To Save the Nation

by Robert E Kass

  “Let me see what I can do,” replied the detective, who then walked back to his car and called his office.

  Rollins pulled Winkler aside, out of earshot of the detective, and spoke in a hushed voice. “David, my guess is that someone—probably the Russians—trashed the place, looking for leads on the Swiss bank account, then played a little game with the demolition crew to cover their tracks. The only questions are whether Mrs. Weinman got in the way and whether they found anything.

  “If they found something, they’d be flying high. No reason to do any more than make it look like a robbery, just leave it a mess, take some stuff, maybe eliminate the witness, if she was there. But if they didn’t find anything—hell, I think they would have been furious—so close but still missing the key to an incredible fortune. If Mrs. Weinman was there—if I were them—I would take her in the hope that with some ‘encouragement’ she could remember something. But if she wasn’t there, I might be inclined to wreck the place, out of spite, then try to find her. Maybe use the wrecking of her house to prove they’re dead serious.”

  “Luke, we’ve got to find out if she managed to leave before they arrived. But if she did—and let’s say she’s on her way to Ft. Lauderdale—how would they have any idea where she is?”

  “Don’t you think she told at least one of her neighbors she was going to be away, and maybe even where she was going?” said Rollins, looking around at a crowd of over a hundred onlookers attracted by the demolition and flashing blue light on the detective’s car. “Hell, they could even be working the crowd right now, asking people if they know where the owner of the house is. And what kindly New Yorker wouldn’t share that information at a time like this? Of course they would. We need to find her before they do.”

  “I’ve got an idea. The rabbi’s death notice would have mentioned family members. His sister’s name would probably have been included. I’ll get Emma working on it and ask her to see if she can locate the Swiss banker as well,” Winkler said, picking up his cell phone.

  Two more police cars pulled up, and uniformed officers got out and spoke briefly with Detective Balducci. Two officers started putting crime scene tape around the demolition site; the others moved the crowd back and urged them to disperse.

  “Nothing to see here, folks. Just another demolition site in Queens. Go about your business,” one of the officers shouted, again and again.

  A few minutes later, the detective motioned to Winkler and Rollins to come over to his car. Winkler quickly wrapped up his call with Emma.

  “Good news, guys. She made it out on the first flight from LaGuardia to Ft. Lauderdale this morning. Delta Airlines, Flight 966. Left around seven this morning, should be arriving at Ft. Lauderdale right around now. She would have left the house around five. My guess is that our perps came by here sometime after she left. By the time the demolition crews arrived with their equipment, say around seven, the court order would have been on her door, and she wouldn’t have had a clue. Now we just have to find out where she is and give her a heads up there may be some people looking to talk to her.”

  “We’ve got someone working on that,” said Winkler. “If we connect with her, we’ll let you know. Can we have your card?”

  “Sure,” said the detective. “I think we still need an executive decision about whether we sift through the rubble—just in case anyone was in there. My boss will be down here in a few minutes. What did you guys say was all so important, that might have been in the house? I think it had to do with a letter you were reading, which disappeared when you were drugged.”

  “Yeah, the letter. Well, it’s a very long story,” Winker said, not sure how much he should reveal. “We’re tracking a missing person. A very cold case. The letter was just a piece of the puzzle. We can’t be sure if it was a big piece, or nothing, but I think the first thing we need to do is talk to Mrs. Weinman in Florida. Mind if we call you later? Or if you want, you can call us anytime if you need to fill in some blanks,” Winkler said, handing his own card to the detective.

  Balducci eyed the card. “Detroit, eh? From what I read in the papers, the cops have their hands full.”

  “Maybe so, like any big city, but I’ve never been drugged in a restaurant in Detroit, and I’ve never known anybody to have their house razed by mistake in Detroit,” Winkler said, smiling.

  CHAPTER 25

  WINKLER AND ROLLINS THEN STARTED WALKING DOWN THE STREET, considering their next moves.

