Mary Dear - Redux Page 27

  Amparo and her niece were in the kitchen when the same man who had come in before told them that Don Esteban had said to prepare the coffee as soon as possible. As he was leaving he looked at Ana and winked. Ana’s heart missed a beat. The time was drawing near. It was time to speak to her aunt.

  Twenty minutes later, three men came in to collect the trays they had prepared and took them to the living room. Ana’s admirer was not among them.

  Ana opened the kitchen door and peered out. The large living room door was closed. There were the muffled sounds of men arguing coming from inside. There was no one in the corridor. Everyone must be outside. She turned back to look inside the kitchen; her aunt was just behind her. Ana reached inside her apron and unwrapped the mobile she had been given. She did as she was told. She moved a small lever that freed a red button and pressed it. Inside the living room, Signor Puglia’s brilliant golden reproduction stood looking serenely on the agitated meeting that was taking place; deep inside her, the Virgin’s heart was beating.

  Ana and Amparo went out of the front door and ran into Ana’s admirer.

  ‘Where are you two going?’

  The two women looked flustered but Ana decided to play to her strength.

  ‘Don Esteban has said that his guests will be staying to dinner. We have to go into town to buy more provisions but we need someone to take us,’ she said smiling at him. He didn’t have to be asked twice, he opened the front door of his Toyota 4X4 and held it open for Ana while Amparo sat in the back. He got behind the wheel and drove out of La Cañada heading for the town’s local shops.

  They had been to the butcher and now the women were in the greengrocer when it happened. A dull boom like a giant crack of thunder echoed across the town rattling windows and making everyone stop and stare into the distance. From the direction of La Cañada, a black cloud had started to form.

  The driver of the 4x4 was looking at it; his brow furrowed, and anxiously turned his head towards the shop searching for the women, hoping they had heard the blast and would come out to see what had happened. The cloud was growing taller and blacker. Where the hell were they? He ran into the shop but the women weren’t there. He ran back out. He had to get back to the house.

  Inside what had been the living room the scene was one of utter devastation. The force of the explosion blew the windows out sending a shower of broken glass flying out in all directions. Simultaneously a fire had started that, left unchecked, threatened to become an inferno. The bodyguards who’d been nearest the house were blown ten feet by the force of the explosion. Their ears were bleeding from the force of the blast, the pain unbearable, faces cut and bruised from the flying glass shards. Others who’d been further away had been luckier and, when they felt the hot wave hit them, were able to turn away. They had not yet taken in what had happened. As soon as they realized that their bosses were in the room that had just blown up, they ran towards the house. Bursting into the room, the first thing that hit them was the searing heat, that and the sprinklers that had come on making it feel as if they’d walked into a tropical storm in the middle of hell.

  The sight that greeted them was one of carnage. There were bodies and body parts strewn everywhere. The men picked their way amidst the wreckage holding soaked handkerchiefs to their faces while angry red flames licked the walls devouring the furniture, curtains and icons that had adorned the room and everything else in their path. The intense heat and acrid smell was overpowering. Thick black smoke clouds were curling up the walls and spreading across the ceiling, sucking the oxygen out of the room making it difficult to breathe. The walls and floor were spattered and slippery with blood and smeared with what looked like entrails, guts and brains. The Gold Virgin had completely disappeared and the walls and ceiling glistened with the light reflected by hundreds of gemstones and chunks of gold buried in them. Some of the faces of the corpses were shredded and unrecognizable while others had simply melted into a mass of featureless flesh.

  A decapitated head had ended up on top of the shattered piano, staring sightlessly at the ceiling; its grotesque mouth devoid of lips wore a hideous twisted grin. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the sprinklers and the men shouting and cursing as they searched amongst the devastation for anyone resembling their bosses.

  In the end they left the room, forced to give up, driven away by the heat and the flames. The sight that they had been forced to witness and the stench of death would live with them for many months to come.

