Ghosts of the Past (22 page)

When Ferguson reached the outskirts of Lucerne, he pulled over to the side of the road, reached into the back seat, and retrieved the black leather carry-on bag that had never left his sight from the time they departed Cincinnati. Milling around inside with his right hand he finally produced a manila file folder labeled “Swiss Travel” in handwritten block print.

He shuffled through several papers before finally settling on three sheets stapled together that he handed to Courtney, tossing the rest of the papers back in the folder and sliding it down between the seat and center console.

Courtney accepted them with a look of suspicion. After a quick preview of the top one, she visibly relaxed, casually licked the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and leafed through the remaining two pages, separating them between her remaining fingers.

“These look pretty nice!” Courtney returned to the first page that described in detail the
Grand
Hotel
National
.

“They should! They are the top hotels in the city. Hell, they’re some of the top hotels in Switzerland! I figure we might as well splurge at the rate we’re going.”

“I had a photographer friend that used to stay and do work for the Palace,” Courtney thumbed to the next page and folded over the sheets to reveal information on the
Palace
Luzern
, “he always said it was beautiful.”

Well, pick one out, and get me to it. If I recall correctly, from looking at them earlier, the top two are both on the same street. If you look in the folder, there’s a map of the city.”

“I say the Palace. In case I ever run into Mark again, I can say I’ve stayed there.” Courtney picked up the folder and pulled out a map of the city of Luzern, as Ferguson glanced over his shoulder for any oncoming traffic, and seeing none, guided the car off the shoulder and back on to the road into the city.

Just in sight up ahead was the mighty stone Musegg Wall. Erected between 1350 and 1408, the almost perfectly restored fortification, over 800 yards in length, formed the northern half of the ring wall, that led to a series of tower bridges over the Reuss river to the southern half of the wall. The landmark allowed Courtney to catch her bearings on the map. Having found Haldenstrasse, the street where the
Palace
was located, she backtracked to two of the most famous tower bridges, the Chapel Bridge and Spreuer Bridge. They were in view to their left, running parallel to A2 over the river, and she began the mental navigation of the maze of streets between the two points.

“You need to exit on to Baselstrasse. We’ll go through downtown and back over the river. It’s a piece of cake.”

Ferguson sarcastically nodded in agreement. “Uh, Huh.”

Bolivar cleared customs under a Mexican passport bearing the name Alex Garcia, while Terry Sullivan passed into Switzerland as Kevin Sandler, a resident of Montreal, Canada. Both documented their occupations as geological engineers in the employ of DKG, Incorporated, on a visit to scout sites for a metallurgic factory destined for construction somewhere in central Europe. All of it was total fiction, but very well received by the local Swiss officials.

For Terry Sullivan, a French Canadian cover was ideal. Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, he had decided to forgo college immediately after graduating high school, and opted for a summer of biking in the French, Swiss and Italian Alps. The youngest of three children, his graduation and departure from home was the final act that allowed the inevitable separation and divorce of his parents. It happened with such rapidity, that he was notified less than two months into his trek. He never went home.

Bouncing around for several years from odd job to even odder jobs, he developed a strong understanding of the languages and cultures of central Europe, particularly French, and a keen knowledge of the Alpine countryside.

By the age of twenty-five, he had completed three years of steady employment at a Burgundy region winery, complimenting that experience as a sommelier at a white tablecloth bistro in Lyon, France. He was an incredibly handsome young man. At 6
'
3
”
, he boasted a full head of wavy, blond hair on top of a long angular face. He maintained a well-tanned complexion, and a wiry but very strong physique, honed over the years from riding bicycles both recreationally and competitively through the mountains and flatlands of the regions.

By happenstance, the young wine steward had so impressed one of the restaurant’s patrons one evening that he was summoned to the patron’s hotel suite the following evening. Guillermo Rocca made Sullivan an offer he could not refuse. As a personal sommelier for Rocca International, he would be charged with creating, building and managing a wine collection for all of Rocca International’s professional affiliates, the multitude of Rocca’s personal residences, and the several restaurants that he held private investments in, or owned outright. Add to that, the incredible boost in income and the unlimited travel opportunities, and Sullivan accepted on the spot.

