Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (11 page)
The morning started early for Casper. At 5:30, a nurse gave him an enema. That hadn’t been pleasant. The same nurse had shaved part of his groin area. That had only been embarrassing. When she finished, she gave him a shot to relax.
At 6:30, Kirby the kid doctor stuck his head in the room, tried to be reassuring. Even in Casper’s relaxed state, Kirby upset him. His life was in the hands of someone who looked like he’d get carded for a R-rated movie.
Kirby’s visit was cut short by two male attendants who arrived to wheel his bed downstairs to the cath lab. “See you in recovery,” Kirby said, patting Casper’s arm.
Casper closed his eyes as the wheeled the bed down the corridor. In his half- sleep, he was aware of being moved from bed to procedure table, shivering from the cold, the anesthesiologist giving him something, counting ten, nine, eight—.
Hanna was agitated as she left the meeting with Josh and the technicians responsible for the surveillance feed. Although she’d been assured this real-time identification was doable, Josh was now backpedaling, citing equipment and bandwidth deficiencies.
At 9:30, when she left for the Ringling Museum, the system still wasn’t functioning reliably. At the Museum, Hanna quickly located the FBI technicians on-site, tried to get them to give her an assessment. They ignored her, instead concentrating on images on two laptop screens.
Annoyed, Hanna strode out to the courtyard. Her gaze took in the transformation. A wooden stage had been erected at one end of the stone patio. On it was a podium bearing the Mercedes logo, a table, and four chairs. Towering behind the stage was an eight foot by five foot photo of Jens Beck smiling at the camera as he received the tennis tournament trophy.
In front of the stage, neat rows of chairs had been set up. Hanna counted twelve across, ten deep. Surely, they couldn’t be expecting that many people.
A young blond woman in a navy blue suit, holding a cell phone to her ear, rushed up, handed her a flyer, departed. Hanna studied it. The majority of the 8-1/2 x 11 page was the photo of Beck that had been used for the backdrop. Under the picture, was the caption: “If you have information about Jens Beck, missing Mercedes executive, call Wernher Lohse.” There was a smaller photo of Lohse and the phone number the FBI had assigned. At least somebody had it together.
“What do you think?”
The voice startled her. She tried to hide it behind a smile. “You realize every crank, crook, and crazy person is going to be calling.”
“Only the actual kidnappers will be able to put Beck on line,” Lohse countered.
“Do you have a voiceprint for authentication?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be certain it’s really Beck?”
“We’ll speak in German.”
“That can be faked.”
Lohse smiled. “That would be difficult.”
“No more difficult than making a high-ranking Mercedes’ executive disappear into thin air.”
• • •
Lohse had described Miles’ role as reconnaissance. He was to circulate, mingle with the crowd, see who looked suspicious. There were plenty of people to check. The press conference had drawn a crowd. Miles counted eight different camera crews: three from Sarasota stations, two from Tampa/St. Pete, one from Orlando, plus national coverage from Fox and CNN.
The TV crews made up about a third of those in attendance. Miles assumed the rest were from newspapers or radio stations or were gawkers.
A few stragglers were still arriving, but it looked to Miles like most of those who planned to attend had arrived. He made his way through the new arrivals, scanning faces. He saw two people he’d tried to sell cars, didn’t see anyone who even remotely resembled Joanne Perlman.
“Good afternoon,” Agent Chance said, her voice booming over the P.A. system. Miles took a seat in the back. The show was about to begin.
• • •
Hanna looked out at the audience. There had to be a hundred people looking back at her. Don’t focus on the crowd, she told herself, find one person. She scanned the crowd, found Miles seated in the last row.
She took a deep breath, blew out, settled herself. “Thank you all for coming. I’m Agent Hanna Chance with the Sarasota Bureau of the FBI, and we’re here to ask for your assistance with an ongoing investigation.” She indicated the photo behind her. “Jens Beck, an executive with Mercedes and winner of the recent Gulf Beach Tennis Tournament, was last seen a week ago. The FBI has in its possession credible information that Mr. Beck has been kidnapped. Other than an initial demand, there has been no communication from the kidnappers. To the best of our knowledge, they have not contacted either Mr. Beck’s family or his employer, Daimler AG.”
She glanced over a Lohse, who was sitting calmly, a slight smile on his face. “Daimler has sent a representative, Mr. Wernher Lohse, to negotiate Mr. Beck’s release. Mr. Lohse is working closely with the Bureau to secure Mr. Beck’s release and he’d like to speak to that, now.” Hanna sat down, watched as Lohse went to the podium, studied the crowd.
