Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  He recalled immediately the reading and the research he’d carried out for firing such a weapon.

  Don’t pull the trigger. Squeeze it, but only when your breathing is half-way through an exhale. Breathe through the sight. Breathe in, the barrel goes down. Breathe out, the barrel goes up. Bring the sight up to the target. The speed of the sound upon firing, 1121 feet per second. A standard .50-calibre bullet leaves the barrel at 2980 feet per second at a force of 12,756 feet/pound energy. Time taken for the bullet to arrive at the target, approximately one and a half to two seconds. Bullet-drop over 1250 metres, close to eight metres.

  He ran through his mind the details of minutes of angle to consider when firing heavy calibres over a long distance and how each minute of angle by distance equated to ten inches in the old measurement. Satisfied he had put his theory into practice, John James put the crosshairs of the Leupold on the man-sized target, adjusted his breathing and squeezed the trigger. The Barrett bucked and rammed hard against his shoulder. He squealed and cursed with excitement and glee at what he’d only ever dreamed such a weapon would be like to fire.

  Momentarily, its raw power and energy frightened him and he felt his legs go to jelly. It was the most exhilarating moment of his life. He raised his binoculars and screamed

  “Yeeessss!” The bullet had been exactly on target. John James was stunned. He loaded another round into the breech and fired again. This time at the second target to the other end of the strip. Again his aim was true. Even wearing ear plugs, the crack from the .50 calibre was deafening. He wanted to stay longer and fire more rounds. But he capped his excitement with logic and told himself to get the hell out of there.

  He loaded the weapon back into his vehicle, retrieved his targets and sped back into Kununurra to park about 100 metres from the second place Luigi Mogliotti had booked in to. For four days now he’d watched Luigi. On the morning of the fifth day, Luigi was up early. Pacing.

  The Weasel backed off even further. It’s today, he told himself. Has to be today.

  Just after eight a.m., Luigi called into a service station and purchased a large quantity of cold drinks and food then headed towards the landing strip. Still with an hour-and-a-half before the plane was due, he pulled in off the road and bided his time. The Weasel, a long way back, watched his quarry through binoculars. He could see Luigi constantly checking his watch. Fortunately for The Weasel, Luigi had chosen to pull off a main road, so there were other occasional vehicles. He knew he needed to get ahead of the Italian to set himself up. So he waited for another vehicle to pass in the same direction he was travelling then slipped in behind. Luigi never suspected a thing.

  John James wasted no time in returning to his hiding place after making sure he’d fastidiously camouflaged his vehicle.

  * * *

  McLoughlin and Bourke, now having lost sight of The Weasel, but believing they knew exactly his destination, did the same. Only they chose to take a different route and stopped at the other end of the landing strip to John James. They, too, hid their vehicle and covered it with a camouflage net. Luigi was still to make his appearance. Bourke and McLoughlin both knew they wouldn’t have long to wait to see an end result of sleepless nights, stakeouts and following.

  “Mate,” McLoughlin said to Bourke, “this little prick’s gonna move in as soon as the plane lands. Now I know it’s as tempting as shit to grab him, but we can’t. We gotta follow that son of a bitch out of here and see where he goes. He’s got a hiding a place, man and London to a brick, he’ll take whatever’s on the plane straight to it.

  “That’s what I want. I gotta find out where he goes. But how’s he going to get it? If he decides to take ‘em out, and I can’t see him doing that, we can’t get involved. Not if we want to nail the little prick in his hideout. When we find that we can hopefully stitch him up with all those unsolveds. The way he bloody disappears it must be some place. I have never known anyone to drop off the map like this joker.” McLoughlin checked his watch and looked at the sky. “OK, let’s find ourselves a little spot and see what goes on.”

  “You don’t really expect him to take on, what, four people in the plane plus the greeter?”

  “Mate, he’s got a plan. He wants what they’ve got. Who knows what he’ll do? My guess is he’ll wait till they’ve loaded the four-wheel-drive, and for the plane to take off. He’s hardly going to go for a shoot-out from way back here. Christ, it must be over half a mile… more than that. No, he’ll follow them and wait his time to make a move.”

