Downhill E-Book

Karlheinz Moll

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 355

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A real estate developer with designs on a prime property on the hills of Kitzbühel gets shot skiing downhill and the stepson of a politician running for Senate is unexpectedly killed in the mountains of Arizona. A mysterious organization calling itself ´The Green Hand´ claims responsibility for both incidents. BKA operative Alexander Granger and his colleague and girlfriend, Interpol agent Cynthia Yeow, are asked to support the investigation. Both are in Kitzbühel for a short skiing vacation taking a break from major cases. Alexander is investigating a case of stolen guns and military equipment disappearing from a military compound in Afghanistan while Cynthia is looking into a wide-ranging case of human trafficking involving young women from Russia. Alexander´s friend from Montana, Sam Caffey, had been hired by the politician´s stepson to find out something about the past. When Sam seems to have succeeded someone tries to kill him. Alexander and Cynthia follow the trail of ´The Green Hand´ which leads them to Munich and London. Their path to identify those behind the murders is filled with death and tragedy.

Leseprobe

Karlheinz Moll

DOWNHILL

Whatever it takes

© 2019: Karlheinz Moll

Cover, Illustration: Petru Stendl, Intergrafos

Proofreading: Peter Sherwood

Publisher:

tredition GmbH

Halenreie 40-44

D-22359 Hamburg

ISBN

Paperback

978-3-7497-6123-4

Hardcover

978-3-7497-6124-1

e-Book

978-3-7497-6125-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, electronically shared or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means. Any electronic or mechanical photocopying or recording is not allowed without written permission by the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, their background and stories herein are the product of the author´s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual real-life persons are purely coincidental and unintended.

Dedicated to Melvyn Douglas ´Doug´ Caffey (1940 – 2019)

Prologue I

2 months ago – London, United Kingdom

He entered his town house when a message arrived on his smart phone.

His residence was located in a street filled with similar-looking upscale buildings. The main difference was that he actually called it his home and lived in it most of the time, unless he was traveling. The other buildings were mostly unoccupied at this time of the year.

Some of the wealthy owners, wealth being a mandatory pre-condition to afford luxury real estate like this in the first place, had given the homes to their adolescence off-spring to stay in during their semester at one of the many prestigious universities the United Kingdom has to offer. Parents who had no problem affording the astronomical tuition fees were expected to also have the funds to buy or at least to rent appropriate accommodation for their children. They also tended to provide a significant amount of cash for allowances to keep the youngsters financially afloat.

He belonged in this category even though the years of study and living on his father’s funds had long gone. His career path had made it convenient for him to stay in this part of the city.

The town house was spread across three floors, if the two-car garage and built-in tack room on the ground floor was considered a floor. The kitchen and living room were located on the second floor and one floor up was the master bedroom. The living room was plastered with photos from his years at the university, including pictures which showed him with his former buddies and members of the rowing team.

Many of his class mates back then had come from the upper echelons of British politics, business and the Royals but there were also sons of dictators from Africa, princes from the Arabian Peninsula and gangster bosses from Italy, quite often registered under a fake name. The fathers came from different countries, had different faiths, political affiliations and honored different values but there were two things they all had in common; money and power, one often leading to the other.

Over the years he had maintained friendships, some close, some casual, with many of them. They were from all backgrounds and he had nurtured them all, building the foundation of his vast network of people around the globe. He knew that his success depended on it.

It was past midnight and the end of yet another workladen day. Not that he needed to work. He wasn´t born with a silver spoon in his mouth, quite the contrary, but he had made it to the top of his class.

His father hadn´t been known for his fortune but for his connections in high places and his exclusive knowledge which was valuable if used to someone´s advantage, which he did. There was always enough money to provide the best education for his son even though others were paying the bills.

Today, the son was major player in his own right. He controlled vast portions of the imported seafood business from Russia and other countries of the former USSR. He obtained fish, caviar, lobster and anything else from the ocean and sold it at premium prices to upper class outlets in the swinging city. This was the legal side of his business but he also had other activities, much less legal but much more lucrative.