“I, too, would like to thank you for coming today,” Lohse began.
Hanna noticed his German accent was more pronounced. She wondered whether that was nerves or if he was dialing it up intentionally. Her bet was the latter.
“Jens and I are colleagues. Friends. Close the way brothers are close. Which is why Daimler sent me. I am here to do what it takes so my brother can return to Germany with me.” He paused, as if searching for words. “These kidnappers have been very bold, very ingenious. Perhaps, too ingenious. Daimler is willing to pay the ransom demanded for Jens; however, Daimler must have proof of life. They will not pay otherwise. I must speak with Jens in order for the money to be paid. So today, we are asking you to spread my appeal. The FBI has set up a special phone number where I can be reached day or night.” Again, Lohse paused. “If the kidnappers are listening. I urge you to contact me, to treat Jens well, and to release him unharmed. Daimler is not interested in pursuing you. All we want is Jens back. Please, I plead with you, let us resolve this quickly.”
Hanna joined Lohse at the podium. “As Mr. Lohse said, the Bureau has established a special phone number that will put the kidnappers in direct contact with him. The FBI’s first concern is Mr. Beck’s safe release. I can’t over emphasize that. Our primary concern is securing Mr. Beck’s freedom. Thank you for helping us spread the word to secure Mr. Beck’s release. Mr. Lohse and I will take questions, one at a time, raise your hand please.” Hands shot up. “Yes,” Hanna said pointing.
“Mr. Lohse, how are you going to separate the kidnappers from the fake calls?” A reporter called out.
“Only the real kidnappers have Jens. When I talk with him I will know I am not dealing with fakes.”
“How much is the ransom?” A reporter shouted.
“I’m not going to say a number—”
“Does the FBI have suspects?” Another reported yelled over other questions.
Hanna answered quickly. “Our first concern is getting Mr. Beck back safely.
Once we’ve accomplished that, we’ll pursue the kidnappers.”
“Are arrests imminent?”
“Only when we have Mr. Beck back will the investigation move into the next phase. Again, our concern is for his safety.”
“How does Mercedes feel about this?” A woman in the back called out.
“The company is sad this has happened,” Lohse answered. “Jens did nothing to deserve this. It is a sad commentary on the world in which we live when these things happen.”
“Has Beck’s family been contacted?” The same woman shouted.
“No.”
“How can you be sure the kidnappers will contact you?” A reporter for the local ABC affiliate asked.
“If the kidnappers want to be paid, they must contact me. I am the only one—you understand—the only person authorized to pay.”
The local CBS affiliate wasn’t about to be outdone. “Do you think Beck is still alive?”
Hanna saw Lohse’s face harden. “I don’t know,” he said with a brittle smile. “I hope these people wouldn’t take Jen’s life for nothing.”
“Does the FBI have any leads?” A reported from The Herald Tribune shouted.
“Yes, we do,” Hanna said as convincingly as possible. “The Bureau won’t elaborate on them during an ongoing investigation, however.”
The questions continued machine-gun style for the next half hour. Then—like guests at a party who don’t want to be the last to leave—the media departed at once.
Hanna felt drained. Lohse looked tired, as well. “You want to get a cup of coffee and debrief,” she suggested.
Lohse, who seemed to be looking for someone, nodded.
“There’s a little restaurant—”
Lohse held up his arm, waved. “Heather,” he called out loudly.
That got the attention of a dark-haired woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm who had been talking to one of the news personalities. She looked their way, a smile appeared on her face. She made her way over to them, said, “That really went well. You were both excellent.”
“Yes, I thought it went well, too,” Lohse said. “Thank you for all your hard work on such short notice. Daimler will take care of you for this.”
Heather beamed. “Our pleasure. Anything you need, you know who to call.” She took a sheet of paper from her clipboard, handed it to Lohse. “That’s a list of the media in attendance. You’ll be on every Sarasota station’s news at 6:00 and 11:00.”
“Excellent. Again, thank you, Heather.”
She strode off.
“This restaurant,” Hanna began again, “is—”
“Miles,” Lohse called out. To Hanna, he said, “I want him to join us.”
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were seated at a table in the Banyan Tree restaurant on the Ringling grounds. They made polite chit chat until their waiter, an older bald man with gold-rim aviator eyeglasses, wearing a light-blue oxford shirt and white pants, served Hanna and Lohse coffee, Miles water with lemon, and departed.
