by Pierre Rey
By reflex Romanshorn had lowered his head when the dazzling whirl of fire had blinded him. He felt the breath of it when the window smashed into a thousand pieces and flew above him in a deadly rain of tiny splinters. Shel tered by the wall on which the bay window had stood, he sneaked a look out into Stampfenbachstrasse just a second after the explosion took place, and he was amazed to see a man come hurtling out of a darkened hole where the bank's door had been, while all the men outside rushed in.
The one who came out paid no attention to the men who were going in. And they in turn did not seem to see him. Romanshorn began firing into the bunch at a rapid cadence. In the street, one man fell, immediately retrieved by his comrades. Among those who hadn’t entered the bank yet, a moment of hesitation was noticeable. A red fight illuminated the inside of the main hall as angry gre nade explosions were heard.
‘Fire!’ Romanshorn was shouting to Bregenz, who had joined him behind the parapet
Debris from the explosion had not even settled when the two sottocapi, Vittorio Pizzu and Thomas Merta dashed into the bank together. They had been squaring off against each other for years, and now, neither one was ready to let the other get ahead. Vittorio pulled the pins on two grenades and pitched them into the rear of the room, behind the tellers' wickets. Merta used his flame thrower on the rows of file cabinets to his left. Behind them, half a dozen soldiers were attacking in different directions when a yell from Aldo Amalfl stopped them cold.
The cops are here! Beat it." "Upstairs!" Merta ordered.
"You crazy!" Amain’ shouted. ‘They're holed up across the street and firing on us. One of our guys is hit There's two vans blocking the street!" "
Vittorio Pizzu's presence made Thomas Merta that much more determined.
"Everybody upstairs!" he ordered. "Burn it all!"
"Vittoriol" Aldo roared. "Do something to stop that fool!"
Merta immediately aimed his flamethrower ‘in Al do Amalfi's direction.
"Say that again!" he challenged.
"Don't move!" Pizzu thundered as he drew a bead on him with his Smith and Wesson 39 Parabellum.
For a second they were on the edge of that mysterious borderline where the slightest movement would be enough to start a massacre.
They could hear reports coming from outside.
"Drop back!" yelled one of the Milanese soldiers. "The place is lousy with fuzz!"
Vincente Bruttore's voice suddenly rose above all the others. "Goddamn it cut out all this fuckin' around! We blew the job! Let's get the hell out!"
Instantly they were all back in the street hiding be hind the columns. Pizzu took in the situation at a glance: it didn't look good. Harness bulls in safe positions on the second floor of the building across the street had them within range of their automatics. Vittorio pulled the pin from a grenade and sent it flying into the opening of what had been the bay window. At both ends of the block, two police vans, sirens screaming and flashers going, were blocking the exits. Their crews, hidden behind the up holstery, were sniping at the drivers of the getaway cars.
"Get to the wheels!" Pizzu yelled.
The men started running zigzag courses, bent way over; they were covered by Thomas Merta, who shot two scarlet streams from his flamethrower at the vans closing off Stampfenbachstrasse. Vittorio Pizzu aimed another gre nade at the closer of the two vans, and as it exploded, he watched two uniformed policemen raise their hands to their faces and collapse as the gas tank went up.
"To hell with the vans! Full speed ahead!"
They didn't have a chance in a thousand, but if the odds had been a million to one, Pizza would have made the try. He jumped into the Ford he came in. The driver was already tooling away from the curb when Vittorio slammed the door shut
"Drive right into that van down there!" Pizza shouted.
The Ford speeded up. Pizzu sneaked a look back: the others were following. But thirty yards ahead, down the slant of the street, the van was sitting broadside across Stampfenbachstrasse. Even by going up on the sidewalk, the Ford didn't have a chance to make it past the heavy vehicle.
"We've had it!" cried Aldo Amalfi, who was sitting next to Vittorio.
Pizzu, without answering, flipped the pin out of an other grenade. At that moment, the car's tires screeched and it reared up on end and then straightened. Pizzu was violently thrown against AmalfiL
"Your grenade!" Amalfi was yelling. "Get rid of that grenade!"
Hanging on as best he could, Pizzu made a desperate toss, aiming it out the open car window, and it blew up before it ever hit the ground.
Following the incline of Stampfenbachstrasse, there is a small alley between two tall buildings and it opens onto a stairway that ends twenty yards below on the quayside of the Limmat River. Pizzu understood that his driver was skillfully steering the Ford down those stairs. When the car got down to the quay, it swung left on its hubcaps, and then made a sharp right, almost flying across the river on the bridge that was there.
Pizzu was amazed to see that the five other cars in their squad had followed them down the same route.
"Well be at the dairy in less than five minutes," the driver informed them.
Fritz Blesh took in the scope of the disaster. One police van was in flames, and some officers in uniform were dousing it with fire extinguishers. Three others leaned over two forms stretched on the ground. Just before get ting to the flaming van, Blesh jammed on his brakes and jumped out of his car. "You there!"