In the kitchen, he put down his briefcase and poured himself a cognac, his daily routine before looking in on his wife in the bedroom. She was asleep, had probably had been for hours. He sat down at the kitchen table and unlocked his smart phone. He briefly scanned the message he had received. It was written in cryptic language so he was the only one who could make sense out of it. No sender identification was provided and none was needed.

Besides a short explanation about the nature of the problem at hand the message also provided the name of the person he was supposed to take care of in the U.S. The name of the target took him by surprise and he figured that it would surely create headlines once done but the three letters at the end of the message left no doubt that the sender was serious. The last three letters would mean nothing to an innocent bystander, but he was neither a bystander nor would anybody who knew him well consider him innocent.

The end of the message simply said…WIT.

Prologue II

One year ago – Nice, France

American troops were accelerating their withdrawal from Afghanistan, the headline in the foreign section of ´Nice-Matin´ read.

The man sat outside in a café alongside the Marchéaux-Fleurs reading the paper while enjoying his second espresso, double and extra strong, the way he liked it. The warm Mediterranean temperatures at this time of year still allowed people to sit outside in shorts, shirt and a light sweater. Tourists and locals alike squeezed through the jammed aisles between the stalls which offered selections of local flowers, fruits, vegetables and cheese.

Every now and then someone stopped to take in the scent of the lavender soap or to taste the many variations of olives from the Provence soaked in oil and herbs. The man took little notice of his surroundings though. The article he was reading had captured all his attention.

The article highlighted the ongoing discussions between representatives of the United States and the Taliban about some level of cease-fire or peace, leaving out the Afghan government. He smiled thinking about the evolution of the relationship between the two former arch-enemies. Once hunted as terrorists harboring the masterminds responsible for the 9/11 attacks, they were now considered by the U.S. State Department as one way to reach an agreement to allow them to bring to an end this seemingly never-ending war. This would lead to the U.S. reducing its military presence in Afghanistan and to ´bringing the boys home´.

The article went on to say that the American public had long given up following events ´over there´ and a majority obviously weren´t even aware that the war was still raging on.

The man, whom everybody simply called ´Ben´, had Arabian features but dressed, spoke and behaved in a very western manner. He spoke seven languages, most of them fluently, and particularly favored French. He had lived so long on the French Riviera that he mingled well with the locals and was greeted by many whenever he walked through the old town of Nice.

It wasn´t the peace which seemed possible now in the rugged country far away, that made him smile, in fact, he couldn´t care less. He wasn´t a political person; he was a business man.

What made him happy was what he read between the lines in the article. A quick withdrawal of U.S. troops from Afghanistan would mean quick wins for him in some of his many business activities.

He had no office in Afghanistan, had no representatives and nobody had mentioned his name on the streets of Kabul or Kandahar, but he had a strong presence because of the special niche which he occupied.

His specialty was guns and military equipment. If there was one thing more profitable than buying and selling guns it was stealing and selling guns. Troop withdrawals from conflict regions and war zones allowed for a lot of stealing, particularly when U.S. troops were involved.

He remembered well the opportunities and the lucrative deals he had made when the U.S. military had partially or fully withdrawn from Somalia and Iraq. Now, the final withdrawal from Afghanistan was on the table and a side-effect opportunity of a military farewell was available again.

Guns, machines and tools, big and small, which needed repair or were beyond their operating lifetime were often considered not worth packing and shipping back to the home country. Instead, the equipment was sold off, given to local authorities or, particularly in the case of guns, destroyed. The latter played to the hand of the manufacturers who looked forward to the order books which would soon be filled again to replace anything left overseas. So much for the official policy, but there was also a big grey area in which the man called Ben operated.

Some of the guns intended for destruction disappeared mysteriously only to surface later on in the hands of insurgences, terrorists, militias or just plain thugs. Some of the equipment given to locals or considered abandoned ended up mysteriously in the hands of certain people, whom the military leadership, if they knew, would consider the wrong hands.