  “Luke, I’ve got to get to the Swiss banker before anyone else does, and maybe I should just work that alone. Anyhow, you’re grounded from international travel for a while, without a passport. Luckily, I’ve got my Canadian one. Why don’t you just head back to Detroit, and I’ll be in touch once I find out if we can locate the banker or someone else at Commerz Bank willing to talk to me.”

  Rollins agreed, then hailed a cab to take him to LaGuardia. Meanwhile, Winkler stepped into a coffee shop, ordered black coffee, and within minutes his phone rang.

  “You’re amazing, Emma! Thanks, I’ve got it,” he said, scrawling down the number on the notepad. “And you’ve already called her to tell her I’ll be calling. Great! Keep working on finding that Swiss banker.”

  She’s pure gold, Winkler thought to himself as he punched in the number for Mrs. Weinman’s sister-in-law in Ft. Lauderdale.

  Mrs. Weinman answered the phone herself and sounded annoyed. “Mr. Winkler, what’s all this fuss? I told you I’d let you know if I found anything else, and now—I haven’t even unpacked yet—your secretary is calling me down here at my sister-in-law’s. She said it was important that you talk to me, but Mr. Winkler—as I already told you—I really don’t want to get involved in the story of the letter.

  There’s something very—”

  “I’m sorry to cut you off, Mrs. Weinman, but I need you to listen to me very carefully. What’s the nicest hotel in Ft. Lauderdale?”

  “The Ritz-Carlton, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I’m staying in a very nice condo with my sister-in-law.”

  “Mrs. Weinman, I don’t want to alarm you, but I need you and your sister-in-law to go to the Ritz immediately. I’m going to have a reservation made for you under the name of Sylvia Greenspan. You should stay there until you hear back from me. There are some very bad people looking for you, and I don’t want them to find you. It could be very dangerous for you. Don’t have any contact with anyone but your sister-in-law, and don’t let anyone know where you’re staying.”

  “Dangerous? What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Weinman, somebody drugged us in a restaurant and took the letter, which has very valuable information, but it’s only one piece of the puzzle, and I believe whoever did this may think you have more pieces.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything. I’ll tell them. They’ll believe me,” she said, trembling but strong.

  “Mrs. Weinman, I’ll pick up the tab. Eat whatever you want, but only through room service. You’ll have a full suite; consider it a special vacation. These people are ruthless. They won’t believe you.”

  “Mr. Winkler, I appreciate your concern, but really, are you sure there’s something so dangerous that we need to check into a hotel?”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Weinman, it’s serious. They had your house razed—demolished with a wrecking ball—this morning—”

  The phone was silent. A few seconds later, Winkler heard a hand go over the mouthpiece as Mrs. Weinman told her sister-in-law what he’d said.

  “Mr. Winkler, I want to go back to New York to see my house, what’s left of it.”

  “Please, Mrs. Weinman, give us a few days—maybe a week—to figure out who’s behind this. Your house is being watched by the police. There will be an officer there, day and night, so there will be no looting. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone. And if something comes to mind that might help us, please call me on my cell phone, anytime.

  “But there’s just one more thing, a
nd I really don’t want to bother you about this, but it’s very important. I know you don’t want to be involved with the letter, but there was something in it that suggested there may be one more piece of information, one more letter, or maybe a message from a phone call. We’re looking for some numbers Mr. Guttmann would have sent to your husband—a bank account number and a password. If you can think of where he might have put that information, if he received it at all—even someplace outside of the house. Maybe in his office, or with a trusted friend or advisor. If anything at all occurs to you, please jot it down. When things settle down, we may ask you to look into those possibilities. Is that OK?”

  “Mr. Winkler, I’ll do my best, but this is so upsetting, you can’t imagine—”

  “Whatever you do, whatever you can think of, Mrs. Weinman, will be most appreciated. No obligation; just keep it in mind. Maybe something will occur to you.

