by R. W. Hughes
Geoff had a very restless night. It was not that the fan in the bedroom did not seem to have any effect to the heat and humidity; it was because his brain was racing. He was beginning to have second thoughts about the idea that had flashed through his mind earlier that evening. Too many things could go wrong; he would be depending on too many other people who would have to be involved.
It would be so easy to just take the money and do a runner, and to hell with the circumstances. The problems continually went full circle in his brain, always coming back to the same conclusion. Werner Fisher, the corporal in the Second World War German panzer regiment was the key player, with Peer Merkel obviously involved but to a lesser degree.
Eventually, Geoff’s over-tired brain kept coming back to that same conclusion, that without their involvement the scheme was a no-goer, just wishful thinking, just a pipe dream.
*
He was up early the following morning. Entering the kitchen, he noticed that someone had made a fresh decanter of coffee that was still hot. As he poured himself a mug he was thinking as he did so. He really liked this ground coffee, it would be one of the things he would miss the most if the police caught up with him and he ended up in jail, but if the heavies got in first he realised there would be nothing left to enjoy in life as he would probably end up buried in some field, feeding those sunflowers he admired so much. He wandered on to the patio and sitting on one of the easy steamer chairs with his eyes closed was Werner Fisher.
‘Buongiorno Herr Fisher,’ he said as he stood opposite him. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Werner Fisher opened a blood shot eye, indicating to Geoff with a lazy sweep of his arm, the chairs on the patio. He occupied one opposite the old man who was obviously the worse for wear after celebrating his reunion with Peer Merkel.
Geoff thought, The old guy would prefer to be left alone but time waits for no man and I need some questions answering before I can go any further.
‘When we were talking yesterday, Herr Fisher,’ he began to say.
Werner Fisher opened his eyes at the mention of his name, slowly fitting a pair of dark sunglasses taken from a pocket in his shirt. ‘Please, Geoff,’ he said holding up his hand, ‘please call me Werner. My friends call me Werner and I consider you boys to be my friends.’
‘Thank you, Werner, that’s very kind of you,’ said Geoff, thinking at the time, I wonder if you would consider us friends after you have heard of my scheme and proposals.‘This tank in the Piazza at Castiglion Fiorentino, you said it was your tank.’
‘That is true,’ said Werner, sitting upright in the chair. ‘It was 1992 and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was working, as usual, in my office in the bank when the manager entered and introduced me to the head of the centre for tourism for Castiglion Fiorentino. I can tell you I was surprised that such a high-ranking official of the town council should come to see me in my little office at the bank, me a lowly translation clerk.
Apparently, the council had acquired an option to purchase a Second World War German tank. It had been proposed and discussed in their council meeting and the majority thought it would be a very good tourist attraction. They intended placing it in a prominent position in close proximity to the town’s main entrance. This idea had the full backing of the administration. They had made enquiries and discovered that I was an ex-tank commander. I was not a tank commander, just a driver, but I allowed them to continue thinking that I was a tank commander; it gave me a little prestige amongst the staff at the bank.’
Werner Fisher smiled at this point and took a sip from his coffee cup before continuing, ‘We then made an appointment for several days later when I, the ex-tank commander, would pay a visit to where the tank was being stored. You can imagine my surprise when the cover was pulled from the vehicle and I immediately recognised Marco Sturmgeschutz 111, Peer Merkel’s and my old tank! One of the officials that accompanied me from the tourist office told me that the tank had stayed in the field for several years. Eventually, two local farmers hitched it to their tractors and towed it several hundred metres to their farm where it had been in one of their barns ever since. Apparently, it was missed when all the other armaments scattered around this part of the country were removed several years after the end of the war.’
Werner went to take another sip from his coffee cup but changed his mind; he had talked for so long his coffee had gone cold. He continued telling an intrigued Geoff the rest of his story.
‘I gave the tank a brief inspection. I found it had only superficial and no major damage from the fighter planes’ guns. The farmers must have completed temporary repairs to the track, sufficiently for them to tow it the short distance to their farm. The council were proposing and had obtained permission from the bank’s directors that, if I was in agreement, I could spend three days a week on full pay supervising the refurbishment of the tank. This would continue until I thought it was in a suitable and presentable condition to be placed where it stands at the present. As you have observed, I accepted the proposal!’ Werner Fisher was smiling broadly at Geoff as he finished his tale.
‘What condition was the inside of the tank, Werner?’ asked Geoff with the excitement building up inside him.
‘Mmm, as I can recall,’ he said looking thoughtfully into space, ‘most of the dials had been removed, possibly sold as souvenirs, in fact everything that could be removed, had been taken.’
‘And the gun,’ said Geoff quietly, holding his breath, ‘in what condition was the gun?’
Werner Fisher did not answer straight away. Geoff thought that he must be able to hear his heart thumping because to him it sounded like a big bass drum was beating in his head.
