Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  They had decided to walk to the Der Bergsteiger. The day was gorgeous, with puffy white clouds gliding amongst the mountains through an azure sky. On their way out of the lobby, the same clerk had warned them to head back before late afternoon, because they were expecting rain for the evening.

  Downtown Wildhaus was picturesque and steeped in history. Every bit the old world mountain town, oozing an aura of rich tradition complemented by modern culture. Courtney and Ferguson wandered aimlessly west, back toward Unterwasser, in the opposite direction of Der Bergstieger, stepping in and out of retail shops that lined Haupstrasse and some of the adjoining side streets. Jewelry stores, leather goods, watch and clock makers, numerous restaurants and cafes, sporting goods and ski shops, even shingles for lawyers and insurance agencies… all blended seamlessly into contiguous facades and architectural relics that had stood for centuries.

  After enjoying their walk west, they turned back east and returned to the middle of town, stopping for a leisurely lunch of omelets and champagne at the Haxa Stubbe restaurant in the Hotel Sonne. After an incredibly relaxing meal, and Ferguson nearing the point of dozing off, they pressed on several more blocks east, and then turned south onto Lochmuhlestrasse. Halfway down the street on the left is where they found Der Bergsteiger, marked by a hand carved wood sign of a caricatured mountain climber over the door, with the store name painted brightly in red letters arched over the carving.

  Ferguson opened the door and held it open as Courtney entered before him. A small bell rigged with a string signaled to the inhabitants their entry. Ironically, it went unanswered as the two of them looked at each other with mutual shrugs and began to browse the store in silence. After several minutes, Ferguson was about to announce the two of them verbally, when a young man, in his mid twenties, entered from an open door in the back and walked behind the glass and wood counter that surrounded all but the front wall of the shop.

  “Darf ich Sie helfen?” The young man queried.

  Courtney acknowledged her understanding to Ferguson, and stepped forward and spoke in a stuttered, unsure German. “Yes, you can help us. We’re looking for the owner, Rolf Batemann.”

  “You’re speaking with him,” Batemann replied again in German.

  “Guten tag. You wouldn’t speak English by any chance?”

  “Just enough to be dangerous, and probably better than your German. I spent four and half years in the United States at Georgetown University.” Batemann shuffled some papers into a lockbox and leaned his left elbow on the counter top. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you sooner, but I was on the phone in the back office.”

  “That’s quite alright, we were enjoying looking through your store,” said Courtney, walking to the back of the store and extending her hand over the counter. “My name is Courtney Lewis, and this is Matt Ferguson.” She pointed to Ferguson walking down one of the polished hardwood aisles from the front of the shop.

  “Its a pleasure to meet you both.” Batemann took turns shaking both of their hands. His grip was powerful and reflected his stout and muscular build, honed from years of rigorously delightful outdoor activities. He was dressed as if headed to the mountains, in a black turtleneck sweater, a pair of olive wool trousers that matched his eyes, and Patagonia hiking boots. The locks of black curly hair flowed freely to his shoulders.

  “How may I help you?” Batemann continued.

  Ferguson spoke first this time. “We need some help locating a lake around this area.”

  “We’ve got several of those. Any one in particular?”

  “We’ll, therein lies the problem,” continued Ferguson. “We don’t exactly know which one.”

  Batemann’s face contorted with a puzzled look, as he directed his attention first to Ferguson, then to Courtney, and back to Ferguson.

  Ferguson held up the palms of both hands. “Let me explain. We’re trying to find a body of water, that is…” he hesitated, not sure of how much information to divulge, “well, something big enough to handle a twin engine aircraft, say if it wanted make a landing.” Ferguson was gambling that this young man would haven’t the slightest idea of what he was talking about unless he offered some more significant pieces of the puzzle, of which the truthful portions he was not willing to tender at this time.