The military would be even more concerned if they suspected or knew that guns and ammunition destined and logged to be destroyed were ´redirected´ by Afghan contractors and crooked soldiers who believe that they deserved more than a meager military salary and a bleak outlook after leaving the army. The yellow bumper stickers to support the troops which people back home drove around with, even if well intended, didn´t pay for anything.

Since 2001 hundreds of thousands of so-called small arms, any gun below 30mm in caliber, were given to people in Afghanistan. These included assault and sniper rifles, pistols and revolvers as well as machine guns. A vast proportion of this materiel remained unaccounted for, having disappeared down channels unknown to most, except for men like Ben.

Ben not only knew what had happened to those guns, he also was the one brokering some of the deals to shift the arms from Afghan military facilities to the highest bidders among the warlords, the Taliban and criminal organizations operating in Pakistan.

The news about further U.S. troops leaving the country means more guns were there for the taking and selling.

He made a mental note of a few action items. He needed to make a few calls and to get some of his business associates in motion. Lucrative deals were waiting to be made.

Chapter 1

One week ago — Kitzbühel, Austria

It was the end of the season but a cold front two days ago had delivered a massive snow fall which had put at least three feet of new snow on top of the already well-prepared slopes. This was the perfect scenario for a few more days of sport and fun in one of the most popular ski resorts for the rich and famous.

Darkness still covered the mountains and early risers would have enjoyed the stillness in the cold air were it not for the machines already driving up and down to grade the slopes and get the gondolas and ski lifts ready for service.

The man was one of the first ones outside. He left his house, shouldered his board, and started walking up the hill towards to the top of a slope reserved exclusively for snowboarders. He looked up and thought to himself that the powder should be great today.

Kitzbühel had been his favorite winter spot for many years. The former village turned renowned ski resort of more than eight thousand people, which nestled between the ´Horn´ on one side and the ´Hahnenkamm´ on the other was the perfect winter escape for the upper class and wannabees. He had spent many winters in town together with his wife and two daughters, until his wife had left him for her golf teacher and took the girls with her. Ever since then he had come to Kitz, as it is locally known, alone. Although the house he owned had become way too big for just him, and he had not yet found a companion to stay more than just a few nights, he held on to the property. He managed to spend several weeks in the house each season, renting it out to people he knew during the summer months or letting a house-sitter take care of things. His trip this year was something special; this time he was not only traveling to this picturesque town for winter pleasure but also to advance an important business deal.

He always had to smile when the snowboard crowd started their trip up to the top for their first rides while he had already ridden downhill at least once. He also knew that they were smiling him when they saw him, a man of his age, dressed like a twentysomething. He had to chuckle about it too now and then, but then he felt a lot younger than he actually was and, if some of his female admirers were to be believed, also acted and looked a lot younger. At least that was true until recently, before the threats had started.

While he wandered through the snow, his thoughts drifted to the E-Mails he had received over the past few weeks. At first he had deleted them without giving it much thought as the mails read like spam messages. Only when the mails continued and the messages got more threatening, the last few ones threatened to physically harm him, even to kill him, did he take a closer look and consider the options he had.

The sender´s address of the E-Mails said something about a ´Green Hand´, but according to his search on the net, such an E-Mail address didn´t exist nor could he find any related website. In fact, there was no information about a ´Green Hand´ that he could find anywhere. He had realized that the E-Mail address was a fake when he´d created a new E-Mail account and had sent a mail to the green hand address. It came back instantly with the error message that the mail address did not exist. A few days ago he´d finally decided that he had had enough and that he would report the incident to the police as soon as he got back home.

On one hand, the messages were clear, he was accused of destroying the environment with his real estate business. On the other hand he had no idea what the writer of these messages really wanted from him, except for the demand to leave Kitzbühel. Did they want him to retire, to tear down buildings he had erected or to stop any new projects? He shook his head, confused about the whole thing.

Being the subject of attacks and threats wasn´t new to him. Properties he planned and built, particularly hotels and resorts, were often opposed by environmentalists who wanted to protect a few trees, owners of smaller nearby places, fearing the competition or people who just loved to oppose things.

