Boranski sat up front with the driver. “It will be dark when they arrive,” he said to Paul. “I’m sure they will be taken for us.” They drove to the far side of the airport where a chartered executive jet was waiting. Once the plane took off, Boranski opened a flight case, taking out a shirt and tie for Anthony. “Sorry, Monsignor, you’ll have to use these. Your collar is a dead giveaway.” Without a word, Anthony changed over.
It was dark when they circled a small private airfield forty miles south of Chicago. Boranski reached into the case again and handed out flesh face masks. “You two must wear these. Some of the men will suspect who you are, but a court of law demands more concrete identification than just thinking.”
As the plane landed, it was evident that the airfield was also an armed camp. Guards patrolled the perimeter with watchful eyes on a large, prefabricated hanger. The three men walked inside. Two troop-carrying helicopters were parked to one side, bunks for twenty men, messing facilities, and portable toilets occupied the other side. The men, uniformed in dark field clothing and jump boots, were lounging about, some resting or reading, others playing cards, a few watching television. None of them seemed disturbed at the sight of two masked faces.
Boranski called them together at the messing tables. “This gentleman here,” he said, pointing to Paul, “will be addressed as Number Six. He will have full charge of the operation.”
Paul stepped up to a blackboard on which a huge, blown-up photograph of Bonazzi’s estate was pinned. “The gentleman who introduced me has carefully gone over the plan for tonight with you a number of times. I will now review for the last time each of your duties.”
One by one he checked every man’s job, using a pointer to designate exactly where they were to be on the ground. An hour later, Paul nodded with satisfaction. “Excellent. I’m sure all of you will do well.” He glanced at his watch. “It is seven thirty. Get as much rest as you can. We will leave at eleven fifteen.”
At ten thirty, Dominic walked out of his hotel and took the front seat of a car occupied by three tough-looking ex-Green Berets.
“Happy New Year,” he quipped.
The three men laughed as the car took off. “Did you hear the weather report?” one of the Berets asked.
“No. What gives?”
“Clear as a bell. Colder than hell, but clear. How’s that for a Christmas gift.”
“New Year’s gift, Eddie,” said one of his friends. “Trouble with you, you’re always fighting the last war.”
“Well, listen to that crap,” said Eddie. “Hey, Dom, tell this virgin hot shot what Korea was like. That was a war, none of that coming home for chicken supper shit every night.”
“Seems to me we got plenty of chicken each week in Korea,” said Dominic. “But you lay off Eddie, Frank. I thought you beret guys wore the same silk underpants.”
“Were coming in,” said the driver, pulling up to a vacant looking factory building. A garage door opened at the flash of his lights, and they drove inside. A score of men, also wearing the same dark field clothing and jump boots, were relaxing on canvas folding chairs. They sat up as Dominic and the Berets got out of the car. Dominic waved a casual greeting as he walked over to a blackboard containing the same blown-up photograph of Bonazzi’s estate that Paul had. He looked again at a schedule posted on the board, as if each detail wasn’t burned into his brain.
“Ron,” he said to a short, slim man while carrying his chair nearer to the board. “How many times have you cut the juice?”
“Twice,” said Ron. “I gave the house a tan the day before yesterday, then browned them good last night. They called the electric company this morning and I sent over one of my boys. He told them it was a plant overload.” He chuckled. “How in the hell we could have a plant overload in the winter is beyond me. But all circuits checked out just fine. I didn’t want to hit them too hard. They might have thought up the idea of putting in an emergency generator.”
“Good thinking.” He looked at his watch. “You move out in ten minutes.” Ron nodded. Dominic turned to a fat, middle-aged man with a pock-marked face. “How does it go with you, Harry?”
“No problem, Dom. I’ve got his phone cables tagged, tied, and just waiting for the ribbon.”
“Is there any way he would know you were fiddling around?”
“Impossible. I didn’t touch anything, just verified by a non-metallic test that sends no signal over the line. His anti-bug devices would have nothing to pick up. He’s got three numbers. Did you know that?”
Dominic came wide awake. “No. How did you find out?”
“I’ve been a switchman with the phone company for twenty years. I should know something by now.”
“Did you play it carefully, Harry?” Dominic asked softly. “Those people are very sophisticated.”
“No question about it, Dom. I took your warning to heart.”
“Okay.” He looked at his watch again. It was almost eleven o’clock. “You take off in fifteen minutes, Harry. All right, you fellows,” he said to the others. “Let’s get the show on the road.”
The men rose, slipped into dark Peabody jackets, drew black wool caps on their heads, and buckled belts around their waists holding special made holsters containing pistols mounted with silencers. Over their shoulders were slung short-barreled automatic shotguns. Four of the men carried rifles with infrared scopes for night firing.
Two of the men opened doors at the rear of the long room, revealing four high-topped furniture vans. The group went to their assigned vehicles, five men and one Beret to each of the three trucks and Dominic with the fourth team of five men to the last. Each team contained one of the infrared riflemen.
