Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

  Alden retreated into the garage, retrieved the briefcase, crawled on hands and knees behind the Mercedes, and then between two cars parked together in at the start of a parking lane five meters away. He thought about shouting to Marshall and Knabel, but soon realized he had not been seen.

  Knabel crawled into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and called to Marshall who squatted down in front of the car to reload his weapon. “Get in here. It’s time to get out of this mess.” He looked over at Bolivar, planted two bullets into his left cheek, and kicked him out of the car with his right foot. He aimed at Sullivan who was squatting outside the open passenger door, but before he could fire, Marshall yanked him away by the shirt collar and threw him back against the wall.

  The uniformed police officer outside by the Jeep had just about had enough of being fired upon by Marshall. While his partner had continued to return fire, he secured a Sig 551 SWAT rifle from the trunk of their bullet riddled cruiser, and rolled on the ground until he came up on the left side of the crate-filled trailer. He established a perfect firing lane between two crates and opened up on the Mercedes as Marshall was climbing in the front seat.

  The entire front windshield disintegrated and the radiator spewed coolant, as the semi-automatic rifle sprayed 15 rounds of .223 ammunition across the front of the big German sedan.

  “Get in the damn car!” Knabel raised his head off the console after ducking down to avoid the gunfire. He looked up just in time to see Marshall stumble backward, the large hole in his chest pumping blood out onto the white turtleneck. He regained his balance, stared blankly at Knabel and crumpled to the pavement.

  Another staccato of fire rained down on the Mercedes, one round creasing Knabel’s chin, another slamming into his left shoulder, and a third removing a large portion of his left ear. He had enough. He tossed his gun out what was left of the front window and screamed out a surrender. He remained hunkered down, as it got eerily quiet. He never heard the 9mm slug from Marshall’s gun penetrate the top of his skull. Sullivan dropped the weapon and yelled another plea of surrender.

  Alden walked briskly west down Haupstrasse away from the hotel as if he was just heading home from another day at work. The stairwell from the garage was 50 meters behind him. He looked across the street, then in both directions, and crossed over into a deserted side street on his way to Ahornstrasse. His senses were still on high alert and he listened for any footsteps behind him. He started to whistle to relax his nerves.

  A dog barked as a young woman opened a side door to a beauty salon and placed a handful of letters in the wall mailbox. An elderly man appeared out of nowhere, stepping through a wrought iron fence that guarded a flight of stairs to a tavern located below street level. He nodded and smiled at Alden as he walked past in the opposite direction. Alden reciprocated and continued straight ahead, but before he could resume his whistling, the muzzle of a gun pressed into his back, and he was forced several meters forward and then into a narrow alley between buildings.

  “Easy old man.”

  “Shut up Gerhard. Drop the briefcase.”

  Alden did as he was told. “I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage, I don’t know your name.”

  “You don’t need to. Lie down and put your arms behind you.” The older man pulled a large plastic cable tie out of his pocket, knelt down with one knee in Alden’s back, and pulled his wrists together laying one over top of the other. Unfortunately, he compromised his control of the gun he had been training on Alden’s back, and Alden seized the moment.

  He spun quickly, lifting the old man off his back, while his right leg swung around and whipped the man forward into the wall. Alden rolled up on his knees, pulled out the Beretta from the crook of his back, and leveled it on the old man’s head.

  “I guess you have the advantage now,” said the old man, rubbing at the developing lump on the top of his head. He eyed his Walther pistol lying on the ground in front of him.

  “I wouldn’t consider it,” said Alden. He reached out and pulled the weapon over to him while concentrating his eyesight and gun on the woozy old man. “Now, since you know my name, won’t you be so kind as to give me yours.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Well that’s a shame, I usually know the names of men I kill.”

  “Directly, yes. Indirectly, no.”

  The response drew a complete look of puzzlement on Alden’s face. He could hear the escalating shrill of police sirens in the distance. “I don’t have time for games old man. You just butted in to something you had no business getting involved with.” He raised his gun to target the old man’s forehead and heard the muted pop of a silenced pistol discharging a single round. He lost all feeling and motor function, dropped the gun, and was already dead as he fell face forward into the briefcase lying on the ground.

  “Jesus, what took you so long,” said the old man.

  The stranger at the end of the alley lowered his silenced Walther and stepped forward to help his father to his feet. “Sorry, once you got out of the car, I had a hard time locating you.”

  It was organized chaos back at the hotel. Law enforcement officials from every conceivable branch were involved, forensic and crime scene teams were being dispatched from Zurich, and would soon be descending on the small town of Wildhaus. Television crews and reporters were already arriving at the site of the dramatic shootout.

  Ferguson and Courtney sat in shock on a sofa in the lobby of the hotel, sipping on coffee and trying to re-establish their heartbeats. Shutt sat in an armchair across from them, while a medical technician put the finishing touches on a bandage to his forehead. They had yet to speak a word to each other.

  Daniel stood by the front desk in his sweat stained shirtsleeves, radios and phones interchangeably attached to his ears, barking orders at everyone in sight. He was indisputably in charge of the whole mess, and he had an effective hold on everything, save for the whereabouts of Gerhard Alden. He had every available man fanning out across the town looking for anyone that came close to resembling the man Ferguson and Courtney had just vividly described. Roadblocks had been set up on 16 from Stein to Granz.

