by Jay Giles
Miles showered, dressed, drove in. He was met at the dealership’s door by Suzy Thane, a junior sales associate. “He’s waiting for you in his office. He said to send you right back.”
Miles knocked on the closed door, opened it, went in, closed the door behind him. Jarsman was alone. Pacing. His hair was disheveled, his shirt marked by patches of perspiration. “Good, you’re here. There’s a gentleman from Mercedes on the phone from Stuttgart, Dieter Albrecht. He wants to talk to both of us.” Jarsman walked over close to the phone and said, “Mr. Albrecht, he’s here.”
The voice that came from the speaker phone was formal, no nonsense. “Mr. Marin, this is Dieter Albrecht. I am a senior executive director with Daimler. More importantly, I am the person responsible for dealing with the Jens Beck’s kidnapping. It is my understanding that you are the salesman who had dealings with this woman who may have lured Beck away, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“You would recognize this woman again if you saw her?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Good. As of this moment, you no longer work for your dealership—”“What? That’s not—”“Listen to me carefully, Mr. Marin. You now work directly for me. I have need of your services for a time. During that period, you will be paid twice your normal salary as there will be some risk involved. If this matter concludes successfully, a bonus will be authorized.”
“I don’t under—”
“No, I’m certain you don’t, but you will, Mr. Marin. I have no intention of blindly paying a ransom to secure Jens Beck’s release. To do so, would encourage the kidnapping of company executives. I have no desire to set a precedent that would put our people at risk.That does not mean I will sit back and do nothing to free Mr. Beck.I am sending a man, Wernher Lohse, to take care of this matter. He has my authorization to do as he sees fit. Mr. Lohse is adept at matters such as this; however, he will require the assistance of someone who knows the local area. You, Mr. Marin, will fill that role, you will do whatever Mr. Lohse asks of you. Do you have questions?”
Miles was stunned.
“No. Well, Mr. Lohse’s plane arrives this afternoon. I suggest you meet it. Good day, Mr. Jarsman, Mr. Marin.”
Following the call from Dieter Albrecht, Miles busied himself transferring his work to other sales associates. Within an hour, his desk clean, his schedule clear, he headed for Jarsman’s office, knocked on the door frame. Jarsman looked up, waved him in.
“I just wanted to let you know all my stuff is taken care of,” Miles said. “I don’t know how long this thing with Lohse is going to last, but I wanted to make sure you’re okay with it.”
“I’m not okay with any of this, but it doesn’t matter.” Jarsman rolled his eyes. “This game is being played way over my head.”
“I just don’t want to lose my job be—”“Don’t worry about that. Your job will be here waiting for you when this is over. This isn’t your fault.”
“Thanks,” Miles said, relieved. He started to leave. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He was out the door, down the hall, when Jarsman called after him. “Hey, Miles.”
Miles stopped, walked back to Jarsman standing in his doorway.
“I just thought you ought to know, this guy Lohse, Albrecht said he was some kind of special forces guy with the German Bundeswehr. Made it sound like he was one of those guys who knows how to kill eighteen different ways, all of them silently. Be careful, Miles.”
CHAPTER 25
Wernher Lohse and his girlfriend, Alisa Shanke, were on the first week of a month’s vacation in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic.
Lohse had chosen Punta Cana for its white sand beach, the Riu Palace for its luxurious amenities. At the Palace, it was all gourmet dining, spa pampering, endless golf, bottomless drinks. Lohse considered this the appropriate antidote for the stresses he faced the rest of the year.
The two had just been seated in the open-air dining room for a late breakfast when the cell Lohse religiously carried with him starting ringing. Lohse, who had been relaxed and jovial, tensed. He pulled the cell from its belt holder, looked at the caller ID, frowned.
“I have to take this.” He stood and stepped away from the table.
Only when he was out of earshot, did he answer: “Lohse.”
The voice on the other end didn’t need to identify who he was.
He was one of a select few who had this number. He gave Lohse the known facts.
When the caller finished his briefing, Lohse responded, “I understand,” and ended the call.
