The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5)

by Sewell, Ron

  In the control room, Alfredo completed a radio check with Adrian.

  Those on deck watched as the submersible slipped under the surface.

  ***

  Adrian angled the craft as it descended. The gentle hiss as air bled from the ballast tanks was unmistakable.

  Petros stared through the viewing ports while Adrian controlled the descent. The daylight diminished into dark as the depth increased until Adrian switched on the searchlights.

  He tapped Petros on the shoulder and pointed to a gauge. “Alfredo’s depth was spot on. We’re at two-fifty metres and your ship is right in front of us.”

  The craft banked, rose over the hull and descended with the main viewport facing the cargo hatches.

  “Time you put into practice what I taught you. I’ll hover while you remove the remains of the cover.”

  Petros grabbed the single control. “Don’t shout at me if I get this wrong.” The robotic arm extended, jerked and prodded until with concentration he began to think of it as an extension of his own.

  The numerous detonations the previous day had loosened the planks still in place. When Petros secured the three fingered clamp, Adrian reversed the craft, turned one eighty degrees allowing it to be dropped clear of the operating zone. Three hours later the Red Devil with every light operating entered the hold.

  “Bloody hell,” said Petros as he saw the scattered boxes.

  “Time to surface.”

  “We could shift a lot of this ready for lifting.”

  “We could,” said Adrian. “It’s a monotonous process but easier if we place the ingots into steel baskets and to do that Alfredo may have to reposition his ship.”

  Fifteen minutes later the craft floated on the surface. Simone secured the shackle and the hydraulic crane hoisted it inboard.

  Petros shielded his eyes from the sun as it reflected off the sea.

  Adrian laughed. “Take your sun glasses next time.”

  “Good timing,” said Alfredo. “Marco’s made soup for lunch.”

  ***

  “Bastards,” screamed Gabriele Silvio as he struck the computer keyboard with his fist. “They found the transmitter.”

  “We can still find them, can’t we?”

  “Rocco, you idiot. It might take days.”

  “But we know where they found the boat people.”

  “Go, get me the paper.”

  “The cleaner threw it away.”

  “Don’t stand there. Search through the rubbish until you find it.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  Full of rage, Gabriele placed a chart on the table and marked the position where the transmitter stopped. From the Straights of Messina he marked the maximum distance the Tuna Turner could have travelled in twenty-four hours.

  “The paper, Boss.”

  He grabbed it tearing it in two.” Go and wash. You smell like an overworked whore.”

  Rocco shrugged and wandered to the bathroom.

  “Not there, idiot. Use the kitchen.” Gabriele’s eyes devoured the front page. “Sixty-five miles from Valletta.” With a pair of compasses, he scribed an arc, which bisected the maximum distance line. “I’ll have you on my radar, Alfredo, you cannot escape. Rocco.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  Gabriele shook his head. “As my nephew I employ you but I often wonder why. Give the order and I’ll meet you and the rest of the crew in an hour on my motor yacht.”

  ***

  With two steel baskets gripped in its claw, the submersible descended, trailing a lifting wire to the wreck. These Adrian placed on the seabed fifty metres from the open hold. The wire Petros secured by a slip hook to one basket.

  Adrian peered through the viewport, his voice relaxed. “See how the wire bends? We have to position the ship above so that the baskets don’t snag. Thankfully, the current in these parts is slight.”

  He switched the radio to transmit. “Alfredo, move to port twenty metres. Stop. Move to starboard a tad. Stop. Ahead ten metres. Stop. That should do. Petros, let’s start collecting.”

  The first basket hoisted contained sixteen bars. The second was ready as they waited for an empty basket to return.

  “Where is it?” muttered Adrian.

  “I see it.”

  “Alfredo, another ten metres to starboard.”

  The afternoon vanished as baskets containing ingots ascended and when empty, descended.

  Adrian glanced at the digital clock on the consul. “I can’t speak for you but I’m knackered. Time to call it a day and believe me, your right arm will be sore tomorrow.”

