The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1)

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  He was about to share his concerns with Sarah when the first shots rang out. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t register that they were being fired upon until the bullets began thudding into the ground to their right, spraying dirt into the air. At this point, the risk of flying the hang-glider became less than the risk of trying to outrun the shooter with both Sarah and the aircraft strapped to his back, so he gathered his feet beneath him and started running. It wasn’t a textbook take-off, but they became airborne all the same. One second he was pounding down the runway; the next, he was raised up into the air as if the hand of God was holding him by the collar.

  He didn’t feel like he was being held in the palm of His hand for very long; they whistled past a sharp drop-off, and a downdraft caused the hang-glider to shudder violently and lose altitude. Marco wrestled with the crossbar, trying to get the nose up, but it wouldn’t budge. The aircraft started to wobble, and a cold sweat washed over his face.

  It was the start of a death spiral. They were going down.

  Abayd saw the hang-glider on the top of the knoll, several hundred meters distant, and closed on a dead run. He considered dropping to one knee and firing, but he wasn’t that good a shot, and it appeared the pilot hadn’t seen them. It would be much better to get closer, especially with only a pistol at his disposal. He approached a slight swale, and the aircraft disappeared from his view. When he crested the dip in the terrain, it was still on the knoll in front of him. The light was dim, but he thought he made out two figures underneath the sail. He smiled crookedly and chugged on, still unobserved.

  The smile didn’t last. The sound of gunshots erupted from behind him, and he saw the hang-glider rise into position. Ibrahim had given them away, and the glider was going to take off. Realizing that he would lose his line of fire as soon as the aircraft went below the hill, he looked around for a better shooting position. A protuberance arose from the ground to his left, and he ran in that direction. The glider moved down the incline and disappeared from his view, but he realized he would still have a shot if he could get to the peak quickly. He willed his shaky legs to pump up the rocky incline, fueling his surge with a raw hatred. After another few seconds, he threw himself flat on the top, holding his pistol with both hands. Looking right, he saw that the wind was pushing the target hard to port, keeping it within range. He drew a bead on the sail and waited for it to clear the land obstructing his view. He estimated he would have at least three seconds of firing time before the glider disappeared behind a massive outcrop. At a range of only fifty meters and with a clear line of fire, he couldn’t possibly miss.

  His enemies flew into sight. He fired three quick shots, but misjudged the hang-glider’s speed, and the bullets went wide. He swung his arms faster, ignoring the searing pain from his wounds, and caught up with the hurtling aircraft. He waited until he had swiveled past the target, then fired again, leaving his finger down.

  But the hang-glider was no longer there. Even as his finger whitened on the trigger, a slipstream grabbed the aircraft and yanked it down, pulling it beneath the lethal hail of bullets.

  Marco would never fully understand what had saved them. As a man of faith, he wanted to believe it had been divine intervention, but his feelings of unworthiness made him unsure. One thing, however, was for sure: he had poured out his soul in prayer as the nose of the hang-glider dropped farther, and then a gust of wind had lifted the nose up, and they were floating again. His heart beat so hard he was sure Sarah could feel it as she lay piggybacked on top of him, snuggled into the canopy. Or maybe it was her heartbeat he was feeling.

  He shifted his weight, and the glider banked into a long, sweeping turn to the south. He could see the Berchtesgadener Tal stretching out in front of him like a wide green highway. They soared with the wind at their backs, quickly putting the Untersberg behind them, and settled into a serpentine course in the direction of Berchtesgaden.

  The hang-glider passed out of view below a ledge, and for a minute Abayd was convinced his enemies had been dashed against the rocks below. But then he saw it again, turning gracefully in a wide arc to the south. He lifted his weapon instinctively, but the glider was well out of range, and he stuffed the weapon into his coat in frustration.