He didn’t bother returning to the table. Didn’t bother saying good-bye to Alisa.
Didn’t bother returning to their room for his things. He walked directly to their rental car and drove to the airport.
Lohse gave the commercial airlines a perfunctory check. When nothing was immediately available, he walked to the charter building, where he booked a Gulfstream V to fly him to Miami. The cost was $3,000 an hour, minimum of three hours. Lohse’s only concern was how quickly the plane could be airborne.
“Less than an hour, Mr. Lohse,” the blue jacketed charter agent assured him. Lohse impatiently nodded acceptance, checked his watch, found a cup of coffee and a seat in the waiting room, began focusing on his plan of action.
Throughout Lohse’s career, this ability to focus had been a key factor in his success. As a special forces officer in the Bundeswehr, he visualized every detail of his missions. Whether it was diplomatic support, search-and-destroy, or asset extraction, each action and reaction was carefully thought through. Lohse played and replayed his visualizations until he instinctively knew every contingency, every potential response.
His meticulous preparations were carried out with ruthless efficiency. Lohse wasn’t deterred by collateral damage, causalities, even personal injury, as evidenced by the three bullet wounds in his left shoulder, the fourteen-inch shrapnel scar that ran down his right leg, and the chunk missing from the top of his right ear. Lohse’s personnel file read like an action thriller.
In 1992, Lohse led a special-forces team into Iran to rescue a German diplomat and his family abducted by terrorists. Every day, the terrorists paraded the family—each member wearing a vest of C4 explosive—around the town square. Lohse’s sharpshooters had their fingers on the triggers of their rifles, waiting for that one moment when the terrorist—wearing the detonator on his chest, held in place by a shoulder harness—didn’t have his thumb on the button. As each day passed, the tension ratcheted up. On the sixth day, the terrorists’ pattern changed. They lined the family up in the center of the square, backed away, began shouting, trying to draw a crowd. To Lohse, it had all the earmarks of an execution. Still, the terrorist’s thumb remained on the detonator.
Lohse had no choice. He gave his men the signal. They fired in unison. Lohse took the terrorist with the detonator, shot off the man’s hands. He waited the fraction of a second it took for the man to spin the needed way, put a bullet in his chest, knocking him to the ground on his back. The detonator, held in place by the shoulder harness, flopped harmlessly on the dead man’s stomach.
In 1995, Lohse was credited with saving the lives of three high-ranking Japanese government officials. The three Japanese and Lohse were riding in an armored limousine, part of a motorcade traveling thru Bonn to a treaty signing. Without warning, a garbage truck pulled out in front of the motorcade, running over the motorcycle escort. With the garbage truck blocking the motorcade’s forward progress and another garbage truck blocking them from behind, men wearing black hoods began planting explosives under each of the trapped cars.
Lohse forced the Japanese to the floor, lowered the side windows and shot anyone who approached his limo. Lohse’s was the only limo of the four in the motorcade that wasn’t blown up. Nine diplomats, three of Lohse’s peers, and three drivers died in the attack. The Japanese in his charge escaped without a scratch.
In 1999, Lohse made a clandestine night parac
hute drop into Turkey to find and free Joshua Kohl. Kohl, a Captain in the Bundeswehr, had been arrested by Turkish police during an off-duty vacation visit to the port of Istanbul. No charges were filed, but Kohl was held incommunicado, moved from prison to prison. When family and diplomatic efforts to secure his release failed, the Bundeswehr turned to Lohse.
After two months of fruitless searching, Lohse finally located Kohl at a remote prison facility near the Russian border. The old stone prison structure had a single reinforced steel door and small barred windows. It was surrounded by barbed wire, staffed by four guards during the day, two at night. For two days, Lohse hid in the brush studying the building, watching the guard’s patterns, trying to discern where the prisoners’ holding area might be.
