“It sure looks big enough,” said Courtney.
Ferguson had picked up a sizable branch that was lying nearby and was busily breaking off the smaller branches under his foot. He fashioned a single, sturdy stick much more capable of digging than their hands. He ascended the slight incline of rocky soil in front of the base and attacked the area with vengeance. He quickly tired after ten minutes of producing nothing but a large hole about a half-meter deep. Courtney took up the fight and deepened the whole slightly, but also tired, gave in, and sat down next to Ferguson.
It was getting close to noon, and it was increasingly self evident that they were both growing discouraged. Ferguson had suggested they head back to town, get some lunch, and find a hardware store where they could purchase a pick and shovel and return and continue their excavation. They rose and he rammed the stick into the center of their dig in frustration. It hit the dirt with a clang.
They looked at each other, then lunged forward and started to dig deeper around the protruding stick with their hands. It took only a matter of minutes and they unearthed a two foot high rusted skeleton of steel that seemingly grew out of the dirt several inches. There was obviously more of it in there, but they stopped and stood back to admire their discovery.
From the curved shape, Ferguson knew immediately what it was. “If I were a betting man, I’d say that looks like a tail rudder.”
It had taken nearly two hours for Courtney and Ferguson to reach Widhaus, find a hardware store, carry out some lunch, and return to the lake. They both hauled a pick, two shovels, a sledgehammer, several flashlights and four eight-foot lead pipes. The food was devoured on the way back up the mountain.
Ferguson placed one of the pipes about a meter to the left side of their discovery. He pounded away with the sledgehammer as it stubbornly entered the ‘Wall’. With no more than a foot and a half showing, he struck the head of the pipe and it shot into the ground and disappeared. Ferguson looked again at Courtney and their eyes lit up together.
She handed him the pick. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get busy.” She grabbed a shovel and started in next to Ferguson who had already wielded the pick and was driving it into the dark soil and rock.
They broke through in about 45 minutes. Having dug at least two meters into the surface, Ferguson nearly lost the pick as it vanished into a sizable hole that gave way as he drove the point into the softening dirt.
From the dirt and rock they had been stripping away, they had created a small mound in front of the newfound entrance, and Ferguson slid down the natural slope and grabbed a flashlight from Courtney who had pulled several out of one of the backpacks they had filled from the hardware store.
He crawled up to the edge of the hole, which was approximately one meter in diameter, stuck his head and shoulders through and shined the beam from the flashlight into the pitch black. The ray of light went well into the blackness before reflecting off what appeared to be another rock wall.
“Can you see anything?” Courtney asked.
“Nothing. Except there looks like plenty of room in there. Give me the lantern flashlights and I’ll go on in. Leave ’em in the backpack.”
Courtney complied with his request and hoisted the pack up to him. “Please be careful.”
“If I’m buried alive, you promise to come get me?”
“Stop it. Just be careful.”
He decided to go feet first, and kicked away at the edges around the hole to widen it. He easily slid through and with the flashlight in his right hand gingerly reached out with his feet to feel for solid ground. He stumbled briefly, but caught himself and stood upright inside with ease.
He concentrated the light in front of him and was amazed at the size of the cavern in front of him. The light hit an opposite wall more than 15 meters away. He turned the light to the left and the opposing rock wall was closer, but still several paces off. He turned it skyward and the light diffused before it hit anything. He turned the flashlight to the right and it fell upon on the fuselage of a Junkers Ju-52.
Under explicit orders from Ferguson, Courtney remained outside the cave in case there was any kind of collapse. She would have to be free and clear to mount a rescue. Her curiosity, however, was agonizing, and she repeatedly asked to switch places so she could take it all in. She never got an answer.
The cave was cool, but had no signs of any lingering moisture or water. Ferguson had set up three of the lantern lights on the floor of the cave while he walked around, and crawled over the mangled shell of the plane. How in the world did this thing get in here?
He immediately noticed the absence of wings. They must be at the bottom of the lake. He examined the smashed cockpit area, realizing that what was once probably an engine, was now a tangled archeological heap on the top of the fuselage. How in the world did Uncle Max ever survive this mess? Despite everything, the fuselage was substantially intact from behind the cockpit to the tail, which eerily dissolved into the cave’s inner wall.
He eventually found the rear door and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. He tugged on it harder, but feared any excessive force might cause the completely fatigued mess to give way. He held his breath, put his right foot up against the decaying steel, and gave one final pull. The door popped open and he went sprawling backward onto his butt, slamming the back of his head against the hard floor.
“Shit!”
Courtney heard him scream and yelled into the hole. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just lost my footing.”
He picked up the flashlight and flooded the inside compartment.
“Holy Shit.”
He struggled to climb up and over the loose assortment of wood boxes and crates. He got far enough to the front of the fuselage to shine the light on a severely damaged crate that was split in half. The decaying contents were still easily recognizable.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath.
Two minutes later, he nearly gave Courtney a heart attack as he emerged from the cave without warning.
“Damnit… let me know when you’re coming out of there next time.”