  They were soon nestling their way into an area they felt was secure and would keep them out of sight of The Weasel.

  But it was too late. The Weasel had already spotted them. He wriggled his body around until he had the Barrett .50 calibre pointed straight at them.

  * * *

  As the day for the flight to Portofino became closer, Josh Emery had a great deal of time to think about his passengers. Somehow it had all been too easy. By coincidence, he just ‘happened’ to walk into The Animal Bar on the day Enrico just ‘happened’ to be looking for a pilot. And it just ‘happened’ he would be able to provide for all their needs, with assistance from Spanners Hudson. And it just ‘happened’ that he was able to find him quickly. It was all so coincidental it began to frighten him.

  Three hundred grand plus the plane!… too easy. Too bloody easy! There’s no way these pricks are gonna let me walk… no way! He thought of pulling out. Too late for that. Pull a stunt like that and I’m a dead man.

  Nervousness and fear brought perspiration to his brow. He worked the action of the little Browning .25-calibre blue-metal handgun Spanners had got for him. He loaded and unloaded the five bullets in the magazine to familiarise himself with the weapon.

  “Nothing over three feet Josh,” he’d told him. “Not if you want to hit what you’re aiming at. In today’s technological world, a gun like this is not a serious contender. You gotta remember they’ve been around since about 1910, but it’ll be serious enough for what you want it for. Light, reliable, small. If you’re on the back foot in close quarters, drop this little mother in your hand and I guarantee you’ll win the argument. Strap it to your ankle. The velcro flap will give you quick and easy access.”

  Josh had never owned a pistol, handgun or revolver before. To the extent he didn’t even know into which category the little handgun fell.

  Pistol I suppose… what the hell? I sure feel a whole lot happier now I’ve got it, he said to himself, strapping the weapon’s holster to his right ankle.

  The holster was also fitted with an extra pocket for a spare magazine. Josh checked and rechecked that. He put a bullet up the spout, homed the magazine and holstered the gun. For several minutes he practiced retrieving and reholstering it. He’d stand to make sure it couldn’t be seen to bulge out from beneath his trouser cuffs. It felt funny to walk with it but he consoled himself into thinking it was better to feel funny than be dead.

  Josh’s passengers settled in well on board the aircraft. It didn’t seem they were in the air all that long before he called in his position to Darwin airport. After a quick refuel and toilet stop, the plane was again airborne, enroute to Changi. They were soon up to 31,000 feet in perfect conditions. Josh cast a casual eye over at Gina who was seated next to him in the front.

  “So tell me about Portofino?” he asked. “I’ve never been there, but after this is all over, I want to go back and spend a bit of time there. I’m told it’s the playground of the super-rich.”

  “Someone once said it was as though God so enjoyed the taste of creating the universe he spent a little more time hovering over the Italian west coast. Before moving on, he dug a teaspoon into the coastline around a bit from the top of the leg and said, ‘and so the world shall have Portofino’.” Gina laughed lightly. “It’s sheltered, it’s exotic and its beauty is so enthralling, it numbs the brain. And there’s all sorts of stories of romance about the place. Famous movie stars walking hand in hand in the moonlight.

&n
bsp; “If you’re rich and powerful and you have a yacht, then a couple of nights’ mooring is a must, especially if you’re into impressing the locals and laying out breakfast, lunch or dinner on the quarterdeck. People love to drive out of Genoa through the mountains and back along the Mediterranean seashore. That lets you take in the little fishing villages before arriving at what’s regarded as one of the most beautiful places in the world. Houses are multi-coloured and the gorgeous little cove is filled with yachts. Steep, tree-covered hillsides dotted with villas form the backdrop. Lots of little sidewalk cafes to eat and indulge yourself. The tourist brochures say things like,” and she broke into a more high-pitched, precise delivery, “an ancient frame in the shade of eucalyptus and olives. A magic atmosphere made precious by the sound of waves splitting on the rocks. It’s the nostalgia of an enchanting dream.”

