Ghosts of the Past (20 page)

Bolivar ate in silence, listening intently.

“We are readying the jet now, and I’ll need you on it within the hour, Julio.” Rocca laid an envelope down on the table. “Inside you’ll find the particulars on their flight. Neither one has booked accommodations or a rental car.”

Bolivar opened the envelope, scanned the contents and looked at his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be there in time to meet their plane.”

“No, we weren’t able to access the information in time to get you there before them. I have made arrangements with a third party we’ve used in other company and personal matters, and he is there now waiting on them to arrive.”

“Is this him?” Bolivar asked, pointing to a name and series of phone numbers on the paper in front of him.

‘That’s him.” Rocca affirmed. “He will keep tabs on them once they arrive, and will turn them over to you when you get there. Terry Sullivan will be joining you on the trip. He will not stand out like a sore thumb. There aren’t many Chicanos in central Europe.”

“Excellent.” Bolivar nodded approvingly. “I forgot to mention it earlier, but I called Miguel as I was leaving Louisville, and had him fly there to wait and keep track of the girl. We need to call him off.”

“That’s taken care of. He is headed to Chicago. I have something else for him to do.” Rocca speared a well-dressed raw oyster off the open shell and slid it into his mouth. “You’ll like Switzerland, Julio, it’s a beautiful country.”

Chapter
12
 

May
22,
2001.
Zurich,
Switzerland.

Gregory Keitel adjusted his newspaper to let his sad, brown eyes peer over the top of the national news and at the boarding door to gate 22, in the North concourse of the Zurich International airport. His eyes did not reflect the intensity that lay beneath the surface of the capable and ruthless private detective.

Nine years removed from the local city police force, having resigned in a cloud of accusations involving corruption related to a large narcotics investigation, Keitel had escaped the ensuing judicial inquiries. He had quietly moved into the private sector with a sizable bank account, well hidden and well funded by the guilty he delivered from arrest and prosecution. His training, and connections to the good and bad sides of the law had proven to be much more lucrative than being a career police officer.

At 5
'
10
”
, with a full head of sandy hair and blocky facial features, he had a solid, muscular build, honed daily in a popular downtown fitness center. At 300 Swiss francs per hour, plus expenses, he could afford to be well dressed, but not too flashy to attract attention. He managed to blend in well in any situation or occasion, and the crowded airport terminal was no different.

The descriptions of Matt Ferguson and Courtney Lewis, received from the early morning phone call, were flawless. There wasn’t any question as to whom they were when they emerged from the exiting door, as Continental Airline’s flight 78 from Newark debarked.

They headed toward customs, which along with baggage claim, Keitel knew would be a drawn out process. He rose from his seat in an adjoining gate area, tucked the paper under his arm, worked his way casually through the crowd, and stayed on pace twenty yards behind them.

After clearing customs in quick fashion, they all moved on to the baggage claim area. At the large baggage carousel surrounding the brightly lit sign listing the Continental flight number, a seemingly endless stream of nearly identical luggage disgorged from an opening in the raised floor. Each piece dropped onto a moving conveyor and wound aimlessly around in a circle, until one person after another materialized from the crowded hoard surrounding it, stepped forward and laid claim to their possessions.

After nearly half an hour, Ferguson thankfully captured his and Courtney’s luggage, and after clearing customs, the two of them moved to the car rental section at the far end of the main concourse level. Keitel followed carefully and advanced closer, joining them in the line at the Hertz counter, two customers back. He was in perfect earshot of Courtney as she stepped to the counter in front of Ferguson addressing the agent in her newly cultivated German.

“Verstag
mir,
sprechen
sie
English
ur
French?
”

“
Ja,
I speak English,” replied the young, and very attractive brunette from behind the computer terminal.

“Beautiful!” Courtney sighed, while Ferguson appreciatively exhaled his relief and stepped closer to the counter.

“We need a one way mid-size to be dropped off in Luzern.” Ferguson said.