  We’re going to have a team sift through the contents of your house, but in case we don’t find what we need there, it’s possible he put the information somewhere else—if it even came at all.”

  What had started out at as a pro bono effort to confirm an accidental death had now turned into a high stakes treasure hunt. Winkler was clearly facing ruthless adversaries who would stop at nothing to claim a huge fortune.

  CHAPTER 26

  STILL IN THE COFFEE SHOP, which had become Winkler’s temporary command headquarters, he dialed his trusted assistant, Emma, for an update.

  “Emma, have you been able to track down Klaus Wehrli at the Arosa branch of the Commerz Bank? I know there’s a six-hour time difference, but I was just wondering if you were able to find him. After all, he was on the account decades ago.”

  “You’re in luck, David. I just got off the phone and was about to call you back. It’s a very common name, but the person I spoke to at the main office in Zurich knew him personally, the Klaus Wehrli who handles special foreign accounts. He’s still with the bank, but in a senior position. I spoke to his assistant, who said you’d spoken with her earlier today and set up an appointment for next Monday morning. I’m getting some strange feelings here, David—”

  “No way. I didn’t talk to anyone at the Commerz Bank. I was waiting for you to do that.”

  “That’s just what I told her. Her boss is on vacation, but she patched him in and told him there’s some confusion, and maybe conflicting claims. He’s going to call you directly to discuss what’s going on—”

  At that very moment, another call came in to Winkler’s cell phone.

  “I think this is it, Emma, I’ve gotta take this call. I’ll call you back.” He ended the call with Emma and answered the incoming call.

  “Yes, this is David Winkler.” It was Klaus Wehrli, confused about hearing from two people, both of whom purported to be him. “Yes, I’d very much like to see you about an account I think has been dormant for several decades. I understand you’ve been contacted by someone else—I don’t know who—but I was given Power of Attorney over the account, and someone stole it from me. My guess is, they’re going to try to make a claim to the account.”

  The banker didn’t want to discuss further details over the phone but asked to meet with Winkler before his other meeting scheduled for the following Monday. It was now Thursday. Since the banker was still on vacation, they agreed to meet Saturday at ten in the morning, at the Weisshorngipfel Restaurant on the Weisshorn summit, up the mountain from Arosa, which was a little more than two hours from Zurich. That would give Winkler time to make the overnight flight from New York City to Zurich, and the train from Zurich to Chur, then another from Chur to Arosa, where he’d spend Friday night.

  The banker instructed him to have breakfast at the café directly across from the cable car station and keep an eye on his watch. The first cable car to the top would leave at eight thirty, with departures every twenty minutes after that. He was to get on the one leaving at nine thirty, which could be expected to fill up. Just before nine thirty, he should head over to the cable car station and get on just as the doors were closing, to minimize the chance that he’d be followed. It would take twenty-five minutes to get to the top, and the next car wouldn’t leave from the village until nine fifty. That would give them some time to talk, uninterrupted.

  The banker was either extremely cautious or legitimately concerned someone might attempt to eliminate the competition for the account.

  WINKLER COULD HARDLY SLEEP on the flight to Zurich, thinking about the Power of Attorney that had slipped through his hands and was about to be presented by thieves. How would the bank deal with a document that was made out in blank, filled in with his name, but lacking the account number and password? If they date tested the document, they could surely tell the ink was new and the name filled in well after the principal had been presumed dead. Maybe the Russians had altered his passport, or obtained a forged one, so they could represent that one of them was him. Or perhaps they’d say they were acting under the power to delegate authority to a third party and present a forged delegation.

  He tried to bury these thoughts in the back of his mind as he continued his journey, from Zurich to Chur, then from Chur to Arosa. Several feet of snow had fallen overnight, and as it continued to fall the snow weighed heavily on the branches of the evergreens to each side of the track. He ventured toward the front of the train, where the snow catcher plowed into mountains of fresh snow, clearing the tracks for the train and its cargo of eager passengers.

