The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin (27 page)

‘Yes, as you say, just dumped, that is the right expression. It is typical of the Italian banking authorities, just typical!' muttered Werner Fisher, as he took another sip of his refilled glass of wine.

‘But there was a police officer on guard at the entrance,' volunteered Geoff.

‘That is true,' replied Werner. ‘The Carabinieri provide an officer on duty during the bank's opening hours, but their professional attitude is very casual, very laid back, very Italian and very frustrating for me. They believe the new Italian vault is impregnable.'

Werner's assessment was cut short by Derek Bolton entering the room to inform them in a loud voice, ‘I have been told to inform you two gentlemen that dinner is now going to be served in the dining room. Your presence is requested at once.'

Geoff smiled and helped Werner Fisher out of the easy chair, then followed him into the dining room; however, his mind was not on the coming meal, as pleasant as it would no doubt be. He was already working out details of his crazy scheme. He would try and quiz Werner Fisher a little more after dinner while he was still in a talkative mood then tomorrow he would have John Bolton run him back to Castiglion Fiorentino and the Piazza Garibaldi.

Geoff had some serious assessments and a lot of planning to do which would involve not only his future but the future of his three mates. He was surprised that he was thinking of them at the same time that he was thinking of his own safety and wellbeing. This deep feeling of responsibility for his three companions disturbed him, as in the past as a youngster he had never had these feelings for anyone.

Dinner was, again, an excellent meal, even bringing adoring comments from Werner Fisher who was used to food of such excellence having been so long in Italy and having been married for so many years to an exceptionally good cook.

‘You missed your way my friend,' he said as he smoked an expensive cigar, ‘you should have opened a restaurant. You would have made a fortune instead of being a salesman for an engineering company.'

They were all sitting on the patio drinking coffee after enjoying their meal, watching the sun set over the seemingly never-ending acres and acres of sunflowers, broken only occasionally by the odd field of golden, ripening sweet corn with terraces of olive groves rising up the hillsides.

‘This is indeed a beautiful country,' said John Bolton to no one in particular.

‘Yes, it's great, if you have the finances to live in the style we've been living!' said Geoff with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

He regretted the statement as soon as he had said it but he was concerned about their cash situation or, more to the point, the speed at which it was dwindling. The fact was that the rest of them seemed quite unperturbed by their position; they were taking him for granted, leaving the problem solely to him, as if he would solve their dilemma like a magician with a wave of some magic wand. If only it was so simple. What was worrying him also was the fact that a couple of years ago, without any qualms whatsoever, he would have taken all the remaining cash and slipped away leaving the others to sort out the problem as best they could. Thinking about other people was a weakness he was not accustomed too, he realised that if he was not very careful it could be his downfall. He was also on pins as the opportunity for another quiet word with Werner Fisher that evening was fast disappearing. He was now quite inebriated and in a deep slurred conversation in German with his friend, Peer Merkel.

Geoff had a very restless night. It was not that the fan in the bedroom did not seem to have any effect to the heat and humidity; it was because his brain was racing. He was beginning to have second thoughts about the idea that had flashed through his mind earlier that evening. Too many things could go wrong; he would be depending on too many other people who would have to be involved.

It would be so easy to just take the money and do a runner, and to hell with the circumstances. The problems continually went full circle in his brain, always coming back to the same conclusion. Werner Fisher, the corporal in the Second World War German panzer regiment was the key player, with Peer Merkel obviously involved but to a lesser degree.

Eventually, Geoff's over-tired brain kept coming back to that same conclusion, that without their involvement the scheme was a no-goer, just wishful thinking, just a pipe dream.

*

He was up early the following morning. Entering the kitchen, he noticed that someone had made a fresh decanter of coffee that was still hot. As he poured himself a mug he was thinking as he did so. He really liked this ground coffee, it would be one of the things he would miss the most if the police caught up with him and he ended up in jail, but if the heavies got in first he realised there would be nothing left to enjoy in life as he would probably end up buried in some field, feeding those sunflowers he admired so much. He wandered on to the patio and sitting on one of the easy steamer chairs with his eyes closed was Werner Fisher.

‘Buongiorno Herr Fisher,' he said as he stood opposite him. ‘Do you mind if I join you?' Werner Fisher opened a blood shot eye, indicating to Geoff with a lazy sweep of his arm, the chairs on the patio. He occupied one opposite the old man who was obviously the worse for wear after celebrating his reunion with Peer Merkel.