‘The heavy machine gun had been removed but surprisingly; the main armament and its barrel were in excellent condition. Someone had at some time attempted to remove the firing mechanism but had not succeeded. I removed it and I think I still have it somewhere in my locker under the stairs in my apartment. I have been tempted to throw it away on many occasions when my wife and I were having as you say, a spring clean, but it was nostalgic to me so I resisted.’
Geoff’s heart was still beating ten to the dozen and he could feel the adrenalin racing through his body so he forced himself to speak slowly and calmly as if his next question was just out of idle curiosity. ‘Do they still use the same size of shell today that you used then Werner?’ He held his breath waiting for the reply.
‘The gun was of excellent German design but in this early model of tank it was loaded and controlled manually, it was not mechanically assisted as in later models.’
‘Go on: Go on,’ whispered Geoff under his breath.
‘Ah, you are here, Werner!’ The shout came from Peer Merkel standing at the open patio doors. He then proceeded to shuffle across the patio with the help of his stick, parking himself in the chair that Geoff had vacated in his excitement several moments earlier.
‘I see you already drink coffee,’ said Peer Merkel looking at Werner and Geoff’s coffee cups.
Oh Shit. Geoff realised that the opportunity to get any more information from Werner Fisher had passed for the time being. What he had heard so far was definitely very promising and he was having difficulty containing his growing excitement as the obstacles to his scheme were being removed one by one. The details in his brain were like a jigsaw puzzle and they were starting to click slowly into place.
‘I’ll make some more hot coffee,’ he said, collecting Werner’s still half-filled cup of cold coffee before making his way back to the kitchen. It was while he was making a fresh pot that John Bolton entered the kitchen.
‘I could do with you taking me to Castligion Fiorentino again after breakfast, John,’ he said as he placed the coffee pot and three cups on a tray.
‘Will Peer and Werner becoming too?’ enquired a curious John.
‘No, just the two of us. We won’t be gone long. I need to check up on a few details,’ he said as he left the kitchen with the tray, leaving his friend replacin
g the kettle to make himself a cup of tea.
As instructed, John brought the Mercedes to the front of the villa after the group had finished their breakfast. Werner Fisher was quite content to have a restful day just lounging at the side of the pool, especially, after his large consumption of alcohol in the company of Peer Merkel the evening before whilst celebrating their reunion.
Sooty was happy just being in the villa. Derek Bolton wanted a lift into town to find an internet cafe to put into practice some ideas he had on trying to break down the password on the disks that had come with the other valuable contents of the briefcase.
Sitting in the car it seemed to Geoff an eternity since he had lifted the briefcase at Stockport railway station.
Suddenly, the vehicle came to a screeching halt as they were making their way down the drive from the villa. John Bolton was forced into an emergency stop as a small black and white dog darted across the drive in front of the car then disappeared into the undergrowth on the far side.
‘Jesus Christ! What was that?’ shouted Geoff, as the seat belt he had fortunately just fastened, stopped him from crashing into the windscreen.
‘It looked like a Jack Russell dog to me,’ replied Derek from the rear of the car as he struggled to rise from the well between the seats.
‘Are you alright, our kid?’ queried John as he restarted the engine, which had stalled during the emergency stop.
‘Yes, I’m fine but that was one very lucky little dog, it definitely lost one of its nine lives there!’
‘It’s cats that have nine lives,’ quipped Geoff.
‘Well if that dog had no lives to spare, it was definitely one hell of a lucky dog.’ All three laughed at Derek’s witty reply as they continued their journey down the drive.
It was a beautiful morning and there was little traffic on the route to Castiglion Fiorentino. Geoff, sitting in the front of the Mercedes was, in effect, being chauffeur-driven and he felt like a million dollars having time to close his eyes and reflect.
If only the teachers at the reform school could see him now. Yes, him! Geoff Larkin from the back streets of Stockport who they had all expected to end up as a down and out type of character or even in jail. Here he was though, being driven around in a large Mercedes, staying in a six bedroom Italian villa within its own walled garden and with a swimming pool soaking up the sun, while those poor buggers were still slogging and rusting away earning a crust back in the damp UK.
So as not to attract any attention, he asked John to park on the far side of the town, from there he could walk through to the Piazza Garibaldi. John said he would stay with his brother, Derek, and they would see if they could suss out an internet café.
Geoff was in the shade as he left the old city through the huge, medieval, stone arched gateway at the edge of the Piazza. He could see two taxis at the rank on the far side of the large square near the bus stop, sheltering in the shade of some small trees. Opposite them, in the corner of the piazza under the sweet chestnut tree was what he had come back to inspect, Werner Fisher and Peer Merkel’s Second World War panzer.
There was no one around the massive vehicle as he slowly approached; giving the impression to any onlookers that he was just a curious tourist. He quickly climbed on the metal covers over the tracks. They were quite cool being in the shade. He then moved over to the turret.