  Jim McFadden had known about the operation and was flying over the farm when the bomb exploded. Even from a height of 3,000 feet and in the closed cockpit of the Catalina he had heard the explosion and seen the column of black smoke rising up into the sky. He circled once. He could see people running around in all directions. It looked chaotic. Part of the roof was missing but from that altitude and with the smoke it was impossible to get any detail. In the distance he could see a convoy of fire engines approaching the farm followed by what looked like police vehicles, their blue lights flashing. He turned away heading to a prearranged place where he would land the plane. A car would be waiting and an airline ticket. Pretty soon he would leave Medallin, his mission accomplished. He felt happy and his thoughts turned to his brother. The drugs barons had paid. It wasn’t enough, he thought, but it was something. Looking at the convoy as it arrived at La Cañada he was sure that whatever else they might find, one thing was certain, everyone in the room was dead.

  The first to pick up the news was Radio Tiempo in Medellin. They had received a phone call from an anonymous source saying that there had been an explosion at a big hacienda and that there were many dead. He had hung up before they had had a chance to get any further information out of him. They had interrupted the program to report the breaking news and immediately had sent a reporter to get closer to the scene to see what else he could discover.

  A Journalist at El Colombiano was listening to the radio and ran into the editor’s office. Pretty soon he was on his way to La Cañada to investigate and send his report back to the paper. The same had happened with the TV stations and Tele Medellin and CNC Medellin were on the case. The first the rest of the world heard about it was when CNN picked it up and ran the story.

  ‘...The home of Don Esteban Blanco, a wealthy farmer and industrialist, has been destroyed by a fire that started after a huge explosion. The cause of the explosion is, as yet, unknown. Fire services and the police are in attendance.’

  Ed Garrett placed a call to Andrew Renfrew who was back at his desk in Scotland Yard.

  ‘Have you heard?’ He said as soon as he answered.

  ‘I’m watching it on CNN now. What do we know?’

  ‘Seems everyone’s dead,’ said Garrett, ‘but we’ll know more when we talk to our man on the ground; that won’t be long now.’ They talked some more on the need to meet as soon as possible. When Garrett hung up he got a call from Dwayne Young.

  ‘Hi Ed, I’m getting a lot of information coming in now from our field office. Some disturbing news,’ he said, ‘It’s not confirmed but it appears that Blanco might have survived.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Ed was saying, his voice alarmed. ‘He couldn’t have, everyone in that room would have died instantly.’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said ‘but that’s what I’m hearing. He might have stepped out of the room and been elsewhere. If he was he’s one lucky son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘Where’s your information coming from?’

  ‘We’ve got one of the bodyguards on the payroll. He was there. Says he saw Blanco come out of the house. He was white as a sheet, shaking with rage, his face a mask of fury. Says he’s never seen him like it and wouldn’t want to be within a mile of him at this moment.’

  ‘Fuck! What the hell am I going to tell the DOI? I’m due there tomorrow morning.’

  ‘We’re all in the same boat. We need to meet ASAP.’

  ‘I think it’s going to have to wait until I get back from Langle
y, unless you want to come over.’

  ‘That might be the best idea. I’ll get a flight and see you there.’

  Their brains were buzzing with half bits of information and speculation. The situation had the makings of a gigantic cock-up.

  Elliott could not contain his excitement but he didn’t have to wait long. Soon a man in overalls arrived and went over to a forklift, got in and shot off at speed down an aisle. He came back ten minutes later with a timber crate roughly the size of a large coffin. Our Lady of Lima, thought Elliott. Excitement began to take hold of him; he felt a surge of adrenaline as he stared at the crate and imagined its precious contents.

  He’d been busy studying the crate and didn’t notice that the forklift driver had returned carrying a much larger timber crate crisscrossed with metal tapes like the smaller one and secured with metal seals that would have to be broken in order to get inside and view the contents.

  The forklift driver walked over to the agent and spoke to him briefly.

  ‘Well, these are it. Would you like to open them now?’