  “Agreed.”

  On pulling themselves out of the craft, both men stretched cramped muscles.

  “Don’t you want to see it?” asked Tommaso.

  “I’ve seen every damned bar,” said Petros as he flexed his right arm. “What’s for dinner?”

  ***

  In a foul mood, his smile as warm as a January day at the North Pole, Gabriele Silvio manoeuvred Belladonna, his luxury motor yacht, away from its berth in Palermo harbour. Behind him stood Rocco ready to take over. Like each of Gabriele’s men, he obeyed the rules of the Cosa Nostra without question.

  The bow of the luxury yacht lifted in the slight swell as she cleared the harbour.

  “Rocco, take the wheel.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  Gabriele drew a line on the chart, set the autopilot, anti-collision radar, and inserted a disc into the computer. He turned a switch to fully automatic and the Belladonna followed a programmed track at eighteen knots. “Keep your eyes open and call me if any vessel comes inside the two mile range on the radar. I’ll have the others relieve you when they’ve eaten.”

  Rocco nodded, sat in the captain’s chair, and stared out of the windows.

  Gabriele summoned his team of eight into his stateroom. From a jug, he poured a cup of coffee and sat at the head of the ornate table. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the polished wood before speaking. “Tonight we rest, tomorrow we work. First, we find a boat full of migrants, not difficult these days. Four of you suitably armed will kill them if they’re not already dead. The Belladonna will tow whatever to a suitable position and allow the wind and tide to do the rest. You will hide onboard until spotted by the Tuna Turner. They will, as good seafarers, come to your assistance. I suggest as soon as the craft touches the side, you kill the crew and take over. I repeat, no one is to remain alive. On the bridge you will find a radio, check it is on channel sixteen and transmit, ‘We are into fish,’ I will reply, ‘On my way’.”

  A burly, hard-faced man wearing blue jeans and white T-shirt, leant on the table. “Who is included in this party of four?” asked Antonino.

  “You can take the three men on my left. The others will assist when we come alongside and transfer the gold. Rocco will need to be relieved after you’ve eaten. The fridge in the galley is full of micro-wave meals. There’s no alcohol, so don’t bother to look for it.”

  “You can go and eat. Don’t forget Rocco.” Gabriele poured himself another coffee. The eight men stood, nodded and left.

  Satisfied with his plan, Gabriele strolled into his private galley, opened the fridge. From a selection of meals provided and prepared by a local restaurant, he chose a lobster salad.

  On the hour, he went to the bridge, checked course, speed, and position. Once clear of the Straits of Messina he relaxed on his double bed. Sleep was a long time coming.

  The light from the morning sun shone through the porthole and woke him. In less than a minute, he stood on the bridge staring at an empty sea. He glanced at the sat-nav and marked a cross on the chart; they had made good speed. “Keep your eyes open, Antonino. It’s time for my breakfast and I look forward to a financially rewarding day.”

  “I’m sure it will be, Padrino.”

  Breakfast consisted of fresh orange juice, toast and three cups of strong black coffee. As a man who left nothing to chance, his mind considered every option.

  ***

&
nbsp; On a mirror calm sea and a sunny morning, the Tuna Turner hovered over the wreck. Alfredo and his crew sat on the aft deck eating breakfast.

  Petros turned to Adrian. “How much longer?”

  “If it goes as well as yesterday, we’ll be finished tonight.”

  “I’ll feel a whole lot better when we unload the gold in Malta,” said Petros.

  “Why not Palermo?”

  “If today brings what we’ve planned for, I prefer Malta to Palermo and the police will not ask awkward questions.”

  “The man has a point, Alfredo,” said Adrian.”

  “I know. Let us get moving. Marco, clear the deck. Ready Adrian?”

  “I need a pee. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  The Red Devil bobbed on the surface as Adrian completed pre-dive checks. Simone trod water while he waited. With the shackle released and the diver clear, Adrian angled the planes and descended. “Time to start work.”

  “You were right about my arm. It aches.”

