Buzzard Bay (25 page)

“That’s about it,” Grundman told them. “It will take a few days to process the papers, and then you can go to work.”

They began asking Grundman about time and repayment schedules. Grundman answered everything they could think of to ask, so they signed the documents.

Bob opened his briefcase to show Grundman and the people from the bank that they did indeed have the money. “I demand, however,” Bob told them, “that this money be put in trust until the deal is finalized.”

“By all means,” Grundman told him, “we will take the cheque out to one of the tellers to transfer it into cash. He will then open an account and Harold here,” he pointed at the bank manager, “will place it in the bank’s trust account.”

This suited Bob and the others fine, so it was done as described. Little did they know that Grundman rented the office from the bank. The man who signed the trust account was actually a fly-by-night lawyer who worked for Grundman from time to time. The bank suspected Grundman of perhaps being on the shady side, but he was a large depositor, so they turned a blind eye to his dealings.

“Will you need us for anything else?” they asked Grundman.

“Yes, you will have to sign the final documents in a couple of days,” he told them. “You should stay till then.”

It was the next day when they came back to their room that they found the police waiting for them. On the bed lay what the police told them were three small bags containing cocaine. They were taken down to the police station where they were questioned for hours and then spent the night in jail.

Everything they had done in the last twenty-four hours looked suspicious. They had come from the Bahamas, and they had immediately gone to a bank to deposit cash. They were only in Munich for a short time with no company business or signed contracts to prove why they were here. They told the truth about how they were to meet Erik Grundman with whom they were doing business here in Germany. The police seemed interested in the name Grundman but told the three men there was no one in the city doing business under that name. Bob was pretty sure they’d been done over, but Bill and Dale held out hope. “At least our money is in trust,” Bill said; Bob wasn’t so sure.

The next day the police told them they were to be deported out of the country. The police escorted them to the airport where they found their bags packed. They were all put on a flight to Nassau. This had all happened so fast the three men were totally devastated. The consequences could be profound. They decided to get their company lawyer on this as soon as they landed in Nassau.

At the Nassau airport, they found the Bahamian police waiting for them. The police escorted them off to an immigration office in the back of the main terminal. The immigration agent was blunt. “Your work visas have been lifted,” he told them. “We are putting you on the next plane to Canada.”

“What about our wives?” Bill asked.

“They’ll be sent home too,” the agent told them.

“Can we see them?” Dale asked. The answer was a stern no.

“You will remain in this office until your flight leaves this afternoon. You will not be allowed to talk to anyone or use the phone.”

Bob had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; someone out there had gone to great lengths to set them up. On the other hand, he supposed that whoever it was could have had them disappear completely, at least they were still alive.

That night, they landed in Toronto where the police interviewed them and took their passports, and then sent them off to Saskatchewan. They were told to report to their local police station when they got there and then stay put until the government decided what to do with them.

It was dead in the middle of winter in Saskatchewan. Not one of them was prepared for the intense cold that greeted them. Bob’s mother spent the winter in Arizona so her house was available to him. The other two had never had the confidence to sell their homes with the constant turmoil that swirled around the farm project in the Bahamas and felt fortunate they still had them. Two days later, Hania and Pearl showed up but not July.

“They just came and took us,” Pearl told them. “We could only bring the clothes on our backs. July was working in the fields with the men. We didn’t get a chance to see her.”

Bob phoned their company lawyer in Nassau, and he told Bob he would look into it. He tried phoning the project office, but all he got was the APCO manager who told him all the women had been sent away, and that he knew nothing more. Finally, he got hold of Arthur at the Nassau airport.

“We are hearing strange stories, Mr. Green. Yesterday your son came to my brother and asked for his help. He is taking them supplies tonight. After he has seen them, I will know better,” Arthur told him.

“If possible, have July or Rikker phone me. If that’s not possible, you can leave me a message.” Bob set up a time for the call. He told Arthur to be careful and to take care, and then hung up.

“I feel we should be very careful,” he told the Shonavons and the Drinkwaters at their next meeting. “I have a feeling that we are in a lot more danger than we realize, if you need to get hold of me I’ll be out at mom’s house.”

Grundman received Waddell’s coded fax in his Swiss office. The next night, they again met at the old warehouse in Nassau.

