Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  “We’re staying at the Hirschen. It’s right in the middle of town. Please, do not blow it detective. I want Matt to have the opportunity to finish what he came here to do. I want him to have his day. This is a very big deal for him. Hell, it’s a big deal for me. It could conceivably be one of the biggest art discoveries ever. I will personally make your life a living hell if you don’t uphold your end of the bargain.” Courtney recited off her father’s name, home address and phone number, and his office location and phone number. “I’ll call you tomorrow, but it will be at 6. I’ll be treasure hunting in the afternoon and I’m not sure I’ll be able to steal away to call you then.”

  The line went dead. “I’ll be damned,” muttered Shutt. “The Hirschen hotel in Wildhaus, did you get that?” He looked at Daniel who nodded and was already speaking into his mobile phone. “You are not going to believe this.”

  They walked back into the bar and Shutt proceeded to tell him the whole story.

  Gerhard Alden sat on the wooden bench in the dark of the early morning, just outside the Palace hotel. He stared at the rolling water of Lake Lucerne. The storm from the previous afternoon and evening had churned up the lake, but the calm had returned with the cessation of the bad weather, and the tranquility of the surface was returning with the absence of any measurable wind.

  Unfortunately, the tranquility did not extend to his present state of affairs. He had just hung up from a most unpleasant phone conversation with Erwin Leiter, where the magnitude of his assignment was once again confirmed, and the repercussions of his failure were gravely implied. He was convinced that an unsuccessful resolution of the current situation in front of him, would result in his death. He was of the belief that the circumstances were that critical.

  Horst Marshall approached him from behind. “Any news on the car?”

  “Nothing,” Alden replied. “I just got off the phone with Leiter. I am a walking dead man if we do not find these two within the next forty-eight hours. I’m not sure we’ll have any luck tracking the vehicle in that time.”

  Marshall knew that if Alden felt the way he did, that his and Knabel’s existence may be on feeble ground as well. He decided that Paul did not need to know the fragile nature of their predicament. He wasn’t certain how he might react.

  “Did you have any luck with any of the other staff,” Alden continued.

  “No. But we did confirm that we definitely have company in our same predicament. The problem is that some of that company is the police.”

  “The police? I thought you told me that it was three guys you flushed out yesterday. The ones staying in the hotel.”

  “They’re still part of the equation. In fact, Paul is back in the hotel keeping an eye on them as we speak. However, I had a conversation with the concierge just a few minutes ago. He had some visitors yesterday, above and beyond the three stooges we know about. That is part of the reason we could not find him yesterday. A Federal police investigator, and get this, an American police officer, had questions for him that involved Matt Ferguson and Courtney Lewis. They were looking for them as well.”

  “Well, well, well. This party is starting to heat up. Do we know where the Fed’s are now?”

  “Paul and I haven’t seen them, and according to the concierge, he thought they mentioned that they were headed back to Zurich. Maybe if we tell Mr. Leiter that the police are involved, he’ll give us a little more leeway in terms of time.”

  “No. I don’t want to involve Mr. Leiter any more, not until we have some good news. The police involvement, I think, would only complicate matters worse.”

  “You’re right, sorry for mentioning it.” Marshall knew he was grasping for help, when there wouldn’t be any. It was their problem. They needed to fix it… fast.

  Alden’s cell phone rang again in his hand and he answered it immediately. He hung up after a few seconds.

  “That was Paul. Our three other friends are checking out.” He tossed Marshall the car keys. “The car is just down the street on the left. No more that fifty meters. Meet us at the hotel entrance. I’m going up to meet Paul. Keep an eye out for any of our friends that are driving. Here, keep this as well. We’ll call from Paul’s.” Alden handed the cell phone over, turned quickly and jogged up the granite steps to the lake entrance of the hotel.