  Elliott was standing next to Tim and looking at the driver. Tim turned to him.

  ‘It’s your property,’ he said, ‘so it’s your call. Want to open them now?’

  ‘Do bears shit in the woods?’ he wanted to say. Instead he just nodded and the driver went over to the forklift to get some tools and then set to work.

  First to open was the smaller crate. The figure had been wrapped in a soft material and protected with polystyrene pellets that now cascaded to the floor at its feet like a small avalanche. Tim joined in with a pair of small wire cutters that he used to cut the thin bonds securing the outer wrapping. When it came off the four men gasped, their eyes transfixed by a sight that was truly mesmerizing. The forklift driver crossed himself, his eyes staring in disbelief. Tim and Elliott were awed. The fact was that the Gold Virgin and Child statue was even more beautiful here than they had remembered it when they’d last seen it buried in the wreckage of the Mary Dear. The warehouse light was catching its sides and bouncing of the various gems. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds refracted light turning the warehouse into a makeshift grotto. The Gold Train loot was bound to be a disappointment after this, thought Elliott but still he had an almost morbid curiosity to view its contents.

  The man in overalls was working hard again. Armed with a crowbar, he was now taking the outer casing apart helped by Tim with the wire cutters. What was now revealed was the crate Elliott and Tim had seen at the bottom of the sea near Cocos Island. It had the stencilled numbers around the side as well as the sinister swastika markings. It was a thrilling sight. They couldn’t help but think of the journey it had made from war-torn Nazi Germany to end up in a warehouse in Panama City.

  Elliott approached it slowly. The others stood back, almost reverentially. This was his moment. More than any other, this was it. He was about to see for the first time what until now he had only been able to imagine. The treasure that had cost Edward Hannah his life. He turned around to face the others and saw them smiling back and waiting for him to proceed. The lid was hinged on one side and had a large padlock that would need to be removed. Elliott turned to the forklift man, who handed him the crowbar. No one else was going to rob him of this moment. Elliott inserted the large crowbar between the padlock and the ring attaching it to the crate. He pushed hard. Nothing. It didn’t budge. He looked around; everyone was looking at him; their faces excited, expectant. He turned back and applied more pressure. This time he felt it move, heard the metal crick and then with another mighty push followed by a large crack like a pistol shot, the padlock flew off and Elliott turned around to see a bunch of happy people clapping at him.

  Elliott turned back and inserted the crowbar between the crate and the lid. It was heavy but he was able to lever it slightly. He got his hands underneath and lifted the lid, pulling it open he sent it swinging in an arch exposing its contents.

  Elliott stood motionless, his hands and feet felt like lead, his heart had stopped and his head was spinning. His eyes were staring inside Göring’s coffer trying to understand what he was seeing. Where were the treasures from the Gold Train? The fabulous paintings and the gold ornaments that Dieter had described? What had happened to them? But no answers came, only questions as he beheld a terrifying sight.

  Clamped to the base of the crate with large steel nuts and bolts and occupying most of its area was what appeared to be a torpedo warhead. It rose up from the base reaching almost to the top of the crate. Black and shinny it stood open; its outer casing removed; it revealed its evil heart. A tangle of thick wires were visible going from one obscure place to another but just three emerged from the casing, connected to three separate terminals by large brass wing-nuts they led to a large old- fashioned mechanical clock that had been bolted to the inside of the crate. The three wires were colour-coded, red, black and blue. The moment he’d opened the lid and revealed its frightful contents the clock’s second hand began sweeping around the large white dial...TICK...TICK...TICK...