  “Once you grip the controls you’ll soon forget.”

  “A bar of gold is as good a cure-all as anything I know.”

  The work and time progressed until the final bar dropped from the grab into the basket.

  “Take a last look at the old girl,” said Adrian. “At this depth, I doubt if anyone will see her again.”

  Both men peered through the view ports as they circled Jupiter’s hull.

  “Well look at that, a Great White having a nose,” said Petros

  They watched as it glided across the hull, flicked its tail and vanished into the dark.

  “Told you they were around... Going up, next floor, lunch. I’m famished.”

  “Any idea how many bars?” asked Petros

  “Lost count after one hundred.”

  As the craft surfaced, sunlight from the late afternoon flooded the tiny cabin. Simone tapped the hull as he secured the lifting shackle.

  Once on the aft deck and nestled in its cradle, Petros opened the hatch and clambered out followed by Adrian.

  “We have stowed the gold in the engine room bilges. It will not move and cause any problems with ship handling,” said Alfredo.

  “It’s your ship and as temporary ballast it’s in the perfect place,” said Petros. “Did you count them?”

  “One thousand, one hundred and twenty bars as far as I can tell. You’re a rich man.”

  “If I can keep it.”

  “Alfredo, Petros, some gate-crashers are about to join the party,” said Amadou quietly. “Fifteen miles due south, a boat low in the water.”

  “If it is the Cosa Nostra under cover of refugees,” said Alfredo, “they know we must offer assistance.”

  “Who’s going to shout if we sail in the opposite direction?” asked Davide.

  “It might not be them. We could be leaving a boat load of women and children to die,” shouted Tommaso. “The baby we rescued is alive because we care. A ship is not a democracy. Alfredo is the captain and whatever he orders I’ll agree.”

  “We take a look.”

  “Never underestimate your enemy. Amadou, break out the shotguns,” ordered Petros. “Where’s ZZ?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “You’d better wake him or we won’t hear the last of it.”

  On the bridge, Alfredo switched the computer and autopilot to manual. A roar and a plume of exhaust from the funnel indicated engines running. He waited until the red lights on the consul changed to green before setting the throttles to slow ahead. At a range of one mile, the Tuna Turner circled the drifting craft.

  Tommaso and Simone gazed across the calm water with binoculars as they checked for signs of life.

  “I will go closer,” said Alfredo. He turned his head and noted Petros, Amadou, Adrian and ZZ concealed behind the steel bulkheads.

  “Nothing,” said Tommaso.

  “You two go below or join the others. I am going alongside.”

  From the bridge wing came the clunk click of shells entering the firing chamber.

  Continuing to circle, Alfredo sailed closer until the boat filled with the dead nestled alongside in the shade of Tuna Turner. A corpse shifted. A man stood, shoved the body to one side, dropped on one knee, raised his automatic weapon and fired into the air. Three others appeared from amongst the dead brandishing AK47s.

  Alfredo dropped to the deck and pushed the throttles hard over. The four men on the boat fired. A wall of bullets streamed towards the Tuna Turner. Shells ricocheted off steel bulkheads and shattered the windows. Flat on the deck he steered using his feet.

  Petros and his team stood, shouldered their weapons and produced a barrage of accurate fire straight into the boat. At minimum range, the multiple shotgun charges carved into the living, dead and through the worm-infested planking.

  One man scrambled to find cover, slipped and fell blood-covered into the sea. Another brought his AK to his shoulder and fired.

  With bullets whining past their heads, three shotgun blasts ripped the opposition’s chest to ribbons.

  From aft, Amadou and ZZ fired a nonstop barrage until their magazines emptied.

  At a safe distance, the men on the Tuna Turner stared as the aged wooden craft filled, sank by the stern and disappeared.

  Gulls dived, screeching for the scraps of dead flesh floating on the surface.

  Amadou fired several shots but the scavengers circled the remains, swooped and snapped at each other.

  Alfredo shouted from the bridge. “I see someone in the water.”