  Batemann’s eyebrows raised and his look of bewilderment faded quickly to one of curiosity. “I’m not really qualified to know what type of runway length a twin engine airplane might need to land, but if I were to make a guess, there’s only one lake within 25 kilometers of here that would probably fit the bill. Voralpsee. It’s probably long enough to handle a landing, but it would have to be in the dead of winter or early spring, when it would have frozen over. If you don’t mind me asking, why an airplane, unless it was an emergency?”

  Ferguson had already formulated a reply. “Courtney and I are doing some freelance investigative research for a magazine on drug smuggling in Europe. We have reason to believe that Middle Eastern drug operations may have utilized aircraft, landing on the frozen lakes in and around this area. We also believe it’s been going on for decades.

  “In fact I was hoping to find someone who may have lived in this area for the last 50 to 60 years, anyone who might have heard rumors over the years, or actually may have seen something that might get us jump started in our investigation.”

  Batemann smiled. “I’ve certainly never heard of anything like that in this area, but it’s certainly plausible. I know someone that fits the bill perfectly.” He paused for effect. “My father. He lives in Walenstadt now, which is less than an hour south of here, but he spent most of his adult life in Unterwasser. This is actually his store… was. We came to a father son agreement two years ago on this store and another one in Stein, not long after I returned from America. We have a third location in Walenstadt that he minds. It keeps him busy and allows him to remain active in the business.”

  “So he knows a thing or two about this area?” Courtney asked.

  “Like the back of his hand. Not only that, but he was a pilot. Technically, I guess he still is, but he hasn’t flown in several years. He owned a pontoon plane for years, and ran fishing trips in and out of the mountains as part of the business. He sold it two or three years ago, and hasn’t been up since. But he would definitely know if Voralpsee, or maybe something smaller would be able to withstand twin engine landings.”

  “How can we contact your father?” Ferguson asked excitedly.

  “Don’t need to, he’ll be here later this afternoon. We had planned to have dinner tonight and go fishing in the morning. I’ll speak with him when he arrives and maybe we can get together later tonight, or tomorrow afternoon. Where can we reach you?”

  “We’re staying at the Hotel Hirschen,” chimed Courtney, “under the name of Ferguson. We would be happy to treat you and your father to dinner, if you would care to join us this evening. We’re also prepared to pay both of you for any assistance you can offer in helping us locate the area we’re looking for.”

  “Thank you for the offer. I’ll talk with him and see if he’s up for it.” Batemann came from around the counter and walked to the front of the store where he flipped a sign in one of the bay windows that projected the word CLOSED out to the sidewalk. He looked at his watch. “He should be here in the next couple of hours. As soon as he arrives, I’ll talk to him and call you shortly afterward.”

  Ferguson and Courtney understood the clue that their conversation with Rolf Batemann was over.

  “Thanks for your help Mr. Batemann,” said Ferguson as he held the front door open for Courtney and shook Batemann’s extended right hand. “We’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  “Yes, thank you for your help!” Courtney said, as she led them both out of the shop and onto the sidewalk.

  “Please call me Rolf.” Batemann stood in the doorway. “And I’ll be in touch shortly.” />
  The sound of the ringing bell signaled the end of their dialogue. Ferguson and Courtney walked north up the street, and then turned west onto Haupstrasse and headed back to the hotel. The sky was darkening, the white puffy cotton balls having given way to burgeoning gray storm clouds that had engulfed the warm sunshine from that morning. The desk clerk had been correct, a storm was blowing in.

  The phone rang just as the two of them were headed out of the room in search of dinner. It was just after 8:00, and they had given up hope of hearing from Batemann and his father this evening. Courtney ran back into the room first, and cradling the receiver to her ear, answered on the fourth ring.

  “Ms. Lewis? It’s Rolf Batemann; I hope I’m not calling to late.”

  “No not at all.” Courtney nodded affirmatively at Ferguson still standing at the door and waved at him to come back into the room. “Matt and I were just heading out to find some dinner.”

