by A.D. Winch
Chapter 6 - Finding the Treasure
The referee put the whistle to his lips, blew forcefully, and FC Sfantu Gheorghe kicked off against their rivals. The football pitch had baked hard over the summer, and the ball bobbled on the bumpy surface. On hitting a divot it was miskicked, bounced around all the players and rolled off the pitch for a throw in. The small crowd, who were watching from a grass bank, booed. Amongst them was a man of average height with well-kept, black hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a purple shell suit and wore a new FC Sfantu Gheorghe scarf around his shoulders. He was known as Mihai Ionescu and his forehead was dripping with sweat. Despite his scarf, Mihai was not a soccer fan and watched the match half-heartedly. From where he stood he could see almost all of Stadium street, the potholed road where the match was being played. In between breaks in play, so as not to draw attention to himself, he tried to take the location in.
Mihai saw the hilly road he had driven up to get to the stadium, and could see only one other road wide enough to get away. His car was a black GMC Yukon, a Sport Utility Vehicle or SUV. It was big, fast and powerful. He could drive it almost anywhere and he could bully other drivers with it.
Dotted between these two roads, or ‘exit points,' as Mihai called them, were seven apartment blocks known as panelaks. The balconies and windows had been painted recently, but the plaster on the walls was cracked and crumbling.
Almost hidden beneath two panelaks was a brightly coloured school. Around its grounds were tall, dense trees which stopped the sun reaching the car park and hid cars from the sky. Further along, and opposite the stadium, a rundown hospital ejected smoking patients out onto the road. They mooched outside the main entrance in their pyjamas, holding cigarettes and listening to the sound of the football game. When they heard the referee whistle for the end of the first half, they lost interest. Back in the stadium the sweaty players trotted off the pitch towards the changing room.
The man known as Mihai Ionescu watched them leave and turned around. Behind the stadium was a newer, unnamed road. It ran away from Stadium street, towards a dead end, and what looked like a building site. Green, sloping fields on the outskirts of the town, had been divided up like a patchwork quilt and were now being dug up. On every available plot, houses of all shapes and sizes were being built. They stretched all the way to the edge of the forest.
At the top of the sloping fields, overlooking the haphazard building site, Mihai could see a Roman style villa. It was the house he had been told to locate first - the marker. To the right of it was a plot of land where nothing had yet been built. Large piles of bricks and breeze blocks were scattered around its border like badly constructed pyramids. Near the centre a clogged up, concrete mixer stood idle against sacks of sand and a dirty tarpaulin covered an unseen object. The intelligence had all been good, and everything fitted. Under the black tarpaulin, he was sure he would find the object they had code-named ‘the treasure.’
Four deeply tanned workmen, with skin like leather, chatted amicably in the sun. Dusty mud covered them from head to foot and in their hands they held well used shovels. Nearby, a rusty old bulldozer carved out a hole in the ground and dumped the soil in a pile beside them.
Mihai Ionescu touched a small device resting in his left ear with his index finger.
“This is Agent Ion. I have found the X that marks the spot,” he said in English, and pretended to scratch his head.
Agent Hoover considered what he should say. In front of him, a thin microphone stood upright on his glass desk. Before he had a chance to reply a strong hand gripped his shoulder and pushed him away from the mike. Agent Angel stepped forward and spoke. His deep voice, scarred by years of smoking, boomed the response and filled the room.
“Find the treasure,” he bellowed. “Find the treasure!”
He stepped back and let Agent Hoover reclaim his desk.
The screens which dominated the front of the room were no longer showing images from cameras around the world. A very small number were showing footage from every security camera in Sfantu Gheorghe. The rest of the displays had become an IMAX size screen and were showing footage from a satellite positioned directly above the stadium.
As the players came out of the changing rooms for the second half, the man known as Mihai Ionescu left the stadium. He was followed by a man and a woman. He walked past the changing rooms, stepped into the street, and made his way to the plot of land. It was time to retrieve the treasure.