  “Leave him. Maybe a shark will smell his blood,” said Adrian.

  “Let him flounder for a while. In fact for ten minutes sail in the opposite direction,” Petros shouted. “When we’ve dragged him out, he’ll be tired and less of a problem. There’s a few questions I want to ask.”

  Alfredo laughed and headed away from the swimmer. Those on the deck waved.

  Thirty minutes later Tommaso and Marco tossed a rope at the floundering middle-aged man with a red face and chuckled as he attempted to climb.

  “Tie the rope under your armpits and we’ll haul you inboard,” shouted Tommaso.

  A few minutes elapsed before he hung as a drowned rat from a davit.

  “Tommaso, does he speak English?” asked Petros.

  “I’ll interpret for you.”

  “I have a few questions,” said Petros as he stared into the man’s eyes. Deliberately he pushed his shotgun into the captive’s crotch. “Tell the truth and you live. Lie and I promise you, your head will leave your shoulders.”

  Tommaso repeated the words.

  In Italian the man screamed, “If I tell you anything I’m a dead man. Shoot me.”

  “We don’t have much time and I understand the code of silence that forbids you from betraying your comrades. So you die, but not by my hand. My friend who once worked for Gadaffi,” he pointed to Amadou, “is a master of interrogation. When he has finished you will want to die.”

  From behind, a knife flashed through the air and into the suspended man’s thigh. Blood flowed from his lower lip as he stifled a scream.

  “I forgot to mention he has an assistant who loves to practice his knife-throwing. The other leg, ZZ.” The second blade found its mark.

  “Kill me,” screamed the man.

  Are you ready to answer my questions?” asked Petros in a quiet voice.

  “You know I cannot.”

  “Then we will leave you suspended and give you time to reconsider.” He wrenched both blades out of the bloodied flesh. “Feel better? Mind you, you’re losing a lot of blood. I’ll give you an hour at best before you die. I’m told it’s not painful. Time for coffee. I’d bring you one but you won’t be in a fit state to drink it.”

  With his face contorted by pain he spluttered, “My Padrino will have his revenge.”

  Petros glanced left and right. “I don’t see him.”

  “You will.”

  ***

  Roland Wallace and Donald Mercer stepped out of the dar
k green Jaguar and strolled towards the front door of Petros’ home.

  Donald pressed the bell push and stepped back.

  The moment Maria opened the door, Donald grabbed her throat and slammed her against the wall.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Roland. “Who else is in the house?”

  At that moment Maria understood fear. “I’m on my own.”

  “Where’s your little girl?”

  Maria stared through the window as Charlie loped towards the house. “She’s at my mother-in-laws’. I’m picking her up later when I join them and the rest of the family for dinner.”

  “You will call them and say you have a headache and will they look after the child.”

  Her hands shook as she gave a defiant stare, “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you will be responsible for others being hurt. He pointed. “My man Don loves a fight.”

  A growl, deep and intense came from the kitchen.

  “What the fuck...”

  The weight of a full-grown Alsatian smashed into Donald and sank his teeth into the flesh of his right arm.

  The animal’s sharp fangs found bone as he pulled.

  Donald shrieked and kicked out.

  Terror gripped Maria. “Bastard,” she screamed as she powered her right knee between his legs and raked his face with her fingernails.

  With an ear-splitting yell, he staggered backwards and collapsed to the floor dragging the animal with him.

  She went to kick him while he was down but Roland shoved her away and armed with a nine-millimetre pistol, lashed at the dog’s head.

  “You bastard. Run, Charlie,” screamed Maria.

  With a yelp, the animal ran through the open kitchen door, into the garden, disappearing into the foliage.

  Blood dripped on the polished wood floor. “I’ll kill that fucking animal. When I’ve done with the dog, you’re next.”

  With a mocking smile, Roland’s tone akin a teacher addressing a naughty pupil, “Don, keep your mouth shut and your hands to yourself. Go outside and he’ll rip your throat out. She’ll bandage your arm and you will not touch her unless I say so.”