“What do you mean you owed Uncle Max one?”
“He saved my life. We crashed landed on that lake and that was the last thing I remember. They told me later that the other pilot had pulled me from the wreckage of the plane, drug me to safety in a small boathouse, and patched me up just enough to keep me from bleeding to death. I was just this side of dirt when they got to me.
“Who are they?”
Some local farmer and his sons were out looking for some lost livestock, when they saw our plane go down. They found us. Your Uncle was treated and eventually left the local hospital. I was out of it for a long time. In fact, I was in a coma for over a week and was transferred to Lucerne. By the time I recovered, your Uncle was long gone. I never saw him again.”
“So how did you get involved with the C.I.A.?”
“I was already in. Well actually, in those days it was known as the O.S.S. or Office of Strategic Services. We were an espionage organization created by Bill Donovan during the war. Eventually we became what you know today as the Central Intelligence Agency. I was recruited in the United States for overseas duty in Europe.”
Ferguson cocked his head in surprise. “You’re an American?”
“Born and raised in New York City, at least as a youngster. My father was in the wine distribution business and traveled all over Europe. I went with him a lot. I eventually came over to a boarding school in my early teens. I learned the language, the customs, and how to fly. When the war broke out, I went home, but was too young to join the services. In 1944, I joined the Marines with an eye on flying. The O.S.S. found me immediately.
“They trained me for only one operation. In early 1945, the victory in Europe was a forgone conclusion. However, the Allies needed eyes and ears in the German armed services. They wanted to keep track of the whereabouts of the Nazi upper brass. There was legitimate concern that they would disappear and some of the bastards responsible for the unbelievable atrocities that had occurred would slip away, never to be found. My job was to keep track of the Luftwaffe, in particular Hermann Goering.
“They infiltrated me into a Luftwaffe transport wing in March of ’45. With a little money in the hands of the right officers, I landed the co-pilot’s seat opposite your Uncle.” Batemann breathed deeply and exhaled. “He was a very nice man. Let me assure you he was no Nazi, but he was a helluva fighter pilot fighting for his country and not the regime. In the eyes of this soldier there’s nothing disrespectful or evil about that.”
“Well, I appreciate your concern, but your rescue of me is misguided. The police were tracking Courtney and me because we were witnesses to a murder. We were not involved, and there is no hard evidence to support that we were. It was a misunderstanding, and somewhere along the line, Courtney decided otherwise. It would seem she was working with them the whole time. So really, we’re finished here. I would appreciate you returning me to the hotel so I can get my name cleared, grab my bags and get the hell back to Louisville.”
“In due time young man. There is more to the story than just your colossal discovery of stolen artwork, and let me emphasize, it is stolen art. It does not belong to you and in due time it will find it’s way back to the rightful heirs. Having said that, I think you’ll want to see what we’ve been waiting and hoping to find in that discovery for over fifty years.”
For the next twenty minutes, Batemann chronicled the history of O.D.E.S.S.A. It was very much identical to the recitation Clark Burkley had given Shutt, but with a more spirited elaboration of the tentacles that organization and affiliated groups had in the international terrorist networks.
“They are especially influential in the underground fascist movements inside Germany, and the Islamic fundamentalist terror groups operating in the Middle East. The seething hatred of the Jews, and in the Jewish state of Israel, makes them strange bedfellows with some of the worst terrorists on the face of the planet,” Batemann continued.
“Their reputed association with one in particular, a Saudi outcast by the name of Osama Bin Laden, is very troublesome. His network, which goes by the name of Al-Qaeda, is internationally entrenched, well organized and funded, and is of considerable concern to the United States. Their recent efforts against the capitalized world are well documented, and his followers are fanatical and have already caused substantial problems.”
Rolf Batemann slowed the Land Rover perceptibly and turned onto a single lane driveway that curved up a steep hillside with no apparent destination.
Ferguson peered out the window as they reached the apex of a hill. On the other side straight in front of them was a beautiful A-frame chalet built into a bluff overlooking an enormous lake and small town below.
“Where are we?”
“This is my home.” Batemann leaned across the seat to point out the window on Ferguson’s side. “The town below is Walenstadt. The body of water is Walensee Lake.”
Rolf Batemann switched off the vehicle.
“So what’s the connection? What have you been waiting to find all these years?” Ferguson was growing impatient with the mystery and the history lesson.
Batemann reached forward into the front seat, where his son handed him the metal briefcase that Ferguson had found in the plane’s wreckage. “Does this look familiar?”
On the second floor of Rudi Batemann’s home was a wonderful stone, stucco and wood beamed great room. Set up on two portable tables, that faced out an entire wall of windows onto the magnificent view of the lake and valley, sat two personal computers all connected by an array of conspicuous cables and electrical cords. Ferguson was introduced to the man behind the computers, first name only.
“Are you ready Stephen?” Rudi Batemann inquired.
“We’re good to go,” replied Stephen Sutter. Sutter was one of the brightest electronics intelligence experts Langley had ever produced.
