by David Evans
“I accept that, but at the moment I have Cortez, and he needs help. That was what the phone call was about. And I am going to need assistance,” Cutler replied hastily.
“Tuck?” she asked worriedly.
“I’m not stupid, Cheryl. I know you have a thing together, so maybe we both have been a little short on honesty. And no, not Tuck this time. I am going to take Manfred Shultz. No doubt I’m going to need you and Fabienne to help as well.”
“Where and when do you need the flights from?” she asked in a calmer state.
“Need it today to Bodrum in Turkey via Munich, so I can brief Shultz on the flight,” he responded while simultaneously texting Manfred Shultz to be ready for his first mission, today.
There was no mistaking Manfred Shultz as he walked towards Cutler in the departure lounge of the München Franz Josef Strauss Airport, named in memory of the former Bavarian Prime Minister. Shultz was straight-backed, and looked like a military officer in his white shirt, toffee-coloured trousers, black tie, and blazer. He looked much improved from the man Cutler had interviewed for the position previously.
For several hours, as they waited for the flight to Bodrum, they sipped espresso coffees and discussed updates on the Werner case. Cutler explained to Shultz that he was not aware of the reason for the Code Blue, as he and Cortez had agreed not to discuss anything over the phone, but stressed it must be a matter of urgency and importance.
The flight was short and uneventful, as was the short hop down to Bodrum, except for the turbulence generated by the mountains and sea that surround the airport. The pair exited the military-style airport building to be met by Cortez, who looked dishevelled and concerned.
Cortez had hired a nondescript white Seat, which was as anonymous as you could attain in Turkey, as they were everywhere. They drove the mountain pass route from Bodrum to Turkey, driving on steep, unkempt, potholed, narrow lanes, through olive groves and open quarries that supplied the materials for local road building and repairs in the area—just not the road they were on.
As they emerged atop the last mountain before their destination, both Shultz and Cutler were engrossed in the visage of beauty that lay several hundred metres below them. It was breathtaking; the curve of the bay, with the little town of Akbuk spread over sporadic enclaves around the bay, lapped by the warm turquoise sea, dotted with gulets and fishing boats.
Cortez stopped the car on a dirt track beside the lane, and the three emerged. Cortez pointed out the main town, with its minaret from the mosque the highest point in the town. Cortez looked to the south part of the bay.
“See the two villas high up on the hill, set behind the trees, and just down from the airport approach tower?” Cortez said.
Shultz and Cutler removed their sunglasses and strained their eyes in the brilliant sun, allowing a few seconds to cope with the flood of ultraviolet light.
“That’s where our boy is. He has six Turkish minders and his German thug, Baer,” Cortez reported.
“Six is a reasonable number,” Shultz said.
“Bad news is, the other villa is occupied and the occupant has another four minders with her at all times, and a young attorney she is banging whenever she can, and she has diplomatic immunity.”
Cutler turned around quickly. “You’ve identified the delegate, haven’t you, Cortez?”
“Delegate Frau Uebering. She is as tight with Werner as a flea on a dog.”
Cutler knew Cortez would have done his homework and was professional; he did not need to challenge his words as assumptions. Cortez would never say anything unless he was sure of his facts.
Cutler knew there was more information that Cortez wanted to get over to him but did not press him on the drive down to Akbuk.
Cortez had leased a house just off the main road, a minute or so from the lapping shores of the Aegean. It became apparent why he had picked this house and this spot. The detached house was nestled amongst other similar houses in a small cluster of trees and shrubs. From the two villas high up on the hills to their left, it was indistinguishable from the other properties in the area.
The roof of the villa was a patio, which was open to the elements save for the bamboo shading above them. The previous occupants had installed a sink and BBQ in this area. During the summer months, it was far too hot to cook indoors.