  Pernod had secured the trailer of precious antiquities. He had it moved into a far corner of the garage and covered with a canvas tarpaulin to conceal the entire cargo. He nearly had a heart attack, when his curiosity got the best of him and he busted into one of the smaller crates, only to discover a Pissarro village landscape in nearly pristine condition. He hadn’t been off the phone since.

  Rising from his seat, Shutt walked over to the sofa and squatted in front of Ferguson and Courtney. “You two all right?”

  They both nodded in unison without saying a word, Ferguson’s curiosity at Shutt’s presence still nagging at him, while Courtney was working up the nerve to unload her prepared confession.

  “I’d say everyone is pretty lucky, given your little plan didn’t quite work out as you thought it would.” Shutt looked at Courtney.

  Ferguson slowly turned his head to face her, an acerbic look in his stare.

  “I think I owe you an explanation,” said Courtney, a lump the size of a golf ball forming in her throat.

  Before she could get out another word out, Daniel stepped over and interrupted the three of them. “Excuse me Toby, but I need to have a word with you and Mr. Ferguson. Over here if you wouldn’t mind.” He shook his head toward a table just inside the lounge, where Rudi Batemann was seated.

  Courtney could feel the disappointment and anger stabbing at her from Ferguson’s glare, as he rose with Shutt and walked over to the table. Batemann nodded and smiled at Ferguson as they approached the table.

  “Detective Toby Shutt, this is Rudi Batemann,” said Daniel making the introduction. “And Mr. Ferguson, you obviously know if he’s with you.”

  Ferguson was already clouded with enough confusion, but was now
totally bewildered to find out he ‘was with’ Rudi Batemann. Shutt and Batemann shook hands.

  Daniel gestured with his right hand toward Batemann. “The floor is yours Mr. Batemann.”

  “Thank you. First of all let me clarify my position here.” He held out a small billfold that he opened to reveal his Central Intelligence Agency credentials. Ferguson went from confused to shock. The other two realized things were about to get a lot more complicated.

  “Mr. Daniel, you can call off your manhunt for the gentleman that got away. You will find him behind the hotel, in the parking lot, under a blanket by the dumpster. Unfortunately and regrettably, he met an untimely end. Since it was him or me, I’m happy it was the former. We would like to have had a chance to interrogate him, as I’m sure you two would have also, but that’s not going to happen.”

  “We?” Shutt and Daniel asked simultaneously.

  “I have another agent working directly with me locally, as well as Mr. Ferguson here, who has been cooperating with the CIA for some time.” Shutt looked at Ferguson quizzically, who manufactured a slight raise of the eyebrows in return. “Needless to say, this entire investigation has been open for some time. We cannot thank you enough Detective Shutt, and you Mr. Daniel, for helping us bring this to a conclusion after years of dead ends.”

  Shutt and Daniel had been in law enforcement long enough, and dealt with a number of Federal security and police agencies over the years, to know what was about to come next.

  “I know you have a lot of questions, but for the immediate time being, we need to debrief Mr. Ferguson on the operation. We will both be available tomorrow, or the next day if you need us, however, it’s highly likely you can get everything you will need from Miss Lewis and the other suspect you apprehended, and the CIA would appreciate being left out of this entire proceeding.”

  “Let me guess, you were never here,” Shutt said caustically.

  “Something like that. Ironically, you know as much as we know.” Batemann smiled.

  “For him that may be true, Mr. Batemann, but as for the Swiss Federal Police we have a large mess here, and I’m certain I will need your cooperation. His, too.” Daniel pointed to Ferguson.

  “I would suggest you contact your office Mr. Daniel, I think you’ll find the United States, particularly the State and Justice Departments and the CIA, are already providing an enormous amount of cooperation, and I’m going to bet we are finished here. However, if you find any loose ends and need more information, here’s where you can reach us.” Batemann handed over a business card.

  There was silence. Daniel looked at Shutt who shrugged his shoulders in a sign of capitulation.

  “If that’s all gentlemen, Matt and I will take our leave.” Batemann put his arm around Ferguson and guided him toward the front door and out to the street, where Rolf Batemann sat behind the wheel of an idling Land Rover.

  “Wait a minute!” Ferguson slipped out from under Batemann’s arm. “Why am I leaving all these police to join you and your son? No offense, but I’m not totally certain of who you are, or if you’re with the CIA as you claim. In fact you may very easily be one of the same S.O.B.’S that just tried to snuff me out.” He began to back away toward the door and the familiarity of Toby Shutt.

  “I’m a friend of your Uncle Max.”

  Ferguson stopped, and eyeballed him suspiciously, without speaking a word.

  “My name IS Rudi Batemann, and I’ve been with the CIA since it was created over 50 years ago.”

  “How did you know my Uncle?”

  “If you’ll get in the car, I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “No! You tell me now, or I walk back through that door.”

  Batemann hesitated and stared into Ferguson’s eyes. “I was the other pilot on that plane you just found.”

