by David Evans
When she had finally sated her lust, the delegate stood up and removed a wet wipe and cleaned her private area. She threw the used wipe at Von-Baer and told him to clean himself and meet her in the kitchen.
She ignored the pain-grimaced face and hobbled walk that Von-Baer had to undertake.
“Operation Muscat will take place this afternoon. The team is in place, and Werner will be moved from the hospital wing. This is the best part of being who I am. It is exciting, and it makes me horny. You have been reticent, my sexy lover. Your mouth has been at rest. On your knees and finish me off,” she said, as she lifted the hem of her houndstooth dress.
***
Kurt Bauer, ex-Stasi agent and now freelance killer, had spent three years as a sniper for the Stasi. Many times, he crossed over to West Germany, where he would stalk dissidents and kill them, sometimes from as far as a thousand metres, such was his expertise. He had a variety of weapons but preferred the US ArmaLite 50 circa 1997. His second weapon of choice was not a sniper’s rifle but a get-out-of-shit weapon, the Barrett XM109 semi-automatic 25mm grenade launcher.
He had trained up several snipers over the years, both before and after the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. His longest-serving compatriot was Roderick Friedman, whom he had met and trained during his Stasi days. Friedman was tall and gangly, with sparse tufts of hair. But the most distinguishing feature was the glass eye in the left socket, with a thick, rugged scar running down the length of his face. The loss of the eye and acquisition of the scar came after a run-in with an African American Marine, who did not take it lightly when Friedman had spat the N-word at him. Friedman was a bigot and a racist and took extra pleasure when his victim was non-white. Friedman’s choice of weapon had changed in 2005 from the German DSR-1 to the Canadian C14 Timberwolf rifle from the Prairie Gun Works.
Lothar Gottschalk was another oddity in appearance. He had been born with the hereditary disease albinism. The traits of the condition were the lack of pigment that normally gives colour to the skin, eyes, and hair. He had ultra-white skin and white hair, and his eyes were white. Normally an albino has eye problems, and Gottschalk was no different, which made him an unlikely sniper. He had 20/20 vision, which was rare in albinos, but suffered from photophobia: light sensitivity. In normal day conditions, he could not hit a bus with a shotgun. This meant you never saw Gottschalk without his dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. With the glasses, he could take out a mouse at five hundred yards. Gottschalk’s weapon of choice was the German Blaser R93 tactical straight pull bolt-action rifle.
The latest and youngest recruit was Falco Jager. The ex-gang enforcer and nightclub bouncer was twenty-six years old. He was also the silver medal winner of the World Rifle Championship of 2008. Kurt Bauer always attended the championships looking for potential recruits. Jager was a solid hulk of muscle, which again was unusual for a sniper. He had short-cropped brown hair speckled with blonde patches. The pupils of his eyes were enormous; he had deep, black eyes that gave little room for the off-white irises. He had a hooked nose which gave him the nickname ‘ule’, or in English, Owl. Jager was even a better shot than Kurt Bauer, which was some achievement. His choice of weapon was more modern, and he preferred the Swiss bolt-action SSG 2000.
Kurt Bauer had initially laughed at both Roderick Friedman and Lothar Gottschalk as snipers; their names were antonyms. Friedman’s name translated means ‘peacemaker’, and he certainly was not. Gottschalk means ‘God’s servant’, and he was anything but. The only name which reflected their personality was Jager, meaning ‘hunter’. Bauer’s own name reflected his heritage: ‘peasant’.
Werner had been moved from the hospital in Bad Reichenhall to Landsberg Prison. The medical facilities of the prison had been identified as ones that could support Werner to adjust from the horrific injuries he had suffered. The prison was in the handsome little town of Landsberg am Lech and had previously been designated Prison Number One to hold convicted Nazi war criminals by the United States. It was located sixty-five kilometres west of Munich.