Geoff thought,
The old guy would prefer to be left alone but time waits for no man and I need some questions answering before I can go any further.

‘When we were talking yesterday, Herr Fisher,' he began to say.

Werner Fisher opened his eyes at the mention of his name, slowly fitting a pair of dark sunglasses taken from a pocket in his shirt. ‘Please, Geoff,' he said holding up his hand, ‘please call me Werner. My friends call me Werner and I consider you boys to be my friends.'

‘Thank you, Werner, that's very kind of you,' said Geoff, thinking at the time,
I wonder if you would consider us friends after you have heard of my scheme and proposals.‘
This tank in the Piazza at Castiglion Fiorentino, you said it was your tank.'

‘That is true,' said Werner, sitting upright in the chair. ‘It was 1992 and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was working, as usual, in my office in the bank when the manager entered and introduced me to the head of the centre for tourism for Castiglion Fiorentino. I can tell you I was surprised that such a high-ranking official of the town council should come to see me in my little office at the bank, me a lowly translation clerk.

Apparently, the council had acquired an option to purchase a Second World War German tank. It had been proposed and discussed in their council meeting and the majority thought it would be a very good tourist attraction. They intended placing it in a prominent position in close proximity to the town's main entrance. This idea had the full backing of the administration. They had made enquiries and discovered that I was an ex-tank commander. I was not a tank commander, just a driver, but I allowed them to continue thinking that I was a tank commander; it gave me a little prestige amongst the staff at the bank.'

Werner Fisher smiled at this point and took a sip from his coffee cup before continuing, ‘We then made an appointment for several days later when I, the ex-tank commander, would pay a visit to where the tank was being stored. You can imagine my surprise when the cover was pulled from the vehicle and I immediately recognised Marco Sturmgeschutz 111, Peer Merkel's and my old tank! One of the officials that accompanied me from the tourist office told me that the tank had stayed in the field for several years. Eventually, two local farmers hitched it to their tractors and towed it several hundred metres to their farm where it had been in one of their barns ever since. Apparently, it was missed when all the other armaments scattered around this part of the country were removed several years after the end of the war.'

Werner went to take another sip from his coffee cup but changed his mind; he had talked for so long his coffee had gone cold. He continued telling an intrigued Geoff the rest of his story.

‘I gave the tank a brief inspection. I found it had only superficial and no major damage from the fighter planes' guns. The farmers must have completed temporary repairs to the track, sufficiently for them to tow it the short distance to their farm. The council were proposing and had obtained permission from the bank's directors that, if I was in agreement, I could spend three days a week on full pay supervising the refurbishment of the tank. This would continue until I thought it was in a suitable and presentable condition to be placed where it stands at the present. As you have observed, I accepted the proposal!' Werner Fisher was smiling broadly at Geoff as he finished his tale.

‘What condition was the inside of the tank, Werner?' asked Geoff with the excitement building up inside him.

‘Mmm, as I can recall,' he said looking thoughtfully into space, ‘most of the dials had been removed, possibly sold as souvenirs, in fact everything that could be removed, had been taken.'

‘And the gun,' said Geoff quietly, holding his breath, ‘in what condition was the gun?'

Werner Fisher did not answer straight away. Geoff thought that he must be able to hear his heart thumping because to him it sounded like a big bass drum was beating in his head.

‘The heavy machine gun had been removed but surprisingly; the main armament and its barrel were in excellent condition. Someone had at some time attempted to remove the firing mechanism but had not succeeded. I removed it and I think I still have it somewhere in my locker under the stairs in my apartment. I have been tempted to throw it away on many occasions when my wife and I were having as you say, a spring clean, but it was nostalgic to me so I resisted.'

Geoff's heart was still beating ten to the dozen and he could feel the adrenalin racing through his body so he forced himself to speak slowly and calmly as if his next question was just out of idle curiosity. ‘Do they still use the same size of shell today that you used then Werner?' He held his breath waiting for the reply.

‘The gun was of excellent German design but in this early model of tank it was loaded and controlled manually, it was not mechanically assisted as in later models.'

‘Go on: Go on,' whispered Geoff under his breath.

‘Ah, you are here, Werner!' The shout came from Peer Merkel standing at the open patio doors. He then proceeded to shuffle across the patio with the help of his stick, parking himself in the chair that Geoff had vacated in his excitement several moments earlier.