The young agent immediately began typing onto her keyboard, while Ferguson delved into his wallet for an American Express, his Hertz Gold card, and driver’s license.

Courtney said nothing, but frowned a perplexed look in the direction of Ferguson.

“I’ll explain later.” Ferguson said, sensing her confusion. “Here’s my card and license”, as he handed the Hertz Gold Club card to the agent, who retrieved the cards with one hand while still typing with her right, her eyes never leaving the computer monitor.

“And you would like the rental and insurance on the American Express Mr. Ferguson?” Asked the agent in heavily accented English.

“Please” Ferguson replied, handing the card to her outstretched hand.

Five minutes later the rental was consummated.

“Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson”, said the agent as she slid the keys, Ferguson’s cards, and a folder with contract information and a Swiss map across the counter. “Have a nice stay in our country.”

Courtney chuckled silently at the reference to marriage, and glanced down admiringly at her naked left ring finger for effect.

The gesture was not lost on Ferguson, as he thanked the agent, grabbed the material from the counter and stooped down to pick up his bags. “Shall we go Mrs. Ferguson?” He asked mockingly.

“Gladly, Mr. Ferguson, but while we’re in Europe, we really must do something about my jewelry. I seemed to have misplaced my wedding ring.”

“Gladly, Mrs. Ferguson.”

Keitel had already disappeared. Once he heard about the one-way destination, he had discreetly exited the line at the counter and headed for the first bank of automatic glass doors that led outside. Once outside the main concourse, near the bus and taxi transfers, he made himself comfortable on a bench and dialed a number into the flip top cell phone he took from his pant’s pocket. Within five minutes, a large, heavy-set man in his fifties hustled up to meet him.

Keitel’s instructions were simple… go to the Hertz rental car staging area, keep an eye out for the man and woman he described, and forward the make, model and license plate number of the car they get into. Keitel and the burly man exchanged a cash handshake and Keitel quickly headed off to the parking garage for his car.

Ferguson and Courtney showed up at the rental car lot fifteen minutes later, having stopped off for two cups of hot coffee. They found the silver Mercury Sable in the designated spot, deposited their luggage in the trunk, and climbed into the front seats. Ferguson was behind the wheel familiarizing himself with the various instruments and controls, while Courtney unfolded the map, studiously examining the city of Zurich on one side, and giving a cursory look to the map of the country on the other side. After proclaiming her navigational confidence, they fired up the engine, pulled out of the garage lot, and with Courtney’s help translating the multitude of signs, headed for the airport exit and national expressway A3.

Keitel reached for the chirping phone as it lay in the front seat of the navy blue BMW 525.

“Yeah?”

“They’re headed out of the garage in a silver Mercury Sable, license number BEZ654. They should be on you in about two or three minutes. Nice doing business with you.” The line went dead.

Gerhard Alden sped southward on the A4 autobahn toward Zurich, the large black Mercedes sedan cruising flawlessly at 110 miles per hour. His two passengers were both teetering on the edge of sleep.

Two hours earlier Alden had been awakened by the knock at his hotel room door. The two large men responsible for the intrusion smiled at him as they entered his room uninvited and greeted him cordially.

“
Guten
morgen,
Gerhard,
” declared the smaller of the two, slapping his shoulder with a powerful right hand. Horst Marshall passed by Alden and walked over to the window.

Entering immediately behind him and extending his hand was Paul Knabel. He silently winked at Alden as they shook hands.

“It’s a little early to wake up to you two,” Alden stretched, grimaced with pain, and rubbed his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger. “You might have called and given me some warning.”

“Not enough time, we need to get a move on to Zurich,” replied Horst, staring out the third floor window to the dark street below. He glanced back to Alden, “You look terrible. I heard you got into a bit of a scrape.”

“I’ll survive, I’ve been in worse shape. Have they already arrived?” Alden inquired.

“No. We’re going to intercept them as they come off the plane.” Knabel interjected. “We’re only to follow and keep an eye on them.”