  When Winkler arrived in Arosa at around one in the afternoon, the sky was clear and bright blue. The views from the valley up to the snow-covered mountains were breathtaking. The gingerbread buildings in Arosa all shared the same old Swiss architectural style, an image of life in simpler times in a place where time had stood still. If he hadn’t been on a mission, he would have enjoyed the beautiful mountain scenery, taken lessons at the Swiss Ski School, or even walked the paths that wound up the mountains and meandered through the valleys. Instead, he napped on and off and spent time on his cell phone talking to Rollins, as the two of them thought through the process they’d follow to locate the prison that was Ricardo Guttmann’s last known residence.

  “SO, LUKE, WHILE I’M OVER HERE for the next day or so, you’ll try to find out where Guttmann was when he wrote that letter, which prison breaks occurred within the year prior to the crash, and who was recaptured. Do you think you can get that kind of information?”

  “I’ll give it a shot. I’ve got a friend in the FBI who can probably get someone to check the online state and federal prison databases, assuming they go back that far. I’ll have to call in some chits—”

  “See what you can dig up, Luke. If you get some hits—and I don’t expect there are that many prison breaks in a given year—match them up for race and body type, and let’s see if any of them fit Guttmann’s profile. Hispanics would be high on the list. I can’t see any warden mistaking a guy with a heavy Spanish accent for a redneck, even if they are look-alikes. We’ve got to assume a little bit of good faith and diligence here, even if the system is sloppy at times. I’ll touch base with you after I meet Wehrli, but if you need me in the meantime, you know how to get me.”

  CHAPTER 27

  AS THE BANKER HAD INSTRUCTED, Winkler checked out of his hotel on Saturday morning and made his way two blocks down the road to the café directly across from the cable car station. He’d purchased a winter parka, ski pants, and hiking boots in the hotel clothing store, both to keep from freezing and avoid sticking out too badly from the skiers. His suit, shoes, and the trench coat in which he’d traveled were packed in a small duffle. It was a gorgeous sunny day, with bright blue sky, no wind, temperature in the mid-twenties, and the ground was covered with deep, fresh powder snow.

  Swiss cable cars, like Swiss trains, run on time. Duffle strapped over his shoulder, Winkler watched attentively from a window seat at the café as the skiers, lined up for the nine thirty departure, loaded into the waiting cable cars. When the last car was abou
t full, he made a dash to be the last one in for the twenty-five minute ride up to the top, in two sections.

  All the skiers who filled the cars appeared to be families, young couples, or kids anxious to get to the ski school at the summit. None of them met what he imagined to be the profile of a Russian thief, none except the two fellows who appeared out of nowhere as he looked down to the station after the cable cars jerked and took off on the ride to the top. Burly men in their forties, dressed in navy wool pea coats with black ski caps, without skis, they had angry looks on their faces. He might have been imagining it, but if the banker was right, these two would have been bad company on the way up, and he wondered how he’d avoid them once they got on the next departure and made it to the top. He also wondered how they would have known he was going to meet the Swiss banker.

  THE VIEW FROM THE TOP of the mountain was spectacular. A vast panorama of snow-covered peaks all around, the rays of the sun glistening on the snow. But Winkler knew he had only a short time to find the banker and make his case. He quickly entered the restaurant inside the lodge, which was full of breakfast diners, and asked the greeter if she knew where he could find the table of Mr. Klaus Wehrli. She asked Winkler his name, then escorted him to a second dining room off to the side, with a window to the valley.

  After brief introductions, the banker had a server bring Winkler a pot of hot coffee, and they immediately started their discussion. He mentioned he thought he was being followed, and the banker shared his sense of urgency. The entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Winkler showed the banker a copy of his engagement letter with Maria Theresa Romero on his smart phone, explaining that it effectively made him a representative of the alleged depositor’s family.