A temporary fence made of differently sized planks of wood enclosed the plot. To its left was the villa and to its right a half-built home. It was made of breeze blocks. Both had mean looking dogs in the gardens patrolling their territory. On seeing Mihai approach, they growled and began to bark menacingly. He was not bothered by the barking as it was usual in the town. However, he did not want to go any further until the workers had left. He stopped next to a shed by the dusty path. The shed’s low window had been removed and underneath it, lined up like soldiers, were American cigarettes and fizzy drinks on a roughly made shelf. Crouching down he ordered a cola, in Romanian, put his money on the shelf and waited. An old lady took a cola bottle from a small fridge and handed it shakily to Mihai.
“If you are going to take it away, you will have to pay for the bottle as well,” she replied and sounded as if she was telling off a small child.
“I’ll drink it here, don’t worry,” replied Mihai with a kindly smile.
The woman had given him a good excuse to stay exactly where he was and watch what was happening on the plot of land.
A man in a stained vest, which barely covered his hairy beer belly, got out of the bulldozer. Tapping his watch he signalled to the four men that it was time to go. The workmen, obviously tired from their day’s work, threw their spades to the floor. They were happy to be going home and moved towards the gate with a spring in their step. As they did so an old truck with a brown cab chugged past Mihai. Thick smoke billowed from its exhaust and caused him to cough until his lungs were clear. Even though it was not going fast, the brakes screamed as it slowed down near the plot’s gate. It stopped in front of the workmen and blocked their way. The engine ticked over with a horrible grinding sound and more smoke coughed from the exhaust pipe. A bald driver put his head out of the cab, waved a small black wallet and spoke with the workers. What he was saying was obviously not welcomed by the tired men. A man in a red, baseball cap leant out of the other window and pointed at the tarpaulin. From the looks on the workmen’s faces, and their tense body language, Mihai could see that they were far from happy.
The driver retreated into his cab and re-emerged with a stack of bank notes. The workers’ shoulders relaxed, but they did not look any more co-operative. One bank note after another was counted out to each man until they stopped frowning. Stuffing the money into their pockets, they walked in the direction of the dirty black tarpaulin. Gears crunched; smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe and the truck followed them.
Everything that was happening was unexpected, and Mihai was confused. Bribed men and an empty truck were not part of the brief he had been given. Rocking back on his feet and leaning against the shed he felt the comforting shape of his gun pressing into his back. He raised his finger to his earpiece.
“There are pirates on board. Stand by.”
The man and the woman, who had followed Mihai, suddenly appeared from hiding places around the plot of land. They nodded and then disappeared again.
The earpiece fizzed into life and Agent Hoover’s Texan drawl could be heard clearly.
“Do not engage the pirates, gather intelligence, stay put.”
Mihai did exactly what he was told. During the next twenty minutes, all he did was buy himself a second drink and watch.
With a loud screech, the truck came to a stop next to the concrete mixer. From the passenger door, the man in the red cap slowly got out. He looked around the plot as if expecting someone
else to be there. Once satisfied that the surroundings were clear, he jumped down from the cab. His red cap was worn low over his forehead, and he was wearing large, mirrored sunglasses. Below them, his face was covered in black stubble that had been stylishly trimmed. His only distinguishing feature was a long, pink scar which ran across his right cheek from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear. He was wearing a tight, red T-shirt which emphasized his lean figure and large arm muscles. Despite his build he seemed to be deliberately slouching, keeping his chin close to his body and never looking up.
He walked towards the tarpaulin like a child approaching a Christmas tree. Crouching down, he lifted up a corner so that only he could see what was beneath. His face lit up. He placed his arm under the sheet and began to stroke whatever lay below it until the bulldozer pulled up beside him.
The man in the red cap stood up and motioned that the object should be lifted, and then he pointed towards the truck. The bulldozer was skillfully manoeuvred to the object and the four workmen held it in place under the tarpaulin as it was moved. When the object was in position, and the bulldozer had reversed away the four workmen climbed up onto the truck and secured it. At one point, the tarpaulin brushed against a workmen’s leg and folded back to reveal a silver curve that glinted in the sun like a mirror. It was instantly covered again. Once the job was done the man in the red cap handed out more money and sprang back into the cab. As the truck drove out of the gate, the workmen followed, cheerlessly waving goodbye.
