Shout in the Dark (5 page)

But Karl was already marching forward.
"
Das geht
Sie nichts au
?" he
demanded.

The man in his late twenties, wearing jeans
and a light gray shirt with a small clerical collar showing at the
front, stood his ground. Rather fearlessly, Kessel thought.

"
It sounds like you have a problem," said the priest
quietly.

"
Mach die Fliege, Priester!
" Karl shouted in response.

Before Kessel could intervene, Karl turned
abruptly and stormed towards the studios of TV Roma, leaving the
priest watching him go.

KARL BRETZ HESITATED for a moment outside
the large glass doors. Total Training had taught him
it was essential to have
absolute control over people and events. Herr Kessel had told him
to use the rear entrance, but for an important job like this the
main entrance was suitable for someone who would surely soon be a
senior member of
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung.

The sun had not even set, but already the
vast glass paneled front of the studios was a blaze of electric
light. He could see Herr Kessel across the street, frightened to
come near, but watching from the shadows like some white-headed
hawk. Karl wished he had his
ADR friends from Düsseldorf to help him do this job, but he
had been ordered by Herr Kessel not to breathe a word of the plan.
The old fool seemed to be behaving like a lunatic in his obsession
for status in the ADR. Karl shrugged his broad shoulders and felt
for his balaclava.

He could feel an unexpected tension inside
as he checked that his Makarov handgun was out of sight in his
pocket, then he began to push his way through the glass doors. A
quick
ciao
, and a
casual wave of Kessel's fake staff pass at the security guard. The
guard merely nodded. One word of Italian and he was in. Karl began
to relax.

The man in dark green uniform seemed to be
taking no more notice. Herr Kessel had said that the elevator was
round the corner, and for once it seemed that the old
Narr
knew what he was talking about.
The indicator showed the elevator was on the second floor. Karl
pressed the button and waited.

The security man might not be as sleepy as
he looked. He stood up and came from behind his desk to stand by
the elevator, saying something in Italian. Karl pointed up at the
indicator. Herr Kessel had impressed the Italian word for four on
him, the number of the floor, so he muttered, "
Quattro
," and hoped he sounded like an
Italian.

The
elevator came. The guard entered and stood with him. Karl
pressed the button for the fourth floor. The man in uniform was
watching. Total Training told Karl things were going
wrong.

He stayed facing the doors, waiting for
the elevator to stop on the fourth floor. Herr Kessel had explained
exactly which way to go. The elevator slowed. The guard said
something. Karl just replied, "
Si
," and continued facing the door. As the elevator stopped
he felt a hand tug at his shoulder.

He'd been found out.

With lightning reaction he spun round,
Göring dagger at the ready, but the guard was too close for him to
ram the knife through his heart. Karl clutched the ivory handle,
forcing the blade upwards into the soft stomach, before smashing
the hard edge of his hand across the back of the guard's neck. The
man grunted, sagged and subsided to the floor, his eyes wide in
fear as he pressed his hands against the large patch of blood
spreading across the front of his white shirt.

The elevator doors were fully open now,
but not the doors through which they'd entered. In an instant Karl
realized the guard had been trying to explain that the elevator
doors were on the opposite side for the fourth floor.

A woman with a trolley of papers screamed
at the sight of the guard writhing on the floor of the elevator.
Karl pointed his gun in her face and she dropped to the ground in
fear. He kicked her head and turned to the right. The Current
Affairs studio should be at the end of the corridor. The alarm
would be raised any minute. If Herr Kessel could be believed, there
was an escape route down the back stairs. All he had to do now was
get into the studio with his 9-millimeter Makarov at the ready,
snatch the bronze head, and be outside -- before these sleepy
Italians even knew what time of day it was.

FROM THE SHELTER of the small park
opposite the studio
,
Manfred Kessel heard the alarm. He knew he'd been a fool to let the
half-witted youngster barge in alone. Only a fool would believe
that Total Training could benefit a moron like Karl Bretz. Without
doubt the boy was making a complete mess of the
operation.

Kessel was about to withdraw quietly, to
disappear into one of the narrow side streets, when a car slid to a
halt outside the studio. Several armed men leapt out and ran to the
shelter of the bushes. Still there was no sign of Karl. Kessel
guessed that two more vehicles now arriving with sirens blaring
held members of the
Groupe Interventional Speciale
-- the crack anti-terrorist force of the
Italian
carabinieri
.

Spotlights blazed across the glass front
of the building, blasting the warm glow of evening sunshine with
flashes of intense blue light. A man in combat gear shouted through
a loudhailer, ordering everyone to keep back. Staff leaning from
windows were told to stay inside until the "small problem" had been
resolved. There was sudden activity in the entrance
lobby.

Kessel's stomach turned to a knot as he
saw the skinhead Karl Bretz, the ski mask hiding his face, standing
just inside the door with the relic clutched to his chest. He
seemed to be frozen by the bright lights. As a product of Total
Training, he was showing scant regard for the time and energy that
had been expended on him. Hadn't the cretin taken in what he'd been
told about the rear escape route?

Karl had taken no human hostage -- another
mistake. The
GIS
would not be
kept waiting. They must know that the longer they delayed, the more
chance there was of their target using his gun on them. A shout
from the captain brought men darting from the shadows. In spite of
the huge glass front to the entrance area, Karl either did not see,
or could not cope with, such a sudden attack. From the safety of
his viewpoint Kessel flinched as a stun grenade shattered the glass
doors, sending the large youth reeling backwards.

Karl seemed to recover, but the
GIS
hurled two more grenades
through the broken door. Karl raised the relic and pitched it
forward.