“Exactly!” Alden limped to the bathroom. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

Marshall and Knabel both made themselves comfortable in the two leather armchairs that flanked the French provincial desk in the far corner of the room.

The intrusion, Alden reflected while washing his face was a pleasant one. Leiter could not have delivered him two better comrades to be working with. They were intelligent, physically imposing, and most of all, very reliable. They had also had the opportunity to use each of those traits on several demanding occasions, all very successfully, which added experience to their resumes. A far cry from the two idiots he had mistakenly employed in Kentucky.

Horst Marshall was 34 years old, and a perfect Aryan specimen. At 6
'
2
”
210 pounds, with thinning blond hair, and crystal blue eyes set deep within a pair of high cheekbones, he still sustained an imposing physique he had developed as a paratrooper in the German army. Disavowed by his widowed father for not furthering his education at the university, he drifted aimlessly for six months before a recruiting officer convinced him to enlist in the service at the age of 18. Discharged three years ago, he had made the rank of lieutenant, and would have probably been a career army man had it not been for the unexpected recruitment of him by the Sturtzburn Corporation as a security officer. Sturtzburn was a subsidiary of a Saudi valve manufacturer, which fell under the empire of Irwin Leiter.

A talent watcher for ODESSA had spotted Marshall early in his career, which included combat assignments in the Gulf War and Kosovo. An expert marksman, he was also skilled in demolitions and electronics, but it was his intelligence duties, particularly during the latter conflict, that earned him several commendations and his final bump in rank.

However, the lure of a substantial increase in money, and an opportunity to travel frequently back to the Middle East, an area of the world in which he had become enamored, was enough to spur his exit from the army and embark on a career in the private sector. A personal interest taken by Irwin Leiter, resulting in a private meeting with the billionaire that had portended of even greater personal and financial opportunities in the future, had made the decision that much easier. Paul Knabel was physically the antithesis of Horst Marshall, but equally as capable. He was imposing in size at 6
'
5
”
and well over 300 pounds, but there was nothing chiseled on his round frame. He had long forsaken the crops of brown hair that flanked the hairless top of his head, opting to shave them regularly for a totally bald look. Six years Marshall’s junior, he had been hand picked by Marshall two years earlier at a local fitness center frequented by both.

Knabel was there only to rehab a career ending Achilles tendon injury suffered in the trenches of an NFL Europe game with the Rhein Fire. His bitterness, and lack of any future job prospects, made him easily agreeable to follow Marshall’s call, doing whatever necessary to keep cash in his pockets. Ironically, his street smarts, garnered from the various stays in orphanages and foster homes growing up in northern Germany, proved to be of great value in the so-called “security” functions he had been asked to perform in the name of Sturtzburn.

Marshall’s coded mobile phone rang twice, before he recovered from his semi-conscious state to catch it on the third ring.

“
Ja?
” Marshall shifted the phone from his left ear to his right, while he listened to the one-way conversation streaming from the other end.

Knabel groggily awoke from his short nap catching his bearings from the road sign that flashed past his front seat, passenger side window.

“
Ja,
Ich
verstehen.
” Marshall snapped the phone shut.

“That was Rudi. He has picked them up off the plane, and they have rented a car. One-way to Luzern. He has made our life very easy. With a little help from the rental agent, he managed to get to the car before them and plant a little help on board. He will meet us on the open road to Luzern and give us the receiver. He says the signal is perfect.”

“Is he following just in case?” Alden asked.

“He’s within sight. He has the make, model and plate numbers as well.”

“Beautiful.” Alden smiled and returned his concentration to the road, thinking out loud. “Luzern. A one-way drop off of a rental. That would make sense if it’s around there. They’ll need more than a car if they find what they’re looking for.”

With Courtney’s help, Ferguson moved beyond the maze of the airport and accelerated on to the A3 on the way south of the city. It was going to be a gorgeous day. The low pressure that had blown through the day before had left the turquoise blue sky cloudless, the only obstructions being the incredible snow capped peaks that poked up out of the mountainous horizon.