Another hundred yards and he would be almost on top of the mountain, away from the ski lifts. He left the marked trail and walked into a treed area. A sign on one of the trees clearly stated that the territory was off limits, but the man ignored it and walked further into the woods until he reached an unprepared area, exactly where he wanted to be. He knew the spot very well. From here he could ride down on a slope perfect for free riders.

He was breathing heavily but the excitement of a downhill ride on his snowboard at dawn was worth all the effort for him. It was still dark except for the first glimpses of the rising sun were visible over the ridge of the mountain. From where he stood he had a perfect view down to the city of Kitzbühel as well as the Hahnenkamm on the other side of the valley. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the houses and hotels in the city as well as the private chalets and small cabins in the suburbs.

He could see the buildings of Aurach, a small town on the outskirts of Kitzbühel and almost as expensive. Next to his house, off the main road, he could also see the property with a large hilly pasture where cows grazed during summer time and, if his plans came to fruition, where something new would be built soon. To his left he noticed a few deer wandering through the snow, probably going to the feeding grounds close to the Aurach wildlife park.

What he didn´t notice was the fact that he wasn´t alone. There was another person about two hundred yards above him hiding behind a small group of trees. In fact, if the man had looked over his shoulder at any time during the past two days, he may have noticed that someone was following him around wherever he went, always close enough to not lose track but far enough behind to avoid detection.

The other person had started the journey at the same time, following the man discreetly. Like the first man, he was shouldering something while he walked up the hill, but it was neither a pair of skis nor a snowboard. Actually, he wasn´t carrying any sporting equipment, unless a high-powered sniper rifle was considered sports equipment.

This other person wore a military-style winter camouflaged skiing jacket and trousers, which merged almost perfectly with the surroundings. The person leaned against a tree and brought the gun into position searching for the first man in the cross-hairs of his sights.

The first man fixed on his snow boots, put on his helmet and protective glasses and started riding downhill. He was into his third curve when a bullet hit him like a sledgehammer throwing him off the board. The helmet he wore may have provide protection from falling on a rock but offered no protection at all from a bullet from a sniper rifle fired from a comparatively short distance.

The snowboard continued its trip downhill alone.

The sniper lowered the rifle, put it back into the gun cover, shouldered it, and walked the short distance towards to the dead man. He then knelt down and felt for a pulse, not that there was much need to looking at the huge hole in the helmet, but in the sniper´s profession taking chances wasn´t an option. He then stuffed a piece of paper in the mouth of the lifeless man, got up, and left.

Snow flurried in the face of the sniper on the way down. The weather forecast was accurate; it was beginning to snow and could go on for the whole day. Before the first skiers hit the slopes the sniper would be long gone and tracks left in the snow would be obliterated.

Chapter 2

The Present – Flagstaff, Arizona

This was probably one of the last undisturbed weekends he would have in a while, George Hess thought as he sat at the breakfast table in his small vacation home in Flagstaff. A long while, if things went as well as he intended, he mentally added. His wife joined him at the table, looking stunning as always in her see-through negligée, and he poured her a cup of coffee.

Flagstaff is located in the picturesque northern part of Arizona, nestling at the feet of the majestic San Francisco peaks, and had made its mark on the landscape in the mid-1850s when it became a campsite for the transcontinental railroad constructed between Albuquerque and the Pacific. Later it became an important city for the cattle industry in Northern Arizona as well as the ranching, lumber and mining industry. Today, with its more than 70,000 residents Flagstaff still is a major stopover for cargo transported by rail or by trucks and sits at the crossroads of the Interstate 40 east-west corridor and Interstate 17 going south to Phoenix.

The renowned campus of the University of Northern Arizona and the many outdoor activities nature offered at this high altitude made Flagstaff a hot spot in Arizona. City slickers escaping the desert heat of Phoenix still make Flagstaff their weekend escape during the summer months. Winter sports enthusiasts flock to the slopes, anglers come in spring and fall to fish and tourists arrived in their thousands in summer on their way to the Grand Canyon, down to Sedona or to explore a few miles of the historic Route 66. The sum of all that, plus a level of property speculation, had turned Flagstaff into a hot real estate market and prices for homes and rentals only went one way. George Hess and his business ventures benefited substantially from the constant upward movement.

