Dollars From Heaven

By Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Karl Braun was well off as it was, but then—through almost unbelievable circumstances—a vast sum of money drops into his lap. He wants to put the money to good use and change things for the better, yet discovers that most folk welcome an injection of money but not the changes. In the end, there’s baggage with this money—an encumbrance so gross and bizarre that no one in their wildest dreams could foresee it. No one!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Kepitis-Andrews
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311550125

Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Following a lifetime of adventure, travel and intrigue, Andrew Kepitis-Andrews finally settled on the north coast of New South Wales, Australia, and opened a gourmet smokehouse. Always possessing the urge to write but lacking the time that serious writing demands, he retired from commercial food smoking at the age of seventy-four, and had his first book published the same year, 2014. The writing bug is now fully incubated, and Andrew says his writing has two simple, sincere and earnest goals: your pleasure in the reading of it and his pleasure in the writing of it.

Book preview

Dollars From Heaven

The moving finger writes

And having writ, moves on.

Not all your piety,

Nor all your wit,

Can lure it back,

To cancel half a line of it.

Omar Kyam (Rubayat)

The computer finger writes

And having writ, stops still.

No need for piety or wit,

To send it back

And cancel every word of it.

A. K-A (left thumb)

Dollars From Heaven

By Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

© Copyright 2016 Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Smashwords Edition

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced by any process, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the copyright holder. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

Cover design by Christine de Portugon

Kepitis-Andrews, Andrew, 1940 –

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

A Phone Call From America

Dollars From Heaven

Dinner At The Hilton

The Penthouse In Manhattan

Tilting At Windmills

Bucking The System

Indulging Oneself

The System Bucks Back

Max’s Legacy

Oakridge

The Secrets Of Oakridge

The Fallout From Oakridge

The Set-Up

The Kidnapping

The Solution

The Aftermath

About The Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those people who’d dearly like to be rich—but I ask them to take stock.

Maybe they are rich already but just don’t know it.

Chapter 1

A Phone Call From America

It was around 11pm when Karl returned from the Rowing Club. It had been no special night, just a few drinks with a few acquaintances and a lot of talk about nothing in particular. As he inserted his door key he heard his phone ring in his study. The lateness of the call did not alarm him as he was quite used to that but he thought he’d better get to it quickly anyway.

Karl Braun’s residence, he answered as he clamped the receiver to his ear.

Am I speaking to Mr Karl Braun?

Yes, you are.

Mr Braun, my name is Albert Pennington. I’m calling you from New York, the heavy accented American voice said. I know it’s quite late now in Sydney and I apologise for that but I have a very important matter I’d like to discuss with you, if that’s alright with you.

"Sure. Go ahead. But if it’s about a photo assignment, I have to tell you that

I’ve been retired from photo journalism for some time now."

No, it’s nothing to do with that. Not directly, anyway. All this will sound very unusual to you but please bear with me as I assure you that the end result is amazingly, very much in your best interests. But there’s a protocol I must follow so, again, I ask you to bear with me.

This is beginning to sound like the opening gambit to a thriller. You’ve got me intrigued already. Who are you again?

My name is Albert Pennington and I’m a partner in the New York law firm of Argyle and Associates. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that earlier.

Right. Now that we’ve got that established, what can I do for you?

Thank you. Firstly, I have to ask you some questions and if the answers stack up with my brief, it will become more a question of what I can do for you.

Fire away, Mr Pennington. I’m on my tiptoes and all ears.

You are Karl Braun, born in Ulm, Germany in 1942?

You’re dead on the mark.

You recently wrote and published a book about your career as a photo journalist, titled, ‘f8 at 125 Shutterspeed’?

Yes, I did. But if it’s a copy you’re after I can assure you, you can get one in America. It’s selling quite well there.

Thank you, I already have a copy on my desk as we speak. To get on to the next question, in your book you mention that your natural father is Maximillian Kaldor. Is this correct?

Yes it is. Mentioning him in my book was my publishers’ idea, not mine. He thought it would add a more personal touch.

It most certainly did. I also believe you have a younger sister called Maria?

Yes. I do. But she doesn’t appear anywhere in the book so how do you know about her?

That’s the clinching part, and I thank you for asking me.

Look Mr Pennington, I’m sure you didn’t phone me from New York just to discuss my family affairs. So far there is very little to get excited about so would you mind getting to the point.

I will, Mr Braun, but not over the phone. You have confirmed what I had to know and now I look forward to speaking to you face to face, as they say. I will be in Sydney on the next available flight and contact you through our affiliate law firm in Sydney.