“Our friend Stephen here is what you might call a computer genius. More like a wizard. There is nothing in the world, given some time, that he cannot find out the who, what, when, where, why and how of anybody or anything,” said Batemann, as his son was busy opening the latches on the metal briefcase laid on the coffee table in front of them.
“You’re way to kind Rudi,” Sutter said, “but there are plenty where I come from.”
“You’re way too modest my friend.” Batemann stared at Ferguson as Rolf handed him a thin stack of papers, “this is why we’re here,” as he shook the stack flimsily and handed them to Sutter. “The rest of the briefcase is yours. I think you’ll find that the remaining contents will more than compensate you for all of your troubles.”
Rolf handed him the open case. Ferguson looked at a blank case except for four metal cylinders, all approximately eight inches in length, lying on their sides. He picked one of them up and a slight gravely noise came from inside. He massaged the exterior until he discovered the screw off top. He looked up at the other three men in the room before he opened it, but they were oblivious to his activity. They were all encircled around the bank of computers, leafing through the paperwork. Ferguson unscrewed the top and poured the contents into the briefcase. A multitude of glistening cut diamonds tumbled into the tray. Ferguson’s jaw dropped.
“Do you have a favorite charity Matt?” Rudi asked. He had to repeat the question to get Ferguson’s attention.
“A charity? Uhhhh, no not really.” He was having a hard time concentrating on the question. “Wait, yeah. My mother… she died of cancer. How about the American Cancer Society.”
“Good choice,” mumbled Sutter as he scribbled the letters A.C.S. on to a scrap piece of paper.
“Come over here and let me show you what we’re doing, since what you are about to witness today can never be revealed. EVER!” His eyes bored into Ferguson’s. “Do you understand me? If this ever gets out, we’ll know by whom, and let me assure you your life will not be worth living.”
Ferguson nodded affirmatively, while he felt the nerves in his body shiver. “I understand.”
“By the way, artwork ownership can be traced. Stolen gemstones don’t have that luxury. I very seriously doubt you would ever find the original owners of those stones. It’s really not worth the effort, probably the spoils of the Wehrmacht’s blitzkrieg through Belgium. I’d guess you have several million dollars worth in there.”
While Sutter had been swiftly typing on alternating keyboards, Batemann put his arm around Ferguson’s shoulder and gradually pulled him closer to watch the adjacent monitors. “The paper work and identification in that briefcase essentially confirms suspicions we’ve had for years. There is a man by the name of Irwin Leiter, who is one of the richest and most influential men in Europe, and the world. No one is really certain of his wealth, because the majority of his interests are privately held. That is his briefcase and the contents do a wonderful job of indicting him in the past, present and future of the Nazi party and their ideals, and the modern day terrorists who do their bidding.
“We have suspected for some time that he may be one of the power brokers in O.D.E.S.S.A. In fact, we now believe that he may be one of the major players, if not the only player, in control of the purse strings. Purse strings established from large sums of stolen wealth at the end of World War II, and undoubtedly exponentially larger today.”
“Bingo. This was way to easy,” Sutter chuckled. I don’t think anybody thought the two accounts needed any additional protection, one each in two small banks in Zurich. Definitely not household names, but perfect for flying under the radar. You say the word.” He looked up at Batemann while extracting a typewritten list from a folder next to him.
“Have at it.”
Sutter typed in a command and followed up with a series of additional keystrokes. He waited. Twenty seconds later, he watched as the data on the screen updated. He smiled and looked up at Rudi. “Bingo. The Simon Wiesenthal Center just had an anonymous donation of $2,000,000.”
“Holy shit,” Ferguson muttered under his breath.
“I agree,” said Batemann.
“Why don’t you turn it over to the authorities and let them deal with it? Don’t you have enough here to put this Leiter guy and his folks away for ever?”
“Maybe… possibly, but too much red tape… way too many opportunities for lawyers, and international and political roadblocks. On top of that, what would they do with the money? Swiss banks are notoriously uncooperative with the outside world, and are maniacal about secrecy. We could have some serious trouble getting help and access to these accounts. This way is much cleaner. Wouldn’t you agree?” Batemann smiled and patted his shoulder.
Sutter slid in front of him a typed list of over fifty charitable organizations all across the world with corresponding bank account information. He rubbed his hands together eagerly and began tapping at the keyboard with a wide philanthropic grin running from ear to ear.
Batemann continued. “We have the account numbers and access information to one of the largest underground and terrorist funding sources in the world, and we’re about to donate all of it… every last nickel.
“Outstanding,” Ferguson mumbled aloud.
“Yes it is,” acknowledged Batemann. “My only concern is the reaction we’re about to elicit, the fuse we’re about to light.”
“I’m not sure what you mean?” Matt cocked his head slightly.
