Читать книгу The Martyr’s Curse - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 13

The articulated Volvo lorry had driven through most of the night, cutting southwards from Switzerland on a careful winding route through the Italian Alps. As morning came, the driver finally arrived at the rendezvous point. The chosen location was a quiet, high-altitude roadside spot a few minutes outside the Alpine town of Torre Pellice, forty-seven kilometres south-west of Torino and just fifteen kilometres from the Italian-French border, in a rocky, dusty plateau between two cliffs. On the right-hand side of the road was a stretch of crushed-stone layby three times the lorry’s length. Eyes on his mirror, the driver eased the big trailer into it, perfectly parallel with the road and out of the way of what little traffic might pass this way. According to the plan, he brought the lorry to a halt in the centre third of the layby, leaving enough space in front and behind. Then he shut down the big diesel, settled back in his cab and drank coffee from a flask while he waited for the next step of the plan to happen.

The driver’s name was Dominik Baiza. He hadn’t been waiting long before three other vehicles arrived at the RV point. Three identical black Range Rovers, dusty from their long drive, travelling in convoy along the empty road. They pulled up in front of the lorry and their occupants got out. Four to a car. Eleven men, plus the female driver of the middle Range Rover, the youngest of the group.

This was no social occasion. Baiza didn’t get out of his cab to meet them, and there was little conversation among the twelve. A couple of them lit cigarettes and stood smoking at the side of the road, while the rest just bided their time, leaning against their vehicles or sitting in the shade of the big lorry trailer. The sunshine was bright and most of them wore dark glasses. They were dressed casually, most in jeans and T-shirts. The woman was wearing a leather jacket and combat boots, and a baseball cap covered her tied-back hair. The men paid her no more attention than they did one another. She was just one of the gang, there for the same purpose as they were. Some, like Torben Roth and Wolf Schilling, were old hands, veterans of the 2011 Korean mission. Roth still bore the scar from that operation, the whole left side of his face creased into a permanent scowl from the rifle bullet that had come close to killing him. Others were relatively new recruits, like Wokalek and Zwart, the Englishman Dexter Nicholls, and the woman herself, whose name was Michelle Faban. New blood, very carefully chosen, with the right background and the right mindset. The boss was careful about such things, as he needed to be.

The rendezvous was complete seventeen minutes later when they heard the thud of the approaching chopper. ‘Here he comes,’ Torben Roth said. Cigarettes were tossed away. Hands pulled out of pockets. Inside the lorry cab, Dominik Baiza quickly finished up his coffee.

The chopper was a Bell 429-WLG. That last part of its designation stood for ‘with landing gear’. As it came in to land, sparkling white against the vivid blue sky, the undercarriage descended like that of a fixed-wing aircraft. The group on the ground backed away from the roaring noise and the hurricane of downdraught that whipped up roadside dust and loose gravel. Michelle Faban held on to her cap as the blast tore at her hair. The chopper came neatly down in the middle of the road, taxied a few feet forwards and to the right, towards the back of the articulated Volvo. Then it halted. The rotors began to power down, and the assembled twelve gathered round in a circle to greet their leader.

The tall, slim figure of Udo Streicher emerged from the cockpit, cool and unruffled from the flight, wearing a loose white shirt and Armani jeans, reflective Ray-Ban Aviator shades shielding his eyes. He was in excellent shape for a man of forty-six. The wind from the slowing rotor blades swept his silver-flecked hair back from his high forehead.

The chopper passenger was Hannah Gissel, Streicher’s long-time girlfriend. Hannah was wearing a black combat jacket. Her long, slender legs were enveloped in skintight black leggings. Her hair, so blond that it was almost white, was spiked and cropped even shorter than she normally wore it. She looked mean and ready for anything. Appearances weren’t deceptive. The newer guys on the team, with the exception of Michelle Faban, had been briefed on the rules when it came to Hannah. You didn’t talk to her. You didn’t even make contact with those pale grey eyes. Not just because she was Streicher’s woman, and Streicher was known for his pathological jealousy. Even if Hannah had been single, it would have been a serious error of judgement for any man to get too familiar with her. A fatal mistake, literally.