“I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” Grundman told Waddell. “How’s things going on your end?”

“I apologize,” Manly Waddell told him, “for being so slow, but I had to bypass some channels here. The wheels turn slowly. I feel it could be two weeks yet before your papers are accessed, I hope you can wait that long.”

“That’s not a problem,” Grundman told him. “It’s going to take at least that long to tie up the loose ends before I can move. However, I think we both have some other loose ends to tie up before then.”

“That would be the simplest, wouldn’t it?” Manly agreed.

“And the safest,” Grundman stated. “They know both of us. Pretty soon they’ll put two and two together and come up with us tied together with Holmes.”

“Yes, Holmes phoned me,” Manly told Grundman. “These guys are ringing his phone off the wall wondering what’s going on.”

“That link will disappear tonight,” Grundman told him. “However, I think if we get rid of the rest of our problem, we’re home free.”

“What’s my end going to cost me?” Manly asked. Grundman told him, and Manly nodded, sli- cing his finger across his throat.

Grundman had already talked to Ginter about the Holmes job. This time he told Ginter about the rest of his assignment. “It’s a big job. There are five clients,” Grundman said, “so take lots of help. I’ll get you all the information I can about them, but it should be easy. They’re naive as hell and don’t suspect a thing.”

They negotiated a price; it was in line, and Grundman didn’t argue. “I’m in the Bahamas,” he told Ginter. “I’ll send you the information you need from here to your pickup point. There’s not a big rush,” Grundman told him, “but I’d like it cleaned up in a couple of weeks.”

Ginter didn’t think this was a problem. He asked that Grundman have cash deposited in a numbered account in Minneapolis. “I’ll contact you in two weeks to give a progress report,” Ginter told him. “Hopefully, it’s all wrapped up by then.”

Grundman hung up and turned his thoughts to tonight’s encounter with the girls Manly had promised him. As far as he was concerned, with Ginter on the job, it was as good as done.

The FBI operator was dozing. Holmes seldom got calls after midnight, especially when he brought his girlfriend home, there was little of interest going on. That’s why he woke up when he heard Holmes’s doorbell ring.

“Might be interesting,” the operator thought. He heard Holmes make his way to the door and ask who was there. He couldn’t hear the answer, but he heard Holmes open the door.

There was no talking after this, just the sound of people milling around the room. Slowly, he became suspicious, someone searching the room, he thought. The operator immediately placed a call to his superior, Kent Ansly. Kent’s voice came sleepily onto the phone.

“Someone’s in Holmes’s house,” the operator told Ansly.

Ansly’s voice became immediately clear. “Call the police, 911, anyone you can get there in a hurry. I’m on my way.”

The agent did as he was told. He listened to the person or persons rummaging inside the house.

“The phone’s bugged, Henekie,” he heard a voice say.

“Well, she’s ready to blow. We’d better get out of here,” someone else said.

The house became quiet, and then the operator could hear the crackle of fire. A minute later, he grabbed his ears in pain as the house blew up.

Two days later a man impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit entered Ken Holmes’s bank. He walked straight up to the reception desk and asked the girl to see the manager. She asked who he was.

He handed her a card and said, “My name is Mr. Haskins.” She came back with the manager and introduced Mr. Haskins.

“What can I do for you?” the manager asked.

“A Mr. Holmes has died,” Haskins told him. “I’m the lawyer in charge of his estate. I see in his will he has a safety deposit box in your branch. I would like to open it please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Haskins, but we are not allowed to do that without a death certificate for the deceased or some kind of authorization.”

Mr. Haskins produced a letter with the same letterhead as the card Mr. Haskins had given him. The banker recognized the prodigious name of the law firm; still, the manager hesitated.

“He also left this in our care,” Mr. Haskins produced a key.

“Right this way,” he led Haskins into the vault and showed him the deposit box. The manager waited to make sure the key was the right one then turned and left the vault. Mr. Haskins

took all the papers from the box and put them in his briefcase. Then he signed out and then, waving to the manager, left the building.

Henekie was waiting for Ginter in the car. “Any problems?” he asked.

“No,” Ginter replied, “our work is completed here.” They found a secluded place on the edge of town and burnt the papers.

“Now we head north to meet the others in Minneapolis,” Ginter told Henekie.