“Sorry.”
She noticed the astonished look on his face. “So… what did you find?”
He caught his breath. “We found the mother load.”
Charles Pernod was escorted into the conference room at 2:15, and introduced by a sharp looking, young female officer with the Zurich state office. Shutt and Daniel rose from their chairs and greeted him in English, as Daniel had determined his fluency hours earlier in the phone conversation that prompted this meeting. They all thanked the officer, and watched her admiringly through the full glass windows as she exited the room and disappeared down the hall.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Jean-Luc. I’ve heard some very good things about you from Georges Leumerre.”
“Thank you Charles, please tell him hello when you see him again. Detective Shutt and I are very appreciative of your joining us in the investigation.”
“Yes, thank you very much,” Shutt added.
“My pleasure. It sounds as if you might have something very significant here, so I’m looking forward to offering any help I can.”
Pernod was an investigative officer in the Specialized Crimes Department of the Police Services Division of Interpol. He had been assigned to the Works of Art Task Force nearly ten years ago, and was considered one of the most knowledgeable minds in the world when it came to stolen and lost art.
At 41 years old, he had spent a lifetime in the research of art. A struggling artist before earning his degree, he spent twelve years as a an assistant and professor of art history at the Universite Lumiere Lyon, until he was recruited by a friend into Interpol, specifically for his expertise in 18th and 19th century paintings, the centerpieces of the looted art from World War II. At 5'9”, with a
round body fashioned by years of classroom and deskwork, and amplified by age, he possessed a balding head of salt and pepper hair and pale complexion. His blue blazer and gray wool slacks were modest and unassuming, a mirror of his personality. However, his intelligence and attention to detail was well known and appreciated, and his reputation of being direct and to the point quickly became obvious.
“If you’ll both take a seat, I’ll give you some brief history and we can discuss how you plan to approach your interesting discovery.”
They all sat, as Pernod removed three folders from his briefcase and slid two over the table to Shutt and Daniel.
“This is a synopsis of what I’m about to discuss, with certainly more detail than I’ll bore you with.
“Forgive me Jean-Luc, but I may repeat myself from our conversation this morning, but for Mr. Shutt’s benefit I’ll cover it again. Please, again, no offense to your country is intended.”
Daniel held up his hands, palms up, in a gesture of approval and concession, and then waved him on.
“It’s no secret that during World War II, Germany and Switzerland had widespread economic and trade links, and were virtually allies in disguise. Swiss Banks, and the banking laws that govern them, were conduits for large sums of questionable money, art, jewelry and other valuables that were deposited, laundered, or hidden away for perpetuity.
“The Nazi party, particularly the chosen few in Hitler’s immediate hierarchy benefited mightily from the looting of cash, jewelry, precious metals, art, and various other antiquities. Some of the thugs in the party fancied themselves as collectors, and were actively engaged in targeting particular individuals and their collections, with specific items in mind. Hermann Goering, in particular, was an avid art collector and amassed a priceless collection of fine art, which he robbed from all over occupied Europe. He had a personal affection for the religious masterpieces, but was reputed to have a sizable collection of impressionist work he was not as fond of, but has never been recovered.
“If the person or persons that you are investigating believe they may have access to a potentially large cache of stolen art, or know where it might exist, it is very possible they are correct. It is made more probable, given as it appears; they believe it resides within the borders of Switzerland. There still remains an enormous amount of unaccountable financial wealth in Swiss banks, which cannot be traced or recovered. I would hate to guess how much of that wealth was gained illicitly and illegally.
Since the mid-nineties, the Swiss government has been working with the international community and Jewish organizations in the recovery of Holocaust victim’s assets. The results culminated in a large settlement with the Swiss commercial banks in 1998, and the release of a critical report from the Volcker Commission, that had conducted an investigative audit of dormant accounts believed to be held by Nazi victims. Even though The Commission had the blessing of the Swiss Bankers Association, according to the report the banks showed a ‘general lack of diligence—even active resistance—in response to private and official inquiries. They continue to this day to be the best harbinger of ill-gotten gains in the world.
“In your folder is the Volcker report and a listing of known artwork in existence in Europe as of the start of World War II, that cannot be accounted for today. There is no question, some of the listed pieces reside in private collections that will never be made known publicly. However, there are a significant number of pieces that are surely lost, misplaced, or even possibly belong to individuals who have no concept of what they have in their possession.
“My only issue is the manner in which Jean-Luc described the possible location of the art as described by your suspect. It’s plausible, but the condition of the goods would be at great risk if they were not adequately protected form the elements… especially moisture. But as I said anything is possible, and I’ve certainly seen stranger things in my life when it comes to the world of art.”
Pernod finally came up for air and leaned back in his chair to wait for any feedback.
Shutt spoke first. “Very informative Mr. Pernod, thank you. At this point I have no way of knowing the condition of the potential treasure trove, but I’m hoping in the next 24 hours we’ll get a good fix on it.”
