or his crony would see the Opel. Such was the width of the road. The van would have been closely followed by several vehicles under any circumstances on any day.

  At this stage, Werner sped down Berchtesgadener Strasse approaching thew town of Bayerisch Gmain, Cutler still tailing several cars back. The dull thud of the Ford van explosion was barely audible as it travelled through the alpine passes from four miles away. Cutler was unaware that the counterfeit dollars had gone up in smoke.

  Werner was an astute operative. Unlike his dead Austrian counterparts, he would always put his faith in the justice system rather than risk his life by running or trying to skirt a roadblock. After all, Werner could always buy someone, either with money, or information he held on them from his days in the Stasi, and thus m
inimize any charges, or make them go away entirely.

  Cutler had discussed the details with the German police commander on the ideal place to set up the roadblock. Both had finally agreed to locate the barrier half way around the steep hairpin on Haniel Strasse. The road narrowed and turned back on itself down a steep incline. The road had been blocked by police cars at both ends after Werner left to ensure no other traffic was coming from either direction.

  Cutler, using the shortwave radio, gave the order to close the trap, as the Mercedes van approached the roadblock.

  Werner was more surprised than alarmed when he saw the roadblock taking shape with only one car between him and the blockade. Werner was driving and reactively slammed on his breaks and skidded sidewards on the steep incline. Vlad, named after Vlad the Impaler, a name he revelled in, had an outstanding warrant against him for kicking to death a Turkish immigrant in Berlin. He was not so ready to comply with the commands to exit the vehicle.

  Werner was as surprised as anyone to see the Benelli M4 Super 90 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun. Vlad had adored the Benelli at first sight. The gun lacked the traditional solid fixed stock and had a collapsible buttstock and was widely used in the US Marine Corps, favourite with the Navy Seals. The gun was robust, and the action was reliable and quick, and Vlad was just about to test it again.

  “Dummkopf!” Werner shouted and attempted to grab the gun, as Vlad began to exit the passenger door, with the weapon rising to its firing position.

  Too late. The snipers perched on the rocks above the roadblock and those hidden amongst the tree had unobstructed views through their telescopic sights. The leader gave one click on the microphone, which was heard in every sniper’s headset, it was the order to open fire. It was seconds before the policemen at the roadblock could react.

  A hail of bullets cut Vlad almost in half. He thought himself immortal and had survived several battles against other gangs, and once before with the police. But unfortunately for Vlad, this specialized squad had trained with the GSG9 German special forces, and the training had been comprehensive and drilled time and time again into the members of the unit.

  Cutler got to the vehicle after the commander had issued the order to stop firing. He opened the door, and Werner fell out of the driver’s seat into Cutler’s arms. Cutler lowered him to the ground. Werner was struggling to breathe as air and blood escaped through the gaping hole in his throat. He had been hit by a single bullet that had entered the driver’s side window, passed through the side of his neck, through his windpipe, and out the other side of his neck before exiting the rear side panel of the Mercedes van.

  Cutler considered and assessed the scene before him and could immediately see that if he did not act quickly, Werner would not be around for the trial. Cutler moved over to Vlad laying in the middle of the road and proceeded to rip the shirt from the half-severed torso. Although the shirt was blood-soaked, Cutler’s last thought was cross-contaminating Werner with Vlad’s blood. Cutler was willing to help him, but there were limits to that help and he was not about to use his own shirt. He wrapped the blood-infused rag around Werner’s throat, trying to stem the blood. The German snipers looked on impassively, wondering why the American was trying to save this scumbag’s life.

  Gasping and gurgling Werner could not get the words out. He knew off Cutler’s interest in his operation. He had set in motion events which would no doubt see Cutler return home. He had not expected Cutler to act so quickly. Werner last thought before he lost conscious had been was his misjudgement on how far the investigation had advanced.

  Within minutes, the air filled with the noise of sirens. Police cars and ambulances arrived from the temporary police base at Berchtesgaden.

  The first helicopter to move off was the air ambulance. Werner had been transferred on a stretcher into the interior, and as it took off, he had several paramedics working on him, trying to save his life.

  After the initial onslaught of police cars, officers, and paramedics, the commandant identified where Cutler was and approached him.

  “Herr Cutler, thank you for your assistance with this successful operation. Both our governments will be pleased with the outcome.”

  The commandant continued, “I have received instructions that you are to go in the helicopter immediately to Munich. It will land near the American consulate; you have been summoned.” Cutler looked a little bemused as the commandant steered him towards the Puma helicopter.