Delegate Frau Uebering had taken a particular interest in Werner’s case. She had used influence and money to ensure he had the best of medical help and facilities. She could not help with the food, as everything he ate was blended, and as he said in his robotic voice through his electric larynx, “Tasted of shit.” Werner had the small electric shaver-like device, which assisted him to talk by placing it on his neck, with him always.
Delegate Frau Uebering knew Werner was being moved to the courts in Munich for the first day of his trial, as she had paid for access to the records. She also knew the prison wagon would be accompanied by two police cars.
Kurt Bauer had been informed by the delegate that the convoy would travel east along the Romantic Road until it connected with the E54 and would skirt past Lake Ammersee and the town of Inning on Ammersee. A few kilometres further on, the main road cut through a tunnel under the fields and the two-lane motorway. The convoy entered back into daylight as it exited the tunnel, and they emerged with grass banks on either side, a concrete barrier a few metres high down the centre median.
They had stolen a motorway traffic truck with illuminated signs on the back. Bauer had enlisted Klaus, an old hand, and Heidi, his wife. The husband-and-wife team had done dirty and wet work for Bauer in the past.
Klaus turned up twenty minutes early, and waited on the roadway about a hundred metres before the prison convoy was due.
Bauer, Gottschalk, and Jager had arrived the previous night. They wore full camouflage gear, and it was an overcast evening, with no moon or stars for illumination. Using their infrared night goggles, they created their hides in less than two hours. Any sweep of the road prior to the prison convoys would have driven straight past them; they had simply blended into the flora and fauna.
Friedman, the fourth sniper, arrived at the same time as Klaus. After stashing the C-class Mercedes Benz he had travelled down in from Berlin, he took the C4 explosive from his black knapsack and crossed the carriageway to the opposite side when no cars were visible.
Friedman positioned the explosive on the base of a large coniferous tree and held it in place with tape. Once he had activated the remote-controlled censor, he returned across the dual carriage motorway, again unseen. He went on digging his hide some 300 metres away from the other snipers and opposite the tree.
Friedman, Bauer, Jager, and Gottschalk, the four-man hit team, had undertaken previous operations together in the past. They had left sufficient space, although very limited, so they could move to their side very slightly should they need to urinate. They had clingfilm with them to catch any number twos. They would leave no evidence of their DNA, and the filled cling sewage packs would be taken far away from the scene before being disposed of.
In the earphones, Klaus and the four snipers heard the one click. This was the premeditated sign from Heidi that the convoy had been spotted and was less than five kilometres away.
Klaus placed no entry signs in the lanes and the innermost lane had a sign slanting down to the left to display that only one lane was in use. A flashing 30-kilometre sign flashed, and five cars that passed the sign slowed down immediately. Klaus then took out his Zeus binoculars and had clear sight of the three-vehicle convoy that had no other traffic before them.
Several minutes later, the convoy slowed down on seeing the sign. They moved to the outside lane and decreased their speed in tandem. Klaus clicked his transmitter twice to forewarn the team that the convoy had entered the tunnel. Klaus then changed the sign to ‘No Entry Due to Roadworks’ and manoeuvred the vehicle between both lanes. After a few minutes, Heidi joined him, and they started to make their way on foot through the tunnel, as had been the agreement.
Two clicks in the earpiece were also the instruction to blow the tree, and Friedman clicked his remote. The noise was lost on those in the tunnel, but the initial explosion and cracking of the tree was audible for a couple of kilometres. The tree crashed onto the two lanes on the offside traffic
. It landed on a Volkswagen Passat, with immediate fatal injuries delivered to the driver and passenger. Three other cars screamed to a halt behind the Volkswagen, each with their fenders bumped or split by the slight collisions.
The first phase of the plan had been completed; the outside traffic had been stopped, and their view of the other carriageway was blocked. They were also too busy trying to exit their vehicles. Friedman saw a young woman of no more than twenty-two putting her mobile phone to her ear, apparently to call emergency services. The C14 Timberwolf rifle spat the bullet out silently that a millisecond later exited the back of the young woman’s head. She was dead before she hit the ground. The drivers and passengers who witnessed this dove for cover, and as far as Friedman could tell, no one else had a mobile phone or dared to put one to their ear.