Fine, but can’t you give me a hint of what this is all about? At the moment it sounds very much like a ‘cloak-and-dagger’ intrigue.

I’d like to very much, and yes, I agree with you, it is a little like ‘cloak- and-dagger’, but I can’t tell you anything more. Please don’t worry, whatever the outcome, believe me, it will not be to your detriment. When we meet, I’m sure you’ll agree that this is the best way to handle the matter.

The phone conversation ended there, but having done so, it also ended Karl’s wish for an early night. He sought out a special bottle of Kirsch Schnapps and poured himself a generous glass and retired to his bulky leather armchair. Sipping the Schnapps, he was lost in a mountain of speculation. What could possibly be at the bottom of this? Someone suing him for a story he’d written some time ago and now employing a New York law firm to do the dirty deed? No, that couldn’t be it. Pennington had gone to a lot of trouble assuring him that nothing was to his detriment. But then, that just could be sneaky lawyer’s way to put him off guard. No, that didn’t make too much sense. He strongly mentioned the book. Maybe someone had become upset by something in his book? But then surely they’d have to address that through his publisher. Possibly some tin pot country getting their knickers in a knot about some unkind pictures published about their regime? No, they wouldn’t bother with lawyers. They’d hire an assassin and get their revenge the time honoured way.

Besides, there’s been too much water under the bridge by now. Nothing was making much sense, and the more he kept thinking about it, he started losing his senses and drifted off to a Schnapps-induced sleep, spending what was left of the night in the leather armchair.

The morning did little to clarify last night’s events. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had had the Schnapps after the phone call, he would have put it down to some weird quirk of his imagination. He was somewhat angry with himself that he hadn’t insisted on knowing what this was all about over the phone, or asked for a contact phone number or something from Pennington. As it stood, Pennington held all the cards and Karl had nothing. That it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly was Karl’s only solace. Could it be that Pennington had planned his phone call from New York be so late at night in Australia to catch him more relaxed, tired and off his guard. On checking the International Time Zones, Pennington would have placed the call at about 9am, New York time, first cab off the rank in a brand new work day. So that theory seems unlikely. Then on re-examining last night’s conversation, Pennington had really told him nothing and apart from his name, rank and serial number. Karl had told Pennington nothing much either. Clearly, this mind machination was not going to produce a tangible result, so he made up his mind to shelve the whole thing and wait and see what, if anything happened next. He shaved and inspected his features in the bathroom mirror.

For a man his age he certainly didn’t show it. True, his once black hair was now a definite grey. But it was still all there, and it gave him an air of distinction. He showered and made himself a cup of coffee to take out on the terrace of his Mosman home. The house was really far too big for a single person but it did hold many fond memories, mostly those of Tina, Karl’s wife, who had died there of breast cancer all those years ago in 1972 whilst Karl was on assignment photographing the dying vestiges of the Vietnam War. He had never remarried or even seriously thought about it, mainly due to the fact that he was often abroad on photographic assignments and used the Mosman house more as a base when back in Australia. Their one and only child Catherine was brought up by his parents living in Bankstown but spent the bulk of her time in a private boarding school. Then, tragically, her life was cut short by overdosing on heroin at an after-school rave party.

Finishing his coffee Karl mulled over his day’s schedule. Nothing very strenuous; he was the guest speaker at a businessman’s lunch in the Ashfield Businessmen’s Club. Not only was he promoting his book there, but he was also picking up a modest cheque as well as a free lunch. After that, there was nothing specific on his agenda, so it was back home to Mosman, put out the garbage for collection the next day and then do nothing in particular until it was time to pick up Susan. He’d take her out for dinner to an Italian restaurant he often patronised. Karl had known Susan O’Day for a couple of years by now and he was seeing her frequently when he was back in Australia. She was a blonde elegant lady, quite tall but still very slim for a woman in her mid to late fifties, or so she claimed. She was a widow with two fully grown sons and still worked for a Public Relations firm.

This is how Karl first met her, during a photo shoot on one of his assignments. They immediately gravitated to each other and kept company on a sporadic but regular basis. Whilst the relationship was intimate there was no hint of permanency about it, at least not on Karl’s part. Susan was a great help with research on his book as he was writing it and after a short while they became good friends with benefits although Karl had the feeling that Susan would like the relationship develop further.

After the dinner and well into the evening, Karl and Susan had reached the cup of coffee stage. So far it had been a very quiet dinner and Susan did not take long to home in on that.