  Elliott was transfixed. He could not speak, the hand swept past the 15-second mark before he knew it and then 30 seconds and on it went TICK...TICK...TICK counting the seconds to the inevitable end and still he could not move, the effect of the hand’s jerky movement was hypnotic. Elliott’s mind raced to try to make sense of it all. He was attempting to fit the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle whose final picture he would not live to see. As it neared the 50-second mark he tried to think of something memorable, something out of his short life that he could cling to; the image of his mother putting him to bed, his father reading him a bedside story seeped into his mind. He was calm, resigned, accepting the cruel joke that some unknown person had decided to play on him. A hand suddenly appeared over his right shoulder; it held a pair of wire-cutters. The hand moved swiftly, expertly and cut the black wire stopping the hand with five seconds to go...TICK.

  Elliott felt Tim’s hand on his shoulder and jumped as if he’d received an electric shock. He heard Tim say.

  ‘Lucky I’m the curious type, isn’t it?’

  Sitting at his desk in Scotland Yard, Andrew Renfrew faced a problem. Did he tell Natalia that Blanco was alive or not? Whichever way he looked at it he wasn’t sure, it was a case of damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He knew that the chances of Blanco turning up in the UK were small but he did have money and resources and his hand might have a very long reach. If he told her, whichever way he put it, she’d be spooked and that was putting it mildly—terrified would be a more appropriate word. Still he had to do something. Morally the decision was clear and he was sure that he would have to tell her. It was just a matter of getting the timing right.

  In Miami, Cathleen was in the living room of her Bal Harbor apartment amidst the trappings of wealth and luxury. She was devastated. Esperanza had her arm around her and was crying too as were Flor and Irene. They had been walking around a mall doing some last minute shopping when they’d see their house on a large TV screen with the CNN banner headline scrolling underneath. There was no sound but something terrible had happened so they had hurried out of the mall to their waiting car. They had arrived at their apartment and switched on the TV immediately. The news was bad. They had tried to call La Cañada but the lines were down. Cathleen tried Esteban’s mobile and got his voicemail message instead. The sound of his voice got her crying again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon Cheshire’s phone rang; the voice on the other end was that of a man he knew well. The double agent known as Wilber Brown—though his real name was different and he had not used it in many years—was a trusted contact controlled by MI6 to spy on the KGB. Cheshire used him with discretion because he knew where his true loyalties lay. Wilber wanted to meet. Said it was important so they agreed to meet at 3pm that afternoon at Mr Mathew Jones’s place. Cheshire checked his watch. He still had time to grab a sandwich and a coffee before the meeting. Jones’s place wasn’t far.

  He got a
cab and asked to be dropped off at the Hyde Park Gate entrance and entered Kensington Gardens at 2.50. He walked the short distance to a park bench and sat down next to a middle-aged man wearing spectacles and smoking a pipe.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Cheshire greeted him with a friendly smile.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he replied, ‘most kind of you to see me at such short notice.’

  ‘You said it was important.’

  ‘It is. The chaps at KGB headquarters are very worried. Seems they’ve lost an asset that they are keen to get back or, failing that, neutralize.’

  ‘That’s the Russians for you,’ Cheshire said; ‘subtlety is not their style.’

  ‘Not their nature, more like, however, this asset has been asked to carry out a most dangerous mission; one that could have serious political repercussions.’

  ‘And they’ve had a change of heart?’

  ‘Precisely. Now, it appears that when they refer to their asset as lost a more accurate description would be “misplaced”, but it has become a matter of the utmost urgency to find him and, as I said before, neutralize him by whichever means are possible.’

  ‘I see...’ Cheshire said, ‘and how might we be of assistance?’

  ‘Someone familiar with this asset’s M.O. has had a hunch.’

  ‘A hunch,’ Cheshire repeated to himself and to the man he said, ‘what exactly might that be?’

  Cheshire left the bench that was dedicated to the memory of Mr Mathew Jones, leaving Smith puffing on his pipe. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He took out his mobile and called Jake Scott.

  Grigori got to the outskirts of London and found a small repair garage. He left the car with them, saying that he wanted a full service. He gave a false name, address and telephone number. He told the owner that he would be going abroad and would return in one week. That would give him plenty of time to carry out the service. On his return he would collect the car and pay for the work.