Sitting in prime position at the south end of the patio was a Celestron Reflector Telescope with a thirty-seven-millimetre lens that enabled Cortez to have eyes on the villa. Cutler looked through it and could see through a gap in the foliage the unmistakable figure of Werner, sitting in swimming trunks, bare-chested. Cutler could even pick out the scarring on Werner’s chest. Sitting next to him was a stern-looking frump of a woman, who he assumed correctly was the delegate.
“Good work, Shultz. Interpol operates in Turkey. We inform them where Werner is and they will arrest him; there is an international warrant out for his detention. The delegate is a matter for another day. At least we can identify her now, and I have friends in the Secret Service who will be very interested in her,” Cutler replied.
“There’s more,” Cortez said quietly. “And I don’t think that will be what you decide on when I tell you.”
Cortez looked at Shultz, and the look gave him the invitation to leave.
“Stay, Shultz. You’re part of this team and deserve to hear everything.” Cutler said.
Cortez shrugged. “You aren’t going to like what I tell you,” Cortez said in a resigned tone.
“Well, spit it out.”
“You know I have been bugging the villa, and it’s not exactly legal, so the evidence won’t stand up in court.”
“Obviously, but when you’re dealing with the likes of Werner, in a foreign country, you need to have subterfuge and technology as part of your toolkit, otherwise we’d never get to the truth,” Cutler stated.
Cortez seemed to ponder this for several seconds and used the wall surrounding the roof patio as support. Shultz could sense that Cortez was about to reveal something damaging and personal to Cutler. He pulled up a white patio chair and positioned himself in hearing distance of the two and poured himself a stiff brandy from the imitation crystal decanter on the table.
“You may want a snifter of brandy too,” Cortez directed at Cutler.
Cutler shifted with impatience. “I’m a big boy, so to repeat myself, spit it out!”
“Well, let me begin by talking about Hoagie. I was listening in when Werner gave the order to shoot Richter on the aircraft steps. I tried to phone you, but evidently you had put your mobile on flight mode.”
Cutler remembered the exact time he had put the mobile into flight mode; he had a routine that as soon as he left the departure lounge, he would set it on flight mode. It had been no more than a minute before the shot had hit Richter and all hell broke loose.
Cortez interrupted his thoughts. “The sniper is known throughout the underworld as ‘the albino’. His actual name is Lothar Gottschalk. He is a crack shot, and my contacts say he has at least twenty kills to his name.”
“So, we have identified who is responsible for Hoagie and the other deaths that night, that’s good. We have a name, so we can track him and deal with him. It’s the least we can do for Hoagie,” Cutler replied.
“You mean kill him,” interjected Shultz.
“I said deal with him. I am going to have to give it some thought, but don’t you worry. I will deal with it, and I won’t involve you if I can’t do it legally.”
Shultz shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t worry about my sensitivity and my involvement, because if I find the bastard who killed my wife, he will be a walking dead man from that moment on.”
“That leads me to Newcastle. You killed one of Werner’s thugs there, I believe. Again, he and the delegate were discussing the details,” declared Cortez.
“Him or us, I’m afraid, not something I’m proud of,” confirmed Cutler, referring to the elimination of Falco Jager.
“Not judging
you, man, just affirming what is on those tapes. So legal or not legal, we need to wipe them clean, with your permission,” suggested Cortez.
“Make transcripts, omit the Newcastle details, and send it over a secure line to Fabienne.”
Cortez moved away from the support the wall gave him and filled a balloon glass with a good snifter of brandy. He would need it to move on with his report. After downing the smooth liquid, he felt the soothing heat in his throat and stomach and continued. “Werner was involved in your sister’s disappearance, although that is not strictly true; it was Bauer.”
Personal was one thing; this information went beyond that and hit Cutler like a sledgehammer. He stumbled back a yard or so until he steadied himself.
“Are you saying Werner had my sister killed, or not?”
“Actually not,” Cortez said, and the bemusement was spread wide across Cutler’s face.
“I’m confused. Werner sent Bauer to kill Elisa. So, if he didn’t kill her, what happened? Did he kidnap her instead?”
