Ghosts of the Past (8 page)

Before the limo had pulled away from the curb, Jason Allen sat down in a cushioned Starbuck’s lounge chair just down Michigan Avenue and placed a very important long distance call to the Caribbean. At that same moment, Clark Hancock passed by in a cab and punched in the number to a coded cell phone just outside the city of Munich.

Chapter
5
 

May
19,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.

The call by Clark Hancock to the secure phone in Munich had produced instantaneous results. Armed with what little knowledge he had to go on, Mr. Jones had called and scheduled a meeting with Herr Karl, armed with a proposition that he was certain the good professor could not refuse.

Dr. Karl walked into the
Bristol
Bar
and
Grill
just before the lunchtime rush. He gave his name to the ample-breasted, young hostess standing inside the door, and headed up the handful of steps to the bar. He was twenty minutes early for his appointment, but it gave him time to order a
Dortmunder
Union
from the bartender and reflect on the phone conversation that had brought him here.

From the minute he had first read the letter that Mr. Ferguson had brought to him, he realized the financial implications, and that once people learned of the existence of the crash, it would bring out the thieves and treasure hunters. Still, it amazed him that the wheels had turned as fast they had, and that he had received the call from a “Mr. Jones” this morning.

The restaurant was busy, and he had no idea who to look for, but he was pretty confident Mr. Jones would find him. The beer tasted good! He was preparing to order another, when the tap on his shoulder interrupted him. He turned to find a small, white-haired man, in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a gray, three-piece suit.

“Dr. Karl, my name is Irwin Jones. Please follow me and we’ll have some lunch.”

“My pleasure,” replied Karl, as he followed the hostess and Jones to a table discreetly isolated in the front corner of the restaurant by the large window overlooking Bardstown Road. Menus were left with them as they took their seats.

There was an eerie silence between the two as they surveyed the menus, while the bus boy brought water and the waiter introduced himself and the daily specials. They both ordered immediately and allowed the waiter to leave before Jones initiated the conversation.

“Well, it appears Doctor that you have stumbled on quite a find. We had assumed that the flight containing this precious cargo had been destroyed in 1945. We were aware there was a survivor, but since he never made any attempt to return to the crash sight, we felt there was no need to pursue it. Our mistake.”

“So there is some validity to Ferguson’s letter,” inquired Karl.

“Completely!” affirmed Jones.

“You seem to know a lot about this whole affair already, do you mind if I ask who you are and what you do?”

“Certainly. My name is Irwin Jones, and I represent an antiquities dealer who in turn represents several interested parties that would like to purchase the recovered artwork from Mr. Ferguson… should he have any luck finding the missing pieces, and they’re in restorable shape of course.”

“Of course,” mimicked Karl.

“This is very big Herr Karl. Very, very big.”

“Oh, I can only imagine how much this could be worth. What do you need from me?”

“I need a translation of the letter. I intend to talk to Mr. Ferguson and persuade him that we would like to pay him an advance, and we will take the risk of the salvage operation. If we are successful, and the art is restorable, he will get a sizable percentage. You will also be compensated handsomely Doctor. I will pay you half up front and the other half upon completion, but from here on out I would like for you to take receipt of the letter and verify it’s authenticity, translate it and then transfer the letter to me. After that we will never speak again, is that clear?”

“Very! Nevertheless, how will I get the letter, and I am assuming that I will not be involved with the negotiations with Mr. Ferguson?

“Absolutely not! I will arrange for all of it. As I said, you will receive the letter, verify and translate it, and then you will get the letter to me. One week from today, same time, we will meet back here. You will bring the letter and the translation then.”

Mr. Jones slid a business size envelope across the table. “In there is $25,000 dollars. I will bring the same amount with me next week upon the conclusion of our transfer. If you have any problems or questions in the meantime you may reach me at this number.” He handed him a blank business-size card with a single phone number printed on it.

The waiter appeared with two of the lunch specials and two glasses of white wine as ordered. After he disappeared, Jones picked up where he left off.

“Do you have any questions Doctor?”

“
Nien.”

“Very well then, enjoy your lunch!”

The morning at his office had been very unproductive for Ferguson. He was having a hard time concentrating on anything work related. The previous day’s events were strange, but Courtney was right when she had indicated on the flight home that wrapping up the details of the two paintings should have been a relief. They were back in Max’s safe, and he could now think about determining ownership, and what he might realize from their sale or return.

The new problem was the bigger prize. He had visited the copier and made a copy of the letter and list, and was now staring blankly at the sheet with the sketched map. Out to the side of Max’s scribble, he had written down a few of the translated specifics he could remember from the visit with Dr. Karl, but he realized there were several words on the map that he could not translate without additional help. He would also have to help identifying the map coordinates that were indicated.

He closed his eyes, and his mind started to wander. He visualized a peaceful lake in Switzerland surrounded by lush green mountains, or were they covered in several feet of snow.

He opened his eyes and popped out of his chair. He was losing his mind thinking about what might be. He had to get some fresh air. He called his secretary and stepped out of the office for a bit e to eat.

For lunch, he stopped into Mancino’s for a ‘Grinder’ sandwich, and afterward went next door to Hawley Cook booksellers to purchase a German-English translator book. While he sat in his idling car the urge overwhelmed him, and he drove up the street to the AAA office and picked up a map and tour book of Switzerland.

He wasn’t back in his office an hour before he came to the realization that the urge was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Not just for the potential financial reward, but also for the shear adventure of trying to track down a piece of history and a piece of his great uncle’s past.

Ferguson picked up the phone and dialed the three-digit extension. “Jerry, it’s Matt. Listen, I’ve got to take some time off. Max’s death has left a whole bunch of loose ends that I’m going to need to get cleaned up, and to tell you the truth my head is just not into work.”