“It’s been a long time since we were all together,” replied Henekie.

“Yes,” Ginter answered. The thought of joining their old comrades in arms pleased him too.

“Can you tell me where we are going after we meet the others?” Henekie asked.

A smile came to Ginter’s lips. “We’re all going on a hunting trip up in Canada.”

Little did Henekie think that within two weeks, he would be headed back to Minneapolis with the police hot on his tail. This would not be a problem for Ginter though, because he would be dead.

SIXTEEN

H
ENEKIE AND ALF
knew the Canadian Mounties would be able to trace their trail to Minneapolis, but that’s where the trail had to stop. It’s not hard to disappear if you have the proper documents and lots of cash. Ginter had been a very careful man; Henekie knew he had a system and followed it religiously. All Henekie had to do was use what he knew about Ginter to figure out the system.

As soon as he and Ginter had crossed the Minnesota line, they put Minnesota tags on their car. It was a plain Jane Chevrolet that blended well into the surroundings; in fact, Henekie had trouble finding it in the airport parking lot. He knew Ginter had left the keys under the driver’s side fender. He quickly found them and headed down town; Henekie asked Alf to open the glove box. In there was a map and other assorted goodies, but of special interest to Henekie was a key. It definitely was a locker key; even the locker number was on it, but there were hundreds of such lockers in the area. As Henekie drove through the city, he tried to think of what Ginter would do. There had to be a clue somewhere. Without money or fresh ID, they were sitting ducks.

uddenly, Henekie pulled into a gas station and parked. He asked Alf to hand him the map. He scoured over it, looking for a clue, maybe coordinates, he thought. Henekie almost gave up when he saw a circle drawn around one of the legends. Henekie traced with his finger till he found the same number on the map. His heart leapt; the gym was only blocks away.

Ten minutes later, he found it. The building was old, and the neon sign out front said simply “Boxing.” Henekie found the locker that matched the number on the key; it opened easily. Inside was a sports bag one might take to the gym.

“Nice touch,” Henekie thought as he took the bag back to the car. He let Alf drive as he checked out the bag. Inside were five false passports with driver’s licenses to match and, most importantly, twenty thousand in small bills.

Henekie decided he had to do something about Alf. He had seriously thought of leaving him dead at their hotel in Canada but decided to wait. Alf was stupid but in a tight situation he was fearless, a born killer, an ideal man for their kind of work. Now that they were clear, Alf became a liability. When Alf wasn’t working, he was drunk. When he was drunk, he became violent and talked too much. Henekie wondered what Ginter had in mind for Alf when the job was finished. The quicker he got rid of Alf, the better.

Darkness had settled over the city. Henekie told Alf to pull into a small restaurant. He left Alf to go to the bathroom; instead, he went out a back door and checked out the alley. Next to the restaurant was a printing and stationary shop. “Perfect,” Henekie thought. They finished their meal and left the restaurant.

Outside, Henekie turned to Alf, “Ginter had our money left here.”

“What do you mean here?” Alf looked around, “In the middle of the street?”

“No,” Henekie had to laugh, “in a dumpster in the alley out back.”

“You’re shitting me. Sounds like a stupid fucking place to me.”

“Yes, well you know Ginter, he always had his reasons. Anyway, he told me it was only dumped once a month, so it would be the perfect place for his contact to leave the money.” Alf still looked dubious, so Henekie added, “If it’s any consolation, we get to split all five shares.” That seemed to be the right motivation for Alf as he followed Henekie around the building into the alley behind.

They looked in the dumpster; a single light over the back door showed the dumpster to be half full of paper and assorted scraps. “Knowing Ginter, it’s funny he didn’t put it in a garbage bin behind a slaughterhouse,” he grumbled and climbed in. Henekie stood in the alley screwing the silencer onto the gun Ginter had stored in the sports bag, then he climbed into the dumpster. Alf was on his hands and knees searching through the papers in the bottom when Henekie pulled Alf’s jacket hood over his head and shot him. He went through Alf’s clothes taking anything he could find. In one of the coat pockets, Henekie found the necklace.