  Josh laughed. “You remembered all that?”

  “I cheated. I saw a description of a place similar to that on the internet,” she told him.

  Spanners Hudson was on hand to meet the plane in Singapore. Again refuelling was brief. He told Josh he’d arranged for a quick turnaround in Calcutta, but upon arriving in Dubai accommodation had been set up with room service providing Australian or Italian meals.

  “All up, if you’re on time, six hours,” he told Josh. “So eat and sleep quick.”

  “Enrico’s already said he won’t leave the plane,” Josh said.

  Spanners shrugged. “It’s up to him. There’s a bed there if he wants it. I’ll now go direct to Malta and wait for you there.” Spanners handed Josh a clipboard. “It’s all there. Names and so on to get you through. Might be a bit tricky there, but I reckon you’ll be fine.”

  The remaining hours in the air and stopovers went without a hitch. Spanners Hudson had been true to his word. The accommodation and refuelling stops were a breeze but, by the time the Cessna landed at Malta, the frustrations of cramped conditions and the embarrassment of using the commode had led to bitchy comments and agro, mainly from Enrico. Franco had remained relatively silent throughout the duration of the flight. This was a heist of gigantic proportions and his mind stayed firmly on the job ahead. When Josh called out, “Ten minutes to Malta!” there were audible sighs of relief.

  Spanners Hudson was again on hand. “Three dollars US a fucking gallon mate. Doesn’t get much blacker than that eh? And ten grand graft. The same blokes will be on again when you come back. I haven’t got that sort of dough. What do you want to do?”

  “Hang on a minute.” Josh went back to the plane. “I was afraid of this. From here to Portofino, this flight will not exist, but it’s three dollars a gallon for juice and ten grand graft over and ten grand back.”

  Enrico was enraged.

  “You fucking sai…”

  “Shut the fuck up, little brother! We’re on their territory. What do you want? A goddammed inspection of the plane? How much US have you got?”

  “Fifty grand.”

  “Give me twenty-five.”

  Enrico took out his wallet and did as his brother ordered. Josh tried not to alter his expression. It was the first time there had ever been any indication of a link between the two men. Franco handed Josh the money.

  “Will this get us out of here right now? We can’t afford a plane inspection. If we argue they could bung one on, right? I read somewhere they do that shit.”

  “Yes, it could happen,” Josh answered firmly. “I’ll try.”

  Josh handed the money to Spanners. He seemed to be gone for an eternity. But in reality it was only minutes. Suddenly, a tanker pulled in next to the plane. Spanners spoke with Josh.

  “I can’t get out of here in time to be ahead of you in Sori. I’ve arranged the car. That’s already there. But I’ll need to be there for the fuel. I’m gonna have to come with you.”

  “I’ll tell ‘em.”

  Josh quickly explained the situation. Enrico was affronted by the suggestion.

  “It’s not his fault,” Franco interrupted angrily. “You wanna be stuck in fucking Italy without fuel? Don’t be an idiot! Tell him to get in, Josh… Gina?”

  “No argument from me.”

  Even as he climbed on board Josh could tell that Spanners’ presence would only be condoned, not welcomed. “Gina, can you move back one? Spanners, you sit in the front,” he ordered.

  Josh was going to introduce him to the passengers, but thought better of it. It seemed in no time at all the Cessna was again climbing into the sky. Josh was particularly uneasy about this leg of the flight. Up until now, everything had been on approved flight paths. Now it was low-level stuff. Just above the waves for about six hours. If they were going to be nabbed by the authorities, this would be the time. But there were no incidents. The coastline appeared and he snuck in undetected to land safely on an airstrip between Sori and Cigana. As pre-arranged by Spanners, a vehicle was parked at the edge of the landing strip. Josh had no sooner cut the engines, when Franco was behind the wheel, backing it up to the plane.

  “Six hours,” he said to Josh. “OK? When you see us coming, start those bloody engines because we’ll need to get the fuck out of here real quick.” Moments later the car sped off into the night.

  “Any idea what they’re up to?” Spanners asked.

