Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  Shutt was confused. This person was no doubt a professional. The hits at Karl’s house were way too clean. People like that usually always have some kind of history on the radar screen. He plopped down in his chair and stared at his bulletin board. “And the good news?”

  “Our dead Latino is Carlos Garagua, Bolivian. He rented a car after flying in two days ago. Get this…” she threw down the file labeled Garagua, “he flew in on a private jet. Belongs to an outfit called Rocca International, solely owned by some highfalutin, richer-than-god, businessman playboy from South America.” Shawna turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Shutt called to Shawna. “Karl was German. Our stiff is from south of the border. This is starting to have an international flavor about it. Did you try Interpol?”

  “No! Everything we ran was domestic.” Shawna replied.

  “Send our shooter again. Try every avenue outside the borders. In fact, make sure we run him through German police agencies; maybe this Nazi connection will bear some fruit. If need be, get the Feds to help you out with the overseas stuff.”

  “You got it boss.” Shawna exited down the same hall as Stewart had five minutes earlier.

  High pressure dominated the weather pattern in the northeast, so the flight to Newark was pleasant and unremarkable. After making their connection, Ferguson and Courtney boarded the L-1011 for the balance of the 18-hour flight to Zurich.

  At the check-in counter in Cincinnati, while Ferguson had disappeared to the bathroom, Courtney had taken the liberty of checking on upgrades for the second leg of the trip from Newark. With several available, she had paid for two of them, and they were now being seated up front in the larger more spacious accommodations of first class, and the flight attendant was already asking for their drink orders.

  “Are you responsible for this?” Ferguson cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Courtney.

  “I thought we could stand to travel in style, especially for the long flight. My treat, I didn’t think you would mind.” Courtney replied.

  “A very nice treat. Thank you!” Ferguson turned from Courtney to the waiting flight attendant, “I think we’ll have some champagne”, he looked back at Courtney, “my treat, is that alright by you?”

  “Perfect!” She winked, with a slight grin.

  Ferguson could not help but notice how incredibly beautiful she looked. He caught himself staring at her, and realized she was gazing back in return. Just for the moment, they were both aware of the chemistry that was fomenting between them.

  After liftoff and three glasses of champagne, they spent the next two hours talking and laughing over a bottle of Trefethen merlot and filet mignon, an excellent meal by airplane food standards. The conversation was more discovery in nature, as they both let down any inhibitions they were holding on to, and began revealing more intimate details of their life’s histories. They were in their own little world. It was as if nobody was around them. No mention of the immediate problems at hand. Not a word about the adventure that lay ahead.

  Once the movie started, and the alcohol and tiredness had set in, Ferguson found himself reclined and on the verge of sleep, while Courtney had strategically placed her pillow so that it gravitated onto his shoulder, and was already in a deep slumber. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt more relaxed. Sleep came easy.

  “Excuse me Mr. Bolivar,” came an inquiry in heavily French—accented English. It was accompanied by a gentle nudge from a tall, lanky and very black servant standing over Bolivar, who was nestled comfortably in a rope hammock strung between two leaning palm trees.

  Bolivar struggled with his eyelids as he slowly acknowledged the prodding by the servant.

  “Mr. Bolivar,” Jean shook his shoulder with a little more force, “Mr. Rocca told me to bring you back up to the house.”

  Awake, and now fully cognizant again of his whereabouts, Bolivar laughed at the mention of the word house. Castle maybe, but not a house.

  “Do you need any help with anything?” Jean asked politely.

  “I’m fine, thank you… Jean is it?”

  “Yes sir. I will go tell Mr. Rocca you will join him shortly. He said you will find him on the veranda.”

  “Thank you Jean, tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  As Jean disappeared through the lush tropical growth that covered the steep bluff, Bolivar had rolled over to a sitting position in the hammock, and listened in silence to the slow lapping sound of the crystal clear water washing up against the sandy inlet beach. It was no wonder he had fallen asleep in no time. He shielded his eyes as he looked up to the sun high over his head. There was no question he had been asleep for several hours.