Karl, you’ve been noticeably quiet this evening, not your usual self. Are you alright? Is there something bothering you or have I said something not to your liking?

Karl had told Susan nothing of the events the night before, mainly as he knew very little about them himself and what he did know made little sense.

I’m sorry Sue, I didn’t realise it showed.

Do you want to talk about it?

Well, yes and no. The problem is that I have no idea of what it is all about. It’s been niggling at me all day.

Do you want to tell me about it? Maybe I could be of some help, unless of course it’s deeply personal.

No it’s nothing like that. It’s like, well, let me tell you what happened. Karl then related to Susan the contents of last night’s phone call from America.

Now do you see what I mean? Karl turned to Susan. "It’s been bugging me all day. I don’t know what to make of it. At best, I’m beginning to think

it’s some sort of stupid hoax. But even that doesn’t make sense."

I see what you mean, but no; I don’t think it’s a hoax.

What makes you say that?

Well, from my understanding of hoaxes, if it is a hoax, the caller would have left you with some foreboding that something unusual or nasty was about to happen. Yet your Pennington made it clear you had nothing to worry about as nothing detrimental was about to happen, so the way I see it, there are no grounds for a hoax.

What then could be the reason for the call?

That, my dear, I don’t know. I guess you’ll simply have to wait to see what—if anything—happens.

A few days passed with no more Pennington phone calls or any other type of contact. Pennington had said, ‘I’ll be on the next available plane,’ and it was now Friday and the call was made on Tuesday night. Karl knew there were daily flights between the US and Australia so ‘the next available plane’ had to be a throw-away line. But to what purpose?

Over the weekend, Karl and Susan spent some time together. Saturday was a visit to Randwick Racecourse. Karl wasn’t an ardent punter but Susan had a thing for horses getting all sweaty as they make their run down the straight and possibly turn her investment of five dollars into twenty. This occurred on quite a few occasions as Susan had a good eye for backing winners. Karl on the other hand enjoyed the ambience and atmosphere of the race track but hardly ever placed a bet. He was quite happy to share Susan’s enthusiasm and keep the contents of his wallet intact.

How can you enjoy a day at the races without placing a bet? Susan would often ask.

I just like observing the fillies. That costs nothing, was his stock reply. Sunday afternoon was spent at a barbecue at one of Susan’s son’s house and

by early evening they were sharing a toasted cheese sandwich back at Karl’s house in Mosman.

I take it you’ve heard nothing from your friend Pennington? Susan asked.

No. Not a word.

That’s a bit weird. I thought you may have heard but weren’t going to tell me anything for reasons better known to yourself.

You know I’d never do that. You’re the only other person who knows about that call.

Well then, perhaps I was wrong. Maybe it was some sort of a hoax call after all.

I don’t think so. That’s what’s puzzling. On Friday I spent some time with International Directories to see if there was such a firm as Argyle and Associates in New York and guess what: there is. I’ve got their telephone number and address and they are located smack bang in the middle of New York’s legal precinct.

Really. Did you phone them?

No.

Why not?

What do I say to them? Do you have some nut called Pennington working there and why is he calling me in Australia? The whole thing makes me feel like I’m the nutcase.

I don’t know what to say except that maybe the best course would be to put the whole thing out of your mind, like it never happened. Should something occur, well, take it from there. If not, it never happened.

I guess you’re right. I think I’ll do just that.

On Monday morning Karl had a scheduled 10am appointment with his publisher to discuss further promotional plans for his book. He didn’t look forward to these appointments as they inevitably end up with him being farmed out to some bookstore, club or ladies’ sewing circle, talking about his book, smiling a lot and signing purchased copies. Still, one can’t have sunshine twenty-four hours every day. As he sat down to enjoy his coffee, the phone rang, precisely at 9 am.

Good morning Mr Braun. This is Albert Pennington speaking. We last spoke on Monday, Tuesday your time. I phoned you from New York.

Mr Pennington! Of course and as I recall, you were supposed to be here on the next available plane.

Quite right Mr Braun. But you of all people must appreciate that sometimes travel arrangements cannot be tailored exactly to one’s wishes.

I’m sorry Mr Pennington. I didn’t mean to make that sound rude.

No offence taken Mr Braun. I quite understand your anxiety since we last spoke.

Are you still in New York?

No, I am calling you from the Hilton Hotel in Sydney. I arrived last night but I didn’t want to disturb you by calling you on a Sunday evening.