  Josh shook his head. “Not a bloody clue, but money’s never been a problem. That bastard sitting behind me bothers me a bit. That’s Enrico. Typical Italian hothead. Gina runs the show and she’s bouncing up and down on the other bloke, Franco. Whatever the hell it is they’re into it’s obviously humongous. Why else would they go to all this trouble?”

  “You bring your gun?”

  Josh indicated to his ankle. “OK. It’s four hours till the fuel tanker gets here. You want to get a bit of shut-eye? I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  Again, Spanners was true to his word. The fuel tanker arrived as arranged and Spanners paid him off. Josh checked his watch. “How long we got before someone gets nosey?”

  “Daylight. But we’ll be gone by then, won’t we?”

  “Out of here in two hours I hope,” Josh replied nervously.

  * * *

  McLoughlin and Bourke were nearly at their wit’s end. Literally hundreds of mug-shots of John James McGregor-McWeasely had been distributed in two separate drops and there had not been one reported sighting. Then at three-thirty in the morning, a week before he’d watch Josh Emery take off for Portofino, McLoughlin’s phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, trying to wake up.

  “Is that someone called Ken?”

  “It is.”

  “You the bloke looking for…?”

  Suddenly wide awake, he blurted, “Bloody oath… who have I got?”

  “I drive a cab, and I just dropped a bloke off. I reckon it might have been him. Skinny little bloke. Walks funny…”

  “Fantastic. That’s him. You remember where?”

  “Yeah. Ryde. Twenty-seven Sea Lake Avenue. Block of flats there.”

  McLoughlin piled out of bed and put the light on. Bourke stirred. “Come on, get up, son, We’ve found the little motherfucker!”

  Suddenly Bourke was wide awake.

  “The fucking Weasel. He’s in a block of flats in bloody Ryde. Come on, let’s go.”

  Bourke was still buttoning his shirt as McLoughlin sped away from the Motor Inn. At that time of the morning Ryde was only 15 minutes away. Bourke checked the street directory and guided the way. They were soon into Sea Lake Avenue. He slowly cruised past but there was nowhere to stake out.

  “I got an idea,” chirped Bourke. “Turn around.”

  McLoughlin did as he was asked.

  Bourke pointed. “That joint’s for sale. Might even be empty. Good spot. About five doors back on the other side of the road. I reckon it would give us a good view of the flats.”

  McLoughlin looked at the house, then back at the flats.

  “Bloody would, too,” he replied, looking at the ‘For Sale’ sign.

  “Who you ringin
g?” Bourke asked.

  “The mobile phone on the billboard.”

  “Shit, he’ll love you. It’s four in the bloody morning for Christ sakes!”

  “Time he was up,” McLoughlin smiled.

  It took some minutes for the Senior Sergeant on special assignment to convince the land agent the call wasn’t some sort of practical joke. “Yes” the place was empty. “No,” he couldn’t possibly go to his office for a set of keys at that time of the morning. Moments later, “Of course Sergeant, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Persuasive bastard aren’t you?” Bourke grinned.

  “Who do you know would enjoy having the SWAS squad kick your fucking door in at four in the morning?”

  The view offered to McLoughlin and Bourke from the front window of the empty house gave them full vision of the block of flats in Sea Lake Avenue. As one policeman took a nap, the other took over. Their concerns began to mount after they’d been watching and waiting all day and into the night.

  Late, around midnight, Bourke noticed a vehicle slowly emerge from the flats’ car park. He quickly raised his binoculars. At the entrance to the flats was a street light. John James drove underneath it and stopped to check for traffic before proceeding. It was long enough. Quickly he woke his boss.

  “It’s him!” he whispered urgently.

  McLoughlin sat bolt upright. “Where?”

  “He’s just left the flats. We couldn’t follow if we wanted to. He just snuck out of the car park, stopped under the street light to check for traffic and pissed off. By the time I could’ve gotten out to the car, I wouldn’t have known where he was or which way he went.”

  “You did good, son. You did bloody good. Definitely him, though?” Bourke nodded his head. “Definitely him.”