London Stormbird

by Martin J Cobb

  It stated quite unequivocally that they wanted his Mercedes as it appeared to be a unique survivor, hitherto unknown to have even existed. As such it must be restored by the factory and become part of their collection. They didn’t offer to purchase it, what they wanted was for Tom to donate it. When he read that Tom almost dropped his coffee cup onto it’s saucer spilling coffee onto the tablecloth choking in disbelief, how could they be so arrogant? He read on. What they appeared to be offering though was, on the face of it, quite astonishing. They would take both Messerschmitts and restore them to the highest standards, one as a static exhibit for the museum and the other fully flight certified to Tom’s specification. They would do this totally free of charge in exchange for the Mercedes.

  Tom rattled off a brief reply to this email requesting a phone call between 9 and 10 if possible that morning to discuss and gave them his phone number. That would give him time to discuss with Claire and Heinrich beforehand. He poured another coffee as the newly arrived kitchen staff started setting up for breakfast and laying out the buffet. The wonderful smell of cooked bacon wafted across reminding Tom that time was getting on. He packed up the laptop and departed the restaurant to return to his room and Claire.

  “And where have you been at un-Godly o’clock in the morning?” Claire mumbled through the duvet as Tom slid back into bed.

  “Downstairs drinking coffee, there’s been an interesting development which we need to discuss.”

  “Mmm, later!” Claire replied rolling over to nestle against Tom’s shoulder, “I need a proper good morning before that.”

  Some time later, whilst Claire was tending to her ablutions in the bathroom Tom’s phone rang.

  “Morning. I’ve had a rather strange email from the Mercedes Museum offering to restore the Messerschmitt gratis. Do you know anything about this?” Heinrich sounded genuinely confused.

  “We need to talk about this, how about breakfast in 30 minutes?”

  Tom hung up the phone and marched towards the bathroom where he could hear Claire just exiting the shower. He called out as he opened the door that they needed to hurry as he’d arranged breakfast in 30 minutes. Walking through the doorway he suddenly wished he’d arranged breakfast for a little later. Claire was standing naked facing the long mirror and tying her hair behind her head, an action which accentuated her lithe body.

  Tom dived straight into the shower setting it colder than normally would have been comfortable.

  28 minutes later all three of them were seated in the restaurant with juice and coffees in front of them.

  Heinrich had received an abbreviated version of Tom’s email which just suggested a deal could be arranged for the free restoration of the museum’s Messerschmitt without going into details. Tom then read out to them both the version he’d received.

  “On the face of it this sounds like a great deal however Heinrich, you especially will seriously lose out personally if we were to accept. We have a deal to split the proceeds of the Mercedes equally between us however if we donate it to the museum obviously the only proceeds would be the free restoration of your museum’s aircraft and also mine.”

  Claire looked at Tom and appeared to be about to say something then decided against it. Tom caught the look. “I know you’d lose as well, but it’s not quite the same as we would share whatever I get out of all this, anyway.”

  Heinrich quickly interjected. “Thank you for your concern but I have an idea. We have a fairly substantial reserve storage facility at the museum stocked with a great many items potentially available for trade. Amongst this I know we have a brand new, old stock Focke Wulf Fw190 propellor assembly with a probable value of something like €100,000. In exchange for the restoration of the Messerschmitt the museum would be more than willing to release this to you for your aircraft. If you can then make, shall we say, a contribution to me from the proceeds of your 5% of the recovered gold’s value we all come out winners.”

  Tom didn’t need time to consider the offer, he held out his hand for the customary handshake to seal their arrangement. Turning to Claire he explained, “I would have to buy the prop for the Focke Wulf anyway so this really works for me. It gets Heinrich here something for his efforts, the museum gets a beautiful original Messerschmitt Me262 to say nothing of the Arado and you, my love, get me.” Seeing the hard glint in Claire’s eyes as she opened her mouth for what he fully expected was going to be a well-justified tongue lashing he continued, “and of course half of everything I personally make from this whole deal.”

  “I was not going to say anything about your arrangement with Heinrich which I completely understand. What I was going to say is that you shouldn’t count your chickens. You haven’t actually received your 5% yet, and it might be a long time before you do, if ever. You haven’t even spoken to the Mercedes Museum and you seem to have forgotten a certain Russian of our acquaintance who, I’m told by my watcher, is still in the area somewhere causing havoc. The Mercedes at the heart of the deal went off on a truck yesterday but could be anywhere for all you know and who’s saying somebody won’t suddenly make a legal claim on it?”

  Tom looked at Claire. “Blimey, have faith. We’re going to check the Mercedes out this morning as soon as we’ve had breakfast. I trust the Austrian government to do the right thing by way of the 10% payment and I fully expect the Mercedes Museum to call me sometime this morning.” Absolutely on cue Tom’s phone rang.

  The conversation with the Director of the Mercedes Museum was detailed and wide-ranging requiring Tom to scribble various notes in ballpoint on the paper napkins which were now strewn across the table. Claire and Heinrich listened intently and tried to read Tom’s notes but still couldn't fully grasp the details from the one side of the conversation they could hear. Tom said his goodbyes after several minutes and placed the phone down on the table.