He waited for the reply, fully expecting to have to argue the necessity further, but was pleasantly surprised when the president of the agency encouraged him to take as much time as he felt necessary.

“Thanks Jerry. I’ll brief Sheri on everything I have in the hopper, and I’m sure she can handle anything that comes up. There’s really nothing urgent right now.” Another endorsement came over the phone and the line went dead.

Ferguson turned to his computer, summoned the internet home page, typed in the ‘Travelocity’ site and began searching for airfares to Switzerland.

By 4:15, everything at the office had been secured and Ferguson was on his way home to pack. It was all happening so fast and the adrenaline rush was incredible. He would be on a plane to Zurich in two days, and whether there was anything to be made of the whole quest remained to be seen, but he was determined to have fun in the process. He laughed to himself and realized he’d never even been to Europe.

As he pulled onto his street and turned into his driveway, he never even noticed the black, Pontiac
Trans
Am
parked fifty yards down and diagonally across the street.

Jimmy Syron followed the Ford
Explorer
in the binoculars as it entered the subdivision, turned down the street and into the driveway of the address written on the paper laying in his lap.

“That’s him”, he said to the man behind the wheel, without ever moving his eyes away from the lenses.

“He’s alone?” Jay Nieron asked as he sat up in the seat to peer over the steering wheel.

“By his lonesome,” snickered Syron.

Jimmy Syron and Jay Nieron were both big-time losers in the game of life. Inseparable, they had dropped out of high school together at the age of 17, convinced that the money they were making moving drugs was enough to make them big shots in the small bedroom community on the south end of town.

They hadn’t counted on being nabbed in a Federal cocaine sting a year and a half later. Both copped a plea on lesser charges, but managed to do some hard time in Eddyville Penitentiary. Between the young Oriental public defender, the Jewish judge who sentenced them, and the black inmates who had their way with them inside, they were ripe for the recruiting when they were paroled two years later.

The leader of the local Aryan Nation cell met them at a rally in western Kentucky one week after they set foot outside the prison, and with very little effort convinced them of the cause. Their devotion to the organization and their beliefs led to connections with other white supremacy and anti-Semitic groups across the country. They matured from drug pushers to thieves and hit men.

“I’ll give him a few minutes to get comfortable, and then I’ll go in. I’ll make it look like he walked into a robbery and got whacked in the process.” Jimmy said proudly.

Without even a thought of getting comfortable, Ferguson had entered through the garage door and made a beeline to the bedroom, where he was busy changing out of the suit and tie into a pair of khakis and golf shirt. A little freshening up over the vanity and he was ready to head back out for a cocktail and some dinner.

He had decided on the ride home from work that he would need something to help take the edge off of the turmoil his mind had been in all day. That something was going to be a couple of manhattans and a nice meal on the patio of Azalea’s restaurant. That would also allow him the opportunity to look over the map and notes some more, attempt to identify the approximate location in Switzerland he would need to start with, and do a complete translation of every word scrawled on the paper. He was in and out of the house in less than ten minutes as he switched off the lights inside and flipped on the outside porch light.

Syron had waited uneasily for eight minutes, but the anticipation of the kill was too much. He looked at Nieron, produced a long stiletto switchblade from the back pocket of his pants, and opened and closed it to make sure the action was correct. He placed it back in his pants, and with a sinister grin, gave a wink as he exited the car.

Casually, as if out for an early evening stroll he started down the street and meandered up the adjacent driveway to Ferguson’s house and ducked into the bushes that would conceal him while he climbed the fence into the backyard. As he was rounding the deck, he nearly jumped out of his skin as the garage door started up and the engine of Ferguson’s Explorer turned over. Crouched under a large honeysuckle, he watched as Ferguson pulled out and drove away.

That
stupid
asshole,
where
the
hell
is
he
going?

His cell phone went off almost the instant the engine noise had disappeared.

“John, are you alright?” Jay’s voice asked over the line.

“Yeah! The son-of-a-bitch just bugged out on me. Fuck it. I’m goin’ in anyway. I’ll wait for the fucker to come home and do him then.”

“Don’t forget the paper, they told us that’s the most important thing.” Nieron reminded him.

“Yeah, Yeah, I’ll look for that right now. Buzz me again, when he’s coming back.”

Syron broke through the backdoor window, and entered easily through the door. He spent the next fifteen minutes ransacking the house, pocketing whatever valuables he could find. On the dresser in the bedroom, he found what he was looking for. It was a photocopy, but it had the personalized Nazi letterhead of Hermann Goering, and the list in the body of the paper, just as they told him it would. He folded it once and stuck it in the back pocket of his pants removing the stiletto as he did so.

He walked into the den, sat down in the big leather chair, and turned on the television with the remote control. He was perfectly willing to relax until his prey returned.

Pulling down the driveway two hours later, Ferguson noticed through the den window the flickering images of light coming from the television.
That’s
not
right,
I
never
turned
the
TV
on.

He steered the
Explorer
into the garage, killed the engine, and got out. For some reason the question of the television being left on had heightened his senses, as he climbed the three steps to the landing and slowly opened the door to the den. He leaned his head in first and noticed the television was now off.

His heart was beginning to beat faster as he stepped carefully over the threshold and into the room. Simultaneously, the movement behind the door reflected off the darkened television screen and he picked it up instantly. Without hesitation, he leaned into the door as hard as he could and slammed it into the intruder.

There was a muffled groan and then the door came forcefully back into Ferguson knocking him backward onto the landing and then tumbling head over heels down the steps. As he got to his feet, Syron was coming into the garage in pursuit, blood pouring from his broken nose.