  “Oh, very good. My father was delayed getting here, and just arrived. We were also looking to go out for some dinner. Would you care to join us? My father would be pleased to talk with you and said he would be happy to help in any way he can.”

  “We would love to have dinner with you and your dad. Please tell us when and where and we’ll be there.”

  “Well actually, the restaurant in your hotel, the Diesfurger is excellent, and we haven’t had a meal there in weeks. Would that be acceptable to you and Mr. Ferguson?”

  “That would be perfect, but please call me Courtney, and I know Matt would appreciate his first name as well.”

  “Would 8:30 be okay with you?”

  “8:30 would be perfect. We’ll head down in a few minutes, so you might look for us in the bar.”

  “We’ll see you and Matt shortly. Thanks, and my apologies again for the short notice.”

  The line went dead before Courtney could respond any further.

  “Dinner here in a half hour,” said Courtney standing up from sitting on the arm of the couch.

  “Perfect. Did I hear you say we’ll be in the bar?” Ferguson asked.

  “Yep. You heard correctly. They’ll find us there.”

  Ferguson returned to the door and held it open for Courtney as they exited the suite and headed downstairs. “After you madam.”

  Courtney curtsied, “Dankeshoen.”

  The young, dark haired waiter, who wore a nametag that identified himself as ‘Tim’, and had needed no introduction to the Batemann’s, was busy clearing away the dinner entree dishes while inquiring about dessert.

  Rudi Batemann quickly interjected and authoritatively spoke for everyone. “Tim, please tell Chef Andreas we would like to have four of his famous chocolate soufflé’s.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Batemann. When I told him you were here, he predicted there would be a least one soufflé’ for the evening.” Tim dutifully scraped away some crumbs from the white tablecloth, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  The elder Batemann looked at the two American guests. “Andreas is an excellent chef, but his soufflé’ is out of this world.”

  There was no disagreement between Ferguson and Courtney, their dinner had been wonderful, and Rolf Batemann was nodding his head in agreement with his father.

  Two hours earlier Ferguson and Courtney had reached the bar prior to the Batemann’s arrival, they spent a few minutes choosing a glass of wine for themselves, and then noticing a crowd developing in the dining room, decided to claim a table. After the Batemann’s arrived, and formal introductions were made by Rolf, Rudi Batemann changed up the table so Tim could wait on the four of them. It was quickly revealed that Tim was a local ski instructor, who had worked for the Batemann’s as a teenager, and continued to direct quite a bit of tourist business to the three Der Bersteiger shops. The Toggensberg region, as Courtney and Ferguson were beginning to understand, was a small world.

  Rudi Batemann had been delightful. At 79, he was remarkably well preserved. His tanned complexion was considerably weathered and accentuated by a full head of combed back silver hair. Physically, he looked twenty years younger. His six-foot frame was well conditioned and he was dressed impeccably in a pair of loose fitting corduroy trousers, a tight fitting silk turtleneck and a plaid fleece pullover.

  Most of the evening’s conversation had funneled through him, which had been perfectly fine for the other three diners. He was charming, witty, and his knowledge of the area, and local history had been fascinating for Courtney and Ferguson.

  As Tim placed the four desserts around the table, Chef Andreas walked up with a bottle of Gaston De Lagrange brandy and four snifters.

  “Ah, here is the creator of these masterpieces,” said Rudi Batemann, as he stood to greet all six feet and 330 pounds of Andreas Kline.

  After several hugs and warm handshakes all around, followed by an excessive number of compliments regarding the food, Chef Andreas poured four generous servings of brandy on the house, thanked everyone at the table, and retreated to the kitchen with Tim and the bottle in tow.

  “Andreas has been a chef around here for almost twenty years. He’s a fixture in Wildhaus,” said Rolf Batemann.

  His father sipped at the brandy. “I’ve been a fan of his food for as long as he’s been here. We’ve spent many a long evening partaking in his passion and mine, French cognac and brandy.”