Before the truck reached him Mihai covered his mouth and nose and held his breath. The truck chugged down the road covering everything in its wake, including Mihai, in polluting exhaust. When it reached the junction, it turned right onto Stadium street and disappeared from his view.
As Mihai put down his cola the ear piece, once again, fizzed into life.
“We are tracking the pirates using satellites, confirm the treasure is gone,” requested Agent Hoover.
Mihai walked calmly towards the plot. He waited until the workmen were out of sight and then vaulted over the fence. After searching the area, he found what he had expected.
“Confirmed. The treasure has gone,” said Mihai touching his ear.
Agent Hoover watched as the truck slowly approached the school and the large trees that surrounded it. He leaned back in his chair and whistled through his teeth.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.
“You will be if you lose that truck, Agent Hoover,” barked Agent Angel taking a drag on his cigarette.
Agent Angel was a bear of a man, with arms and legs the size of logs and a torso like a barrel. He had no neck, but his shoulders sloped directly up to his hairy chin. Agent Angel was covered in grey hair. It was difficult to spot where his neat beard stopped, and his closely cropped hair began. Rumours circulated that he was at least eighty but he was as strong as an ox and as sharp as any of the younger agents. Some agents joked that whereas the army, navy, airforce, CIA and FBI answered to the President, the President answered to Agent Angel. Nobody, however, would say this to his face. Agent Angel had been working at the OSS longer than anyone remembered, and he was feared like no other man.
Slowly, almost lovingly, he stroked his finger and thumb around Agent Hoover’s ear lobe. Just as Agent Hoover was about to ask what was going on he felt Agent Angel’s nails pinch into his ear.
“Geez, that hurts,” cried Agent Hoover and tried to shake his ear away from Agent Angel’s grasp.
Agent Angel dug his nails deeper into the lobe and started to twist them. The pain got worse, and Agent Hoover shook his head wildly as he tried to escape.
“You think this is something? Do you? This will be nothing if you lose that truck,” threatened Agent Angel and he released Agent Hoover’s ear.
Swivelling on his chair Agent Hoover, who was not used to being bullied, looked the Section Head directly in the face. Agent Angel did not flinch. Pain and anger shone from Agent Hoover’s eyes. Agent Angel smiled sinisterly and held out his left hand. He opened his palm to reveal four truncheon fingers and a banana sized thumb. With the cigarette in his other hand, he pointed back towards the screens. Agent Hoover did not move.
One by one the thumb and fingers were folded down, and Agent Angel mouthed slowly, “Five, four, three, two, one.”
He savoured each word as he did so and was looking forward to what was to come. When he reached ‘one’ he broke eye contact and turned away to look into the shadows.
Suddenly Agent Hoover felt a sharp prick in his head. All the things in the world that he didn’t know about, and had never thought about, began to enter his mind. His brain began to fill, but the thoughts did not stop. Just as he felt his brain was going to explode he spun away from Agent Angel and back towards the screens. Instantly the thoughts stopped, and his own voice in his head told him to follow the truck. It seemed like a good idea.
Agent Angel patted Agent Hoover on the back like an owner petting their dog. Agent Hoover thanked him for all his support. He had no memory of what had just happened; it had simply disappeared. Unfortunately so had the truck, it was nowhere to be seen on any of the screens. From the satellite images, Stadium street was empty and apart from some wisps of smoke near the school the truck had been lost.
It remained missing for six hours.
Just before nightfall in Romania, Agent Hoover relocated the truck on the screens in front of him. It was on the other side of Sfantu Gheorghe crossing a damaged bridge above a river. The truck spewed out grey smoke as it approached a junction overlooked by a massive statue of a soldier and turned onto the road which led out of town. It passed disused factories and headed for the E60 motorway.
Above the mountains in the distance the sun had started to set, and the light was beginning to fade. The truck continued on; the tarpaulin was still secure, and the secret cargo lay hidden below it. By the time, the truck reached the motorway the sun was down and night had begun.