Daniel stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. “Very well, then. We all need to be on our way to Wildhaus. It will take us a couple hours from here. However, the hotel has been under surveillance since early this morning, and our two suspects have been gone since breakfast. We have confirmed they checked in yesterday, and as of right now Toby, they’re still registered.”
“Hallelujah.” Toby looked at his watch, which read almost 3:00.
Ferguson and Courtney had spent the balance of the late afternoon returning to the hardware store, and with the help of the owner, sourced an open bed utility trailer from his brother-in-law down the street. Fortunately, he also had a hitch mount that fit Batemann’s Jeep, and he was more than happy to pick up 1,000 Swiss Francs cash for a 24 hours rental. They were back at the hotel before dark.
The desk clerk in the lobby tried to keep his eyes focused on the paperwork in front of him, but he stole several glances at Ferguson and Courtney as they struggled to carry another large, narrow, wood crate over to the elevator for the second time in the last ten minutes. They returned to the lobby a third time, went out to the garage, and came back in again with each carrying smaller versions of the previous cases.
Thirty minutes after they had disappeared upstairs, Courtney returned to the lobby alone, and walked into the lounge and ordered a glass of Bourdeaux. She pulled out the cell phone from the front pocket of her blue jeans and set it on the table she commandeered by the fire. She checked her watch again, waiting for the phone to ring, and the show to begin. At 6:01, she was not disappointed.
She answered it on the second ring. “Hello.”
Julio Bolivar leaned on the wooden fence post just outside the front door of the Olympischen Hutte. Fate had been good to Courtney. The local diner had been a fixture for years in St. Moritz, and showed no signs of going away any time soon. Bolivar, Sullivan and Kietel had spent the better par of the last 14 hours testing the breakfast, lunch and dinner menus in the eclectic eatery. They were still unaware of the three pairs of eyes several hundred meters up the hill that had been monitoring them for an equal number of uneventful hours.
“Miss Lewis, my name is John. Michael is unavailable, but sends his regards. He said he felt it more important that he remain in Chicago and that you would understand. He is also waiting to hear from me shortly of your whereabouts. You do have some information for me, don’t you Miss Lewis?”
“Yes. I have some information… John,” she said coldly. We’re in Walenstadt right now, but are headed back to a small town tomorrow morning called Stein. We found what you want, but we’ll know for certain tomorrow afternoon what can be salvaged. We’re going to recover what’s left and try to store it in Stein.
“And where would that storage location be Miss Lewis?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. Matt was there today with somebody he knows who lives in Walenstadt, and they thought they would have to find out how much they can save. Mr. Batemann, Rudi Batemann is the friend of Matt’s did mention something about storing it in a shop he owns in Stein. I don’t know the name of it. Mr. Batemann left for there about an hour ago, and we’re meeting him at the recovery site in the morning.
“And where is that site?”
“I don’t know that either. We were way up in the mountains, part of the way on foot. We were somewhere on the south side of Stein. Frankly, even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you. As much as Matt does not trust me, I still want him to be able to find and recover the art. It’s his deal and I am not going to take that away from him. Wherever he stores it, you can come steal it from him. Isn’t that what you all are… common thieves?”
“Very noble Miss
Lewis, and also very insulting. But alas, you have half of it correct. Thieves… yes, common thieves… no, far from it. You don’t appear to be very knowledgeable about anything when it comes to your geography. Therefore, I fully expect to see you in person tomorrow Miss Lewis, so we can put all of these ‘I don’t knows’ to bed.
“You will take impeccable notes on directions to the recovery area. I will phone you again tomorrow from Unterwasser at noon, and I’ll look forward to not having anymore wild goose chases like our trek through St. Moritz. If I don’t feel you’re being truthful with me, I won’t hesitate to tell Michael. I’m certain he was very explicit as to the consequences of any lies and deception. Do you understand?”
“Yes, and I’m not lying to you. And I won’t be ready to take your call at noon. I’ll try to be ready for your call at 5:00, but I will not reveal the whereabouts of the art, until it has been recovered, stored away, and I hear from my father. Do you understand?”
“You’re in no position to be dictating conditions Miss Lewis,” replied Bolivar angrily.
“Oh I believe I am. I value my father’s life, but I’m betting you value the location of millions of dollars in artwork more than you’re willing to kill an innocent man. If he dies, I’ll make certain you never find anything, even if I have to destroy it myself. Now, do you understand?”
“I understand. 5:00 tomorrow Miss Lewis. We’ll be waiting in Stein.”
Perfect. You be waiting right there. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“No sooner than she ended the call from Bolivar, she had recalled Shutt’s number and hit the ‘send’ key.
“Hello Courtney.”
“Detective.”
“It appears you’ve been busy today.”
“Let’s just say we had a very successful venture into the mountains. We brought out a couple of items we’re going to look at tonight to see how damaged they are. We got into one and it is in remarkably good shape… . a Gauguin, from his Polynesian work, probably worth several million after some minor restoration. It looks as though there are quite a few more where that came from. We’ll hopefully have them out of there tomorrow.”
Ghosts of the Past Page 25