George and his wife of more than fifteen years talked about the upcoming event and how they would play out the announcement. Instead of one of the usual public places with plenty of press around, they decided to do it here, directly from this house. George´s assistant had already installed the video equipment and put up the lighting.

It started two years ago when then business man George Hess had involuntary entered the national political stage. Before his now infamous act on TV he had been a successful but little-known real estate manager who had made a fortune selling prime properties in Arizona. He was always successful buying and selling vacant land and building parcels, something he had learned from his father who was considered a real estate tycoon himself in his time. George´s business exploded after the downturn during the financial crisis. When the real estate market in Arizona tanked in the years from 2008 to 2010, he bought any acre of land which he considered undervalued and priced low to sell. He participated in auctions and bid on foreclosures. The properties on his books grew tenfold and so did his debt. However, money was cheap due to historically low interest rates. There was very little competition and banks were willing to give credit to those few creditworthy people like him left on the market. The fortune he inherited from his father didn´t hurt, neither did the connections his old man had and which he had passed on to his son when he still was a college kid. His father even knew the President and went golfing with him in Florida. George had a very low opinion of the current occupant in the White Castle and after what had happened on that talk show, the feelings might be mutual.

His real estate portfolio ranged from large ranch properties south of Tucson, close to the Mexican border, through prime building parcels in Paradise Valley and Scottsdale to upscale retirement homes and horse properties in Prescott and Flagstaff. George´s business naturally put him into contact with the high and mighty in Arizona and a few years ago he had been asked to run for the city council in Phoenix. Even though he put little energy into it, he won on a Republican ticket, thanks to generous donations from all over the state. Once in office, he became responsible for housing and land development while at the same time maintaining his business affairs.

Even there he managed to remain invisible to most people. He had never had the urge to be in the spotlight and even in today´s 24/7 media frenzy it still seemed possible to keep a low profile. That was until the day he was invited to a local talk show where he was asked about his opinion on the state of the real estate market in Arizona. The other talk show guests were a rancher and a talk radio host. The theme of the show turned to immigration pretty quickly and that´s when he involuntarily stepped into the spotlight.

It turned out that the talk radio host didn´t much care about the real estate market, urban sprawl or sub-divisions. All he wanted to talk about was illegal immigration, fabricated caravans marching north from Latin America towards the U.S. border and that wall he wanted to see finished. That´s when first the rancher and then George Hess took over the conversation.

The rancher made it very clear that he surely wasn´t a fan of illegal immigration and that a solution was needed to deal with the 12 million illegals already in the country but that he strongly opposed a wall. He told the audience in the studio and those tuning in that he owned a large cattle ranch covering land on both sides of the border which had been in the family going back to the early 1800s. He called the wall a huge mistake and a waste of tax payer´s money.

When the talk radio guy tried to respond, Hess cut him short by saying to him ´The only wall we need in this country right now is the one around the President´s head and his little tweeting fingers.´.

He added a few proposals of his own on what could be done with the so-called crisis on the border, but the damage was done. As conservatives put it, or, like some liberals concluded, he became a national political figure with just one statement. If it had been a Democrat, the right-wing media would have verbally nailed him to the wall but such comments coming from a Republican were a different story. The cable news programs on both sides of the aisle went berserk over it for a day or so, until another rally by the President shifted attention away.

Since that day, he wasn´t a nobody anymore and his popularity grew in the weeks and months that followed.

Arizona, like many states in the Western part of the U.S., was becoming more and more liberal and Republican strategists knew that they needed to have an answer to those calls for candidates from their own party to address the changing electorate. George Hess fit that requirement. At age 61 he still looked comparably young. His hair was dyed black, except for his silver-grey sideburns. Always tanned like he´d just got off a sunbed and dressed in the finest tailormade suits and shirts, he had the appearance of a movie star. His looks and eloquence were crucial factors in his rising popularity. But he also had help from the outside.