It was too dark to see exactly what it was, but he put it in his pocket and went back to the car. He felt extremely tired as he drove into the Holiday Inn. It had been a long day, and he had not slept well. With the dawn would bring a new day, Henekie knew he must erase the past and ponder his future

He had always been the follower from the army to his work with Ginter; there had always been someone to give orders, now he was on his own with few resources and no one to tell him what to do. If it hadn’t been for the overwhelming goal to even the score with Bob Green, Henekie might have just given up, resorting back to his old ways of life.

Henekie had been a mercenary most of his life. His contact and friends were mostly in the same business. Eventually, if they could no longer hire out their services, they turned to crime, drugs, and alcohol. This probably would have been the fate of Henekie had he not tasted the success of how he had handled the situation so far. The scary part was could he handle the future.

He opened his eyes to the new day, finding his mind full of doubt. But once he focused on Bob Green, the doubts disappeared. He had to find this man and settle matters. Why do this for nothing? His mind began to scheme. Someone else obviously wanted Green dead, and they were willing to pay for it. The police would have Green by now; these people would be desperate to have him snuffed. They’d pay a fortune to the one who did it, and Henekie worked long enough with Ginter to know there was nothing that couldn’t be done if you put your mind to it. The problem now was to find the people who hired Ginter.

It had been a long drive from Bowling Green, Kentucky, to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Ginter had talked more than usual to pass the time. Henekie thought back, trying to remember just what Ginter did tell him. He remembered Ginter saying he had a woman in Munich, Germany, and spent most of his time there when he wasn’t working. Henekie also remembered him telling about a little blonde girl named Greta, who belonged to a motorcycle gang that he hung around with. “She would do anything,” Ginter had told him. “In fact I am seriously thinking of bringing her on some of my jobs. She can kill as well as fuck, and that could be very valuable.”

It wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but Henekie decided he had no choice. Until he could find out where Green was, his hands were tied anyway. He would drive to Milwaukee and fly to Germany. If he could find this Greta, maybe things would fall in place. It was then he remembered the piece of jewelry in his pocket. He had forgotten about it till now. His instincts told him to get rid of it, but on closer inspection he realized the piece might be very valuable. He put it in the sports bag Ginter had left in the locker.

“My funds are very limited,” he thought. “I might have to pawn it.”

He sold the car to a wrecker on the outskirts of Milwaukee taking a taxi to the airport.

Early the next morning, he landed in Munich. Henekie never knew his parents. The first person he remembered in his life said that she was his aunt. They were living in Gibraltar at the time, so his first language was English. She ran off with a man who took them to Spain and then into France. About the only thing Henekie learned through this time was the different languages and how to cope for himself.

He got himself in trouble and, as with lots of young men, was put in the army and eventually into the French Foreign Legion. This was where he got the only piece of identification that was real. He was classed as an Algerian nationalist and therefore had access to France. After putting in his time with the legion, he found his services were in demand, and he fought in several small wars in Africa before running into Ginter, who became Henekie’s mentor and best friend.

Ginter insisted Henekie live in Germany so he could get a hold of him in a hurry, but they were never together there and never associated with one another in any way until they were out of the country. Henekie was immersed in German and while finding the language difficult, he was a quick learner and soon knew enough to get around with.

He found out that there were a lot more than one biker gang in Munich and they were not open to strangers. But Henekie could handle himself, and his personality fit in well with the crowd. He soon found that some of them too had been mercenaries; they exchanged war stories and other information which gradually led him to Greta. Henekie bought his new friends as many drugs as his limited budget would allow, and they rode together. The first thing Henekie had done was to buy a used bike and a leather jacket. One day, when he and his friend were riding, they met a group of bikers. Henekie told his friend the truth.

“My friend Ginter was killed last month. He asked me if anything happened to him, I was to tell a girl named Greta. She belongs to a biker gang in Munich, is all I know.”

“Everybody knows Greta,” his friend told him. But that’s all he told him. Henekie didn’t want to push too hard.

As they passed the bikers, his friend pulled over close, “There’s your friend Greta,” he told him.

All he saw was blond hair flying out behind a bike rider. Henekie didn’t know what to do, “I wonder where they’re headed?” he tried not to sound excited.

“Probably over to the Reo,” his friend told him. “They hang out there.”