  He slid down the outcrop and reached the bottom as Ibrahim approached, huffing and puffing loud enough to wake the dead. Abayd was about to lay into him for firing too soon, but Ibrahim pointed to the eastern sky, where the prince’s helicopter could be seen approaching at high speed. In a few minutes, they heard the whomp-whomp of the rotors as it came overhead, circling for a place to land.

  Abayd waited impatiently as Haddad brought the helicopter down on a flat piece of ground. He ran to the open door with the rotors still chopping the air at a furious pace, dragging Ibrahim by the arm, and moved forward into the cockpit.

  “Did you see a hang-glider on your way up?”

  Haddad nodded.

  “We need to catch up with it.”

  Forty-Nine

  Pietro sat in an unmarked van in a pull-off just south of Berchtesgaden and hoisted his binoculars to scan the horizon, seeing nothing but the dark silhouette of the Untersberg against the brightening sky. He had been looking at the same thing for the past thirty minutes, ever since he had arrived after picking up one of the vans at the farmhouse and driving over. He was about to put his glasses down when he spied it: an orange and blue dot several kilometers to the north, making its descent into the valley.

  He didn’t hear the helicopter until moments later, and he followed the sound to see the sleek form of the Sikorsky cresting the ridgeline to his east and taking an intercepting path toward the glider. He threw open the black case lying on the folded-down passenger seat, yanked the metal tube out, and hopped out of the van with the Stinger missile launcher already mounted on his shoulder. He slid his eye behind the optical guidance instrument and located the Sikorsky in the viewfinder. He partially depressed the trigger, and the alarm warbled, then flexed his finger firmly, sending the missile streaking to the target.

  Haddad eased the helicopter up and over the ridge, bringing the next valley into view. He saw the hang-glider at once, almost dead ahead, making its landing approach. He didn’t bother to inform Abayd, because he could feel the hydraulic door sliding open, and hear the rush of the wind pouring into the cabin, slowing them down. As he turned slightly to the north in an effort to bring them behind the glider, he saw the tiny flash out of the corner of his eye. Haddad recognized a missile launch when he saw one, and he had not graduated with distinction from the naval flight school in Pensacola just by chance. He jabbed the countermeasures button with his finger and steered the Sikorsky into a steep dive as the launcher in the rear of the aircraft began spitting out magnesium flares at a rapid rate, filling the sky with thermal signatures identical to the helicopter’s engines. He estimated the time to impact was three seconds, and he counted down in his head.

  Three.

  The bird continued to dive at the valley below. The pine-covered slopes rushed up to meet them.

  Two.

  Haddad ejected a dozen flak grenades, which were timed to explode and drape a curtain of shrapnel across the path of the missile.

  One.

  He leveled out the stick, narrowly avoiding a large church set at the top of a mountain pasture.

  Zero.

  Marco heard the helicopter before he saw it, as the engine strained to carry it. He looked right. It was still several kilometers away, but closing fast. He pulled the nose of the glider down as hard as he could, mumbling a quick prayer for aid.

  The white plume of the missile appeared in front of him and streaked toward the helicopter, reaching out like the hand of God to clear the invader from the skies. The helicopter dove immediately and began ejecting flares, which burned like stars in the murky light. The missile exploded behind him, and he knew it had missed, because he could still hear the whomp-whomp of the rotors cutting through the air.

  He
had gained precious time, however, and the ground was rushing up to meet him. He could feel a warmness covering his body, and he wasn’t sure if it was a sign from God or his own body responding to Sarah as the descent forced her against him. A hay field appeared in the distance, and he pulled down on the crossbar with everything he had.

  Pietro was not surprised to see the flares erupt from the helicopter. When you were the fifth richest man in the world, your aircraft came with all the bells and whistles. He wasn’t worried, though, because Lucci had somehow obtained the latest Stinger missile, a new-generation model with an advanced infrared guidance system that wouldn’t be confused by flares. He watched it fly through them and turn toward the diving bird. His mouth dropped when the missile exploded well behind the target, a victim of a flak grenade. The helicopter shook slightly from the concussion, but righted quickly and made a sharp turn toward the glider, which had begun descending in earnest.