At ten after eleven, Dominic gave the signal to move. One by one the trucks drove out, going their separate ways. In the last vehicle to leave was Dominic, seated beside the driver as he wheeled through the clear night towards their destination. Traffic was light and his truck made good time over the city streets. A few blocks from the golf course, Dominic switched on a powerful walkie-talkie and pressed the transmission button.
“All numbers, this is Four,” he said. “Are you home?”
Immediately the Beret in the first truck responded, “This is One. We are home.”
Then, “This is Two. We are home.”
And finally, “This is Three. We are home.”
“Baby Brown, are you home?” asked Dominic.
From the depth of a manhole, Ron and his assistant, enclosed in asbestos, fire fighters suits with heat resistant helmets and masks, stood in the glow of a powerful lamp above a series of electric cables, one marked with white paint. Ron held a walkie-talkie, his assistant a flaming acetylene torch. “Baby Brown here. We are home.”
Dominic looked at his watch: it was eleven forty-five. “Baby Brown, it is twenty-three forty-six. Mark!”
“This is Baby Brown. Time acknowledged.”
Dominic pressed the transmission button again. “Wire Boy, are you home?”
Harry, the fat, middle-aged switchman took the call in his office at the telephone central. “This is Wire Boy. We are home. Acknowledge time of twenty-three forty-six.”
Dominic switched his walkie-talkie to a second channel. “Number Six, this is Number Four. Do you read me? Over.”
Instantly, the cool, clear voice of Paul came on amid the noise of an engine. “This is Six. Over.”
“All is go here. What is your status?”
“We are enroute. ETA twenty-four hundred.”
“Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
Dominic switched his set back to the first channel. “Numbers One, Two and Three, move to stations in one minute.” Dominic grinned at his own driver. “That means you, too, just in case you forgot where we are.”
The driver grinned back, took a couple more quick drags on his cigarette, then threw the butt out of the window. He started the motor and waited.
At the conclusion of the minute, Dominic pressed the tran
smission button and said, “Numbers One, Two and Three, I say go.”
As his own driver put the truck into gear, Dominic heard the other stations report that they were moving. The four trucks, parked a few blocks from each other, went swiftly towards Bonazzi’s estate.
The moment the walls came into view, Dominic lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Baby Brown, Wire Boy, this is Number Four. I say burn.”
At this command, Ron’s assistant lowered the cutting flame of his torch to the cable painted white. Sparks flew wildly, then a white hot arc gushed bright light throughout the manhole.
The wall lights of the Bonazzi estate abruptly went out.
At the same time, Harry pulled the plugs of the telephones to the mansion and guard posts.
The four trucks rushed up to their positions, one near each corner of the walls. It was eleven fifty-five. Dominic leaped out of the cab. By the time he reached the rear of the truck, the back doors were open, the men hooking unloading ramps in place. An engine started inside and seconds later a cherry picker rumbled out and down the ramp. Quickly the rifleman armed with the infrared scope climbed into the bucket. Dominic and one of his men sat on its sides. At once the operator started the bucket upward. The three men were lifted above the wall and the barbed wire. The operator drove forward, moving the bucket over the obstacle. Dominic and his man dropped to the ground. They heard the crack of a rifle as the sharpshooter overhead fired at a figure crouching at one side. Dominic saw the figure fall. The sharpshooter gave a low command and the bucket was withdrawn, reappearing in seconds with the other two team members. They dropped to join Dominic and his man.
The sharpshooter fired twice in quick succession to his front. Three of Bonazzi’s gunmen were running towards them. One threw up his arms and fell.
“Let’s go!” cried Dominic, charging at the remaining two men. Silenced pistols popping, the four advanced towards the enemy. The returning shots sounded loud in the quiet night. One of attackers gave a high pitched cry and went down, then Dominic was on the last of the three. His first shot caught the man directly in the middle of his face.
“This way!” he ordered, hurrying his men towards the center of the lawn in the park. A group emerged out of the dark from their right hand side.
“Here’s Number Two,” came a low call.
“Okay, Eddie, come on in,” said Dominic. Four men trotted up. “How did you make out?”
“Great,” said the Beret leading the team. “We surprised the shit out of them. We got two, but one took off like a greased assed bat. He’s probably got the house alerted by now.”
The putt-putt sounds of helicopters came to their ears.
“Get into position,” said Dominic.
The men made a large circle and turned beams of their flashlights skyward. The putt-putts grew louder. Two helicopters appeared above the circle. Bright landing lights flashed on as they settled down. Once aground, the lights were extinguished. By the time the propellers slowed, the doors opened, Paul and Boranski leading out their twenty men.
Paul trotted over to his brother. “All okay?”
“Prima.” He raised his walkie-talkie. “Report Number Three.”
“Okay this side. Ran into one of their people who fought like a bastard. Finally got him, but one of my boys and the scopeman are hit.”
“Take your positions around the house. Make sure nobody slips out. Number One. What’s your report?”
“We didn’t run upon anybody.”
“That’s good luck. Tie in with Number Three. Keep everything bottled up.” He looked over at Paul. “I still don’t understand why you used ‘copters. We could have opened the gates for you.”
“The cherry pickers and sniperscopes worked. If they hadn’t, we would still be outside in the trucks. But be careful. Bonazzi is reported to have twenty odd men about. We’ve gotten seven or so. That means the others are forted up.”
