by Geoff Wolak
* * *
‘Police, a lorry has crashed into my house!
A lorry! It has gone straight through my house.
Who am I? Franz Graf. I live above the village of Bardenz.
Where? A kilometre above the old mine.
I know there are no roads up here.
Yes, there are no roads big enough for a lorry.
No, I am not drunk.
How did a lorry travel up a hill with no roads?
Why are you asking me, how would I know?
I know it sounds stupid!
But this lorry has destroyed my house.
No, there is no sign of the driver.
Skid marks! My house is surrounded by meadows.
Marks in the grass? No, no marks.
How can a lorry leave no marks? I don’t know!
What? No, I don’t think it’s a flying lorry?
What? You think it’s a flying lorry? Are you drunk?
You did what? You dropped it by helicopter?
Are you mad?
Helmut Graf? Yes, my cousin.
Ask him?’
2
‘Herr Otto, sir, Graf is in the Hotel Accordia, Munchen, false identity.
Lots of people, very public.
Yes, we have people in the room next door.
He is sitting in the restaurant.
Yes, our police friends are on the way.
Helicopter is a ten-minute drive away.
Wait ... Ricky is walking into the hotel.
No, not part of the plan.’
Ricky walked briskly through the lobby, his jaded appearance and shabby clothes causing a few comments. The manager sent a concierge after him as he entered the restaurant. There sat Helmut Graf, alone, booked into the hotel under an assumed name.
Ricky was tense, every muscle aching, his fists opening and closing. He reached the table and loomed over his target. Graf lifted his head, suddenly terrified. Ricky had that effect, even on the innocent.
‘Graf!’ Ricky shouted. Then, in a good German accent, ‘Helmut Graf!’ Other diners were shocked and glancing around. ‘You were told to stay away from my daughter!’
Now the diners’ attention was mixed, some staring at Ricky, some at Graf.
‘She is fifteen!’ Ricky barked, loud enough for people in the street to hear.
Now all the diners were focused on Graf, who appeared terrified enough to have been guilty of something.
‘You raped my fifteen year old daughter!’
If Ricky had needed it, some of the men sitting nearby were actually considering helping him.
‘Sir?’ the concierge asked. ‘Please, sir.’
Ricky reached down and grabbed Graf by the jacket as he tried to get away. The tall glass was right there, a split-second decision. With all his strength, his bodyweight shifted and Graf half standing, Ricky plunged Graf’s face down into the glass. Screams echoed around the restaurant, people started running. Ricky pulled Graf back up to the seated position, his face covered in blood, a large piece of glass sticking out from the bridge of his nose.
‘Police officers!’ two men shouted, grabbing Ricky. They had him in an arm lock in a second and were leading him quickly out.
‘K2,’ one whispered.
Ricky struggled as a man in his position might.
‘Police!’ the two men shouted at the manager as they passed reception. Outside the hotel they led him straight to a car, bundling him into the back. It sped off.
‘You crazy bastard!’ a K2 guard shouted. ‘There are cameras in there.’
‘Improvisation. We need to move quickly,’ Ricky barked. ‘There will be an ambulance in five minutes. Intercept it!’
The front seat passenger grabbed his phone.
As Graf sat there in shock, dabbing his face with a tissue, a grandmother walked briskly across and threw a boiling hot cup of coffee in his face. His screams could be heard in the street.