At 3:00 a.m. on the third day, he staged his assault. Lohse cut through the wire, scaled the side of the building, blew a hole in the roof. Alarmed, frightened, and uncertain about the source of the attack, guards fired their rifles out the windows, through the hole in the roof. Lohse waited silently for two hours, letting the guards calm down. At 5:00, an hour before the shift change, he dropped through the hole in the roof, shot both guards dead. When the day shift guards arrived, he mowed them down then used their truck to drive a weakened, malnourished Joshua Kohl to safety.
Kohl’s father, a Daimler Benz executive, was one of the few who knew of Lohse’s involvement in the rescue. The older Kohl brought Lohse’s name to Dieter Albrecht’s attention. Albrecht made Lohse the kind of offer that made his decision to leave the military easy.
That had been seven years ago. Since then, there had been numerous matters as Albrecht referred to them, missions as Lohse thought of them. This mission, however, was somewhat different.
Albrecht had been almost cryptic on the phone. What little information he had conveyed to Lohse was certainly not enough to formulate a credible plan of attack.
“Mr. Lohse, your flight’s ready,” the charter agent said. “If you’ll just follow me.” He led Lohse outside to the plane, shook his hand in parting. “Have a good flight.”
Lohse boarded the plane, took his seat. As soon as they were airborne, he was on his cell phone. His first calls were to secure information about Jens Beck, put needed human resources on alert.
On later calls, he tried to secure something even more valuable—weapons.
CHAPTER 26
Not knowing how to contact Wernher Lohse and not knowing the flight on which he would arrive, Miles had no choice but go to the airport and meet every plane.
Fortunately, the Sarasota/Bradenton airport was small enough that there was only one departure/arrival concourse. Miles found a chair where he could see all the deplaning passengers and where they could see the cardboard sign he’d created displaying Lohse’s name and the Mercedes’ emblem.
A cluster of flights arrived at 3:00, another at 5:00. Miles watched all shapes, sizes, and descriptions parade by. Individuals glanced in his direction, a few people even smiled, but no one walked over.
At 5:17, he was eating a candy bar, watching a young couple herd four small children toward the down escalator, when a man in a red t-shirt and khaki shorts with a computer bag slung over his shoulder, rode up the escalator from the ticket counter area. The man saw Miles, smiled, walked over. “You must be Miles,” he said, extending his hand. Miles stood. Lohse’s handshake was strong, quick. “I’m Wernher Lohse.”
Lohse was an inch or two taller than Miles’ six feet, broader in the shoulders. His body was muscular, young looking. His square face, however, was lined and his hair, brushed back in a crew cut, silver. The face and the hair made him appear older. His eyes were light blue, cold, penetrating, his voice soft, friendly, with just a touch of a German accent.
“I thought you were flying in?”
Lohse picked up the sign, put his hand on Miles’ shoulder steering him toward the down escalator. “I did. We’ll talk when we’re outside.” They rode the escalator in silence, left the terminal.
“I’m over this way.” Miles pointed, led Lohse through the rows of parked cars. When they reached his Jeep, Miles got behind the wheel. Lohse stowed the computer bag behind the passenger seat, climbed in. “Where to?”
“I’ve booked a room at Beck’s hotel, the Gulf Beach. Let’s go there first.”
“All right.” Miles put the car in gear, headed out of the parking out.
“After I check in, I’d like to talk to whoever is running the investigation.”
Miles handed his short-term parking ticket to the attendant, waited to learn how much he owed. The LED sign flashed $6.00. Miles got out his wallet, paid, drove on. “FBI. The two agents I’ve met are Casper and Chance. Casper’s the guy in charge.” Miles looked over at Lohse. “Did I miss seeing you arrive?”
Lohse met his gaze, smiled, shook his head. “No. I flew in on a private jet. It was the fastest way to get here, plus I had a little cargo the commercial carriers frown upon.”
Miles gaze darted to the computer case squirreled behind Lohse’s seat.
“The jet made a stop in Miami. Friends got me two pistols—both untraceable—fifty rounds of ammunition, two bulletproof vests. The guns are just precautionary. We will probably never use them, but the kidnappers are undoubtedly armed, and we may need weapons to respond.”