The first police car exited the tunnel, followed closely by the prison transport van, and thirty metres away the second police vehicle.
Bauer targeted the lead vehicle. He raised the Barrett XM109 semi-automatic 25mm grenade launcher. The grenade hit the side of the first police car, blowing it sideways across both lanes of the carriageway. One of the policemen was dead on impact; the other had lost both his lower limbs and did not pose a threat.
The prison transport van screeched to a halt and simultaneously Jager and Gottschalk fired. The firing sequence was the tried and tested double tap; two rapid presses on the trigger and their victim received one kill shot and one for insurance.
Jager took out the driver of the prison transport van, and just as the thought process of the second guard sprang to life, his brain became scrambled egg as the double tap hit him between the eyes. Gottschalk went through the same process with the police driver. But when he attempted to double tap his colleague, the German Blaser R93 tactical sniper rifle had a blockage; the ammunition was faulty. The second officer reached for the fixed car radio, and just as he was about to report the incident, the back windscreen was splattered with blood and brain tissue. Friedman had been covering 300 metres further down the road and realized the second officer was still alive and his training took over. Two shots in succession and the second policeman was no more. That quick.
The whole operation, from the first patrol car exiting to Werner being removed from the prison transport van, had lasted less than twenty seconds. All three snipers were known to Werner, and had run to release Werner, while Friedman covered their operation from his hide.
Heidi and Klaus emerged from the tunnel and ran towards the group excitedly. Just as planned, Friedman dropped both as they reached Bauer. Jager and Bauer lifted them unceremoniously into the back of the prison van as they headed off toward the car. Just before they went over a small knoll to their vehicle and joined Friedman, Bauer turned and fired a grenade into the van. The explosion was loud, and the inferno intense.
“Shame; I liked them,” Bauer said.
Werner placed the small shaver-like voice resonator to his throat and spoke in his robotic voice.
“Bauer drop off these three at the nearest station. They should have their passports with them as I ordered.”
“Yes, Herr Werner, they have come prepared.”
“I want you three to take the next flight to London; you will find the address in London where I have arranged for you to pick up some weapons. Leave your guns in the car, and Bauer and I will ensure safe storage,” Werner strained to say in his metallic voice.
Werner then led Bauer to one side. “You are to drive with me down to Turkey. For this, you will need to purchase a campervan. Once there, I have arranged for a close security team to take over my protection, as I have other things for you to do, Bauer.”
Chapter Twenty
Judge Norman Freeman had known Cutler for seven years; the judge was a prosecutor for one of the counterfeit cases Cutler had previously worked on. The counterfeit gang from Portland had abducted the prosecutor’s niece as leverage. Cutler had mapped out all the group members and their hideouts. He had assisted the police in identifying who would be responsible, and where they may well be. The remnants of the band, those that had not been prosecuted, were the lower tier gang members. Their brightest and best were on trial.
Two days later they had identified the property, and Cutler had gone with the local police to rescue the girl. When they had forced entrance there were two gang members there; one was watching baseball on television, and the other was trying to assault the courageous young girl. The couch potato was arrested with no injuries and gave up readily, surrounded by the armed police officers. The second assailant, of Hispanic descent, kept the girl as a human shield over an hour. She was battered and bruised, but had barely, just barely, avoided being raped. He did not get off so lightly after he gave up, the police officers left Cutler with him in the room for five minutes. Cutler broke his jaw and his arm and stamped so hard on his testicles that his sperm count was dramatically reduced for life.
A year later, prosecutor Norman Freeman was invited to be a judge. He never forgot Cutler’s help, and for a man with few friends, classed Cutler up there with the best.
Robert Stahmer had employed a local attorney to draw up the subpoena warrant for the ring based on the open evidence on the shipyard’s database and backed up with the Yacoubs’ statements. The attorney was amazed when the warrant was granted by Judge Norman Freeman, as the evidence was tenuous at best.