Seven years later, and his duties had expanded to include operational oversight of an Australian winery purchased by Rocca in 2000, and a distribution company in New York handling the Australian label, and several others. Detective work was not a part of his resume. Alias’ and assumed identities were also new and confusing, but he was smart enough to have figured out over the years that not everything that went on in the Rocca Empire was above board. So he was happy to oblige when asked to accompany Bolivar to Switzerland to offer his assistance in any way he that he might be needed. He was told to listen to Bolivar, keep quiet and anonymous, and not ask a whole lot of questions. Once again, he knew he didn’t need to be told twice.

They had walked in silence to the transportation area where Sullivan was busy negotiating in fluent French for a taxi to take them both to the STS Main Station. They had both agreed on the inbound flight that they would take the train to Lucerne and determine their transportation from there.

Bolivar picked up his black hanging bag and leather duffle and began walking to a quiet alcove that recessed into the wall of the main terminal, just off to the side of the one of many porticos that sheltered the automatic entrance and exit doors. He punched in the pre-loaded cell phone number of Gregory Kietel, who answered on the second ring.

“Herr Kietel, this is Julio Bolivar. Mr. Rocca suggested I get in touch with you. I understand that you are babysitting an important package for us.”

“
Ja,
I have been for the last several hours. Your package has actually just been delivered to the
Palace
Hotel
in Lucerne. Are you familiar with it?”

“No, but my traveling companion is very familiar with Switzerland, so I’m going to assume he knows where to go.”

“Where are you now?” Keitel asked, slight frustration in his voice.

“We have just arrived in Zurich and we are headed to the train station.”

“Call me when you get to Lucerne, and I’ll arrange a meeting point.” Keitel responded, realizing the “companion” must know enough about Switzerland to have chosen the trains. The Swiss Travel System was one of the finest in the world, and an excellent way to travel the country. “Enjoy the ride, it’s a beautiful day.”

“Thank you. We’ll call… you when we arrive.” The last sentence never made it through, as Keitel had already hung up on the other end.

Bolivar snapped the flip phone shut as he watched Sullivan pick up his bags and head for the taxi waiting on the curb in front of him.

“Does he still have them?” Sullivan queried as he handed the remaining bags to the driver.

“Yeah. They’re in Lucerne, checked into the
Palace
Hotel
.”

Bolivar offered a hushed reply, out of earshot of the driver.

“Ah, I know it well. I have spent some time on the Lake over the years, and the restoration on the Palace was excellent. It’s one of the better hotels in Switzerland… right on the lakefront. It’s quite nice!”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problems getting us there?”

“None whatsoever.”

They entered the backseat of the cab from both sides simultaneously. The vehicle pulled away from the curb before the sound of the closing doors had subsided.

The stocky, young Latino walked through the front door of the Chicago Fairmont Hotel at 11:28 in the morning and was immediately met by Jason Allen. They introduced themselves, having had no contact whatsoever until now. The description of Allen, given to the young man by Rocca 20 hours earlier, had been dead on. “Forty-ish, boring looking little shit, with nothing remarkably distinguishable about him.”

Actually, Allen was the first to exchange communication, given that a well-dressed Latino had just entered the hotel at the exact time indicated on the phone message Allen had received yesterday evening.

“Mr. Enstrada?” Allen asked hopefully, as he converged on the front desk at the same time as the stranger and extended his hand.

After an affirmative nod and recognition that the man’s hands were occupied with a folded leather travel bag and matching briefcase, Allen quickly dropped his hand and continued. “My name’s Jason Allen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“My pleasure. If you please, you may call me Miguel. If you don’t mind, give me a few minutes while I check in, and then we can go somewhere for lunch.”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll be down there when you’re ready.” Allen thumbed over his shoulder to a recessed, open lobby area encircled by a dozen large Greek columns. He stepped down onto the marble tile floor, sat at an empty cocktail size table, and gazed up appraisingly at the young man as he went through the formality of registering for his room.