“No, I’m afraid she wasn’t kidnapped, and I’m sorry I have to tell you this. She is dead; no doubt about it, I’m afraid.” Cortez waited a minute for Cutler to absorb the fear that had been his bed partner every night.
“He tracked your family to Canada, and discovered they had left the day before to go on a cruise to Alaska. Bauer purchased a late deal on the Internet, and joined the ship in Vancouver.”
Cutler stiffened. “Bauer went to Canada and followed my family?”
“Evidently, from what I heard, he was on-board the ship and had problems locating your family on the ship. The cruise was full so you can imagine trying to locate three individuals amongst all those people. He could hardly go and ask for fear of arousing suspicion.”
Cutler stood there, shaking his head from side to side slightly, not wanting to believe what he was hearing, his anger rising.
“Finally, he located your sister and followed her until he became aware of her habits, to lay a trap. Your sister liked calling her friends after dinner, but she had a hard time finding a signal. The only place she could find one was on the top deck.
“Bauer set a trap and hid himself behind a partition on the top deck and waited for her. I think he was planning to kill her and throw her overboard. She came up at her usual time at 10 pm and Bauer was in hiding but within striking distance. According to Werner, when he was telling the German delegate, your sister was joined by some Asian, or half-Asian guy. Your sister appeared to know him as she addressed him as metro or masto, it’s unclear on the tape.”
Cutler could imagine the scene in his mind’s eye; Bauer hidden, Elisa smiling and bidding this guy ‘Good evening’. She was always pleasant and courteous. And he could even see the cell phone in her small hands.
“This guy was no ordinary Joe off the street. Bauer said he was trained in some martial art. He was quick on his feet, and he attacked her and killed her in a split second. At least it was not a painful death. The next part is not so sedate, and I can spare you if you wish,” offered Cortez.
Shultz interrupted, “You lost your sister on-board a ship just like I lost my wife? I didn’t know any of this. Is this why you set up MIDAS?” he asked Cutler.
“Sorry to butt in, Shultz, but that is a conversation for another time. He’s only just found out his sister is dead. No disrespect: you know your wife is dead and have had some time to deal with it. He hasn’t.”
“Tell me how she died,” Cutler said angrily, his eyes reflecting the pain.
“The Asian downed her in one blow. She was dead before she hit the deck. Strange thing is, he swooped down on top of her.”
“Did he rape her?!” Cutler spat out.
“No, he ripped out a large tuft of her hair and scalp. Bauer went on to say the guy was interrupted by a noise down on the next deck. He picked your sister up, moved away to the side of the ship which, when you look over the side had no balconies or overhanging lower decks, and he coldly threw her overboard. I am sorry, Cutler.”
Cutler walked to the edge of the roof patio, holding on tightly to the rails in the sweltering heat, but he felt cold, ice-cold. He stayed there for several minutes until he gained control of his anger and emotions before turning to Cortez.
Cortez finished, “He then washed, turning on a hose to wash the blood off him from your sister’s scalp, then walked away casually.”
Cutler closed his eyes, re-enacting the scene, torturing himself. After several minutes he had calmed his mind; his brain felt like it was overheating. His thought process returned, and he began to think like an investigator rather than a grieving sibling.
“The split pipe on my parents’ plane wasn’t an accident, was it?” he directed at Cortez in a barely audible voice.
“No, that was Bauer; they were desperate, and wanted you well away from the case. Triple whammy; your sister, father and mother. Bauer thought you would be on the plane, and even if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be interested in Werner for a long time.”
The plastic patio chair sailed over the edge of the roof as Cutler finally lost his composure and swung his foot, the lip of the seat catching the decanter on the initial upward movement. Cutler swore for several minutes and stamped around among the shards of glass.
His brain was overheating once again; he was shaking with anger as he realized that maybe not his sister, but indeed his parents, had been killed because of his job. He knew his sister would have died too, if not by the Asian martial artist, then by the hands of Bauer. Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time to Cortez and Shultz, Cutler regained some small part of his composure.