  It was a piece of cake tracking Bolivar, Keitel and Sullivan. They were completely unsuspecting of Alden, Marshall and Knabel. Pretending as if there was a mix up in luggage, Marshall actually had time to paste a tracking bug in the open trunk of Keitel’s BMW, as the bellhop loaded their bags. Alden and Knabel were able to hop in the Mercedes, with Marshall back behind the wheel, less than 15 seconds after Keitel pulled away from the curb.

  “Here.” Marshall handed the receiver to Alden, as the blinking red light shone brightly on the small monitor that displayed a street map. “The wonders of GPS.”

  Alden and Knabel laughed in unison.

  “How did you manage that?” Knabel asked.

  “It was easy,” replied Marshall.

  “Well, the good news is Paul here is one step ahead of you,” said Alden. “He overheard them at the front desk. They’re headed to St. Moritz.”

  Marshall smiled. “Excellent, I’ve skied the mountain several times, I know the area well.”

  “Good, but let’s let our friends show us the way, shall we,” Alden said.

  They all nestled back in the plush leather seats, and settled in behind the navy blue BMW as it sped away west from the city of Lucerne.

  Chapter 18

  May 25, 2001. Wildhaus, Switzerland

  Ferguson had awakened before the sun was up, his internal clock still not having adjusted to the transcontinental change. He had checked on Courtney and found she was sound asleep in the bedroom. Again, he could not believe how beautiful she was as he quietly pulled the door to and exited the room for the lobby. On the bathroom sink, he left behind a short note revealing his intentions to eat breakfast downstairs. He would return when he had finished.

  He spent the last remaining forty-five minutes of the fading darkness in the Dorfstube restaurant with another incredible cup of coffee and fresh baked Danish. He held Uncle Max’s papers in his hand, flipping them over, back and forth, studying the contents. He stared at the map and the drawing, looking again at the paper clipped sheet of notes he had added when he had dissected the global coordinates of longitude and latitude that Uncle Max had included on the scribbled sketch.

  They were definitely in the right place. He was convinced the Voralpsee Lake was the spot. The question was, would he recognize the spot? Would it still be the same after nearly sixty years? Would the cliffs be there? Would the cave still be there, and if so, will the plane still intact? Questions buzzed through his head, as the coffee and the adrenaline jump-started his metabolism.

  He was starting to ponder how they would lose the Batemann’s once they found the lake, when Rudi Batemann showed up in the lobby. Ferguson, stood up folded the papers away in his flight jacket, and waved at him as the same young, blond waitress from the previous day pointed Batemann in Ferguson’s direction.

  “Guten morgen, Herr Ferguson.”

  “Good morning to you Herr Batemann.” Ferguson looked at his watch, which he had reset to the local time. “You’re a tad bit early. Where’s your son?”

  “He’ll be along shortly. I had him go to the shop before he meets us. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m having him bring some hiking boots, jackets and some other gear that might come in handy on your little excursion. I also wanted him to bring his jeep along, so you could have a vehicle to navigate around the area, when we leave to go fishing.”

  “That’s extremely nice of you.” Very damn presumptuous, but nice. “Thank you! We’ll be more than happy pay Rolf some sort of rental, obviously.”

  “We figured that. He’s rented
it out on numerous occasions to his repeat customers. By the way, the boots and other gear are strictly up to you, but it sounded last night like you traveled light, and as you can probably surmise, I’m a sneaky salesman. Anything to make a buck.”

  “No need to apologize. You’re exactly right; we don’t have any of the gear we’re going to need. I appreciate your thinking of us.”

  At that moment, the increasingly attractive waitress appeared with another cup of coffee and more Danish, and placed it in front of Batemann.

  “Danke Greta. Du ist lieblich wie gewohnlich.”

  She blushed, winked at him and then walked away.

  Batemann laughed. “She hates it when I flirt with her.”

  A half hour later, Rolf Batemann arrived at the table at the same time Courtney stepped off the elevator. After renewing acquaintances, and allowing for some breakfast for Courtney and the younger Batemann, they all proceeded to Rolf’s jeep to select from a dozen different sizes and choices of hiking boots for Ferguson and Courtney.