It didn’t take long for Henekie to find out the Reo was a bar, but getting close to Greta was another matter. He began to hang out at the Reo bar. It was a rough place, again making him feel right at home. He began integrating himself into the atmosphere of the bar. He thought things were going well until one day a biker he was talking to suddenly pulled a gun and put it to Henekie’s head.

“I think you’re a pig,” the man told him. He was a big man with wild eyes. Henekie had seen his type before.

“Unpredictable,” he thought, “capable of anything.” He’d have to be careful.

“I like to see pigs squirm before I kill them,” the man said.

The bar had become very quiet; the man cocked his gun. The sound was deafening in Henekie’s ears; he held his breath and hung his head. The biker took this as a sign of submission. He pulled the gun back from Henekie’s head slightly and turned to the others.

“Should I shoot him in the nuts first?” He got out before Henekie’s hand hit the gun and the man’s jaw in one motion. The gun went off harmlessly into the ceiling. The biker sat, stunned, on his stool. Henekie stood up, grabbed the man’s head, and twisted violently. The sickening sound of bones breaking ripped through the silence of the bar as the man toppled off the stool, dead.

Henekie stood facing the others for a moment; no one moved, and then a man got up from a table and came toward him.

“Get rid of him,” the man pointed at the dead biker, “I want to talk to this guy.” Two bikers pulled the dead body out the back door as the bar slowly returned to normal. The man ordered a beer for himself and Henekie.

“I can tell you’re a mercenary,” the man said, “by the way you handle yourself.” What I don’t know is why you are here.”

The man had long hair and a scruffy appearance, but Henekie could see he was no fool. He decided to tell the truth. “A man named Ginter told me I could find friends here,” he said.

“Ginter was no fool if he told you that. He must be a very good friend,” the man told him.

“I worked with Ginter,” Henekie explained. “He was killed on a job. His last request was that I find a girl named Greta and tell her.”

The man asked him some more questions then told Henekie that Ginter was a very good friend of his. “Greta will probably be around this evening. I will introduce you.”

Greta was not at all what Henekie had built her up to be in his mind. She was short with long blonde hair; she looked much too young to be able to have all the qualities Ginter had described about her. Still, Henekie liked the way she wore her motorcycle cap at a slight angle, and her small breasts were partly on display under her half-open leather jacket. He’d been sitting at the bar when she came out of nowhere and sat down beside him.

“Hi, I’m Greta. Hear you want to talk to me,” was all she said as she lit a cigarette. Henekie introduced himself.

“I hear you’re a friend of Ginter’s,” she said.

“I was a friend,” Henekie told her. “Now he’s dead.”

“That’s too bad, he was a good fuck,” Greta said, showing no remorse. “I’ll have to tell Rona.”

“Who’s Rona?” he asked. Greta turned and looked at him.

“His wife,” her gaze left Henekie and went around the room. “I guess she’s not here tonight.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Henekie told Greta.

“Sure,” Greta said, downing her beer. “If you give me a ride, I’ll take you to her house.”

The house Greta pointed out was a small bungalow in what looked to be an average neighborhood. Typical of Ginter, Henekie thought as he and Greta climbed off the motorcycle. Greta knocked, and a tall redhead answered the door.

Henekie thought her to be about thirty-five or maybe a bit more when he saw her up close. She had a pretty, thin face covered in freckles. She wore shorts and a low-cut blouse showing good cleavage. Henekie was immediately attracted to her.

“Ginter and I had more in common than he knew,” he thought to himself.

“Hi Rona, this is Henekie, he’s a friend of Ginter’s,” Greta told her.

They sat down and had a beer. Henekie noticed three kids in the living room watching TV. “Yours and Ginter’s?” he asked.

“Not entirely,” Rona told him. “The oldest one, I don’t know who the father is, but the other two are Ginter’s,” she said. I was pregnant when he married me.”

Henekie decided it was time to tell her, “Ginter’s dead.”

he looked at Henekie, “It’s just like that prick to fuck off and leave me with nothing,” she said.

Henekie was surprised, “You mean Ginter didn’t leave you any money?”

“He was a real tight prick,” Rona growled. “It was bad enough when he was here, but when he went away, we damned near starved.”

Greta laughed, “I don’t know why you stayed with him, and there are lots of guys down at the gang who would have looked after you.” To Greta, life was simple.