The President was part responsible for the increased popularity as he relentlessly attacked Hess with his staccato tweets during his ´Executive Time´. Asked about his relationship with the President, the only thing Hess had to say was that he probably wouldn´t be seen golfing with the President any time soon. George Hess was one of those candidates considered to be an option for swing voters. After the late John McCain, maybe it was time for another maverick from Arizona in the U.S. Senate, Hess was often told.

Today, together with his wife, he was to record a public message which was going to be streamed live on the internet and broadcast on all the major networks and cable news channels. The message would be simple. He meant to announce his candidacy for one of the seats in the Senate in the upcoming election now after, the incumbent had decided to not run again.

They had considered for a while whether their son Jason should be sitting with them during the taping but had decided against it. He had been acting strangely lately and his mood seemed to change constantly. They figured it best to not risk a faux-pas during this crucial live streaming event.

Sondra Hess held her husband´s hand and they looked into each other´s eyes. They understood each other without words. George was still amazed by the beauty of his wife. With her high-heels always on, even during something casual like breakfast, she surpassed him in height. Her curly blond hair and her voluptuous yet well-toned body turned heads wherever they went, even now after the many years they had been married. He wished the warmth and calmness had spread to her son too. When they had met more than fifteen years ago, the boy just had turned seven. After their marriage, he told Sondra that he would be fine adopting the boy and to give him his name. Sondra was very proud of the gesture.

There were days when George regretted his decision, especially during the past four or five years when the teenager, who was doing fine in school and a formidable athlete competing in high school soccer, turned into an angry young man.

George caught him stealing from his wallet on a few occasions despite the generous allowance he gave him. Sondra also told George that she was missing some of her jewelry but wasn´t ready to admit that Jason took it. Jason had left college two years ago without a degree to do some ´soul-searching´, as he called it. George refrained from asking him whether being arrested for drug possession or for driving under the influence were part of that search.

They both hoped that Jason would soon overcome this restless phase and would find a meaningful purpose. A decent job wouldn´t hurt either, George thought. In moments like these, Sondra loved her husband even more. He always considered Jason their child and not just the boy he´d adopted. She wished that Jason could find a way back to the days when he called George nothing but ´Daddy´.

In a former life, before she met George, she had had a career of her own, but today she was proud to be just the wife of a successful business man and rising political figure, both locally and nationally.

He had just refilled her coffee cup when they heard a door slamming. Jason had obviously left the building.

George knew Jason wanted to go skiing and yelled “Be careful with that downhill racing…some of those slopes are pretty dangerous in these weather conditions.”, realizing that Jason probably hadn´t heard a word he was saying.

They both sighed for a second but went back quickly to their conversation about the upcoming announcement they were about to make. Both still had a hard time believing that George could soon be a Senator.

Chapter 3

The present – Kitzbühel, Austria

Today would be their first day of winter vacation together. Last year, they had spent a few days in Bonn, when Cynthia had prolonged a business trip to Brussels and five days in Singapore when Alexander had enough airmiles to burn on a business class flight.

Cynthia Yeow had planned their trip a long time in advance without telling Alexander about it. Behind his back she contacted his boss, Willibald Reuter, section head of the German Federal Police or the Bundeskriminalamt, known as BKA in Bonn. She asked for a welldeserved vacation for and on behalf of his ´best man´ Alexander Granger, his words not hers. Willibald reluctantly agreed but only after Cynthia had promised that they would be available if there were any new developments in the latest joint operation between Interpol and the BKA. The same applied to another case on Alexander´s roster.

They had been assigned to investigate a human trafficking operation spanning Europe, Russia, the Middle East and Asia. Cynthia Yeow was assigned as the lead Interpol agent after a whistle blower, a young female who escaped a brothel in Singapore, had provided valuable intel. Human trafficking wasn´t the typical business of a financial crime investigator like Cynthia but from what the poor girl of barely 17 years was able to tell, there was a financial element to the criminal activities and it was quite possible that an international organization was behind it.