  He lifted himself out of the hammock and followed the same path Jean had taken up the carved stone steps that zigzagged halfway up the cliff, before giving way to a walking path that wound around to the side of the property. The path eventually deposited out on the terrace of a multi-leveled stone swimming pool and hot tub overlooking the same view as the rest of the estate. Up a set of adjacent stairs and Bolivar was on the veranda again with Rocca, who seemingly had never left the table, which had been replenished with oysters on the half shell and boiled shrimp on ice, and a plate full of rare grilled tuna on a bed of shaved ginger. Rocca was eating heartily from it all.

  “Join me Julio, you haven’t much time.” Rocca pulled back an empty chair and gestured to Bolivar to sit. “Please get something to eat.”

  Bolivar sat immediately and began to add food to the plate that Jean had set in front of him as he scooted himself to the table.

  “It seems our Miss Lewis has surfaced again. Thanks to one of my experts on loan from R.I.’s I.T. department, and the use of his extensive computer skills, we have dug deeply into Courtney Lewis’ background, including her credit cards and their recent usage. We discovered she is currently flying to Zurich, Switzerland. A little additional work has yielded the name of a young man accompanying her. His name is Matt Ferguson. He is the owner of the SUV Carlos chased around, and very likely the one in the apartment with her when Carlos was killed. It was very foolish of them to be using their plastic. If we can find them, I am sure anybody else can. That tells me that our other interested party, if he’s at all capable, shouldn’t be far behind.”

  Bolivar ate in silence, listening intently.

  “We are readying the jet now, and I’ll need you on it within the hour, Julio.” Rocca laid an envelope down on the table. “Inside you’ll find the particulars on their flight. Neither one has booked accommodations or a rental car.”

  Bolivar opened the envelope, scanned the contents and looked at his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be there in time to meet their plane.”

  “No, we weren’t able to access the information in time to get you there before them. I have made arrangements with a third party we’ve used in other company and personal matters, and he is there now waiting on them to arrive.”

  “Is this him?” Bolivar asked, pointing to a name and series of phone numbers on the paper in front of him.

  ‘That’s him.” Rocca affirmed. “He will keep tabs on them once they arrive, and will turn them over to you when you get there. Terry Sullivan will be joining you on the trip. He will not stand out like a sore thumb. There aren’t many Chicanos in central Europe.”

  “Excellent.” Bolivar nodded approvingly. “I forgot to mention it earlier, but I called Miguel as I was leaving Louisville, and had him fly there to wait and keep track of the girl. We need to call him off.”

  “That’s taken care of. He is headed to Chicago. I have something else for him to do.” Rocca speared a well-dressed raw oyster off the open shell and slid it into his mouth. “You’ll like Switzerland, Julio, it’s a beautiful country.”

  Chapter 12

  May 22, 2001. Zurich, Switzerland.

  Gregory Keitel adjusted his newspap
er to let his sad, brown eyes peer over the top of the national news and at the boarding door to gate 22, in the North concourse of the Zurich International airport. His eyes did not reflect the intensity that lay beneath the surface of the capable and ruthless private detective.

  Nine years removed from the local city police force, having resigned in a cloud of accusations involving corruption related to a large narcotics investigation, Keitel had escaped the ensuing judicial inquiries. He had quietly moved into the private sector with a sizable bank account, well hidden and well funded by the guilty he delivered from arrest and prosecution. His training, and connections to the good and bad sides of the law had proven to be much more lucrative than being a career police officer.

  At 5'10”, with a full head of sandy hair and blocky facial features, he had a solid, muscular build, honed daily in a popular downtown fitness center. At 300 Swiss francs per hour, plus expenses, he could afford to be well dressed, but not too flashy to attract attention. He managed to blend in well in any situation or occasion, and the crowded airport terminal was no different.