  “Well?” Claire and Heinrich said, almost in unison.

  “The Director has confirmed the details of the outline agreement as it was put to us. He is flying down from Stuttgart this morning and wants us to meet him at the heliport in Bormio at noon to show him the Mercedes. If the car meets his expectations, he will sign the contract there and then and make all the arrangements to move the car to Stuttgart. He wants the details of where the two Messerschmitts can be collected from as well as he intends to organise their transport as well almost immediately. Both you and I will need to go to Stuttgart to meet his team once they’ve had a chance to evaluate the two aircraft to discuss the fine details of their restoration.”

  Claire and Heinrich refilled their coffees while Tom heaped mountains of scrambled egg, bacon, sausages and toast onto a plate.

  “We need to get moving. We have to check on the Mercedes, sort out the garage people and find the heliport. You can’t sit here all morning stuffing your face.” Claire admonished.

  Tom’s response was to fork another huge mouthful of bacon and egg into his mouth.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Russian Roulette

  Tom parked their car on the forecourt of the surprisingly large VW dealership in Bormio and all three of them walked into the glass-fronted showroom and headed straight for the office at the rear. The smartly dressed young salesman was blatantly disappointed when they explained that they were not in the market for a new car but were here to inspect a particularly old one. He picked up his desk phone and called a colleague who appeared seconds later in overalls and beckoned them to follow through the rear of the showroom into the service area behind. In the unlit far corner of the busy workshop they could see the unmistakable shape of the Mercedes hidden under a grubby dust-sheet with just the lower parts of its spoked wheels and flat tyres visible. They followed the man across the floor who grabbed one corner of the dust-sheet gesturing for Heinrich to take the other side and they peeled it back over the car and off the back. Tom and Claire stood staring at the battered car which looked particularly sad compared to the gleaming new cars it was sharing space with. Despite this, Tom thought
it still looked majestic with with its prominent radiator and the swooping curves of its bodywork. Claire set about photographing every aspect of the car from every conceivable angle. Tom opened the bonnet and checked the data plates mounted on the bulkhead which confirmed it as a product of the Mercedes Sindelfingen facility. He counted the spark plug leads to confirm that it was indeed a V12 configuration rather than the straight 8 of it’s more normal contemporaries. Heinrich went off in search of the Manager to explain their itinerary and the imminent arrival of the man from Mercedes. Tom followed the line of bullet holes across the rear of the car absently poking a finger into one as he imagined the likely trajectories of the bullets. One had gone through the spare wheel tyre and exited underneath, another two through the rear deck also exiting underneath and the last into the rear wing exiting in the rear wheel arch and obviously just missing the tyre. This appeared to be the one that had done the fatal damage though. Tom could see that in its travel through the rear of the Mercedes it had just grazed the top of the fuel tank hitting the joint between tank and filler pipe which had shattered and in turn pieces had punctured the side of the tank in several places. It was an absolute miracle the car hadn’t burst into flames but the damage done had obviously drained out its remaining fuel. Tom carefully inspected the interior and the dicky seat recess for any further items they may have missed but found nothing of particular interest apart from another loaded magazine for the Schmeisser which he put in his backpack. When Heinrich returned Claire pronounced that she had enough pictures, so they re-covered the car and left the showroom.

  “Well, we have a couple of hours until we need to get to the heliport which is just a ten-minute walk from here. I need to find a coffee and some wireless connection. I have to send a report to the museum with the proposals, get formal permission to release the Messerschmitt to the Mercedes Museum and a host of other boring administrative things. I’ll walk to the heliport and see you there at 12.” And with that Heinrich turned on his heels and marched off towards a nearby cafe.

  “I have to find a shop or pharmacy to get a few things.” Claire said, “you coming?”

  “I guess so, I could do with walking off some of that breakfast.”

  They walked away from the garage towards the centre of the town in search of shops. Standing at the kerb side waiting to cross the road Tom felt a sharp nudge in his back and half turned automatically. Before he could remonstrate with the culprit the tall, well-dressed man standing immediately behind hissed venomously, “We meet at last Mr Tom Stroud. If you want your delightful companion Miss Owens to retain her beauty, do exactly as I say.”

  “Urosov!” Tom spat recognising the voice and took a step backwards away from Vassili Urosov who he could now see held a handgun in front of him pointed unwaveringly at Tom plus a wicked-looking knife in the other hand with the point almost touching Claire’s lower back.

  “What do you want?”

  Vassili Urosov barked a brief, forced laugh which was immediately replaced by a sneer.

  “What do I want? I would like the documents you deprived me of back in France but there’s little chance of that now is there. I will settle for those boxes of Uranium 235 you unearthed with that motor car where have they gone?”

  “The Austrian Authorities have removed the boxes we found and presumably put them into safe storage somewhere but I have no idea where, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

  “You will find out and help me retrieve them.” Vassili Urosov stated matter-of-factly.

  “Don’t be stupid, we don’t have any control over what the Austrian Government or even the slightest influence, I wouldn’t have a clue who to contact anyway.”

  Urosov dropped his voice lower, “You both had better hope you find a way to comply with my demand or you will never leave this town alive.”