The scared girl couldn´t provide many details except that she was from a small village near Omsk in Siberia. The story she told Cynthia and the Interpol agents in Singapore was the same as that of thousands of young women. One day a man came to their village, noticed her beauty and offered her a modelling contract in Moscow. He took her with him. Within a week she was on a commercial flight to Singapore for her first shoot, so she was told. Instead she was thrown into a brothel in the underbelly of the Lion City.

It was the first time she had been exposed to such high heat and humidity and added to that she was physically exhausted from the daily sexual abuse. She caught a bad fever which went on for several weeks. Her handler feared that it was contagious and, having no interest in medical care for someone he considered a commodity, he dumped her in an alley in the woodlands close to the Malaysian border and left her there to die.

A police officer on her way home from work literally stumbled over her and saved her life. Being familiar with the modern human slavery business, the police officer had a fair idea what this was all about.

The girl didn´t understand any English or Chinese and, looking at her features it was hard to tell where she was from, but it was most likely not the eastern parts of Asia. She could have been Inuit or from the eastern parts of Russia. After the girl was hospitalized and taken care of an interpreter, who spoke several languages including Russian, was able to determine her name, nationality and the sad story she had to tell.

Cynthia Yeow was assigned to the case due to her experience in uncovering criminal organizations by following the money. In this case the financial affairs of the as-yet-to-be-identified organization may be the key to bringing an end to the criminal activities and subjecting the masterminds behind it to justice.

Prior investigations into similar cases involving young women lured from Eastern European countries to Western Europe and then further on to the Middle East or Asia had led them to Germany, which had obviously become a hub for the illicit trade in young women. Interpol put the BKA into the picture and Willibald Reuter assigned Alexander Granger to the case, mainly because he had read of Cynthia Yeow´s involvement. He knew about their acquaintance, or whatever it was they were having, and figured Alexander wouldn´t mind either.

As much as Alexander was delighted with the good news, that he was going to be together with Cynthia for more than just a few stolen days or even hours in Bonn or Singapore, he hoped that this new case would not distract him too much from the major case he had been working on for quite some time now. He hid his concern during the conversation with his boss assuming that Willibald Reuter must have factored it in already.

Alexander went to pick her up at the Frankfurt airport. He waited for her in the arrival area and easily spotted her in the crowd. Her tall figure and long shiny hair stood out from the other, mostly Asian passengers. She was wearing the green silk blouse she had bought when they were shopping together in Singapore. When their eyes met, the joy of seeing each other again was visible. The long tight hug was accompanied by an equally long kiss. They had both realized, when he visited her in Singapore recently, that what was developing between them was more than a simple affair, but both were still taking it very slow. Their demanding jobs and the distance between them helped with that.

They took the ICE train to Munich and could barely keep their hands off each other. If the train hadn´t been loaded to its maximum capacity, who knows what would have happened.

In Munich they boarded the EC towards Verona and alighted at Wörgl to switch trains once more. They arrived in Kitz after almost six hours of travelling. Cynthia had booked a double room in a five-star resort hotel with an extensive spa that included large indoor and outdoor pools as well as several saunas. During her trip to Bonn, Alexander had introduced her to the sauna culture he enjoyed several times a week after a workout. Cynthia wasn´t accustomed sitting naked in a sauna with other, equally naked men and women, but after a few times she overcame her reluctance and realized that nobody went to the sauna to look at other nude people, they went to enjoy the healthy impact it has. It didn´t take her long to find pleasure in it herself and now she couldn’t wait to try out the various saunas their resort hotel had to offer.

After a long night with very few hours of sleep they rolled out of bed and headed to the shower together. Naturally, showering took a lot longer that way. Refreshed, they enjoyed the breakfast buffet and hot coffee before they put on their ski gear and took the hotel shuttle to the ski lifts, where one of the red gondolas took them up to the Kitzbühel Horn.

They chose a gentle, well prepared slope. The sun was warming the air and it was obvious that spring was knocking on the door. When they reached the middle station they took a break for some Kaiserschmarrn and Germknödel at the restaurant before continuing downhill on their rented skis. All-in-all they took three trips up with the gondola and skied down three different slopes.

