by David Evans
Cutler’s father put his arms around him and tried to speak, but only croaks and sobs came out. Max never had in all his years witnessed his father like this. It was clear to him his dad was broken-hearted; he was spent. He loved his father and always thought him a strong, safe pair of hands in any situation. He had never factored in the situation where this proud man would lose his little girl.
Cutler was hurting like he never had before; his father was being eaten alive.
“Where’s Mom, Dad?” Cutler asked quietly with resignation.
“Erm,” he cleared his throat with a cough, “Bartlett Regional Hospital, ten minutes away.” He slumped down into a chair and put his face into his hands. “She’s sedated. She was distraught. I thought it better we stay here to wait, but it hasn’t helped; if anything, I think it has made it worse,” Stephen said, as he raised his head slightly.
“Now that you are here, I can take her home. I have used the insurance and have a private ambulance plane coming in tonight. I’ve got to get her home, away from this place,” Stephen said through his pain.
“Probably best,” Max replied.
Cutler senior took a deep breath and in a shaky voice continued, “We both know there’s no hope, Max, waiting to drag a body up from out there.” Stephen pointed towards the direction of the sea. “It’s thousands of feet deep. Could be some time, could be never,” he spluttered, with the tears dropping in large globules from his eyes.
“Dad, we both know she’s gone, but you have to be strong for Mom, although I know it’s killing you,” Max said, as he embraced his father.
“I don’t care what they say, she never committed suicide. She was happy right up to the time she went to her cabin. She never committed suicide,” Stephen said, with more steel in his voice.
“Dad, I know. I do not want to upset you any more than you already are, but it must be an accident or more likely murder. After walking through and around the ship today, I think it would be hard to fall overboard by accident. The captain assured me the lifeboat gates had been locked, so to fall over the barriers is nearly impossible. Did Elisa have a drink that night?” Max inquired.
“She had cola all night, that’s all she drank,” Stephen replied.
“So that leaves out accident by shenanigans under the influence. The captain said you would be amazed how many people kill or put themselves at risk under the influence at sea,” Max said.
“He’s blowing smoke up your arse, Max. We told him she had not touched a drop of alcohol. You could tell he did not believe us or did not want to believe us. Convenient excuse if you ask me,” Stephen said, with an equal amount of anger and tears.
“Well, that just leaves murder. You understand that don’t you, Dad?” Max said plainly.
“I do, and so does your mom. We knew the moment the captain said they could not find her anywhere on the ship. She’ll never get over this, son, you know.” Stephen continued, “We’re proud of you, Max. We know how much you enjoy your job, and what skills you have. Give your mom and me some hope. Use your skills to catch the bastard who did this; make him suffer, whether it’s death row or from your own hands, you make him suffer,” Stephen said, his fists clenched.
“Dad, I promise if it’s murder, I won’t rest. It is not going to be easy. It may be the hardest thing I have ever done. But I promise you I will try. I’ll do my utmost to get him,” Max promised.
“You’ve never broken a promise or failed in anything substantial, so that will do for me,” Stephen said, as he tugged Max’s head toward him and kissed him on his forehead. To Cutler, it felt as if his father was saying goodbye.
Stephen sat next to his wife in the ambulance as it went the very short distance to the seaplane, which had been equipped as an air ambulance. The seaplane bobbed up and down on its mooring as the rough sea beneath it swelled and sank. With some difficulty the paramedic, pilot, and co-pilot transferred the stretcher to the dedicated flat area at the back of the plane.
Max had been walking the streets, talking to anyone he could. He showed anyone who would look a picture of Elisa. “Have you seen this girl?” he had asked a hundred people.
He arrived a few minutes before take-off to see his parents off. “I have a meeting with the police chief in fifteen minutes, and over the next few days I’ll go out to the area where Elisa disappeared, so I need to arrange for a boat,” Cutler told his father. “I’ll come home in a day or two to update you and see Mom,” he said, as he stroked her forehead. She had been under constant sedation and had not woken all that day.
The noise increased dramatically, and the propellers sprang to life. The little seaplane started off slowly and fought the swells of water. Eventually, the plane gathered sufficient speed against the drag of the water and wind and staggered into the air.
Cutler could see the aircraft’s wings swaying as it fought to gain height. The clouds reflected Cutler’s mood, dark and angry, with an undertone of violence. Cutler knew he had to control his emotions if he was to keep a clear head and fulfil his promise to his father.
Two hours later, Cutler had showered and changed and was in with Gregg Wayne. The police commissioner, while not a tall man, certainly looked like he had seen his fair share of action; Cutler guessed ex-military. A scar ran from his left ear to the corner of his lip, the result of close-quarter combat with a grizzly the previous winter.
Cutler thought it was like being back on the ship with the captain. Although eager to help, the story was more or less the same, possible suicide or accident, no plausible evidence for any other conclusion.
The phone rang and Wayne’s eyebrows had lifted before he replaced the receiver. Before he could say anything, the phone rang again, and this time his face did show some concern.