That would have caused no problems. What’s the plan?

We have an affiliate firm in King Street in Sydney. We could use one of their offices to talk, or we could meet at the Hilton, whichever is best for you.

When do you suggest we do that?

As soon as possible. Today—if that’s alright!

Karl thought for a moment. There was his 10am appointment with his publisher but he was not looking forward to that.

Today would be fine but I have another idea. Why don’t you come to my place where we could be more relaxed or informal? Why not come for lunch? I can’t promise a groaning table but a Pizza with a beer or a glass of wine is well on the menu.

That, Mr Braun, is an excellent idea. Pizza sounds just fine and the venue perfect but I have to ask you to order in for three, I have an associate from the States with me.

Not a problem, shall we say one o’clock? Do you have my address?

"Indeed I do. All I need now is some transport which I dare say, the hotel

can organise for me. We’ll see you at one or as damn near to it as possible." Karl’s next action was to phone his publisher.

Ken, he addressed him. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to cancel this morning’s meeting. Something unexpected and urgent has just cropped up so I won’t be able to make it.

Jeez Karl, this is a bit sudden. What are we supposed to do with the time we’ve allocated for you?

I don’t know Ken, read a book or something, isn’t that something you people do?

Things were starting to take shape although what that shape was, Karl had not the faintest idea. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. Having the meeting at his home gave him a sense of security. No possibility of hidden microphones or other bugs although he had no idea why these would be needed but that then gave him an idea. Why not do a little bugging of his own, if only to have a record of what was being said. To that end, he went off to his home studio to see what he could cook up from the masses of equipment he had lying about. That sorted, he reached for the phone to order the pizzas.

Chapter 2

Dollars From Heaven

At almost exactly 1 pm, a car pulled up in Karl’s driveway. He was expecting a taxi, but this was a black Mercedes hire-car complete with capped driver. Two men dressed in business suits, carrying briefcases, got out and the driver reversed and drove off. As the two men approached, Karl noted that one was of average height, slightly portly with a beaming face and aged round the middle forties. The other was taller and much thinner and a good five to six years younger. The older man extended his arm to Karl.

You must be Karl Braun. I’m Albert Pennington, he announced shaking

Karl’s hand, and this is my associate, Bart Clyde.

Thank you for coming gentlemen, Karl greeted them. I take it you had no trouble finding the place?

A piece of cake, Pennington replied. The driver knew exactly where he was going. But finding you was another matter.

You surprise me. I’ve lived here for over thirty years.

I don’t doubt you, except that we didn’t know that but now we gottcha.

Indeed you have, and now if you’d like to come inside we can have a bite to eat and then find out what I’ve been gottcha’d for.

Is this your first time in Sydney? Karl asked as they entered the house. It is for both of us, Pennington replied, but from what we’ve seen so far it won’t be the last. What you guys have got here is some city. Why have you been hiding it from us?

Hiding is hardly the operative word but that aside, how would you like to handle this, er, business meeting? Would you like to eat something first, then talk or talk after eating or during?

Why don’t we have a bite first and sort of get to know each other a little better, sort of informally I mean and then get down to brass tacks.

It was clear that Pennington was the leader of this small delegation. Karl took them into his dining room where he had set a table for three.

Would you prefer wine or beer with your pizza, or maybe both? Karl asked.

Beer will be just fine. You’ve got some great beers in Australia as we found out last night.

Beer for me as well, Clyde joined in. You’ve got some fine wines here as well but they are more suited to evening activities.

They sat down at the table and, while dining, both Americans bombarded Karl with questions. Surprisingly, thought Karl, not so much about his experiences as a photo journalist but more about his early life as a child. Not that he minded. He quite openly told them about his mother remarrying and migrating to Australia in 1952 where he developed a love for photography and established his own darkroom whilst still in his second year in High School. By the end of the lunch, Karl had the feeling that the dinner conversation had not been merely a polite ‘getting-to-know-you’ banter but rather a planned low- key interrogation mostly centred round his father, Max Kaldor. Unfortunately, there was little he could tell them about Max, except that he had deserted the family in 1948 and headed for Frankfurt. From there on his trail went cold and by now Karl had presumed him dead but had no idea when or where this could have occurred. The informal ground they did establish was that from here on they would address each other as Karl, Al and Bart.

Well, said Al, downing the last of his beer, "that was a splendid lunch, thank you Karl. But now it’s time to get down to business. Where would you like to conduct that, Karl? Here