Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  Rocca stroked his chin with his right thumb and forefinger, while he shifted his gaze out the window. He said nothing. The Land Rover came to a stop outside two large iron gates that seem to grow out of an enormous outcrop of local vegetation. The gates opened and another native islander, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, waved at them as they drove through the gates and down a tunnel of palm trees lining a shell gravel road.

  As they emerged from the trees, Rocca’s palatial estate came into full view. Perched upon a bluff overlooking the Caribbean from the northern side of the island, Bolivar was privy to a magnificent sunrise out his side window, as the large, orange, hazy ball was radiating an intense streak of light across the placid blue and green sea.

  They arrived at the front entrance of the white stucco, Mediterranean style mansion via a circular driveway, and were escorted by three houseboys from the truck, through the large foyer and hallway, to the large semi-circular veranda on the backside of the house. Along the way Rocca ordered champagne and breakfast and then guided the two of them to a round, umbrella’d table at the edge of the railing overlooking the 100 foot tiered drop to a secluded bay below. The white sand beaches and turquoise water were coming to life under the rising sun.

  “It’s a good story, very plausible.” Rocca spoke first.

  Bolivar sat at the table but offered no response.

  “They’re sure to find the bugs in her apartment. How would you suggest we handle that?”

  “Carlos and I paid cash for the surveillance equipment. The bugs were all made from domestic, off-the-shelf stuff. They cannot trace that to Carlos or me. I’d say we play dumb on that one, and let them infer they were planted by the shooter.” Bolivar replied.

  The eggs benedict, toast and jam, sausages, assorted fruits, and champagne arrived accompanied by two servants, and Rocca pulled the bottle of Tattinger from the large silver ice bucket and poured two glasses. Bolivar visibly relaxed, sensing this may not be as big an ass chewing as he thought it was going to be.

  “Here’s to Carlos!” Rocca said, as he raised his glass right-handed, while handing Bolivar the other glass with his left.

  Bolivar received the offering and lifted it to meet Rocca’s with a gentle clink of the crystal. “To Carlos!”

  They both sipped the sparkling wine simultaneously, and returned the glasses to the table. Rocca looked off at the rising sun just as it crept higher over the watery horizon, and then returned his piercing brown eyes to meet Bolivar’s.

  “If you fuck up again like that Julio, you’ll be eating dust in the mines. You understand me?”

  “I understand completely.” Bolivar replied somberly.

  Rocca stabbed his fork at a plate of sliced fruits that rested between their plates and called out for the servants. “I’ll have them set you up on the beach. It’s a wonderful place to take a nap. I’m sure you could use one.”

  “Very much so! Gracias.”

  It had been raining in Munich for hours, with no sign of letting up. Between the wind and the three broken ribs, Mr. Jones was struggling to keep the umbrella up over his head as he walked south down Maximillianstrasse.

  The flight over from New York had been easy. A hydrocodone for pain, two ambian for sleep, three martinis to enhance the effect, and the majority of the first class flight had been consumed by half sleep, half coma. The bumpy approach and landing had signaled the return of the pain he had been in since he had stumbled out of Courtney Lewis’ apartment less than 20 hours earlier, minutes before the police had arrived.

  He had settled himself in the Bayersicher Hof Hotel roughly one hour earlier, and as instructed by the message at the front desk, he was strolling along Maximillianpaltz, one of Munich’s most splendid boulevards, waiting to be picked up by a passing auto.

  Not more than five minutes after embarking on his walk, a large silver Mercedes sedan pulled to the curb just in front of him and stopped. Out popped a chauffeur from the driver’s side who promptly opened the rear door and offered an open palmed entrance to the car with his right hand. Mr. Jones limped noticeably to the open door and climbed in.

  Seated to his left was a very distinguished, silver haired gentleman, impeccably dressed in a three-piece Armani suit, who gave a brief smile of greeting as the door closed behind him.

  “Guten tag, Gerhard,” said Erwin Leiter as he waved at his chauffeur to proceed.

  “Good to see you Herr Leiter,” replied Gerhard Alden.

  “Was it as bad as you look?” Leiter inquired.

  Alden had removed the sunglasses he was wearing, revealing the multiple bruises on his face. “Just as bad, if not worse!”

  “Well, you will have some recuperation time. I’ve decided we will not pursue the letter.”

  Alden had an initial look of confusion, but quickly disguised his dismay. “As you wish Herr Leiter.”

  “Don’t be discouraged Gerhard, we are not giving up. Quite the contrary, we have been able to track Mr. Ferguson and Miss Lewis via their credit cards. They are both booked on flights that will take them from the U.S. to Zurich. We will trail them from there, and let them lead us to the crash site. If and when they discover it, we will be there… excuse me… you will be there to clean up this little mess once and for all.” Leiter’s eyes bore a hole through Alden. “And please, don’t screw it up this time, or it will be the last thing you will do in this lifetime. Verstehen Sie?”

  “Jawohl Herr Leiter,” Alden sat up rigid, “I understand completely.”