“Bauer and Werner. Was the delegate involved?”
“Not precisely, but she had put pressure on Werner to try to make you go away,” Cortez replied.
“And all three of them are up in those villas right now?” spat out Cutler.
“Yes.”
“Can you get me any hardware?” he asked Cortez directly.
“Handguns aren’t a problem. Every businessman in Turkey carries one, but anything else may be a bit tricky.”
“Get me what you can. Neither of you need to get involved.”
“We already are. In for a penny and all that,” Cortez replied
“Count me in, Cutler. If we ever get to my wife’s killer, I will expect the same courtesy.”
“That’s a given,” Cutler said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Esme Ross turned six years old. Her foster parents had tried their best to give her a happy, memorable day. John and Kathi Sturgeon were the kind of people the civilized world could not do without. They received a pittance for fostering Esme, and they had spent a month’s fostering fees on taking her to Disney World the previous night.
Kathi Sturgeon had dressed Esme in a yellow dress with black polka dots, and she had two ponytails, with her hair tied back with Minnie Mouse hair clips. She looked ready for her trip to Disney World.
They had crossed the large lagoon on the Mississippi Paddle Boat, and Pinocchio had waterskied past them. They entered Cinderella’s Castle onto Main Street, and the Sturgeons had ensured they had purchased the fast-track tickets, so the birthday girl was in front of the queue for any ride she went on.
Esme had insisted on riding on It’s A Small World seven times. The Sturgeons thought it was her favourite ride, and happily obliged. What they were unaware of was that Esme had been there three years before, and the park was one of her first memories.
She had been there with her mommy and daddy. One of Esme’s first memories was being squashed in the middle of the boat between her two laughing parents. She adored the closeness of the magical ride.
Back home on her nightstand, her foster parents had placed a photograph of her mommy and daddy, with baby Esme held aloft by Daddy while Mickey Mouse had his arms around Mommy. She remembered and missed them both so much.
The Sturgeons knew the little girl was sad, but she had shown steel in attempting to display a se
nse of enjoyment, not wanting to disappoint them both.
The day before they had left for the park, Cheryl Ross had visited her estranged daughter, as she was allowed to do once a week. It was a source of happiness and pain for Esme. Her mommy was all full of smiles and joy when she arrived, but Esme, through her bedroom window, could see her mommy weeping profusely when she reached her car at the end of the driveway.
For over two years now Cheryl Ross had spent a small fortune on trying to get custody of her little girl. Cheryl was the first to admit she had taken Don’s death badly, and for a short while her mental health had suffered. The final straw for the authorities was when she had left Esme with her eighty-year-old grandmother for a week, as she went to Egypt to follow up on the revelation that the Yacoubs had seen her husband being killed.
Grandmother Ross keeled over two days into the trip, a massive stroke, and Esme was there for four hours while she died, moaning and groaning. It was only when Cheryl returned that she discovered the death of her husband’s mother, and that her baby had been taken in by the authorities.
The court case the following week had endorsed the social worker’s assessment, and Cheryl had been fighting ever since to get her back, to no avail. Cheryl was petrified; if she could not prove she was sane and a good mother, before too long the authorities would put Esme up for adoption, and she would be lost to her forever.
The Sturgeons arrived back to the Miami South Beach property a little after 8 pm, and were surprised to see Chloe, their foster liaison worker on their doorstep. She was accompanied by a man with olive skin, black hair, and a square jaw.
***
Cheryl Ross took the phone call from Fabienne at around 9 pm. She had received the transcripts from Cortez a little over two hours before. At first, Fabienne thought it was the normal transmission from Stahmer and Ghislaine, but then she noticed the name on top: Cortez.
For several weeks, she had been supplying information and analysis to Cortez at Cutler’s request. Fabienne realized that this investigation was not what she had initially been briefed on, and she had not met Cortez, yet.