  After deciding on their new shoes and accompanying wool socks, Ferguson succumbed to the Batemann’s subtle salesmanship by adding a navy Patagonia shell with fleece lining and Courtney submitted to a similar style woman’s jacket in yellow. The Batemann’s threw in two backpacks, at no charge.

  They had arranged at breakfast to rent Rolf’s jeep for the next three days. Hence, they split up in the vehicles, Ferguson joining Rolf Bateman in his future rental, while Courtney combined with his father in the elder Batemann’s Land Rover. They left Wildhaus at 8:15 and headed east on 16.

  Just three kilometers down the road, they turned south and worked their way southwest up the steep Grabserberg Road. The fifteen kilometers into the mountain range took almost thirty minutes as they weaved their way up the grade. The landscape was rugged, with sporadic congregations of hardwoods and pines. There were several smaller lanes that exited off the main road, and Batemann’s Land Rover chose the second one on the left about half way up. The narrow route headed due south and gradually dissolved from asphalt into gravel, then gravel to dirt. Eventually it terminated in a dead end composed of a large crescent shaped rocky facade.

  Rudi Batemann circled in front of a craggy outcropping, parking the Land Rover so that it faced back to the remnants of the road. His son pulled the jeep up parallel to them and killed the engine.

  Ferguson could hardly breath, the adrenaline rush had been simmering ever since they headed into the mountainous terrain, and it was peaking as he exited the vehicle. Courtney was in a similar state of anticipation, but they both managed to suppress it visibly.

  “We’ll walk you up from here, but once we reach the lake, you’re on your own,” said Rudi Batemann. “All you have to do is get back on the road down and it will take you right to 16, that’s the main road that runs into town. Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” Ferguson and Courtney replied in unison.

  They headed up a small, stony path that widened quickly into a panoramic view of a multitude of contiguous sharp peaks. At the crest of the path, the magnificent view of Voralpsee Lake opened up below.

  “Wow. This is gorgeous,” Ferguson exclaimed.

  “That it is,” added Rolf Batemann. “Actually there’s very little activity on the lake, no commercial entities. Quite a bit of fishing, rock climbing on the cliffs, some water sports if you’re up to it, but that’s it.”

  They wandered down the slope closer to the water’s edge.

  “There are a number of entrances into the lake area, but the way we came in is the easiest,” Rolf continued. He pointed back to the path and then to a small ramp and elevated boat dock about 50 meters down the shoreline. “You can’t miss the entrance to the path, because it’s just this side of that small dock. There’s also a drivable entrance where you can offload a boat. It’s just around the rocks where we parked the cars.”

  Ferguson looked north down the lake past the dock and surveyed the images on the lake’s horizon. One sharp triangular peak after another, small ravines and narrow valleys squeezed between them. His eyes systematically worked their way around the shoreline to the west, then south. As he turned around over his left shoulder to face the eastern slope, he froze and nearly lost his balance. In front of him, was a large cliff that looked as if nearly rose out of the water. He stared at the curvature of the jagged face comprised of a mixture of rock and native grasses. The two inverted triangular gaps along the top ridge gave it the unmistakable image of a ‘W’.

  “The locals like to climb there. They call it the ‘Wall’,” said Rudi.

  His father and Courtney noticed Ferguson’s trance.

  “Local folklore says there are things hidden behind those walls,” said the elder Batemann.

  “There don’t appear to be any doors.” Courtney laughed as she walked up to Ferguson and put her arm around his waist.

  The display of affection was not lost on the Batemann’s.

  “Well Dad, I think the fish are waiting for us at the Wildhusur.”

  The Wilhusur Thur was a large stream west of Wildhaus that provided the locals and tourists an excellent trout fishing experience. It had been a favorite of the Batemann’s for years.