Miguel Enstrada was 28 years old, short and stocky, with a full head of black, curly hair that helped narrow his round face. The Tommy Bahama khaki linen slacks emphasized his dark, South American skin color, and taupe, tan and cream flowered silk sport shirt. The stockiness was actually nothing more than serious muscle mass resulting from a stout training regimen that had begun while becoming an all-state tennis player in high school, and continued with two years of service on the University of Texas tennis squad. He had never relinquished his love of the sweat equity involved in fitness training.

The one important aspect of the young Ecuadorian that Allen had not been made aware of was Miguel Enstrada was the nephew of Guillermo Rocca. Rocca International had employed him since graduating from U. T. with a Finance degree almost six years ago. His mother, Lolita, Rocca’s youngest sister, had given birth to Miguel out of wedlock at the tender young age of 17. After the father had refused to marry the expectant Lolita, Rocca had personally beaten him to near death, before giving him the choice of a one-way ticket out of the country, or letting the two henchmen that held the sobbing and bloodied man castrate him on the spot. The former offer was quickly accepted, and he was never heard from again.

Rocca had seen to it that Lola and her baby boy never wanted for anything, even after she later married. He remained active in the young boy’s upbringing, which included providing for a high school and college education in the United States, and similar educations for his other three nieces and nephews.

Enstrada, however, had been the smartest and most ambitious of the lot, and that had earned him not only an entry-level position with the corporate office right out of college, but a warm spot in the heart of the boss. His entry-level status was short lived, however, and he moved upward through the organization quickly, proving his merit by masterminding two rather ugly and ruthless acquisitions that had proved to be extremely complimentary to the mining side of the business, and extraordinarily profitable.

He was quiet, charming and unassuming, but underneath the demur exterior laid a hard and merciless young man. He had won the faith and trust of his uncle both in the boardroom and out, and was the one person everyone in the Rocca organization felt was the successor to the old man. Ironically, he also held a similar fanatical passion for the arts and the opposite sex.

Enstrada completed the process of checking in and tipped the bellhop with a twenty-dollar bill to forward his luggage to the room.

He turned to find Allen, who had jumped to his feet and was up the stairs to greet him again.

Enstrada reached out his hand this time, “Sorry Mr. Allen, Miguel Enstrada. Please excuse my shortness back there,” he nodded over his shoulder to the front desk, “It was a long flight, and as usual the taxi drivers in the United States speak less English than they do in Ecuador.”

Allen took his hand, “Nice to meet you. If I had known when and where your flight arrived, I would’ve been more than happy to have picked you up.”

“That’s quite alright Mr. Allen, I wasn’t…”

“Please, call me Jason.” Allen interrupted.

“Thank you Jason. As I was saying, I wasn’t sure what flight I was going to make until last night.”

“I’m double-parked right outside, if you would care to join me, we can head for some lunch and you can fill me in on why you need my assistance.” Allen directed the two of them out the revolving door and to the waiting BMW 540i that was being carefully guarded by the doorman, who was still sporting the ten dollar bill Allen had given him 20 minutes earlier.

“Any preference on food?” Allen asked as they pulled out from the hotel entrance onto the East Lake street service level that led down to Michigan Avenue.

“Italian sounds nice.”

“We have plenty of those,” Allen laughed sarcastically. One of my favorite spots is Luciano’s over on Rush Street.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” said Enstrada enthusiastically, hiding his fear of the quality of restaurant that this little pussy would classify as “one of his favorites”.

As it turned out, Enstrada’s concern over the restaurant was unwarranted. Cafe Luciano was excellent. They had been seated at a two top in the front dining room, adjacent to the open-air front window that provided a very attractive view of the Triangle Park across Rush Street and bordered by Chestnut and Wabash. It also allowed Entstrada to light up the Cuban cigar he had been entertaining in his shirt pocket since taking off from the Dallas/Fort Worth airport earlier that morning.