Udo Streicher met his people with the cursory nod of a man used to being in command. He walked a few steps to where Dominik Baiza, inside the lorry, could see him clearly in his mirror, and raised his hand. At the signal, Baiza flipped a switch inside the cab. It activated the tailgate, which hinged downwards, supported by two thick hydraulic rams, to act as an access ramp. As it descended, all eyes were on the cavernous interior of the trailer.

Once the ramp was fully lowered, Torben Roth walked up it and disappeared inside, his footsteps ringing with a metallic echo. Moments later, the space filled with the growl of an engine firing up. Streicher and the others watched as the formidable vehicle that was the lorry’s sole cargo reversed slowly down the ramp.

It was Udo Streicher’s latest acquisition. He called it his BATT-mobile, standing for Ballistic Armoured Tactical Transport. The thing was even more robust than it looked. A Lenco BearCat, designed in Pittfield, Massachusetts, for SWAT-team raids and similar contingencies. It wasn’t exactly a civilian vehicle. Its charcoal-grey bodyshell was rated to defeat small-arms fire up to and including .50-calibre M2 and 7.62 NATO armour-piercing rounds. Gun ports, three to a side, allowed its occupants to return fire at assailants. Streicher had toyed with the idea of having the optional roof-mounted machine-gun turret fitted, but decided that as the vehicle was to be used on public roads during the mission, that might draw a little too much attention.

In all other respects it was a full-on assault vehicle. The blast shield under the chassis rendered it impregnable to landmines, while the six-litre V8 turbo-diesel engine could propel it out of trouble very quickly. The finishing touch, and essential to the success of this mission, was the breaching device on the front – a massive steel buffer that looked like the cowcatcher on an old steam train. The BATT-mobile was an exercise in excess. But then, one of Udo Streicher’s many philosophies was that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth overdoing.

‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Hannah said, standing surveying the vehicle with her fists on her hips. Her lips twitched into the merest smile. Coming from her, it was high praise.

Streicher had paid as much attention to the inside of the vehicle as the outside. It was fully kitted out for this mission, carrying a small arsenal of weaponry, as well as breaching munitions and some even more specialised equipment that he’d obtained from another of his illicit contacts. Naturally, such things didn’t come cheap. He was aware of the hit that his financial resources had taken in order to put the mission together, but it wasn’t a significant concern to him. Not under the circumstances, and he remained a very wealthy man. Wealthy enough to carry out whatever plans were necessary to attain the dream that dominated his whole life.

Things would soon begin to happen. They had a few miles to cover, some time to kill, some final preparations and checks to make. Nice and easy. No rush. No moves, until the time was precisely right. If all went according to plan – and Streicher had no reason to believe it wouldn’t – they should have no problems. It was a soft target. A whole different proposition from the 2011 disaster. That had been a lesson learned the hard way.

Nothing was going to stand in his way this time.

Nothing, and nobody.

And all thanks to his genius. His hard work. His penetrating mind, that had put together connections nobody else had or could. That was what made him different from everybody else. That was why he deserved the future he saw for himself.

Baiza reversed the BearCat to the bottom of the ramp. Loose stones pinged and popped under the savage tread of its big tyres as he backed it right away from the lorry to make room for the chopper to taxi up inside the trailer in its place. Silvain Chavanne and Riccardo Cazzitti began unloading the necessary gear from the back of one of the Range Rovers: a special high-pressure spray to cool the rotor assembly, and a set of wrenches to dismantle the blades so that the chopper could fit inside the trailer. It would be Dominik Baiza’s job to mind the lorry until the team’s return. Streicher’s thorough planning had seen to it that he had enough food and water, as well as a nine-millimetre pistol in case of any interference. Streicher had thought of everything.

‘Everyone knows what to do, yes?’ Streicher said, scanning the solemn faces. Several heads nodded. Stepping down from the BearCat, Torben Roth just gave a grunt.

‘Then let’s get rolling,’ Streicher told them.