One of the cops turned around. ‘I’m Lieutenant Blesh. Give me the whole story." "We have two badly wounded men, lieutenant Those creeps had grenades."
"Later!" Blesh thundered. "Where did the bastards go?’
"That way," the policeman said, pointing to the alley where the last of the attack cars was disappearing. "Get in!"
"But lieutenant—n "Get in!"
He shoved the man against the body of his Opel and himself jumped in behind the wheel. Hanging on for dear life, the man got in beside him. Blesh went into reverse, then started forward again, maneuvering along the side walk in the impossible space between the rear of the van and the building.
"What’s your name?" he asked the policeman while he was driving full speed down the steps.
"Schindler, lieutenant," stammered the terrified man.
"Get on the air. Put out an all-cars call. Get head quarters..."
Schindler repeated the orders into the microphone he had taken from the dashboard.
"Calling all police cars . .. calling police command post..."
"Blesh here!" the lieutenant yelled into the mike. "Command post here" answered a droning nasal voice.
"Hold that goddamn mike in front of my mouth," Blesh muttered.
Schindler held it up.
"There's been an attack on the Zurich Trade Bank," Blesh reported. "Stay in constant contact with us, and send reinforcements out along the route I relay to you."
"Wilco, lieutenant."
"How many cars you think got away?" Blesh asked Schindler.
"Several—quite a few—I’m not sure, lieutenant"
"Idiot! How many were there?" 'Maybe ten. Maybe twenty." "You stupid jackass!"
"I beg your pardon, lieutenant?" the voice on the radio droned.
"I wasn’t talking to you," Blesh roared. "Stay on! I see one of 'em! Schindler, for crissakes! Gimme the mike! I’m in Museumstrasse, passing in front of the Hauptbahnhof..."
"They have flame-throwers," Schindler said.
I’m going into Limmatstrasse," Blesh hammered out. "Car being followed is a black BMW, or very dark blue..."
"Reinforcements have been informed, lieutenant’’
Three? Twenty? A hundred? Come on, Schindler, shit or get off the pot! Wake up. How many cars were there?"
"Five or six, lieutenant"
"Good! The BMW’ll lead us to the other ones."
He doused his headlights and slowed a little so as not to be spotted.
"Are yon armed, Schindler?"
&n
bsp; "Yes."
"Yes, lieutenant" barked Blesh. "Ammo?"
"Twelve rounds, lieutenant"
"Schindler! The mike! Car being followed is going toward Kornhausstrasse.... Oh, they had grenades, huh?"
"Yes, lieutenant And a flamethrower."
The bastards! The dirty sons of bitches!... Gimme the mike. I am now starting down Schaffhauserstrasse."
"Roger, lieutenant. There are four police vans follow ing you, with twenty four men aboard."
"Weapons?"
"Mauser assault rifles, Sten submachine guns—" 'I’m turning into Hirschweisen..." "Roger, lieutenant. Passing that info on." Tefl me more, Schindler."
"When we got there, the bank was on fire inside. Then the guys came out and hit us with the flamethrower. We got one of them, lieutenant"
"I'm coming into Winterthurerstrasse. General direc tion, northeast—toward Schwamendingen."
Five minutes later, the BMW was speeding out on Basserdorf Road. At one point it turned left, and Blesh lost sight of it. When he got around the bend, Blesh found he was on a private road leading to a group of buildings enclosed behind a high wall. The BMW seemed to melt as if absorbed by the wall. Blesh put on his brakes, went up onto the right-hand shoulder, and took cover under a small chimp of trees.
"We've got 'em, Schindler! What is that goddamn factory, anyway?"
"Zwiss Milk and Butter, lieutenant They also make cheese. I got a sister-in-law who used to work there.’’
"Order to all police cars: surround the Zwiss Milk and Butter establishment on Basserdorf Road, on the left coming out of Zurich.’’
"Roger, wilco, lieutenant. The vans are right behind you. I’ll put an all-cars out right away."
"Snap shit goddamn it! I can't surround the place all by myself!"
He threw the mike down and hopped out of the car.
"Schindler, come with me!’’
Schindler got his gun out of its holster and ran through the wet grass behind the lieutenant When they got to the enclosure, they could hear the sound of heavy trucks revving up on the other side. Blesh dashed over to the wooden gate.
"Gimme a hand!" he yelled.
Schindler gave Blesh a leg up so that Blesh could peer over the top of the gate. What he saw floored him.
Moshe Yudelman had advised the two dons not to set foot again at either the villa or the hotel until they heard the results of the attack and what had followed.
"Things could go wrong, Italo. You never can tell. Let's not underestimate the local police."
Moshe had been in contact with Ottavio Giacomassi in Milan, making sure he could arrange to get them out in case things went too far awry. Swiss territory might be come much too hot
Again on the advice of Yudelman, the capi had holed up in the apartment of a woman called Inez. Vittorio had no idea who she could be, but Babe Volpone, Ettore Gabelotti, Moshe Yudelman, Carmine Crimello, and Angelo Barba were gathered there, with Folco Mori and Pietro Bellinzona standing guard over them.