  Erwin Leiter, at the age of 79, was one of the wealthiest industrialists in all of Europe. He was a principal shareholder in Allianz, Siemens, Volkswagen, UBS, Robert Bosch, BMW, Bayer and AXA. He privately owned, or held controlling interest in another dozen companies located in France, Denmark, Switzerland, Italy and Saudi Arabia. Additionally, his real estate holdings rivaled the largest private holdings in Western Europe. Well respected among his peers, he had endless political and social clout, money, and above all else… charm.

  Leiter controlled enormous purse strings. He doled out large sums of money from his wealth to a variety of persons and organizations all over the globe, and in return poured vast sums back into his coffers through his actions and the actions of those he impacted. Without a doubt, he was one of the most influential men on the planet.

  Born in Munich, Germany in 1923, to Sophia Leiter, he was the illegitimate son of Heinrich Muller, one of the most notorious and powerful SS officers in the Nazi state terror system.

  Sophia Leiter had been widowed in 1922 at the tender age of 22. Relying on her incredible beauty, a product of her northern Italian heritage, and blessed with a wonderful singing voice, she began performing in the burgeoning nightclubs of Munich to make ends meet. It was at the Club Decanter, she met a young police officer by the name of Heinrich Muller. They had a torrid love affair that lasted almost two months, and consumed all of Muller’s attentions. It ended when Muller’s immediate boss, Reinhard Heydrich, the Bavarian Police Chief, politely suggested the tryst end or Muller risk the end of his career in the increasingly influential Gestapo wing of the Nazi Party.

  It ended abruptly. Later that fall, Sophia gave birth to her one and only child, Erwin Leiter. The following spring, Sophia and Erwin moved to Berlin. It would be ten years before Muller found out about the child. He would eventually provide Sophia with a considerable stipend for her and his young son, set her up in a comfortable apartment and managed to wield his growing power and import to set up Erwin in the finest schools in Berlin. His impact came to fruition during the war, as he was able to implore his friend from the old Gestapo days, Hermann Goering, to take a young Erwin Leiter into the Luftwaffe as an officer, and assign him to the general staff, well out of the way of the action. Muller went to great pains to keep the existence of his son a secret. No one was remotely aware, or ever discovered the connection between the two.<
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  Ironically in the latter stages of the war, as Hitler’s paranoia grew demonstrably, young Leiter was recruited by his father to help spy on Goering and his staff for the SS, and to report of any possible actions that might appear as though Goering intended to remove Hitler from power. For this, he was greatly rewarded both personally and financially. He achieved the rank of Captain at the very young age of 22.

  In March of 1945, with the war undeniably headed to a close, Muller met with Leiter and revealed his long kept secret. One week later Leiter joined a very select group of SS officers at a remote chalet in the Black Forest on the outskirts of Stuttgart. At that meeting were senior members of what remained of the vaunted SS. Realizing the inevitability of the war’s outcome, and recognizing the resultant fury civilized man would loose as a result of their actions, a master plan of action was conceived to enable the escape of it’s members and to afford them the opportunity to integrate back into the world’s societies. As a result of that meeting, the Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehorigen or Organization of Former Members of the SS was created. Commonly referred to as ODESSA, the organization was formed to help facilitate the means by which this master plan could be fulfilled.

  Financial instruments were established, providing vast resources to be drawn upon in the future to affect the group’s long-range goals. However, initial efforts concentrated on securing the disappearance of many of the murderers to other countries. Many others never left Germany. Operating under new identities, they blended into the populace, and went to work setting up political and financial networks, right under the watchful eye of Allied rule.

  Heinrich Muller remained loyal to Adolph Hitler to the very end. All trace of Muller was lost on April 29, 1945, and to this day, his whereabouts could never be confirmed.

  Erwin Leiter never left Germany. There was never a shred of evidence that he had any affiliation with the SS. His father had gone to great pains to provide for that. His Luftwaffe record was unremarkable, and even though he served on Goering’s staff, his age and the fact that he never officially joined the Nazi party, precluded him from being connected to any responsibility of the atrocities wrecked on the European continent. He was the perfect choice within ODESSA to manage and grow the collective financial wealth the organization had cultivated in the closing months of the war. After serving the required two years in a prisoner of war camp, he was released, and immediately began exploiting the untapped financial resources in a post-war reconstructive Western Europe. He never disappointed, exceeding even the wildest possible scenario for success.

  The Mercedes sedan returned to the street corner outside the Bayersicher Hof Hotel. Alden prepared to exit the vehicle as it came to a halt.

  “Enjoy your stay Gerhard. Get some rest. We will contact you the minute they arrive in Zurich,” said Leiter.

  “Danke Herr Leiter! I’ll be ready.”

  Alden exited the car with some pain. Before he could reach the front door, Leiter’s Mercedes had disappeared.

  The Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International airport is just under 70 miles from downtown Prospect. Uncle Max’s fully restored 1968 Triumph TR250 made it into the long-term parking lot in 66 minutes, 40 minutes ahead of their 11:00 am departure time. For Ferguson and Courtney, the ride up Interstate 71 in the old convertible was exhilarating. The prospect of flying off to Switzerland in search of lost treasure, the lingering effects of the day before, and the crisp spring air rushing over them had fine-tuned their senses.

