The Secret Crown (2010) (30 page)

‘From the moment he hired me.’

Payne stared at Richter. The oaf still had that dumb-ass look on his face. It had been there from the moment they had met. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to explain, then I start firing.’

‘Have you heard of Hans Mueller? He’s Kaiser’s biggest rival.’

‘Go on.’

‘Kaiser told us, if Mueller’s men ever interfered with one of our projects, we were supposed to shoot them immediately.
No questions asked.
So that’s what I did. I shot him before you could ask him a question.’

Payne’s jaw dropped open. He was possibly staring at the dumbest man in the world. ‘You’ve got to be shitting me!’

‘No, sir. I’d never shit you. I swear to God, those were my orders.’

Payne took a deep breath, stunned by Richter’s stupidity. He honestly didn’t know what to say to him. And even if he did, he was afraid it would be misinterpreted.

Richter frowned. ‘Did I do something wrong, sir?’

Payne sighed and pointed at the body. ‘If you think I’m cleaning that up, you’re crazy. Search him for an
ID
, then dump him in the river. I need to wipe his brains off my face.’

Richter smiled, relieved to be on his master’s good side. If he had been a dog, he would have wagged his tail and licked Payne’s shoe.

Taking no chances, Payne picked up the extra assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. ‘On the way home, keep your weapon away from me at all times. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m serious, Richter. If I even see your rifle, you’re
not
going to Oktoberfest.’

The lower Eckbauerbahn station was a short walk from the Olympic Ski Stadium where Adolf Hitler opened the 1936 Winter Olympics, the first winter games in history to light the symbolic Olympic flame. Built to hold over 10,000 spectators, the stadium had plenty of parking. On most days, the spaces were filled with family cars and tour buses, not helicopters, so it was easy for Jones to spot the chopper on the far side of the car park as his gondola pulled into the station.

Huber greeted him on the concrete platform. He was trailed by a group of Japanese tourists, who were half the size of the Austrian bodybuilders from the upper station but more than eager to help. Jones grinned at the irony of the situation. Decades earlier, Conrad Ulster, an Austrian philanthropist, had teamed up with a Japanese industrialist to smuggle a van Gogh painting into Germany during World War Two. Now the two countries were teaming up again to smuggle it out, right past a sports stadium built by the Nazis. For Jones, the only thing that would make this better was if a couple of tanks rumbled by.

‘What’s the status on transportation?’ Jones asked.

Huber answered. ‘The ski stadium has a giant plod that’s never used in the summer time. It’s like those ice machines for hockey rinks.’

‘You mean a Zamboni?’

‘If you say so. I don’t speak Italian.’

‘Actually, it’s American. It’s named after the guy who invented it.’

Huber shrugged. ‘Anyhow, the cableway operator said the stadium has something for the ski jump that’s parked in their maintenance garage. He called over there, and they’re pulling it round for us. It should be here any minute.’

‘Is it big enough for Kaiser and the cargo?’

‘According to him, yes. But I haven’t seen it yet.’

Jones glanced into the corner of the station. Kaiser was lying on a wooden bench, still being watched over by the French surgeon. ‘How’s your boss?’

‘Doc says he’ll be fine. He keeps waking up, but he’s loopy as all hell. Probably has a concussion or something.’

‘And the crates made it down okay?’

Huber nodded. ‘They didn’t complain at all.’

Jones smiled. ‘It sounds like everything is running smoothly. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to run across the car park and talk to your pilot. Right now we’re missing a chopper.’

‘No problem, sir. Things are under control.’

Krause pulled into the car park and circled it twice, looking for security guards and potential witnesses. According to the digital clock on his car radio, he had completed the trip from Griesen to the ski stadium in a little less than thirty minutes. Not as fast as he had promised Krueger, but not too shabby considering the unexpected traffic on the Bundesstrasse 23.

Thankfully, the helicopter was right where it was supposed to be. Parked on the far side, it sat in the middle of several empty spaces. The pilot, a middle-aged German with a military haircut and dark aviator sunglasses, stood beside the chopper like the cocky owner of a new Corvette. Every once in a while, he took a cloth out of his back pocket and removed a speck of dirt, whether real or imagined, from the side of his shiny toy. Whether the pilot was killing time or trying to impress tourists, his actions reminded Krause of his stint in the German Army. While Krueger and Krause were busting their humps over treacherous terrain, the pretty flyboys used to swoop into town and dazzle all the
frauleins
in the local beer halls. No matter what he did or said, he simply couldn’t compete with their tales of aerial assault.

To this day, he still harboured a grudge.

Earlier, when Krause had agreed to Krueger’s terms on the phone, he wasn’t sure how he was going to prevent the helicopter from taking off, but one look at that Tom Cruise,
Top Gun
-wannabe motherfucker sealed the deal. Instead of damaging the chopper, he would damage the pilot, making sure that asshole never flew again.

Smiling to himself, Krause unlocked the stainless-steel case on his passenger seat. Inside was a Beretta 92
FS
, three magazine clips and a custom-fitted sound suppressor. All five items were packed in soft-cell polyethylene, cut specifically to the dimensions of his gear. With a practised hand, Krause pulled out the handgun, attached the silencer - just like he used to do before bank jobs and home invasions - and inserted a clip.

If all went well, Krause would be back in his car in less than five minutes. After that, he would go home and get drunk in celebration - his debt to Krueger finally paid.

While jogging to the chopper, Jones saw Krause get out of his car but thought nothing of it. No visible weapons. No fidgety behaviour. No hats or masks to conceal his identity. The guy looked normal, like hundreds of other people in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, so Jones ignored him and focused his attention on the pilot. The two of them had spoken briefly on the radio, right after Jones had replaced Collins in the bird’s nest above the bunker.