  After a brief silence, as everyone sampled their respective spirits, Ferguson resumed the discussion that had developed during dinner, in which the senior Batemann had taken a keen interest.

  “So, Mr. Batemann, you’re convinced that the Voralpsee lake is the only lake capable of handling an airplane landing?”

  “A twin engine like you’re suggesting… yes. I don’t think there is any margin for error on some of the other choices, but, as I said earlier, I’ve been around this area for the better part of 60 years, and I have never heard of anybody landing a plane on the Voralpsee when it was frozen over. Intentionally.

  “I also have never heard of any rumors or stories of drug smuggling going on in this region either. There’s no doubt that our banking industry has probably been very kind to the drug smugglers, and the cartels that operate that industry; however, Switzerland as a whole does not approve of illicit drugs and smuggling in our country and does not have an excessive drug abuse problem.

  “Why is it you keep referring to a twin engine? Do you know something more specific about the type of aircraft that you believe has landed in this area?”

  Ferguson didn’t flinch externally, but his heart nearly skipped a beat internally. The old man had just caught a mistake. He had given up too much information. “No, not really. The information I had regarding the amount of smuggling, total quantity or weight, would require a dual engine versus a single.” When confronted with a hard question, always respond with a question. “Why, would it make a big difference?”

  “Absolutely, it might be the difference in a few hundred feet of landing length,” said the father.

  “Which could open up a few other bodies of water around here,” interjected the son.

  Courtney sensed the need to squelch any further interest of the details. “Well, I think we should start with the… Voralpsee? Is that how you pronounce it? It sounds like the best candidate for now.”

  “I agree.” Ferguson concurred quickly.

  “Yes, your pronunciation is correct. Moreover, the Voralpsee is very close. Rolf and I can drive you up in the morning and show you around. It’s part of a natural preserve and is owned by the state.”

  “I’ll need to be back by 3:00 Dad, I’ve got two climbers coming in to the shop for outfitting. We’ll also be climbing the next day, so if we don’t fish in the morning, it’ll be next week before we can go again.”

  “We don’t want to interrupt your fishing trip,” said Ferguson apologetically. “How about if
we follow you to the lake, you give us a quick lay of the land, and then you can go on fishing. If we have any questions, we can come by the shop later in the afternoon.”

  The Batemann’s looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in agreement.

  Courtney signaled Tim as he approached the table with the bill in hand and proffered her American Express card. It took him less than five minutes to return with the processed card and check copies, where Courtney added an exorbitant tip, signed and returned the merchant copy to him as he tended to an adjoining table of diners.

  During the wait, it was determined that the Batemann’s would arrive at the hotel in the morning at 8:00. From there, Ferguson and Courtney would follow them into the mountains, assured that they were within a half hour drive to the lake. They were also forewarned that there would be some walking necessary to get to certain areas of the waterfront, if that was their intention.

  Everyone thanked Courtney for her generosity in paying for dinner, another round of handshakes was realized, and the Batemann’s left Courtney and Ferguson in the lobby area of the hotel.

  “A nightcap?” Courtney asked a yawning Ferguson.

  “Absolutely, but keep nudging me if I try to nod off.” The lack of sleep over the last 36 hours, coupled with the wine and brandy at dinner, was turning Ferguson into a walking zombie.

  Ferguson ordered a port, and Courtney doubled it, as they commandeered two stools at the nearly deserted bar. The fresh logs in the nearby fireplace popped and hissed while a Frank Sinatra ballad played softly in the background.

  “I can’t wait for tomorrow,” said Courtney. “Do you have a clue what you’re looking for?”

  “I’ve got a general idea. There was a little more information that Uncle Max had left that you and Karl didn’t get an opportunity digest. Given that, and what I heard Uncle Max talk ramble about for years, I’m pretty certain I can draw some conclusions. I won’t know for sure until I look around. We’ll see tomorrow.”