  Earlier that morning, after making substantial withdrawals from their respective bank accounts and retrieving his passport, they had driven out scenic Covered Bridge Road on their way to accessing the Interstate. Stopping at the Crestwood exit to fill up with gas, they placed a phone call to detective Shutt’s office from the pay phone in the parking lot. He picked it up on the third ring.

  “Detective Shutt speaking.”

  “Detective… Matt Ferguson here. Before you jump all over me, please let me explain why we have not come in.”

  “I’m listening.” Shutt stood up from his desk chair, covered the mouthpiece, and yelled at Stewart from his cubicle, “Steve, get a trace on this call, hurry!”

  “We got your messages. Based on what you said, Courtney and I still feel we cannot come in yet.”

  “You two better get your asses in here, and quick!” Shutt interrupted, stalling for time.

  “Please detective, let me finish.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “As I told you before, we are in possession of knowledge that is potentially worth a lot of money, I mean a lot of money. There is nothing illegal about it, but apparently, there are people out there that have discovered what we know, and feel a need to get the information and the financial return it can offer. Obviously, at any cost. Unfortunately, the only link to who they are, escaped from Courtney’s apartment last night, before you were able to get him. We would have been willing to come in if you had gotten him. There is no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the death of Dr. Karl and the other two killed with him. He definitely was responsible for the murder of the guy in Courtney’s place. We have no clue who that fella was, but it appeared as though he was trying to help us before he was shot. If I had the opportunity, if… if I could have found one of the guns last night, I would have killed the bastard that got away.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I pretty much don’t already know.” Shutt admonished. “Do you have any clue who the gunman was that you knocked unconscious?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea who he was, and therein lies the problem.”

  “And what would that be?” Shutt asked.

  “Without him, we have no way of knowing who he is, or more importantly, how many more of him is there. I can assure you he is not alone.”

  “The more reason for you two to turn yourselves in so we can protect you.” Shutt stood up to face Stewart, who was circling the pointed index finger on his right hand, indicating to keep the conversation going.

  “Actually that’s the reason for us not to turn ourselves in right now. Neither one of us wants to be held captive in protective custody, over something we may, or may not know. Particularly if its going to be for an indefinite period of time that we have no control over. If you can’t find out who they are, then they are waiting for us as soon as we’re back on the street. In the not-to-distant future, we can prove whether the information we have is worth what we think it is. If it is or is not, we will have the opportunity to make it public knowledge, which will eliminate the need for anyone to harm us in the future. That may not solve your case, I realize, but I’m more concerned about saving Courtney’s and my life.”

  “We have a line on the suspect. We are running information on him as we speak. We’ll get him, I’m certain of that.” Shutt lied.

  “Who is he?” Ferguson asked.

  “That’s privileged information, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to jeopardize our investigation.” Shutt replied.

  “Well, until you can, we are not turning ourselves in.” Ferguson called his bluff.

  Steve Stewart flashed the thumbs up sign with his right hand.

  “Well, let me explain something to you Mr. Ferguson. Right now, you and Miss Lewis are witnesses in a capital murder case. If necessary, I will change that to suspects, and issue warrants for your arrest. I can appreciate your interest in trying to save your bacon, but I think we are probably the best outlet to do that for you. So get your shit together, and get you and your girlfriend down to the station where we can put you somewhere safe until we find out who’s responsible for all the hell that’s breaking loose.”

  “Let me think it over. I’ll call you back first thing in the morning.” Ferguson waved at Courtney, who was leaning on the hood of the car sipping on a Coke, to get back in the car.

  “Make it first thing. After that, we will be comi
ng for the both of you. Understood? Shutt asked.

  “Understood.” Ferguson hung up the pay phone receiver and joined Courtney in the car. They exited the gas station parking lot, turned right up the entry ramp to Interstate 71, accelerated into the right lane and settled in for the one hour drive to the Cincy airport.

  “It’s a pay phone out in Crestwood. A Shell gas station.” Steve Stewart said, handing Shutt a small piece of notepaper with the address on it.

  “Get a uniform over there ASAP!” Have them check it out, and call me back. If they’re still there, arrest them both.” Shutt grabbed the back of his neck with his right hand and started to rub the kinks out. “Crestwood? What the hell’s in Crestwood?” He yelled at Stewart as he was walking away. “Steve, also start canvassing Crestwood and Pewee Valley for anything that resembles a hotel, motel, bed and breakfast, anyplace they could be hiding out. We also need background checks and bios on both Ferguson and Lewis. Get whatever you can on the two of them. Immediate family, phone records, contacts at work, banking info, credit cards, the works. You and I can sift through it later tonight.”

  Shawna Hammer waited for Stewart to leave before intruding on Shutt. “I’ve got some good news and bad news. The bad news is we got a big fat zero on the face from the garage video.”

  “FBI?” Shutt asked with a look of bewilderment.

  “Notta. We ran it through every data bank we have.”