Jones said, ‘We’ll be coming out shortly. Are you ready to go?’

The pilot nodded. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll start her up.’

‘Wait until you see us coming. The less attention we draw, the better.’

‘Will do.’

‘Where’s the other chopper?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I flew up Mount Schachen like you told me to, and I spoke to the other pilot. What’s his name - Bobby, Billy … ?’

‘Baptiste,’ Jones said.

‘That’s the guy! Anyway, he said he couldn’t leave until he got permission from Ulster, and he was somewhere inside the house. Everyone’s got a boss, you know?’

‘And?’

The pilot leaned against the chopper. ‘Then he hustled off to get permission. That’s the last time I saw the guy. I wasn’t about to wait for his ass. My boss was down here.’

Jones quickly did some maths in his head. If Payne and Richter, who were big physical specimens, survived the gorge, there was no way everyone could fit in the helicopter. On a short journey, the chopper could seat five. But on a trip across the Alps? Four would be pushing it, considering the size of the men. Right now there were six potential passengers (Payne, Jones, Kaiser, Huber, Richter and the pilot), and that didn’t include the crates or the weapons.

‘We’re screwed without the other chopper. No way we can make it out together.’ Jones explained the numbers, and the pilot agreed with his assessment. ‘As soon as Kaiser comes out, we’ll load him and the cargo and get you out of here. Where are you headed?’

‘To one of his warehouses in Austria. We can arrange medical from there.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll stick around for the two in the gorge. If Baptiste shows up, we’ll take the chopper out. If he doesn’t, we’ll improvise.’

‘What does that mean?’

Jones was about to explain when a glint of movement caught his eye. Glancing at the cockpit window, he spotted a man’s reflection; someone was approaching him from behind. Jones turned at the same moment that Krause pulled out his gun. It had been tucked in the interior pocket of his windbreaker, which had prevented the pilot from seeing it until it was too late.

While Krause raised his Beretta and pulled the trigger, Jones dropped to his knee and fired a single shot from his Sig Sauer. The two bullets, fired at roughly the same time, passed each other in flight. Krause’s shot hit the pilot in the centre of his neck. It tore through his windpipe and spinal cord before it imbedded itself in the side of the chopper. The pilot dropped instantly, skidding down the chopper door, leaving a trail of blood. Krause hit the ground a spilt-second later with a bullet hole through the bridge of his nose.

Although both shots were highly effective, there was a major difference between the two weapons that had fired them. Krause’s gun had a silencer that muffled the sound of his blast, whereas Jones’s gun did not. The unmistakable sound of gun fire rippled across the parking lot and was heard by dozens of tourists. A moment earlier, they had been walking to the ski stadium. Now they were running for cover.

Huber heard the shot from his position outside the cableway. He had just loaded Kaiser into the back of a snowcat, a fully-tracked vehicle that was designed to groom ski trails and haul out injured skiers. It didn’t move very fast, but it could climb a mountain of ice. Another two minutes and the cargo would have been loaded next to him, and he could have been on his way. Unfortunately, the gun blast on the other side of the parking lot had spooked his work force before they could finish the job. The French surgeon ran first, which was understandable since the ambush at the intersection was still fresh in his mind, and was soon followed by the Japanese, who actually took a moment to bow in apology before they sprinted into the station.

Once they were gone, Huber was on the sidewalk alone

Just him and the four crates.

In close combat, elite soldiers are taught to check on the enemy before tending to their own. The rationale is simple: threats need to be eliminated as soon as possible to prevent further casualties. With that in mind, Jones kicked the weapon out of Krause’s hand and checked his pulse before he rushed back to the pilot’s side. As he had suspected, both men were dead.

Jones cursed loudly, upset that he hadn’t detected a problem sooner. Then again, there was only so much he could do against a faceless opponent with unknown motives. Spotting soldiers with rifles was one thing, but men with silencers was quite another. Suddenly the game had changed. From this point forward, everyone would be treated as a threat.

‘What happened?’ Huber asked over the radio.

Jones spotted Huber near the cableway station, then replied, ‘Some bastard in a windbreaker just killed your pilot.’

‘The pilot’s
dead
? What do we do now?’

‘Don’t worry, I can fly this thing. But we need to leave asap.’ Jones scanned the area for police. Because of his gunshot, the clock was ticking. ‘What’s your status?’

‘Our patient’s loaded, but the cargo isn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You scared away my volunteers.’

Jones pointed to the enclosed cabin of the snowcat. He could see someone cowering in the front seat. ‘Not everyone. What about your driver?’

‘What driver?’ The answer came to him a moment later. Jones was talking about the guy who had retrieved the snowcat from the ski stadium. ‘Oh shit! I forgot about him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help - especially if I ask nicely.’

‘Nicely, meanly, whatever it takes. You’ve got two minutes to load that thing.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Huber said.

‘In the meantime, I’ll clean this mess and start the bird. Call me if there’s trouble.’

Even though space was limited, Jones picked up the dead pilot and dumped him inside the chopper. As it was, two of Kaiser’s men (Schneider and Collins) had been left on the mountain because there hadn’t been time to deal with their bodies. They were two major leads for the police to follow. There was no way he was going to leave a third.

Next he searched the pockets of the gunman but found nothing of value. After grabbing the Beretta, Jones dashed to where the guy had parked and snapped a photo of his license plate. If he’d had more time, he would have searched the car for the gunman’s wallet or registration, but he knew a picture on his camera phone would have to suffice.

While heading back to the chopper, Jones heard a garbled transmission on his radio. He answered it immediately, expecting an issue at the cableway. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Leav … will … ortly.’

He turned towards the station and saw Huber loading a crate into the back of the snowcat. Obviously, it wasn’t coming from him. ‘Please repeat.’