Richter nodded. ‘For how long, sir?’
Payne stared at the trail ahead. Based on Richter’s slowness and Payne’s speed, they were only a few minutes apart. ‘Stay there until you see me.’
44
As Payne sprinted along the narrow path, he felt as if he had been magically transported to a distant land, somewhere far away from central Europe. Gone were the pine trees and snowy peaks of the Alps, replaced by the moss-covered cliffs and roaring waterfalls of South America. Until that morning, Payne had never heard of the Partnach Gorge, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have believed a canyon like this could exist in Germany; in the rain forest, maybe, but not Bavaria.
In retrospect, Payne could understand why a dreamer like Ludwig would have chosen this region to build his mountain lair. During the day, he could have hiked the scenic trails that seemed to go on for ever, a wide variety of terrain and topography to fuel his imagination. At night, he could have returned to the peaceful solitude of Mount Schachen, a place where he could pretend to be a knight, a swan or a fire-breathing dragon without interference from advisors or whispers from onlookers.
In many ways, Payne could identify with the need to get away. Sometimes he found himself burdened by the huge responsibility of overseeing his grandfather’s corporation, a job he didn’t love but one he did out of familial obligation. In those situations, he shut out the world and stole some time for himself – whether that was going to the roof of the Payne Industries building where he had installed a basketball court or a nearby firing range. For an ex-athlete/soldier like Payne, shooting hoops and shooting bad guys were both ways to relieve stress.
Suddenly, the deceptive calm of the last minute ended in a burst of gun fire from somewhere round the next bend. Payne instantly recognized the sound; it came from a G36 assault rifle. A few seconds later, there was more automatic fire, this time a little bit closer. Payne cursed to himself as he picked up speed. Either Richter had left his position in the tunnel and was coming towards him, or the final gunman was armed with the G36 they had taken from Schneider. If it was the latter – and Payne assumed it was because Richter was obedient – everyone left standing was carrying a G36. In a confined space all that firepower could make things messy.
Sprinting around the corner, Payne spotted his prey less than thirty feet away. Krueger was running towards him, trying to get away from Richter who was positioned in the tunnel ahead. Payne instantly skidded to a halt and hugged the rock face to his right before he unleashed a stream of bullets that tore into the path less than ten feet from Krueger. Not because Payne had missed, but because he wanted to question the guy and get some answers.
Stunned by his predicament, Krueger tried to stop way too quickly on the rocky trail. As he did, his feet slid out from under him. One second he was running for his life; the next he was skimming across the rocks on his ass, leaving chunks of cloth and skin behind. As he slid, he accidentally squeezed the trigger on his G36, sending a torrent of bullets into the air, most of which struck the canyon on the other side of the river, far from Payne and Richter.
‘Drop your weapon!’ Payne shouted.
Too dazed to respond, Krueger remained flat on his back, trying to regain his senses. He blinked a few times and tried to sit up, but the sky was spinning way too much for him to do anything, so he simply lay back down.
Tactically speaking, a soldier has two options when an adversary is unresponsive to his commands. He can play it safe and monitor the situation from afar, or he can charge forward and eliminate the threat. Not surprisingly, Payne opted for the aggressive approach. He pulled out his radio and spoke to Richter, who was lingering in the tunnel on the far side of Krueger.
‘Let’s take him,’ Payne ordered.
In unison, both men hustled forward while staring at Krueger over the tips of their rifles. Payne got there first and viciously kicked the G36 out of his hands. It clanked on the rocky path near Richter, who picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.
‘Should I search him?’ Richter asked.
Payne shook his head. He didn’t want Richter to get too close to Krueger. That was simply asking for trouble. ‘Hell, no! Let him keep whatever weapons he has. In fact, I hope he reaches for one. It’ll give me an excuse to pull my trigger.’
Richter backed away, just in case Payne opened fire.
Meanwhile, Payne’s gaze never left Krueger, who was lying on the ground with his hands by his side. Far from his pockets, they weren’t viewed as a threat.