  “I’m ready when you are.” Rudi Batemann waved at Ferguson and Courtney. “We’ll see you two back in Wildhaus. Please call us if you need anything else. We’ll check back with you in a couple of days if we don’t hear from you sooner.”

  “Thanks,” replied Courtney. Ferguson had hardly heard a word as he continued to be mesmerized by the ‘Wall’.

  The sun was rising over the peaks by the time the Batemann’s were half way back to town, and Ferguson and Courtney had negotiated the relatively flat ground that wound around the eastern edge of the lake where they had started, to the southeastern edge and the enclave that was the start of the ‘Wall’. The uneven bank between the base of the cliffs and the water was restricted to only a few meters in some spots, with the widest no more than ten meters.

  The face stretched approximately 100 meters in length with about a fifteen-degree angle right in the middle. The height was more or less even across the top, except for the two natural indentions, and was roughly 75 meters at the tallest point.

  Ferguson stood in front of what appeared to be the center point, at the apex of the angle. He stared at the wall, then turned around to face the lake and recreated a mental image of a plane touching down on the water in front of him. He imagined the landing path in his mind. A twin engine Junkers aircraft, just the way Max had described it, boring in straight at him. Why hadn’t he listened more closely to his Uncle, instead of dismissing his recollections and conversations as delirium.

  Courtney stood off to the side watching him. She knew not to say a word. He was obviously studying and composing something mentally, and she was not about to disturb him until he was ready.

  He turned back and forth, alternating staring at the cliffs and then back at the water. He closed his eyes briefly, and opened them again as he held his hands at arms length in front of his face. Placing both index fingers and thumbs together he created a frame, and through the opening a focal box. He directed it out on the lake and then slowly walked back and forth along the bank.

  “It came in here. It had to. But in order to miss that little finger of land that sticks out,” he pointed to a small grass and rocky stub of land down the left side of the lake from where they stood, “it would have to stay on this line and come in here.” He turned and pointed at the left side of the cliffs.

  “So you’re saying that according to your Uncle, somewhere behind these cliffs is a plane loaded down with millions of dollars worth of art. It went straight into the wall.” Courtney finally interrupted his train of thought.

  “According to what I can remember him talking about, now that I know he wasn’t crazy, and considering the letter with the
drawings and descriptions, this is it. If it’s still here, it’s in there.” Ferguson nodded at the cragged edifice.

  “Like I said before, I’m not seeing a door anywhere. Where the hell could it have entered?”

  “It has to be in one of the spots where the grass is. Either that, or where there’s loose rock.”

  There were a number of spots along the face that had some sort of grass or ground cover, and they both instinctively advanced on the cliff face picking out the areas within reach that were covered with anything but stone. Neither had any idea what they were looking for, but they spent the next half hour unsuccessfully clawing and digging with bare hands at any spot that had a semblance of green to it.

  Ferguson was the first to stop and realize that the opening that was made had to be large enough to accept the fuselage of an airplane. Certainly a hole that size could have closed up over the years, but it seemed prudent to look for the biggest spots and start with those and work down.

  He explained his theory to Courtney and they divvied up the remaining terrain. One futile hour later they sat down and rested. Courtney walked down to the water’s edge and washed the dirt and mud off her hands. She stood and shook her hands in a feeble effort to dry them. She glanced at the right end of the wall, closer to the point where the cliffs tapered off slightly and blended seamlessly into a mountainside that retreated from the lake.

  Still staring ahead, she theorized aloud. “What if they crashed into the cliff because they didn’t have enough room to come to a stop?” She looked out onto the lake and the narrow, little bulge of rocky ground 25 meters in front of her. “Or they hit something, like a finger of land that stuck out into the lake and caromed into the wall?”

  Ferguson heard her and watched as she began walking to the other side of the cliff where her eyes were fixed on a large vertical seam of grass that stood out dramatically toward the end of the face. He hopped up and began trotting over to her as they reached the spot together.