By the time the shuttle bus brought them back to the hotel their legs were aching and they knew they were in for some muscle ache over the next few days. Both took their exercises seriously, working out five to six times a week, but standing on skis for a few hours was a different kind of exercise and might felt it in their bones.

Back in the hotel they quickly showered, put on their soft bathing robes and headed to the spa. They knew that a few rounds in the sauna would relax their muscles and reduce the pain they would feel the next day.

Back in their room they were getting dressed for dinner when there was a knock on the door. They expected it to be housekeeping, but when Alexander opened the door there were three people. They were a young man and a young woman of about the same age, both dressed in jeans, T-shirts and leather jackets, and an older police officer, wearing the typical blue Tirolian police uniform. They asked if they could come in. Alexander quickly looked at Cynthia to ensure she had some clothing on before he let the trio in.

“To what do the owe the pleasure? Don´t tell us we were skiing somewhere off-piste and we got caught in the act?” Alexander said jokingly after the three had shown their credentials and introduced themselves.

Alexander asked them to sit down on the few available chairs in the double room. He formally introduced Cynthia and himself but the three seemed to be well aware who they were and addressed them by their names.

“Sorry, we don´t know about your skiing but we came here because somebody else wanted to go skiing off-piste but was shot before he got a chance.” the female Hauptkommissar in the team started to explain.

Cynthia sat down next to Alexander on the small couch. After one year of intensive practice her German language skills were almost perfect. She had started with her first lessons on her way back to Singapore after she and Alexander had returned from Montana last year. She had forced Alexander to talk in German with her and he did so most of the time.

“Before you go into more detail, may we ask how officers from the BKA in Germany and Interpol in Singapore could be of any help solving a murder in Kitzbühel, assuming it is murder you are talking about?” Cynthia asked in German almost without any accent.

The apparently young police officer had dark black hair with a few grey streaks. He was probably older than his boyish looks, Alexander guessed from the way he talked and moved. He looked over to the woman and realized she too must be in her forties. The sporty clothes they both wore had had a distracting effect on his first assessment. The man started to explain, taking Alexander out of his thoughts.

“Give us five minutes to tell you all about it and after that we´ll hopefully have answered all your questions.”

Hauptkommissar Gerd Frankl, the same rank as Alexander, gave a brief summary of the events, focusing on the important facts. A man, 54-year-old real estate developer Arnold Hofstetter from Graz, had been shot a week ago in the early hours of the morning on an off-piste slope. The killer had either left absolutely no traces or the snow had buried them. Hofstetter had been killed with a sniper rifle.

The shot must have been fired with a silencer as a shot from a rifle would have been heard for miles in the silence of the mountains and nothing had been heard. A gun shot could have also caused an avalanche but that probably didn´t matter to the killer. Most likely, the shooter wanted to create as little noise as possible and to be gone before the crime was discovered at daylight.

The remains of Arnold Hofstetter had been driven to the morgue where an autopsy was performed, Hauptkommissar Frankl continued. He spared Cynthia and Alexander the details of the gunshot wound and went straight on to their findings about the case looking over to his colleague, Cornelia Christen who got the signal and took over.

Cynthia and Alexander still wondered what this had got to do with them, but they hoped they would learn soon.

Cornelia seemed to notice the unease she and her colleagues had created and went straight in to her explanation. She took a piece of paper out of the folder she was carrying and showed it to Cynthia and Alexander.

“Let me guess; this is a hand print of the shooter so you are much better off than just having a single finger print?” Alexander asked.

“Good guess…but way off the mark.” Cornelia responded and Cynthia nodded.

The piece of paper showed a hand print in green. The hand must have been dipped in a bucket of green paint and then pressed on the paper, just like some sort of primitive art. Cornelia explained that the piece of paper had been taken out of Hofstetter´s mouth.

“The killer put this into the victim´s mouth, like in one of those mafia movies?” Alexander asked in disbelief.