“I have some bad news, Agent Cutler,” the police commissioner said.
“Have they found Elisa’s body?” Cutler interjected quickly.
“No. Sometimes when shit happens, well, it has a way of luring you into a sense that nothing else can go wrong. Well, bad news is not like that; it keeps on a coming. Sorry, Cutler; the air ambulance carrying your parents has gone down in rough seas, just off the coastline of Seattle. It disintegrated, and I’m afraid no one got out alive.”
Cutler looked dumbfounded.
Chapter Eleven
Werner survived. It was touch and go for a while whether he would succumb to his injuries. He had been as strong as a bull, but now was as weak as a kitten after several operations to repair the bullet wound to his throat. He knew he would almost certainly have died had not the tall American agent tied a shirt around his neck to stem the flow of life-giving fluid that had oozed from his wound.
Werner was not grateful to Cutler, for that was an emotion that he had long since lost the ability to feel. He was not angry with Cutler, either; he had been doing his job, just as Werner was doing his. He was, however, enraged by the bloody fool of a bodyguard, Vlad. Trying to shoot his way out of the trap was stupid. It had led to Werner’s woes. It was a good thing Vlad was no longer in the land of the living, as he would have been exposed to pain as he had never suffered before.
Werner knew the name of the American agent, Max Cutler. Werner had been warned that he was under investigation, but he thought he had it under control. After all, information was power, and he had many sources of data. The problem was, Cutler knew who was on the payroll and who was not, and he had controlled who knew what and when. It was and had been on a need-to-know and just-in-time basis. It had been a success, as Werner had been completely surprised that he had been targeted by the German and American authorities without him knowing.
After Werner had been shot and struggled for life, the German commander had the stricken counterfeiter transferred to the hospital. The ambulance and armed police cars took him to the beautiful spa town of Bad Reichenhall, some five miles away. The town was in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps and had the primness of a German town, with the stunning backdrop of the hills of green and explosion o
f spring flowers.
The German commander had posted two heavily armed guards outside the hospital theater; two in the reception area of the hospital, and a further two were posted in the Bad Reichenhall train station situated some three hundred yards along the road.
Following the assessment of risk by the German commander, he set up a perimeter around the town. Within the vicinity, there were three white and green BMW patrol cars. One monitored the access and egress to the town from the autobahn. The second was situated in the parking lot of the last Gasthaus on Thumsee Strasse in Karlstein, noted for the mural on its side of a twenty-metre-high bakery scene.
Karlstein was a micro-town, which mainly consisted of houses, a bakery and the odd guesthouse, a town you would normally see through the car window. The fact that all traffic going up to Schneizlreuth or returning had to pass through this small town made it a choke point for anything coming down from or arriving in through the alpine passes from Austria. Thus, they had all the main routes covered, such was the concern arising from housing a notorious ex-Stasi gangster in their midst.
The medical procedure went as well as could be hoped. It was damage limitation rather than renewal. After several days, the morphine that had kept the pain at bay was reduced to a level which brought the reality of the situation clearer to Werner.
Werner thought he knew pain; thought he had conquered the fear of pain. He had tortured numerous prisoners as part of his Stasi job description, watching them scream in terror and in agony, for that was his duty, and often, his pleasure.
He had been injured once before; he had dislocated his shoulder while beating up on a prisoner whose crime was using graffiti as a tool against the puppet East German government. Werner was enraged; he could accept the pain. What he could not accept and what angered him immensely was that this prisoner had seen him wince and had grinned at Werner’s discomfort.
It was fortuitous that evolution had given the human form two sides of the body, as Werner used the working right shoulder to raise his arm that held the stool that was placed nearby. He deliberately smashed the stool against the wall.
“You think this is funny? You think my arm hanging down from its socket is hilarious?” Werner had inquired sinisterly.
The activist watched through bloodied eyes as the stool broke into several pieces, and then as Werner kicked one of the larger remnants around the room in pure rage. Werner slowly knelt, and with his good arm, retrieved what was once the leg of the stool. Through a mist of pain, Werner could see the prisoner smirk at him. Werner looked intently at the splintered end, which had a point like a dagger. He turned it around in his fingers, studying it and formatting the next stage of his plan.
With the quickness which belied his injury, he had reached his prey in a millisecond, crossing the space between them with the prowess of a lion. He was on him and used his weight to pin down the man’s shoulders and arms. The victim tried to kick his leg and dismount Werner from his upper torso, but the guard had been well trained, and brought his truncheon down on his right knee. The unmistakable sound of hardwood cracking bone lasted only a second before the man screamed in agony.
Werner took a breath, enjoying the pain, his pain and the prisoner’s pain. The detainee was stubborn and brave; he fought to gain control of the pain and after a minute, grunted and grimaced rather than screamed. It was Werner’s turn to smirk.
Werner waited a few more seconds, relishing the look of agony and arrogance in the man’s eyes before violently and efficiently forcing the splintered, sharp end of the stool leg down the activist’s mouth. The force of the blow , breaking his teeth and ripping through his voice box before emerging from the back of the neck close to the spine.