‘I see you already drink coffee,' said Peer Merkel looking at Werner and Geoff's coffee cups.

Oh Shit.
Geoff realised that the opportunity to get any more information from Werner Fisher had passed for the time being. What he had heard so far was definitely very promising and he was having difficulty containing his growing excitement as the obstacles to his scheme were being removed one by one. The details in his brain were like a jigsaw puzzle and they were starting to click slowly into place.

‘I'll make some more hot coffee,' he said, collecting Werner's still half-filled cup of cold coffee before making his way back to the kitchen. It was while he was making a fresh pot that John Bolton entered the kitchen.

‘I could do with you taking me to Castligion Fiorentino again after breakfast, John,' he said as he placed the coffee pot and three cups on a tray.

‘Will Peer and Werner becoming too?' enquired a curious John.

‘No, just the two of us. We won't be gone long. I need to check up on a few details,' he said as he left the kitchen with the tray, leaving his friend replacing the kettle to make himself a cup of tea.

As instructed, John brought the Mercedes to the front of the villa after the group had finished their breakfast. Werner Fisher was quite content to have a restful day just lounging at the side of the pool, especially, after his large consumption of alcohol in the company of Peer Merkel the evening before whilst celebrating their reunion.

Sooty was happy just being in the villa. Derek Bolton wanted a lift into town to find an internet cafe to put into practice some ideas he had on trying to break down the password on the disks that had come with the other valuable contents of the briefcase.

Sitting in the car it seemed to Geoff an eternity since he had lifted the briefcase at Stockport railway station.

Suddenly, the vehicle came to a screeching halt as they were making their way down the drive from the villa. John Bolton was forced into an emergency stop as a small black and white dog darted across the drive in front of the car then disappeared into the undergrowth on the far side.

‘Jesus Christ! What was that?' shouted Geoff, as the seat belt he had fortunately just fastened, stopped him from crashing into the windscreen.

‘It looked like a Jack Russell dog to me,' replied Derek from the rear of the car as he struggled to rise from the well between the seats.

‘Are you alright, our kid?' queried John as he restarted the engine, which had stalled during the emergency stop.

‘Yes, I'm fine but that was one very lucky little dog, it definitely lost one of its nine lives there!'

‘It's cats that have nine lives,' quipped Geoff.

‘Well if that dog had no lives to spare, it was definitely one hell of a lucky dog.' All three laughed at Derek's witty reply as they continued their journey down the drive.

It was a beautiful morning and there was little traffic on the route to Castiglion Fiorentino. Geoff, sitting in the front of the Mercedes was, in effect, being chauffeur-driven and he felt like a million dollars having time to close his eyes and reflect.

If only the teachers at the reform school could see him now. Yes, him! Geoff Larkin from the back streets of Stockport who they had all expected to end up as a down and out type of character or even in jail. Here he was though, being driven around in a large Mercedes, staying in a six bedroom Italian villa within its own walled garden and with a swimming pool soaking up the sun, while those poor buggers were still slogging and rusting away earning a crust back in the damp UK.

So as not to attract any attention, he asked John to park on the far side of the town, from there he could walk through to the Piazza Garibaldi. John said he would stay with his brother, Derek, and they would see if they could suss out an internet café.

Geoff was in the shade as he left the old city through the huge, medieval, stone arched gateway at the edge of the Piazza. He could see two taxis at the rank on the far side of the large square near the bus stop, sheltering in the shade of some small trees. Opposite them, in the corner of the piazza under the sweet chestnut tree was what he had come back to inspect, Werner Fisher and Peer Merkel's Second World War panzer.

There was no one around the massive vehicle as he slowly approached; giving the impression to any onlookers that he was just a curious tourist. He quickly climbed on the metal covers over the tracks. They were quite cool being in the shade. He then moved over to the turret.

He lay on top of the tank's turret, narrowing his eyes and sighting the direction in which the tank's barrel was pointing. He made a mental note then quickly slipped off the tank and walked the short distance to stop alongside the trunk of the chestnut tree. From this position he could view the entire piazza. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, nobody had shouted or even noticed that he had climbed on and then off the tank. Except, the well-dressed young man standing at the taxi rank. The taxi driver was pointing in the direction of the tank and the man started walking briskly in his direction.