  Pietro jumped back in the van and gunned the engine, accelerating across the road and onto a tractor path leading to the neatly manicured fields. He let the empty launch tube slide to the floor and grabbed another item from the case, an M-84 semi-automatic grenade launcher. It wasn’t the best weapon to bring down a helicopter, but it wasn’t bad. The biggest problem was range; without any internal guidance, he needed to be close. He kept his foot down on the gas pedal and swerved onto a flat wooden bridge crossing a small stream. He could see that the glider was still suspended in the air, at least a hundred meters off the ground. The helicopter closed from behind, making up the lost time with a quick spurt and a roar of its engines.

  He needed to go faster, but the rough track wouldn’t allow greater speed. Through the windshield, he could see the chopper swinging to his right, opening up a firing angle for the men inside the aircraft. The cabin door was already open, and the helicopter was gaining rapidly. In a few more seconds, the hang-glider would be at point blank range, and the men inside would cut Marco and Sarah into ribbons.

  Pietro didn’t want that to happen. He slammed on the brakes and pulled hard on the wheel, sending the van into a skid. The vehicle slid to a halt, and he grabbed the M4 carbine from its case. Although the range was still much too great for the grenade launcher, the chopper was plenty close enough for the rifle. He kicked the door open and aimed in one swift motion, then pulled the trigger.

  Abayd heard the missile explode behind him and concluded that his luck had finally changed. On a night during which everything had gone wrong, a scrap of depleted uranium had intercepted a Stinger missile locked onto the helicopter. It was time to press the attack. He shouted some orders into his headset, and Haddad broke off his evasive maneuvers and resumed tracking the target. As a frequent passenger in a helicopter, Abayd hated Stinger missiles, but he knew it was a single-launch weapon, and he doubted his enemies had a spare. They were far too expensive to carry two.

  He saw the glider making a steep descent and screamed at Haddad to go faster. The engines whined in response, making the cacophony in the cabin almost unbearable. The wind whistled through the open cabin door, and the floor vibrated with the strain of the overworked engines. He pulled his pistol out of its holster and watched the glider’s advantage shrink. He resisted the temptation of a mid-range shot and waited for the range to be point blank. He had a limited supply of ammunition, and he had to make every shot count.

  Bullets struck the undercarriage of the helicopter, and Haddad banked sharply. The glider disappeared. Abayd yelled at the pilot to resume course, but the aircraft continued to swerve away from the target.

  “Haddad!”

  “We’re taking fire, Abayd.”

  “Go back!”

  Haddad didn’t reply, but there was no change in direction. Abayd stepped forward into the cockpit and put his gun to the pilot’s head. He pressed the barrel firmly into his temple and left it there until the chopper swung back in pursuit of the hang-glider. When it caught up, he removed the gun and shuffled to the window. The glider was only thirty meters to his right. He could see the passenger piggybacked on top of the pilot, and he drew a bead and squeezed the trigger.

  Sarah heard the whine of the helicopter’s engines and knew it was coming back for the kill. She looked down and saw the ground beneath them, tantalizingly close, but still far enough away to afford the helicopter another pass. Looking back and to her left, she saw it coming on, slicing through the air. Several hundred meters ahead, she spotted the van raising a cloud of dust as it hurtled toward them. Underneath her, she could feel Marco’s shoulder muscles straining to hasten their descent. She wished there was something she could do, other than lie in the canopy and await her fate.

  Marco shifted his weight, and the hang-glider banked evasively, but the chopper was the more agile craft, and it followed easily, shrinking their lead. Sarah took her hands off the crossbar and reached back, managing to free the Browning from its holster and pull it out as the helicopter appeared in her peripheral vision. She switched the gun to her left hand as the aircraft approached from that side and waited for her moment. In normal circumstances, she was dead on with the Browning from inside fifty meters, but the circumstances were far from normal.