  The descriptions of Matt Ferguson and Courtney Lewis, received from the early morning phone call, were flawless. There wasn’t any question as to whom they were when they emerged from the exiting door, as Continental Airline’s flight 78 from Newark debarked.

  They headed toward customs, which along with baggage claim, Keitel knew would be a drawn out process. He rose from his seat in an adjoining gate area, tucked the paper under his arm, worked his way casually through the crowd, and stayed on pace twenty yards behind them.

  After clearing customs in quick fashion, they all moved on to the baggage claim area. At the large baggage carousel surrounding the brightly lit sign listing the Continental flight number, a seemingly endless stream of nearly identical luggage disgorged from an opening in the raised floor. Each piece dropped onto a moving conveyor and wound aimlessly around in a circle, until one person after another materialized from the crowded hoard surrounding it, stepped forward and laid claim to their possessions.

  After nearly half an hour, Ferguson thankfully captured his and Courtney’s luggage, and after clearing customs, the two of them moved to the car rental section at the far end of the main concourse level. Keitel followed carefully and advanced closer, joining them in the line at the Hertz counter, two customers back. He was in perfect earshot of Courtney as she stepped to the counter in front of Ferguson addressing the agent in her newly cultivated German.

  “Verstag mir, sprechen sie English ur French?”

  “Ja, I speak English,” replied the young, and very attractive brunette from behind the computer terminal.

  “Beautiful!” Courtney sighed, while Ferguson appreciatively exhaled his relief and stepped closer to the counter.

  “We need a one way mid-size to be dropped off in Luzern.” Ferguson said.

  The young agent immediately began typing onto her keyboard, while Ferguson delved into his wallet for an American Express, his Hertz Gold card, and driver’s license.

  Courtney said nothing, but frowned a perplexed look in the direction of Ferguson.

  “I’ll explain later.” Ferguson said, sensing her confusion. “Here’s my card and license”, as he handed the Hertz Gold Club card to the agent, who retrieved the cards with one hand while still typing with her right, her eyes never leaving the computer monitor.

  “And you would like the rental and insurance on the American Express Mr. Ferguson?” Asked the agent in heavily accented English.

  “Please” Ferguson replied, handing the card to her outstretched hand.

  Five minutes later the rental was consummated.

  “Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson”, said the agent as she slid the keys, Ferguson’s cards, and a folder with contract information and a Swiss map across the counter. “Have a nice stay in our country.”

  Courtney chuckled silently at the reference to marriage, and glanced down admiringly at her naked left ring finger for effect.

  The gesture was not lost on Ferguson, as he thanked the agent, grabbed the material from the counter and stooped down to pick up his bags. “Shall we go Mrs. Ferguson?” He asked mockingly.

  “Gladly, Mr. Ferguson, but while we’re in Europe, we really must do something about my jewelry. I seemed to have misplaced my wedding ring.”

  “Gladly, Mrs. Ferguson.”

  Keitel had already disappeared. Once he heard about the one-way destination, he had discreetly exited the line at the counter and headed for the first bank of automatic glass doors that led outside. Once outside the main concourse, near the bus and taxi transfers, he made himself comfortable on a bench and dialed a number into the flip top cell phone he took from his pant’s pocket. Within five minutes, a large, heavy-set man in his fifties hustled up to meet him.

  Keitel’s instructions were simple… go to the Hertz rental car staging area, keep an eye out for the man and woman he described, and forward the make, model and license plate number of the car they get into. Keitel and the burly man exchanged a cash handshake and Keitel quickly headed off to the parking garage for his car.

  Ferguson and Courtney showed up at the rental car lot fifteen minutes later, having stopped off for two cups of hot coffee. They found the silver Mercury Sable in the designated spot, deposited their luggage in the trunk, and climbed into the front seats. Ferguson was behind the wheel familiarizing himself with the various instruments and controls, while Courtney unfolded the map, studiously examining the city of Zurich on one side, and giving a cursory look to the map of the country on the other side. After proclaiming her navigational confidence, they fired up the engine, pulled out of the garage lot, and with Courtney’s help translating the multitude of signs, headed for the airport exit and national expressway A3.