He lay on top of the tank’s turret, narrowing his eyes and sighting the direction in which the tank’s barrel was pointing. He made a mental note then quickly slipped off the tank and walked the short distance to stop alongside the trunk of the chestnut tree. From this position he could view the entire piazza. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, nobody had shouted or even noticed that he had climbed on and then off the tank. Except, the well-dressed young man standing at the taxi rank. The taxi driver was pointing in the direction of the tank and the man started walking briskly in his direction.
A sixth sense kicked in and alarm bells started ringing in Geoff’s brain. He set off, walking quickly away, keeping the trunk of the tree between him and the man. He turned left following the signs that pointed to ‘Statione’.
As he turned the corner of an imposing building he stopped and looked back, peeping from behind but still hidden from view by the large stone corner querns of the building. The man had reached the tank and was standing on the side of the tree nearest Geoff, looking in his direction. He then started walking quickly towards him.
Geoff turned, walking as quickly as he could without actually running, down the road and in the direction of the railway station. He was wary, taxi drivers were a hive of information. Peer Merkel had fallen out of the Mercedes the previous day in front of their very eyes and, to make things worse, they had heard their English accents.
He paled; he could leave nothing to chance. If that guy was following him, the heavies were back on his trail and using local talent to try and trace the group’s whereabouts. Or the man was a plain clothed officer of the Italian police, if that was the case he could be expected to be picked up by wailing police cars within a couple of minutes.
At the next corner he stopped and peered back. It was now the hottest part of the day and he could feel the sweat running down his back; it was also running off his forehead and into his eyes. The smartly dressed man was still walking down the road in his direction. Geoff set off again, using his mobile to make contact with John Bolton. These had been one of their better buys, he thought to himself as he keyed in John Bolton’s number.
All he received was voicemail to leave a message. John Bolton had either not turned his phone on or he was in a bad signal area. ‘John, there’s been a development! You and Derek go straight back to the villa. I’ll contact you later.’ He turned off the phone and tried to increase his pace. The last thing he wanted in the present circumstances was John and Derek Bolton wandering around the Piazza Garibaldi waiting for him to return.
He eventually reached the station; his shirt was sticking to his back with his sweating, not just from the heat of the sun and his exertions but the fear of being caught. Looking across the lines, the only train in the station was at platform three.
He bounded down the stairs leading to the tunnel that branched off to the various platforms. The guard was waving his flag as he bounded up the steps, two at a time, and racing forward, just managing to board the train before the automatic doors closed.
As the carriages slowly pulled away from the station, he looked through the window and he could see the young Italian who had been following him standing on the platform, he was not watching the departing train; he was too busy operating his mobile phone.
Geoff didn’t know where the train was going; he had no ticket and he still couldn’t make contact with John or Derek Bolton. He tried closing his eyes and relaxing but he was still too tense.
He had just replaced his phone after his fourth attempt to contact the Bolton brothers when he was aware of someone in uniform standing over him.
‘Billeto, Senor!’
‘No Billeto,’ Geoff replied, offering a ten euro note to the ticket attendant.
The policy of Train Italia for passengers with tickets that had not franked them in the machine situated on the platforms, or for passengers without tickets, was a hefty fine of up to fifty euros or to eject them at the next stop.
Geoff had never heard of the station where he now found himself as he watched the rear of the train disappear down the track.
On his fifth attempt he eventually made contact via his mobile with John Bolton.
‘John! Did you get my message?’
‘Yes,’ replied the eldest brother, ‘we picked up your message in the internet café so we went straight back to the villa.’ Geoff breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh! And Derek thinks he’s cracked the code on that disc.’
‘Come and pick me up as soon as you can, John. I’m at a railway station called,’ he looked at the name on the large board above the station entrance. ‘Cortona/Camucia!’
&nb
sp; ‘What’s that again?’ came back John.
‘Cortona/Camucia,’ answered Geoff, slowley spelling out the names.
‘Okay, mate, I’m on my way,’ came back the reply.
Geoff settled down in the bus shelter outside the railway station for a long wait. It was still tremendously hot so, after a short while, he moved to a seat in the shade of some nearby bushes. Looking around from here he could see that the town seemed reasonably modern but on the top of a nearby hill he could see one of the many walled medieval towns that were dotted around this area of the country.
A sign near the station pointing in that direction said, ‘Cortona’.
They must have been an aggressive lot these early Italians, he thought to himself. Every other town or village in this area is defended by a bloody great wall!
Chapter Twenty
Simone Campagni had been instructed by his boss to make himself available to assist some English gentlemen and find some other English men who had taken something that did not belong to them. That was all he knew. He realised it must be important because of the number of strangers from outside the area drafted in to help in the search. Simone Campagni’s duties were to check at the bus and railway depots, to enquire daily at the taxi ranks in and around the city of Castligion Fiorentino. For this he was being paid his usual retainer, also if he came up with information that led to the detention of any of the young English men on the photographs he had been given. The bonus on offer would pay the deposit on the new sports car he had always admired in the Alfa Romeo showroom which he passed every day on his way to the bed-sit he rented.