“This will significantly shake up the terrorist community financially. Make no mistake, they will not take kindly to it, and will be forced to respond publicly to maintain their efforts to legitimize themselves and their need for financial support to continue the fight against the Jews and the American infidels. I am afraid the response will be big and it will be ugly. Groups like the P.L.O., Islamic Jihad, and Hezbollah, we know what they’re capable of, and have eyes in their organizations. However, it’s people like Osama bin Laden and the Al-Qaeda’s of the world… they scare me,” Batemann replied with an ominous tone to his voice.
Chapter 22
May 27, 2001. Treasure Beach Resort, Barbados.
The crystal clear Caribbean water lapped gently at the white sand surrounding Courtney’s lounge chair. Simpson, the young beach attendant who was a native of the island, stood over her with his back to the sun, effectively blocking the rays from her face as she placed an order for her second pina colada.
She had been down on the water’s edge for almost two hours, and was about ready for some shade. The morning sun had risen to straight overhead and she was beginning to realize that it would be time to get out from under the direct rays soon. It would be difficult to give up the tranquility of the beach, but her lack of breakfast this morning was convincing her that lunch at the pool bar might be a good time to take a break.
“I believe this is your order,” said the man with a drink in his hand.
Again, he was silhouetted with his back against the sun, but she recognized that this server was different from the other, taller, and without the accent. She leaned up form her lounge and lowered her sunglasses. Matt Ferguson leaned forward with her pina colada in his right hand. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.
“This is yours isn’t it? It cost me extra to wrestle it away from Simpson.”
“Yep, that belongs to me. I’ll be happy to repay you for your efforts. I think it’s the least I could do considering I probably ruined the most important thing that’s ever happened in your life.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. I think you may be over exaggerating the events. There’s more to the whole story than you know and unfortunately you’ll never know.”
“The only thing I want to know is why you’re here. Before you answer that though, I just want an opportunity to apologize to you in person.”
“There’s no need to apologize to me. I got your letter,” he retrieved the letter from the hotel out of his pocket, “and I also had a long conversation with a very nice detective from Louisville, Kentucky. He told me everything that happened, in much more detail than you were willing to take credit for.”
The tears from Courtney’s eyes were trailing down her cheeks. Ferguson knelt down beside her in the sand, reached up with his left forefinger, and gently wiped them away.
“I’m sooo sorry.”
“Please, stop. I would have done the same thing in your shoes. Hell, it’s a good thing you did what you did, or we probably would both be dead by now. Not to mention, our little discovery wouldn’t be a discovery. So stop beating yourself up, please, you have nothing to be sorry about.”
“But you won’t get recognized for any of it, or at least that’s what they told me.”
“That’s right, I need to remain anonymous. You can’t mention me by name. They know I exist, but I can’t get involved.”
“And let me guess, because it has something to do with the C.I.A. you can’t tell me either.”
“No, but I can tell you that the ultimate person responsible for trying to kill us,” he dropped a copy of the Wall Street Journal down in her lap, “isn’t a threat any more.” She picked up the paper, folded over to reveal a story outlining the suicide death of international financier Irwin Leiter. There were very few details.
“Do I know him? Should I know him?”
“No. And I wouldn’t worry about him or anybody else now that it’s over.”
“It’s over for you, but I’m about to be bombarded with attention.”
“Yeah, but that’ll be fun. This is your business. It’s what you do, and you’re about to become a star in the eyes of the world. I can’t think of anybody more deserving, better suited and more beautiful to carry it off.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say, except you’re the one that deserves it, and I wish you could join me in all the fun. I can assure you, that whatever financial re
wards come my way, they belong to you. I don’t want them. I want you…”
Ferguson interrupted her by placing his forefinger on her lips. “Listen up. I am fine. I have been well taken care of. Don’t worry about me.”
The bellhop walked up behind the two of them. “I’m sorry to interrupt Mr. Ferguson, but you said you wanted this out here.” He sat down a large black leather portfolio.
“This is yours, I believe.” Ferguson unzipped the case to reveal the Gauguin Polynesian that remained hidden and undiscovered in their suite in Wildhaus. “And I left the other three where you had them sent… with Rolf Batemann at his store. He said to call him with an address and he’ll forward them to you right away.”
“Those were supposed to be yours. I thought it would be compensation for everything that went wrong.”
“Thank you, but they’re better off with someone who can appreciate them more than I. Maybe you can let me visit them from time to time.”
The bellhop cleared his throat and interrupted again. “I’m sorry Mr. Ferguson, but what would you like me to do with the rest of your bags?”
Courtney spoke up quickly. “Please put them in my room.” She looked at Ferguson, “if that’s okay with you?”
The bellhop flashed a sheepish grin.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Ferguson cracked a smile and offered up a twenty-dollar tip.
“Thank you very much,” said the bellhop. “If there’s anything else I can…” he didn’t bother to finish. They were both preoccupied; Courtney Lewis had leaned forward and planted a large kiss on Matt Ferguson’s lips.
Her whisper into his ear was just audible to the bellhop as he turned and walked away.
“They have a whirlpool tub in our room.”
Ghosts of the Past Page 30