  Keitel reached for the chirping phone as it lay in the front seat of the navy blue BMW 525.

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re headed out of the garage in a silver Mercury Sable, license number BEZ654. They should be on you in about two or three minutes. Nice doing business with you.” The line went dead.

  Gerhard Alden sped southward on the A4 autobahn toward Zurich, the large black Mercedes sedan cruising flawlessly at 110 miles per hour. His two passengers were both teetering on the edge of sleep.

  Two hours earlier Alden had been awakened by the knock at his hotel room door. The two large men responsible for the intrusion smiled at him as they entered his room uninvited and greeted him cordially.

  “Guten morgen, Gerhard,” declared the smaller of the two, slapping his shoulder with a powerful right hand. Horst Marshall passed by Alden and walked over to the window.

  Entering immediately behind him and extending his hand was Paul Knabel. He silently winked at Alden as they shook hands.

  “It’s a little early to wake up to you two,” Alden stretched, grimaced with pain, and rubbed his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger. “You might have called and given me some warning.”

  “Not enough time, we need to get a move on to Zurich,” replied Horst, staring out the third floor window to the dark street below. He glanced back to Alden, “You look terrible. I heard you got into a bit of a scrape.”

  “I’ll survive, I’ve been in worse shape. Have they already arrived?” Alden inquired.

  “No. We’re going to intercept them as they come off the plane.” Knabel interjected. “We’re only to follow and keep an eye on them.”

  “Exactly!” Alden limped to the bathroom. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Marshall and Knabel both made themselves comfortable in the two leather armchairs that flanked the French provincial desk in the far corner of the room.

  The intrusion, Alden reflected while washing his face was a pleasant one. Leiter could not have delivered him two better comrades to be working with. They were intelligent, p
hysically imposing, and most of all, very reliable. They had also had the opportunity to use each of those traits on several demanding occasions, all very successfully, which added experience to their resumes. A far cry from the two idiots he had mistakenly employed in Kentucky.

  Horst Marshall was 34 years old, and a perfect Aryan specimen. At 6'2” 210 pounds, with thinning blond hair, and crystal blue eyes set deep within a pair of high cheekbones, he still sustained an imposing physique he had developed as a paratrooper in the German army. Disavowed by his widowed father for not furthering his education at the university, he drifted aimlessly for six months before a recruiting officer convinced him to enlist in the service at the age of 18. Discharged three years ago, he had made the rank of lieutenant, and would have probably been a career army man had it not been for the unexpected recruitment of him by the Sturtzburn Corporation as a security officer. Sturtzburn was a subsidiary of a Saudi valve manufacturer, which fell under the empire of Irwin Leiter.

  A talent watcher for ODESSA had spotted Marshall early in his career, which included combat assignments in the Gulf War and Kosovo. An expert marksman, he was also skilled in demolitions and electronics, but it was his intelligence duties, particularly during the latter conflict, that earned him several commendations and his final bump in rank.

  However, the lure of a substantial increase in money, and an opportunity to travel frequently back to the Middle East, an area of the world in which he had become enamored, was enough to spur his exit from the army and embark on a career in the private sector. A personal interest taken by Irwin Leiter, resulting in a private meeting with the billionaire that had portended of even greater personal and financial opportunities in the future, had made the decision that much easier. Paul Knabel was physically the antithesis of Horst Marshall, but equally as capable. He was imposing in size at 6'5” and well over 300 pounds, but there was nothing chiseled on his round frame. He had long forsaken the crops of brown hair that flanked the hairless top of his head, opting to shave them regularly for a totally bald look. Six years Marshall’s junior, he had been hand picked by Marshall two years earlier at a local fitness center frequented by both.