‘Do you speak English?’ Payne asked.
Krueger groaned but didn’t answer.
Payne repeated himself in German. ‘Sprechen sie Englisch?’
Krueger took a deep breath. ‘Ja.’
‘Then answer me in English, you stupid Kraut!’
Until that moment, Payne had never used the word Kraut in his entire life, but he was quite familiar with its origin and hoped it would rile his opponent enough to get him talking. A derogatory term for German soldiers, it became popular during the First World War when British sailors learned their German counterparts ate large quantities of sauerkraut in order to prevent scurvy. This practice was comparable to the Royal Navy’s consumption of limes, which had earned them the nickname Limey, so they felt it was appropriate to belittle the Germans in a similar fashion.
‘Yes,’ Krueger said as he sat up slowly, ‘I speak English.’
Payne watched him closely. ‘If you twitch, you die.’
Krueger used his arms to twist himself onto his knees, then he placed his hands on top of his head. It was the universal position for surrender. ‘I understand.’
‘Wow, I get the feeling you’ve done that before. Is that a part of your training? Germans: surrendering to Americans since 1918.’
Krueger sneered. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘What do I want? No, Adolf, what do you want? You attacked us, in case you forgot. We were minding our own business in the woods when you came along.’
Krueger shook his head. ‘I did no such thing. I am man of peace.’
‘Yeah, a piece of shit.’
‘I am hiker, not fighter. I find gun in trees.’
‘Really? If that’s the case, prove it to me. Show me your hands.’
‘What?’
Payne smiled. ‘I said, show – me – your – hands.’
Krueger lifted his hands above his head. ‘Now what?’
‘Now look at them! See all that blood? It came from my men. Do you understand what I’m saying? Their blood is on your hands.’
Krueger glanced at his hands, confused. Despite a little grime, they were relatively clean. ‘Blood? I don’t see blood on my hands.’
Payne fired a single round through Krueger’s right palm. ‘Look closer.’
The German howled in agony as blood gushed from his hand, a painful and debilitating wound that would prevent him from firing a handgun for a very long time. To some, this act could be interpreted as sadistic. To Payne, it was justifiable. If anything, Krueger had gotten off easy for shooting Collins in the head. Then again, Payne was just warming up.
‘What’s your name?’ Payne demanded.
‘Krueger! Max Krueger!’ he cried.
‘Why did you attack us?’
‘Kaiser. We saw Kaiser.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘No one!’
Payne repeated his question. ‘Come on, Max. Who do you work for?’
Krueger shook his head and refused to answer.
‘Fine!’ Payne growled. ‘Show me your feet!’
‘What?’ he wailed.
‘You heard me, Max. I’m going to start with your feet and work my way up. And trust me, I’m not bluffing.’
Krueger nodded in belief. ‘Mueller. His name is Hans Mueller.’
‘And who the fuck is-’
Before Payne could say another word, Richter raised his rifle and fired a single shot into the back of Krueger’s head. Angled towards the river, the bullet w
ent through his skull and continued forward until it hit the canyon wall on the other side of the water. Despite standing several feet away, Payne’s face and clothes were spattered with blood.
This turn of events was so shocking to Payne, he raised his rifle and pointed it at Richter. Suddenly, he didn’t know if he could trust the guy. ‘Drop your weapon!’
‘What?’ he said, confused.
‘Drop your fucking weapon!’
Richter dropped his rifle, then lifted his hands above his head. The look on his face said he was confused. Less confused than Payne, but more confused than Krueger, who was now dead.
Payne stared at him. ‘What the fuck did you do? I was questioning the guy!’
‘I know that, sir, but …’
‘But, what?’
‘I was following orders.’
‘Orders? Whose fucking orders?’
‘Kaiser’s, sir.’
‘Kaiser’s?’ Payne glanced around like he was missing something. Had Richter snapped under pressure? ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Kaiser isn’t here!’
‘I know that, sir. But those were my orders.’
‘From when?’
‘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.’
45
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 92FS, 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 shrugg
ed. ‘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.
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