  The Sikorsky pulled even with them, and a man appeared in the open doorway, raising his arm into shooting position. Marco adjusted course again, opening up a better angle, and Sarah raised her gun and fired.

  The bullet struck Abayd in the shoulder, spinning him around, and his shots went wide. He tried to bring his weapon to bear again, but his arm was useless, and he gave up the attempt.

  “Haddad, close the door.”

  He waited for the door to slide shut, then went forward again, slumping into the co-pilot’s seat. “Bring them down.”

  Haddad hesitated for a second, but then jerked the stick violently to the right, steering the helicopter straight toward the hang-glider.

  The van braked to a halt, and Pietro jumped out with the grenade launcher in hand and threw himself to the ground. The glider had gone off course and was just above a stand of pines at the edge of the field; the helicopter was directly behind it and closing swiftly. He put his eye behind the scope and centered the cross hairs on the target, but was unable to do so without aiming at the glider as well.

  The distance between the two aircraft narrowed, and he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He squeezed the trigger, and a 40mm grenade was launched at the target. The expanding gases from the first firing pushed the next round into the chamber, and he fired again, and kept firing until the revolving magazine was empty and a series of explosions lit up the dawn like so many strikes of lightning.

  Marco saw the helicopter coming right at them and knew he wasn’t going to land in time. He crossed himself, beseeched the Savior for a merciful judgment, and said a quick prayer for Sarah’s eternal soul. He certainly didn’t welcome death, but it did have a silver lining: at least he didn’t have to have the I can never see you again because I’m a priest talk, the one that was already forming in his head like a thunderstorm over the Ligurian Sea.

  He heard an explosion from somewhere ahead of him and felt the sail vibrate as if being buffeted by a crosswind. More explosions followed, from above and below. A large gash opened up in the sail, and the glider started to yaw. He could feel himself dropping, as if gravity had rediscovered his true mass. Then the helicopter exploded above him, with a shock wave that ripped away half of the sail. Something large and hard, a piece of the engine, perhaps, struck him on the helmet, and his vision went blurry and then dark. He felt himself descending in a slow spin like refuse flushed down a drain, until his momentum was arrested, and he was left hanging in the air, suspended and teetering between heaven and hell.

  And then the arms of the lost souls grabbed him and pulled him down into the netherworld, from where there could be no return.

  Fifty

  Pietro Ferraro stood in the doorway of his mother’s kitchen. As he’d known she would be, his mother was standing at the stove, with her ba
ck toward him, head down, eyes presumably fixed on what she was preparing. From the sharp aroma of capers and the pungent scent of garlic, he guessed she was making caponata, which had always been his favorite dish. He came up to her from behind and hugged her with all his strength, realizing from the vibrations he could feel emanating from her lungs that she was sobbing. Unable to stop his own tears, they cried in synchrony, the quiet heaving of their chests drowned out by the whirring of the ceiling fan overhead.

  After a time, Pietro released his mother, dipped his finger into the caponata, and left the kitchen, heading for the porch, where he knew his father would be standing, gazing at Monte Gallo, drinking wine and smoking his favorite cigar. His mother said nothing as he walked out, but he could feel her gaze on him, as heavy on his back as the salty flavor of the caponata was on his tongue.

  He passed the pool and approached the porch. The sweet smell of cigar smoke was the first clue that he had been right about his father’s location. He turned the corner, hopped onto the teak decking, and walked past the wicker table on which a bottle of limoncello thawed next to two full glasses. Eduardo Ferraro looked exactly the same as the last time Pietro had seen him, the day he had left Pagliarelli in the back of a hearse.

  “It’s good to see you, Pietro.”

  Pietro nodded.

  “Welcome back.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay long.”

  “Why not? This is your home.” Eduardo waved his thick forearm, indicating the stony massif of Monte Gallo to their north and the blue waters of the Bay of Palermo below them.

  “Pietro Ferraro is dead.”

  “Then who are you?”