  Ferguson stood motionless, and then looked away as if seeking some divine intervention for the emotional roller coaster ride that seemingly has no end. He turned back toward the street, quietly walked over to the vehicle, and climbed into the back seat. Batemann joined him and they drove away.

  Chapter 21

  May 26, 2001. Zurich, Switzerland.

  The boarding call for first class passengers on Swiss Air Flight 18 came over the intercom in English. Courtney picked up her luggage and made her way over to the doorway. The ticket attendant checked her ticket and then checked to see if Miss Courtney Lewis was okay. Her puffy eyes and weary appearance gave her away. It had been a long twenty-four hours.

  Not long after Ferguson had been ushered from the scene by the Batemann’s, Courtney had been subjected to three intensive hours of interviews with Daniel, Shutt and a stealthy representative from the local canton police that never bothered to introduce himself. She assumed his grasp of English was limited, because Daniel had been forced to translate the more important parts to him upon request.

  She had done a remarkable job of summarizing the whole story, from the day she met Matt Ferguson at the University of Louisville, up through the shooting at the hotel that afternoon. She had been very cooperative.

  Terry Sullivan was singing like the proverbial canary. He had pencil and paper in hand and was doing an excellent job with his own synopsis of the events. Pernod had immediately alerted his office, and the wheels were already in motion for international cooperation on a full investigation into Rocca International, and Mr. Guillermo Rocca specifically.

  By the end of the evening, Daniel was beginning to believe Batemann was correct. They had enough information to put most of the pieces together, except the hierarchal links to Gerhard Alden, Horst Marshall and Paul Knabel. Their identities had been confirmed, but any substantive connection to anyone or anything else was vague at best. Daniel and Shutt were both suspicious that they were not acting alone and believed that in all probability they reported to a higher authority. Who or what that was, would be left up to further investigation. Daniel felt like he might speak to Batemann and Ferguson after all, if for no other reason than to cause them the same irritation they had inflicted on he and Shutt.

  They had allowed Courtney to stay in her suite that evening and planned to escort her back to Zurich the following morning, with the recovered art in tow. The masterpieces had been transferred into a panel truck with environmental and temperature controls.

  It was agreed she would be off limits to the media, until the investigation reached a satisfactory conclusion. The press had already determined enough to report on the shootout, and dug deep enough to summarize that the cause was the result of two Americans who were involved in the discovery of a cache of World War II era stolen art, probably worth millions. Reporters from every medium, local and international, had been hounding everyone involved for more information and details.

  Daniel, Pernod and Shutt assured her that she would get full credit for the discovery, with some restrictions. Per Batemann’s instructions it was agreed by all, and reluctantly by Courtney, that Ferguson was to remain nameless.

  Courtney had expected Ferguson to return that evening, or at the very least the following morning. She had desperately wanted to explain the circumstances for involving Shutt, and was devastated when he didn’t show up. She tried to convince herself it was the media circus around the hotel, but she kept concluding that he probably hated her guts at this point.

  Early the next morning, she arranged with the concierge to deliver two pieces of his luggage to Batemann’s Der Bergsteiger store. Uncertain about the exact street, her concerns were laid to rest when he knew exactly where it was located, and he would deliver them to Rolf Batemann personally. She tagged them with hotel luggage tags and put Matt Ferguson in c/o Rolf Batemann on both. She also called the front desk and instructed the clerk to keep the suite reserved on her credit card until Ferguson returned.

  A the suite’s mahogany desk, on hotel stationery, she hand wrote a long letter of explan
ation to Ferguson from her perspective, and expressed a hope that he would understand and could find it in his heart to forgive her. She signed it “much love, Courtney”. She pinned it to his clothes still hanging in the closet, packed the rest of her things, and left the room.

  Two hours later, she arrived in Zurich. Shutt made arrangements for both of them to return to Louisville on flights that afternoon, but Courtney decided she wasn’t ready to go home and wanted some time away. Rest and relaxation were in order before the whole world found out the magnitude of their discovery, and the publicity extravaganza that was sure to follow.

  She called her Father and then her travel agent. She was booked on a 4:05 departure that afternoon to New York, and then on to Barbados. A week in the sun at Treasure Beach would help.

  She nestled into the first class cabin seat and ordered a martini. When it arrived, she extracted an Ambian from her purse, washed it down with two gulps of the cocktail, and ordered another one as the Airbus Industrie Jet taxied for the runway.

  For Ferguson, the ride from the Hotel Hirschen with Rudi and Rolf Batemann spelled the beginning of the end of the roller coaster ride. He had sat in silence for nearly thirty minutes, his mind trying in vain to assimilate and control the range of emotions he had experienced over the last week… grief, curiosity, intrigue, angst, excitement, love, elation, awe, fear, anger, and betrayal.

  He wound up returning to curiosity. “So why did you hustle me out of the hotel?”

  Rudi Batemann stared straight ahead at the front seat. “Because I felt like I owed your Uncle. I wasn’t sure how deep you were involved in everything that was going on, in particular if you had done anything illegal. Word from Langley, was you were involved in some way with a murder in Kentucky, and were being pursued by local authorities. In a nutshell, we were trying to save your skin.”