  After a twenty-five minute flight through the alpine foothills and skirting Chiemsee, a large lake on the main route to Munich, the helicopter landed in the nearest green space, which happened to be Hofgarten. The local police had secured the landing area and removed the children that minutes before had been playing there. The vast green flat area was accessible to the Puma helicopter. The children laughed and swayed exaggeratedly as the downdraft from the rotors washed over them.

  Hofgarten was a mere few hundred metres from the consulate.

  On exiting the Puma, Max stooped down automatically to shield his face from the downward turbulence of the spinning rotors. Cutler walked to the waiting Land Rover, which had a small United States flag sitting proudly on the hood. He was met by a huge, black-uniformed military policeman. “Sir, you need to come with me immediately.”

  Cutler was a professional; he knew that whatever was coming up was not good. In his time with the Service, this was the first time he had been summoned to a consulate or embassy.

  The military policeman had hands as large as the steering wheel he manipulated on the short journey to the corner of Schönfeldstrasse and Königstrasse, where the consulate was situated.

  The military policeman guided Cutler through the lightly guarded consulate reception area to the police changing rooms, where he gave Cutler a new shirt.

  “Consul is a graduate of Kogod School of Business, not seen much blood I’m afraid, sir,” the military policeman said, as Cutler changed into the slightly large starched, crisp white shirt.

  Cutler was directed through the marble corridor and up the stairway to the floor housing the consul’s office.

  Kalvin Ryan was a small, bespectacled man with hair receding from his forehead and wispy, straggly hair at the sides. Cutler thought he must have family connections or an extraordinary brain, as he was not the typical suited and booted official representative of the American government.

  Ryan rose and introduced himself as the American consul from Munich.

  “Max—you don’t mind if I call you Max, do you?” the consul asked.

  “People usually call me Cutler; it’s been a long time since anyone has used my Christian name, Mr Ryan.”

  “Very well, Cutler it is,” the consul responded, as he cleared his throat.

  “First and foremost, I’ve been brought up to speed with the operation to stop the ever-resourceful Werner, and I believe congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you, but I’m pretty positive you haven’t brought me here to massage my ego,” Cutler replied.

  “No, it’s not the main reason, I’m sorry to say. I’m afraid I have some disheartening news, Cutler; news from back home.”

  “Is it one of my parents?” Cutler asked, controlling the rising fear emanating from within his chest.

  “No, it’s not about your parents, although it does concern them. You see, they were on holiday, more specifically a cruise out of Seattle. From the little information I know, they were cruising the Inside Passage in Alaska with your sister, Elisa.”

  Considering what Cutler had gone through that day, his heart rate had remained a steady sixty-five beats per minute; now his heart raced and was beating at ninety-two beats per minute. He knew bad news was on the way.

  “I believe she’s eighteen years old,” the consul said. “It seems your sister has gone missing, Cutler. Off the coast of Juneau. Very little information at this time, I am afraid,” he said, far more quietly.

  Cutler looked confused and asked, “You’re telling me my sist
er is missing in Juneau, Alaska?”

  “Not in Juneau. The ship had not docked at the time she went missing. It appears she disappeared from the vessel while at sea. She is not on board. It seems she may have gone overboard, the captain thinks,” the Consul explained, with all the sympathy he could muster.

  “Overboard?” Cutler repeated, incredulously. “You realize what you’re telling me, Mr Ryan? It’s June, and the water around there will still be freezing. She would not last five minutes. You’re telling me she’s dead.”

  “You need to go home, Cutler. You need to be with your family. There is a flight out tonight from Munich; one stop in Gander, Newfoundland, arriving at La Guardia at 7 am, then a connection on from there. You should be home in twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m not going home; I’m going to Alaska to find my sister,” Cutler whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  Cruising was becoming much more popular and accessible to the working and middle classes due to supply and demand forcing the prices downward. As the ships got larger, with increasing numbers of cabins, prices for cruises fell. Presently, a full-board cruise with flights would cost anywhere between eighty and a hundred dollars a day for the holiday makers. For those wishing outside cabins with balconies, the price rose to several hundred dollars a day, and up to tens of thousands a day for those who could afford the extra luxuries such as suites and butlers.

  The affordability and multitude of cruises and geographical locations had pushed America into prime position for cruises. Old and new cruise ships headed north out of New York to Canada and south to Florida. On a weekly basis, ships left the East Coast and Florida to ports to the Caribbean and South America. On the western coast of the United States, they sailed from San Diego to Hawaii and Mexico and beyond; from Seattle to Alaska and Japan. America had grown into the hub of the cruise line industry.