Stahmer had gone with Basmati to the shipyard owners and had the ring in their possession within two hours. Basmati videotaped himself placing the ring in a clear plastic bag. He then sealed the bag with white tape and asked the receptionist from the shipyard to sign the tape. He had now secured the chain of evidence, and his job was to get it back to Miami and to the laboratory for analysis.
Stahmer decided to stay around a little while longer to meet some of the workers in the local bars. He hoped he could glean a little more information.
Tuck Walters had taken up a small hotel suite in the Embassy Suites in Palm Springs. He had years of living out of a sleeping bag in jungles, drains, and any other sewer you could imagine. Those days in the SAS were over, and he decided if he were away anywhere, he would be sleeping in a nice room with clean sheets and a coffee maker.
Bernard Rothhelm was a known quantity; he was seventeen and a bully. Cheryl had traced Rothhelm down after viewing the photographs Basmati had taken. She had hit a brick wall. The US authorities did not want to know, and the Bahamian police had no cause to investigate.
Cheryl’s own private investigator had been threatened when he started to examine young Rothhelm. The investigator had first been threatened legally for prying into the adolescent Rothhelm. In time, he had a visit from a couple of heavyweights who left the private detective in no doubt what would happen to him if he did not back off. He did, and Cheryl was left only with the reports and the bill from the investigator.
The elder Rothhelm was rich; he had built a fortune in selling unwanted asbestos to third world countries. As soon as it was banned in 1985, he knew he could buy it for pennies on the dollar and sell it on for an enormous profit. He had also collaborated with a French company that reformulated the asbestos and sold it back to Europe, mainly the United Kingdom, as Artex or decorative coating. He had no conscience about the death he was selling; there was a profit to be made.
Mick Hilton was seventeen and was an altogether different animal, Tuck had discovered. Hilton came from moderate means; his father worked six weeks on and six weeks off on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. The mother worked two jobs; secretary in the daytime, and small business bookkeeper at night, so they could give Mick the education and chances they never had.
Bernard Rothhelm came from a wealthy family, but there was a stench of the new money and where his father had got the money from. He was not welcomed into the clique of the cool kids in his school, all with super-rich parents. He had created his own group, mostly those who were on the edges of the clique but just could not break through. Mick Hilton would never get in, as they classi
fied him as a working-class kid. To Bernard, he was someone he could push around and use. Both were disenfranchised and had underlying personality problems; Rothhelm was the leader, and Hilton was the disciple.
Tuck Walters undertook all the background investigation. He knew more about these two kids within a week than their own parents knew.
Once Robert Stahmer and Basmati had the ring, Tuck knew he had to get DNA samples from the two boys. From his initial investigation it was apparent that they had insufficient evidence to go the legal route; he needed to get samples any way he could.
Tuck spent several days following the boys around. It was obvious to him there had been schism between the two. When they left their school, it was never together. When they went out it was with different friends. In fact, over the following weeks, the two lads totally ignored each other, even when they left school at the same time.
There was another problem, and Tuck spotted it almost immediately. The Rothhelm boy was being tracked by a pair of minders; he was sure the boy did not know. The minders were professionals, but not in Tuck’s class, as they did not make him. When Bernard Rothhelm visited the local McDonald’s, the pair would be in straight after he left and would remove his spent cup. The only reason they would be removing this would be because of a DNA trace.
Back in the Embassy Suites, Tuck had set up the whiteboard he carried around in his car; it was his brainstorming tool. He listed all he had learned in the week. Flowcharting the information he rearranged some of the data.
Several espressos later, he was satisfied with his conclusions. He checked his watch, calculated the time difference in the UK—five hours later—and worked out that it was 10 pm in the UK. He picked up the landline and dialed. After a wait of several seconds, he connected with the hotel receptionist, who then diverted his call to Cutler’s room.