Moshe's precautions had been well taken, for the en tire operation had been an out-and-out flop,, and the two sottocapi, Vittorio Pizzu and Thomas Merta, knew it When the time came for settling accounts, they'd have to faceup to which one of them had blown it For now, the urgency of the situation took priority.
The six cars had taken different routes back to the dairy, and according to the guys in them, none had been spotted. Pizzu and Merta rushed to a phone to give their report to Volpone and Gabelotti. As he dialed, Pizzu grumbled, "They said all they wanted was to make a big stink. Well—we sure as hell did that!"
"You think so?" Merta countered. "We barely scratched that goddamn bank. We were supposed to blow it to bits from floor to roof, but all we did was mess up the main hall. If you listened to me, it woulda burned to the ground!"
"If I ‘da listened to you, we'd all be dead, or in the can!’'
'I’ll put Don Italo on," Angelo Barba's voice cour teously informed him.
.. Vittorio did not fail to notice the use of the word don. Genco's scepter was passing into Italo's hands, and, in a confused sort of way, Vittorio was proud that his young capo was gaining such quick recognition.
‘It’s me," Italo said into the phone.
"It didn't work, padrone. The cops were there waiting for us. There was trouble."
"Where are you now?"
"Back safe."
"The target?"
"Uh, well—part of it. They'll be finecombing the city right now. You'd better be going, padrone. It's getting hot!"
"Maddonnaccia!’ Thomas Merta was exploding, along side Vittorio. The bulls are downstairs!"
Vittorio heard a heavy dose of firing.
"Porco dio! Andate via, padrone! Subito! Hurry! The fuzz is shootin' right up our assholes!" he shouted into the phone.
"Vittorio!" Volpone yelled.
But Pizzu had hung up and dashed to the window of the dairy office. The engines of the tank trucks were making a deafening racket. Soldiers were hopping out of the hideouts where they had been concealed inside the trucks. Half a dozen police vans were parked outside the enclosure wall, and any mass exit was impossible.
"Police?’ a megaphone-amplified voice was calling to them. "Come out -with your hands up and you won’t be harmed! You are entirely surrounded!'
Pizza opened a window, pulled the pin from a gre nade, stepped back to give himself momentum, and threw it as hard as he could beyond the wall. Its explosion drowned out die noise of the automatic fire. In the court yard, Ottavio Giacomassi's soldiers, supported by the Vol pone and Gabelotti lieutenants, aimed machine gun fire at the top of the wall, where, from time to time, a cop's helmeted head made an appearance.
Pizzu saw one of the cops' armored vehicles swing around to face the gate to the dairy and then back up a hundred yards or so. Yelling to Merta to follow him, Pizzu dashed down the stairs. There was no question of letting themselves be taken. The best they could hope for was life imprisonment
"This way!" shouted Aldo Amalfi.
The cops had fired tear gas into the courtyard, and the smoke was mixing with the stench of fermented milk and cordite. The gate gave way under the impact of the armored police van, which immediately crashed into one of the tank trucks that had been placed crosswise inside the gate. The police van turned into a torch after ripping open the tanker, which was now disgorging a flood of milk that partly covered the bodies of the wounded sol diers lying in the mud of the courtyard.
Behind the archway near the milk, butter, and cheese warehouses, the men of both mob families flocked around Aldo Amalfi, who was yelling to one of the guys who worked in the factory.
"Quick!" Amalfi shouted to his men. "He knows a way out! Follow him!" he shouted.
They all started to move back under the huge shed over the vats holding tens of thousands of gallons of milk. Every ten or fifteen yards, some of them would turn and fire a few rounds to slow the coppers on their heels.
Aldo Amalfi and Simeone Ferro, bringing up the .rear, were suddenly cut off from the group by an unseen sniper oil the outside.
; "Via! Via!" Vincente Bruttore was yelling at Pizzu, who didn't seem sure about following everyone through a little metal door into which the factory worker had dis appeared.
Pizzu pulled the pin from his last grenade and threw it behind the vat of fermenting milk where several of their assailants were hiding. Three uniformed men, wounded by shrapnel, fell off a wall and into the vat. Vittorio pulled a handle that he had seen operated earlier that day. The vat in which the three cops were drowning began to spin. Quickly gaining speed, huge mechanical arms began to turn, tossing the wounded cops like flies inside the giant churn. '
Bruttore grabbed Vittorio Pizzu, who wasn’t about to run out on his capiregime, and shoved him through the metal door and into the slanting hallway, forcing him for ward between the concrete walls as they slid down. Then they were on level ground once more, and they saw the first car.
The factory worker was at the wheel
. Alongside him, Thomas Merta was signaling wildly and yelling something they couldn't hear. Behind them they saw Carlo Badaletto and Frankie Sabatmi. In the other car, with the motor run ning, sat Joseph Dotto, his eyes darting crazily. Vittorio and Vincente jumped in behind him.