Hanna took a sip of her coffee, put the cup down, asked the crucial question. “Miles, did you see anyone suspicious? Anyone you thought might be connected with the kidnappers?”
Miles shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“How about the camera system?” Lohse asked. “Where you able to ID anyone?”
“Not in real time. The crew would have signaled me, if they had.” Her gaze traveled from Lohse to Marin, back to Lohse. “Why don’t you give me half an hour to get a viewing organized at our offices and we’ll review the footage together.”
“The sooner, the better,” Lohse said grimly.
• • •
At the next table in the Banyan Tree Cafe, Tom Ruhl listened as he studied his menu. He couldn’t help smiling. This was going to be easier than he’d expected.
Miles waited for Lohse to finish his second cup of coffee, pay the bill, before the two men left the Banyan Tree for the twenty-minute drive to FBI headquarters.
Miles climbed into the driver’s seat, clicked his seat belt, looked over at Lohse. “What’s your prediction? Think the FBI will have anything?”
Lohse buckled himself in as Miles shifted the Jeep into gear, pondered the question. “It’s possible they will have something.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “I’m not counting on it.”
Miles watched an Mercedes M-class pass by, tried to see if he knew the owner, couldn’t get a good enough look. He pulled the Jeep into traffic behind it. “When do you think the calls will start?”
Loshe’s cell rang, answering for him. He laughed, raised it to his ear, turned serious. “This is Werhner Lohse. Yes. Yes. No, that could not possibly be Jens Beck. Thank you for calling.” He closed the phone, looked over a Miles. “This is the part I dislike, the crank calls.”
“It can mess with your head, for sure.”
The cell rang again. “This is Werhner Lohse.” He listened, his face hard. “Then put him on the phone.” More listening. “Then I’m ending this call. Thank you.” He closed his cell, scowled. “Opportunists are the worst.”
“Can’t the FBI help sort those calls?”
Lohse was watching the mirror again. “No. This is something I must do. The actions of the kidnappers when they make contact will be revealing.”
• • •
Tom Ruhl, wearing tan shorts and a dark blue polo shirt, opened a tin of Altoids, popped one in his mouth, slipped the tin back in his pant’s pocket. His hands shook slightly. He’d driven like a banshee from the Banyan Tree to be in position prior to Lohse and Marin’s arrival. He was wound-up, so jazzed he could feel the blood beating in his ears.
• • •
Marike Silber was dressed in a white tee-shirt, gray sweat pants, Nike running shoes. Her hair was tucked up under a blue ball cap with the words Go Nols in orange. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark-rimmed sunglasses. On her right wrist was a running watch. Over her shoulder, she carried a large straw bag with the word Florida and a picture of Oranges on it. The bag could have been purchased at any souvenir shop. It contained one heavy item.
Silber was positively tingling with anticipation. She gave her watch a quick check—9:51. Watched the approaching traffic.
• • •
Miles pulled the Jeep into the small surface lot across the street from the FBI’s building, found an empty space, parked. He climbed out, waited while Lohse finished a call. The two men had to wait for traffic to cross the street.
• • •
Silber saw the Jeep pull into the lot. Right on time. Her gaze shifted to Ruhl, who nodded he’d seen the Jeep, too. Silber watched the man in the Jeep finish his phone call, saw them wait on traffic before crossing the street. She began walking down the sidewalk toward them, her pace even, unhurried. She knew her path would intersect the men’s at the building’s entrance.
Ruhl began walking, too, approaching them the opposite direction. He watched as they finished crossing the street, stepped onto the sidewalk. “Hey, aren’t you the great Werhner Lohse?” He asked in a taunting voice.
• • •
Lohse’s head swung to the left, his gaze on the face of a man he didn’t recognize. “Who are—” He started to say, realized it was a diversion, looked to his right, saw the gun in the woman’s hand, used his left arm to push Marin away.
• • •
Silber met Lohse’s gaze. In his eyes, she saw the rage of a cornered animal. It made her smile as she pulled the trigger, fired point blank at Lohse’s face. The bullet entered his left eye, blew out the back of his head. There was no doubt he was dead. She turned the gun on Marin. The way he was falling a head shot was iffy. She took the heart shot, saw the impact slam him back. He fell over a low hedge of boxwood plants, landed on his back in a small patch of grass. Silber put the gun back in her bag. She and Ruhl walked calmly away.