  As he had delivered this threat Tom noticed that Claire had shifted forward a few inches away from Urosov and slightly turned her body to the right. In a sudden blur of movement she spun round striking Urosov’s knife hand with heel of her left hand following it up with a deft kick to his wedding tackle which caused him to fold almost in half with both hands holding the centre of his discomfort and fall to the pavement, groaning, the knife now discarded but somehow still hanging on to the gun.

  “Well, help me out then!” Claire shouted at Tom as she prepared to follow up with a kick to Urosov’s head as he started to raise himself back up. Tom, stunned out of his temporary catatonic state by her shout pulled his arm back to swing a punch at his head when a shot rang out.

  Tom involuntarily shouted, “No!” naturally assuming the worst but his fist continued to swing in its long arc towards Vassili Urosov’s head. He was slightly bemused when he completely missed and almost overbalanced as Urosov sank to the floor and out of range. Claire emitted a strangled shriek and Tom was aware of her falling down as he toppled backwards. Regaining his balance he turned towards the tangle of limbs on the pavement and the rapidly spreading red pool that Claire appeared to be lying in. To the right of the bodies on the pavement Tom caught a glimpse of Urosov’s gun in the gutter where it had landed after being kicked by Claire. Tom dived for the ground to see where Claire had been shot.

  “Claire, talk to me, where are you hit?”

  “Get this bloody Russian off me, his elbow is stuck right in my boob.”

  Tom grabbed the unmoving Urosov by his upper arm and hauled him off Claire who was on her back with blood all over the front of her sweatshirt. “Where are you hit?” Tom repeated anxiously.

  “It’s not me, it’s him.” Claire pointed at the body of Vassili Urosov crumpled on the pavement.

  “You shot him!” Tom stated.

  “Don’t be daft, I don’t even have my gun with me.”

  Claire stood facing Tom with a very confused look on her face which rapidly turned to anger.

  “So who the hell did? And just look what the bastard’s done to my favourite top, it’s totally ruined.”

  A wave of relief washed over Tom who grabbed Claire’s face in both of his and kissed her hard on the lips. Claire briefly responded and then suddenly broke off as she saw the man walking quite casually, but purposely, across the road towards them. Tom spun round to look at the man as he approached. Athletically built and with distinct Mediterranean type colouring he wore smart casual trousers and a pink Polo shirt. With dark slightly wavy hair and a large, rather hooked nose. Tom decided he must be of Arab extraction.

  The man approached, gave Tom and Claire a brief and very disinterested glance and bent down and placed a finger on Urosov’s neck. Presumably not finding a pulse after almost a minute he stood up, apparently satisfied and calmly walked away back across the road without a word or even a backward glance in their direction.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Tom said.

  “I have to get out of these clothes.” Claire said starting to gingerly remove her sweatshirt, “I need to get back to the hotel.”

  “We can’t just leave the scene of a shooting.” Tom said aghast at her suggestion.

  Before an argument could develop the distant sound of sirens became much louder as two police cars suddenly appeared at the end of the road closely followed by an ambulance. Tom looked around and could see that a small group of people had congregated a distance away unsure whether it was safe or prudent to approach the blood-soaked couple and the body lying on the pavement.

  It took almost an hour to convince the police that they were not actually terrorists intent on armed insurrection. Their protests were somewhat hampered by the discovery of the Schmeisser magazine in Tom’s backpack. This necessitated an officer checking out their fanciful story about the Mercedes and visiting the garage to verify its existence. A forensic inspection at the scene had uncovered a rifle cartridge case in an alleyway opposite the scene of the shooting and a witness who stated they’d seen the man Tom and Claire had described as the assassin. The arrival of Heinrich, who flashed his government ID to anybody wh
o would care to glance at it, gave them a little respectability and credibility as victims rather than perpetrators. Heinrich had taken the rental car and collected the Mercedes Museum Director as arranged from the heliport and taken him to the garage for his inspection. His arrival at the police station, with the Director in tow, was sufficient to satisfy the Commandant of Tom and Claire’s innocence in the matter of the shooting and he allowed them to depart on the promise that they didn’t leave Bormio without consulting him first. They had all decided it would be prudent not to mention the fact that they actually knew the victim and there was something of a history of conflict between them. As far as everybody was concerned it looked like a contract killing, especially when they identified Urosov and received background information from the British MI6 and the ICPO - Interpol concerning Vassili Urosov’s recent activities and the likely reason for his presence here in Bormio.

  The heliport was conveniently sited adjacent to a hotel which is where the whole party retired to after a brief halt for Claire to change out of her stained clothes. Sitting in the lounge bar with an empty bottle of champagne on the table they toasted each other in celebration of having signed the contract that the Director of the Mercedes Museum had produced. After a flurry of phone calls the Director announced that the Mercedes would be collected the following day from the garage and both Messerschmitts would be properly packed into several 40’ containers in Linz and onward shipped on the instructions of the Mercedes Museum. Pronouncing himself satisfied, the Director finished the last of his champagne and departed. Within minutes they all heard the racket of the helicopter spooling up and then departing in a lazy turn to the North.