A stun grenade and the bronze head crashed
together in an explosive bombshell that shook the street. Manfred
Kessel watched in disbelief as the bronze shattered. The head had
disintegrated like pottery.

The crowd stood in horrified silence as
the echo died away. The
Groupe Interventional Speciale
, in their black outfits with ballistic
helmets and face shields, burst into the foyer without waiting for
the smoke to clear. Bronze fragments lay over the green carpet
tiles, but Karl had already gone.

The local
carabinieri
urged the crowd to move further back. Persuasion
was not needed. The explosions from the grenades had frightened the
onlookers. They had only gathered for the entertainment, and
certainly did not intend putting themselves in danger. Kessel
stayed for nearly an hour while the security forces searched the
building. Suddenly he felt an arm go round his shoulder.
Instinctively he tore himself free.

"
Don't be so jumpy, Herr Kessel!" The voice spoke perfect
German.

Kessel turned, unable to disguise the
admiration in his voice. "So, you managed to get away,
Karl!"

"
The rear fire escape. I told you I'd do it, Herr
Kessel."

Kessel slapped Karl hard across the face.
"You stupid idiot! For nearly twenty years I've planned to get that
relic back, and now you've destroyed it."

He hit Karl again, harder this time.

Karl whipped out his knife, but his eyes
were fixed on the building. "Look, Herr Kessel, it's that dumb
priest again. He's seen us." He pointed his knife towards the
building.

"
Then you know what to do, Karl."

But as Karl went forward, a young woman
appeared from a side door of TV Roma and ran towards the priest.
She was dressed in a thin red jumper and long black
skirt.

"
Do you want me to go after him?" asked Karl.

Kessel hit him again. "Later. The press
will have taken pictures of you holding the relic in the foyer,
Karl. You'll have to change out of that ridiculous black T-shirt
before anyone sees you. We'll go back to our hotel and watch the
television. The TV Roma news will let us know what's going
on."

"
I doubt if pictures of me would be any good," muttered
Karl, touching his face where Kessel had hit him. "I was wearing
this." He indicated the balaclava in his hand. "At least I got one
thing right, Herr Kessel," he continued smugly. "I left the
note."

Kessel felt as though Karl had stuck the
Göring dagger into him. "You did
what?
"

"
MARCO SARTINI! What are you doing here?"

Marco turned in surprise to see a young
woman running towards him. He smiled as he recognized an old friend
from school -- his first serious girlfriend.

"
Natalia!"

"
Ciao
,
Marco." She hesitated for a moment and looked slightly embarrassed.
"Do I call you Marco, or Father Marco, now that you're a
priest?"

Marco laughed. "I think we knew each other
well enough for you to go on calling me Marco."

Natalia pointed a finger at him, but she
still managed to keep smiling. "Not that I've seen you since you
dumped me for that blonde from Campo de' Fiori."

"
Oh, yes, her." Marco tried to make it sound unimportant.
"I'd forgotten all about her. It must have been ten years ago. A
two week nightmare. I seemed to have a succession of blondes after
that, until I met Anna." Marco noticed that Natalia's left hand,
the one pointing the accusing finger, had no engagement or wedding
ring. She didn't sound as though the memory of being dumped for a
flashy blonde was too distressing.

"
A friend told me you'd been ordained," she continued. "I
wasn't sure she'd got it right."

"
I've changed."

"
I heard that as well. So were you here to be part of the
studio audience?"

"
I wanted to see the relic." Marco pointed to the pieces
still on the ground. "Is that it?" Suddenly he realized that a
camera team was converging on him. He looked at Natalia and
wondered if she had some connection with the News Room.

"
Is this man an eyewitness?" asked the man holding a
microphone. Marco recognized him as one of TV Roma's news
reporters.

Natalia raised her eyebrows and smiled
sweetly. "Care to say a few words to the camera,
Father
Marco?"

Marco felt trapped. He laughed. "I don't
think my bishop would want his new priest to be a television
star."

Natalia smiled pleadingly. "For
me?"

BY THE BUSHES across the street a small
movement disturbed the branches. A man with a Nikon F4 twisted the
telephoto lens into place and raised the camera to his eye. The
focus locked onto the subject
's head.

"
Well, well, look who it is." He fired off a burst of
exposures on the motor drive. "What are you doing here in Rome, you
bastard?"

He fired the shutter again. What a stroke
of luck. Bruno Bastiani lowered the camera and placed it carefully
in the large camera bag at his feet. His half-brother, Enzo, wasn't
in Rome for sightseeing, that was for sure. Somehow he was mixed up
with the raid on TV Roma. But why?

Bruno picked up his cell phone and dialed
a local number. "Riccardo? Listen, I'm outside TV Roma. There's one
hell of an incident going on, and my brother, Enzo, seems to be
mixed up in it."

He put the phone down and reached for his
Nikon to take another burst of exposures. He picked up the phone
again to speak to Riccardo Fermi.

"
My bastard brother -- Enzo. He's calling himself Manfred
Kessel now. He's here at TV Roma with some young thug in a black
shirt."

He dropped the phone and took a final
picture of the two men hurrying away. Throwing his camera case into
the back of his battered Lancia he followed on foot. Enzo and the
skinhead went as far as a cheap hotel off the Via Nazionale. He
waited while they went inside. Five minutes later he called the
hotel on his phone and checked that Enzo was one of the guests.
Tomorrow he would come back with a plausible reason for going in.
Ten minutes in Enzo's room would be enough. If he couldn't bug the
phone and bedroom in ten minutes, he had no right to call himself
an investigative journalist.