The motorway was quiet and dark. It ran parallel to a railway line and as a train roared past light streamed out from the carriage windows bathing it in yellow. Then it was gone, and night engulfed the motorway once more. There were no street lights lining the side of it only fields and a few scattered trees. So, when three black Yukons, with their headlights off, drove down a dirt track and pulled onto the motorway they were unseen.
Behind one of the steering wheels was the man known as Mihai Ionescu. It was a cool night, but his windows were closed and the air conditioning was blasting. He checked in his rear-view mirror, to make sure that the other two black SUVs were following. Reassured that they were there, he concentrated on driving and tried to ignore the noise. The road had been badly laid and every few metres the tyres thudded as they drove over gaps in the tarmac. It was like the countdown on a time bomb, and it put Mihai on edge
Approximately two kilometres ahead of them, and chugging along at around one hundred kilometres an hour, was the truck. Mihai put his foot to the floor, and his Yukon accelerated to speeds far greater than the truck could ever achieve. The gap between the Yukons and the truck narrowed quickly, and when they were only a few hundred metres from it, Mihai took his foot off the accelerator. As he slowed down to the truck’s speed, he checked his rear-view mirror again; the other two Yukons were still there. Due to the darkness, and the absence of other traffic on the motorway, Mihai was convinced they had remained unseen. The truck had not changed its speed, and the driver had not noticed the three SUVs lurking behind. Ahead of the truck was a disused bridge. This was the point Mihai had just been briefed on. This was the point to act.
Pushing his foot hard on the accelerator pedal Mihai overtook the truck and pulled in front of it. He kept a short, safe distance away and made sure his speed was the same. Looking in the wing mirror, he could see the second Yukon pull level with the truck on the outside lane. He moved his eyes to the rear view mirror and could just see the third Yukon bri
nging up the tail.
The repetitious thud, thud, thud of the tyres on the tarmac was interrupted by a hiss in Mihai’s ear.
“Time to make the pirates walk the plank, we are coming in,” said a distorted female voice which Mihai had not heard before.
On cue, Mihai and the other two SUVs turned their headlights and fog lights on. Mihai lifted his foot from the accelerator and slowed down. The other two Yukons dropped their speed as well. Boxed in, and with nowhere to go, the truck had no choice but to do the same.
“Where are you?” Mihai asked the night. “Where are you?”
He looked feverishly out of the front windscreen, his side window and then the passenger window. Nothing. Nothing but darkness. Suddenly he heard it - the sound of blades chopping the air. Checking his rear-view mirror, he saw the outline of a Black Hawk helicopter as it rose up from behind the last Yukon. Caught in the headlights it looked like an enormous dragonfly hovering above the ground.
The Black Hawk flew forward, and the pilot positioned it directly above the moving truck. From fifty metres above the road six ropes, attached to winches, were thrown from the helicopter. They silently fell through the sky and landed in coils on the truck’s cargo area. Six people, clothed from head to foot in black, abseiled down. They stood steadily upon the back of the moving vehicle. Each of them knelt down and unfastened the object from its bindings. A lightweight cradle was rapidly lowered down, and the six abseilers positioned it safely under the object. They raised their hands and gave thumbs up signs to the sky. The six of them were hurriedly winched back up into the belly of the helicopter.
Carefully the Black Hawk rose. The object lifted off the truck and swung like a pendulum in the sky while the tarpaulin flickered in the breeze. When it was higher than the truck’s cab, the helicopter banked sharply to the left and disappeared into the night. The retrieval of the ‘treasure’ had taken less than a minute.
In the truck’s cab, the man in the red cap could do nothing but watch helplessly through a small rear window and punch his chair repeatedly.
The other two Yukons overtook the truck and Mihai. They sped off along the motorway and were soon nowhere to be seen. Mihai checked his rear view mirror and saw the man in the red cap lean out of the cab window and throw something at his Yukon. It made a small clunk as it hit the rear door and caused Mihai to laugh at the man’s anger.
“You’re not playing with rookies,” he muttered to himself and smirked as the man attempted to throw something else at his car.
Ignoring the man’s tantrum, Mihai accelerated away and touched his earpiece, “The treasure is now in our possession.”
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