***
But, back to reality, back to today. This pain was something else. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Maybe it was this kind of pain the prisoner had felt, he thought, but then his pain lasted minutes rather than the constant pain Werner had endured since the morphine had worn off.
Herr Braun, an eminent ear, nose and throat specialist, explained that the bullet had destroyed Werner’s voice box and he would have to perform a laryngectomy. Herr Braun continued in a soft, professional tone in which he detailed that the operation removed his voice box and had permanently left a breathing hole in his neck.
Werner tried to interject, but only frothy, blood-infused spittle gargled out of the breathing hole.
Herr Braun further explained that the only hope of communicating verbally would be through an artificial mechanical larynx.
Werner shook his head; Herr Braun took this as meaning he did not understand, when Werner was thinking, you better sort this or I will kill you.
“Basically, after a week or so, when your throat recovers some more, we insert a small vibration plate and give you a handheld microphone which will pick up vibrations. And after several months of practice and rehabilitation, this will let you communicate,” Herr Braun continued.
Werner was shaking his head violently from side to side. The nurse handed him a pen and paper.
“Unfortunately, your oesophagus was severely affected and presently, and for the foreseeable future, this will be the only means of communication. Technological advances are happening all the time; we never say anything is forever,” Herr Braun said optimistically, as Werner scribbled on the notepad.
Werner showed him the paper. “Sort this out and get me off fucking baby food.”
“Solid food is not viable as a food source; not now, and probably not in the future,” Herr Braun replied, as again Werner scribbled away frantically.
“You want me to eat fucking baby food?” he wrote down and thrust the paper up under the consultant’s face and struggled to get up closer to him.
The consultant remained calm as one of the police officers forced him back onto the bed.
The consultant was not used to such venom, such anger; after all, he was trying to help this patient. He turned on his heels, followed by the nurse and policeman, and left the windowless room.
Werner waited several minutes before pulling the assistance cord for the nurse. The nurse was male; this was by design rather than chance, due to the fact that no females were allowed to be alone with Werner at any time, such was his perceived risk to members of staff.
Werner wrote a phone number on his paper and below the number was another, but this had a monetary value.
“Ten thousand euros for you to call this number and just let the person on the end of the phone know my whereabouts.”
The nurse shook his head from side to side vigorously, declining the offer. Werner pointed at the name badge, ripped up the previous page and on the virgin-white paper wrote, “I know your name, Nurse Hessler. You must know who I am and my reputation? How long will it take for my friends to find you outside this hospital? The police will not guard you; they can’t guard you forever.”
Nurse Seppi Hessler spun around, scared, and walked out. Hessler had thought maybe thirty minutes, but the nurse had fought his predicament for over an hour before he returned. The nurse wanted to know how and when he would be paid and got Werner to rewrite the telephone number.
After the nurse had scurried out, Werner turned his thoughts to the other two outstanding issues that needed immediate attention. He had over twenty-four million dollars in cash hanging around, genuine dollars he had been paid for the counterfeit notes. The money was stashed in a safe in a townhouse in Bad Tölz.
The spa town based in Tölzer land was a favourite of Werner’s. The resort spa hamlet sat in the alpine foothills, nestled between the alpine lakes of Bad Weissee and Lake Starnberg. Werner would visit the town when he could no longer stand the pain and irritation his gout brought on. Werner swore by the healing capabilities of the mud baths and visited at least four times a year. The resort was within easy driving distance of Munich, but far enough away from the metropolis to not fall under the watchful eyes of the Munich Police Department, an easy selection for a safe house.
The house and the six-foot-high wall safe was a concern; it was only known to him and two other people. They were his two issues, his concern. Once they knew of his position, his vulnerability, who was to say they would not take the money and disappear? For now, they would be too frightened to move against him, but it would not take long before news got out about his predicament.
It was as clear as the Aegean Sea to Werner he would be serving some time in police and prison custody. Eventually, he knew he could ride the surf; his contacts would put pressure on those in power, or one of his henchmen would get to a juror. But for now, he was still some time away from freedom, perhaps years.
Werner was all consumed by the thoughts that while on the outside, no one dared to undermine him. But when Werner’s cronies heard of his injuries and incarceration, well, they may think he was no longer a credible force. He needed to address this situation, and he needed to sort it out now. He needed to secure the money, for money could buy power, and he was going to need that when he got out, broken man or not.
His first port of call would be his political contact; she was more a hidden partner, as she had profited by more than ten million dollars from their partnership. It was now time she started to earn her keep, no matter how high her status.
Nurse Hessler walked two hundred metres past the tall stone buildings with black-topped Germanic roofs to the phone booth. It was just outside the large, glassed swimming hall complex. He called the number Werner had written down.
“I’m in the hospital in Bad Reichenhall, Herr Werner is injured but not terminal. Get Attorney Von-Baer to visit me and see what you can do to alleviate this situation,” Hessler repeated the message as instructed.
“Do you know who I am?” the strong female Germanic voice inquired of Nurse Hessler.