Dominic pushed the transmission button. “Baby Brown, how are things there?”
Ron and his assistant in the manhole were working furiously hooking up a jumper cable to the two ends burned apart. Ron grabbed up the walkie-talkie. “It’s coming along. We’ve finished the high voltage splice. A few more minutes.”
“Report in when it’s ready.”
Paul signaled for the men to move forward. Quickly they walked over the snow towards the mansion, their guns at the ready. From the windows faint lights moved about.
“No emergency generator,” grunted Paul with satisfaction. “Looks like candles and flashlights.”
Nearer to the huge, dark building moved the mass of men. Dominic nudged Paul. “We should go through the windows. That front door looks like it’s solid oak.”
Paul nodded. “We’ve planned for that.” Actually, the plan so far had worked better than he had hoped for. The sounds of the shooting were not great, and probably didn’t carry far enough to arouse the distant neighbors. Having a cold night also helped, by keeping windows closed. The noise of the ‘copters certainly received some interest. But nobody was going to notify the police simply because he heard putt-putts. Now it was a different ball game, though. Now the chips were down. Stealth was no longer possible. It was brute force that circumstances dictated, and odds of two to one against a fortified building weren’t overly favorable.
Dominic was peering through the moonlight at Anthony’s figure. He nudged Paul again. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“No dice, Number Six. Get him out of here.”
“I’m staying, Dom,” came the low voice of Anthony.
“We’ve got all we need to worry about. Go back to the ‘copters.”
Paul touched Dominic’s arm. “Let him be. He’s made up his mind.”
Dominic’s walkie-talkie sounded. He lifted it to his lips. “Number Four here.”
“Baby Brown here. We can give you light whenever you want.”
“Great. I’ll tell you when.”
“All right, men,” said Paul loudly. “Let’s go.”
Silently the teams rushed for the windows of the mansion. Glass shattered as gunmen inside broke panes to fire at the figures crossing the snow. Dominic ran for the shelter of a corner of the building, his seven men directly behind. He looked back. Three of Paul’s group were lying on the snow, two crawling out of the fight. Trails of blood stretched out behind them.
On hands and knees he scurried around the side of the building and began crawling towards the rear. A burst of shots sounded from overhead. One of his men cried out. He glanced up. A gunman was leaning out of a second story window with a submachine gun in his hands. He fired another burst. Eddie, the Beret, fell over, his legs kicking at the ground. Rasps came from his throat as air escaped from shattered lungs.
Dominic leveled his shotgun and fired. The submachine gun dropped from the gunman’s hands. Quickly Dominic stepped away from the wall to find a better angle and fired again. The gunman staggered back from the window out of sight.
Dominic motioned to a first floor window ten feet ahead. Two of his men ran forward, poked their shotgun barrels through the glass and fired blindly. Dominic slipped up with a grenade in his hand.
“Down!” he commanded, throwing the bomb into the room. He hugged the wall until it exploded. Knocking out more of the glass, he hopped inside. He was in a sitting room. The scent of burnt gunpowder and hot steel filled the air. Behind him, the remaining five men crawled through the window.
He heard Paul’s voice on the walkie-talkie and unhooked it from his belt. “Number Four here.”
“We can use light now. Where are you?”
“I’m in the sitting room on the far side of the house. How are you making out?”
“We’re in two rooms, but it’s costing us.”
“Okay, lights on.” He switched channels. “Hey, Baby Brown, turn it on.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the room was lit up. Dominic peered about. A man’s body was lying behind a sofa. Dominic signaled one
of his men to check him out. The man moved forward cautiously, glanced over the sofa, then motioned with a finger across his throat. Dominic walked to the door. He stood to one side as he eased it open. The panel was suddenly riddled with submachine gun bullets. He switched off the lights, throwing his room into darkness, then pulled the door wide. Across a darkened hall were steps leading up to the second floor. Dominic made signs to one of his men, then dove through the doorway and rolled to the left. Bullets churned up the floor beside him, throwing carpeting and wood into his face. His man began firing at the flicks of light from the submachine gun. The gunmen turned the weapon on him. From the corner of his eye, Dominic saw his man fly back into the room. Another of his men edged to the doorway and opened fire. The submachine gun abruptly went quiet. At once Dominic jumped up and ran to the foot of the stairs. A man was kneeling halfway up the steps, fitting a new magazine to his gun. At less than fifteen feet, Dominic blasted him twice, sending him tumbling down dead.
From the sounds of battle on the other side of the mansion, he could tell that Paul and Boranski were not getting up the front staircase.
Calling to his men, he started up. A dim light was gleaming as he reached the top. This was the servant’s quarters, he saw. He kicked open a door. A bedroom with a table lamp burning. Nobody inside. He motioned to one of the three men left to open the next door. Standing to one side the man nudged it open. Dominic rolled inside, his shotgun at the ready. There was no sound. His man flicked on the light. Also empty.
Down the hallway they went, finding two more rooms vacant. The last one was locked. Dominic, reloading as he went along, used his pistol to blast it open.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 36