Made sense. “Do you think we’re really going to have a run in with these people?” Miles asked. “I would think they’d be long gone by now.”
Lohse looked back at him, his face troubled. “There are things that bother me about this kidnapping, things that don’t fit the usual pattern, but the act of kidnapping is always the same. Kidnappers take a risk in the hope of realizing a return. Their risk is great—capture, prison, death—so their return, the ransom, takes on great importance. Because it is so important they won’t leave. They’ll stay close by, try to learn as much as possible about the payment of their money.”
“Doesn’t that increase their chances of getting caught?”
“Yes,” Lohse said, his eyes intense. “It is part of the risk they take. It’s one of two things I’m counting on to find Beck.”
“What’s the other?”
Lohse grinned. “You.”
CHAPTER 27
As the Jeep turned into the entrance of the Gulf Beach, Lohse leaned forward in his seat, and paid close attention to the people they passed, the number of cars, the facilities, the visibility. This was the setting from which Beck had been taken, the kidnappers had chosen it for a reason. Lohse studied it intently, trying to divine what that reason might be.
The Jeep came to a stop in front of the registration office. “How do you want to do this? Want me to wait while you get settled? Come back for you?” Miles asked.
“Let me check in, we’ll call the FBI from my room, find out when they can see us.”
Miles nodded. “Sure.”
Lohse climbed out of the jeep, when inside. As he approached the man at the registration desk, he received a warm welcoming smile. However, he noticed the man’s gaze darting around, searching for baggage Lohse didn’t have. “My name is Lohse. I believe you have a reservation for me,” he said returning the man’s warm smile. “As you see, no luggage. The airline lost my things.”
The man rolled his eyes. “That is so frustrating, Mr. Lohse.”
“Yes,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Travel is not fun anymore.”
“I always tell folks that entitles them to relax with the adult beverage of their choice.” The clerk placed a registration form and a pen on the counter.
Lohse reached for the pen, gave a short laugh. “Yah, a good German beer cures many things.” He signed the form, let the man make an imprint of his credit card, was given a map of the complex. He returned to the Jeep, used the map to direct Miles to his room.
Once inside, Lohse did a quick inspection, found the room satisfactory, wasted no time settling in. “We have two urgent tasks,” he said, his face serious. “We must meet with FBI as soon as possible. That is our numb
er one priority. Our second priority is to do some shopping. I must buy some business clothes.”
Miles got out his cell, looked up the FBI’s number, placed the call. “Let’s tackle priority one.” Lohse listened as Miles explained to Casper he was calling on Lohse’s behalf to set up a meeting. Miles put his hand over his phone, said to Lohse. “Casper’s off site. He can meet us at the Bureau in an hour. Will that work?”
Lohse nodded grimly. “If that is the soonest, yes.”
Miles confirmed the meeting, rang off, said to Lohse, “That gives us time to stop in St. Armand’s Circle and get you some clothes.”
“Perfect,” Lohse said, pleased he wouldn’t have to present himself to the FBI in a tee-shirt and shorts.
Miles drove Lohse to a men’s store on the Circle, where Lohse bought two sport coats, two pair of slacks, four Polo shirts, underwear, socks, loafers. Lohse wore new clothes out of the store, stowed the rest of his purchases in the back of the Jeep. They made a second stop a CVS drug store, where Lohse bought toiletry articles, before continuing on to the Bureau.
“Fill me in on this meeting,” Miles said as they drove. “Is this a simple meet and greet? Is there anything you want me to do in this meeting?”
“Expect fireworks,” Lohse said. “I’m going to hijack their investigation.”
CHAPTER 28
Casper had just walked into his office when the receptionist at the main desk buzzed him. “Agent Casper. Mr. Lohse and Mr. Marin are here to see you, sir.”
“Have them escorted through security and taken to conference room ‘C’. Thanks.” Casper gathered a writing pad and the Beck file from his desk, made his way down the hall to Chance’s office, stuck his head in the doorway. “They’re here.”
