‘Now look at them! See all that blood? It came from my men. Do you understand what I’m saying? Their blood is on your hands.’
Krueger glanced at his hands, confused. Despite a little grime, they were relatively clean. ‘Blood? I don’t see blood on my hands.’
Payne fired a single round through Krueger’s right palm. ‘Look closer.’
The German howled in agony as blood gushed from his hand, a painful and debilitating wound that would prevent him from firing a handgun for a very long time. To some, this act could be interpreted as sadistic. To Payne, it was justifiable. If anything, Krueger had gotten off easy for shooting Collins in the head. Then again, Payne was just warming up.
‘What’s your name?’ Payne demanded.
‘Krueger! Max Krueger!’ he cried.
‘Why did you attack us?’
‘Kaiser. We saw Kaiser.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘No one!’
Payne repeated his question. ‘Come on, Max. Who do you work for?’
Krueger shook his head and refused to answer.
‘Fine!’ Payne growled. ‘Show me your feet!’
‘What?’ he wailed.
‘You heard me, Max. I’m going to start with your feet and work my way up. And trust me, I’m not bluffing.’
Krueger nodded in belief. ‘Mueller. His name is Hans Mueller.’
‘And who the fuck is-’
Before Payne could say another word, Richter raised his rifle and fired a single shot into the back of Krueger’s head. Angled towards the river, the bullet went through his skull and continued forward until it hit the canyon wall on the other side of the water. Despite standing several feet away, Payne’s face and clothes were spattered with blood.
This turn of events was so shocking to Payne, he raised his rifle and pointed it at Richter. Suddenly, he didn’t know if he could trust the guy. ‘Drop your weapon!’
‘What?’ he said, confused.
‘Drop your fucking weapon!’
Richter dropped his rifle, then lifted his hands above his head. The look on his face said he was confused. Less confused than Payne, but more confused than Krueger, who was now dead.
Payne stared at him. ‘What the fuck did you do? I was questioning the guy!’
‘I know that, sir, but …’
‘But, what?’
‘I was following orders.’
‘Orders? Whose fucking orders?’
‘Kaiser’s, sir.’
‘Kaiser’s?’ Payne glanced around like he was missing something. Had Richter snapped under pressure? ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Kaiser isn’t here!’
‘I know that, sir. But those were my orders.’
‘From when?’
‘From the moment he hired me.’
Payne stared at Richter. The oaf still had that dumb-ass look on his face. It had been there from the moment they had met. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to explain, then I start firing.’
‘Have you heard of Hans Mueller? He’s Kaiser’s biggest rival.’
‘Go on.’
‘Kaiser told us, if Mueller’s men ever interfered with one of our projects, we were supposed to shoot them immediately. No questions asked. So that’s what I did. I shot him before you could ask him a question.’
Payne’s jaw dropped open. He was possibly staring at the dumbest man in the world. ‘You’ve got to be shitting me!’
‘No, sir. I’d never shit you. I swear to God, those were my orders.’
Payne took a deep breath, stunned by Richter’s stupidity. He honestly didn’t know what to say to him. And even if he did, he was afraid it would be misinterpreted.
Richter frowned. ‘Did I do something wrong, sir?’
Payne sighed and pointed at the body. ‘If you think I’m cleaning that up, you’re crazy. Search him for an ID, then dump him in the river. I need to wipe his brains off my face.’
Richter smiled, relieved to be on his master’s good side. If he had been a dog, he would have wagged his tail and licked Payne’s shoe.
Taking no chances, Payne picked up the extra assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. ‘On the way home, keep your weapon away from me at all times. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m serious, Richter. If I even see your rifle, you’re not going to Oktoberfest.’
45
The lower Eckbauerbahn station was a short walk from the Olympic Ski Stadium where Adolf Hitler opened the 1936 Winter Olympics, the first winter games in history to light the symbolic Olympic flame. Built to hold over 10,000 spectators, the stadium had plenty of parking. On most days, the spaces were filled with family cars and tour buses, not helicopters, so it was easy for Jones to spot the chopper on the far side of the car park as his gondola pulled into the station.
Huber greeted him on the concrete platform. He was trailed by a group of Japanese tourists, who were half the size of the Austrian bodybuilders from the upper station but more than eager to help. Jones grinned at the irony of the situation. Decades earlier, Conrad Ulster, an Austrian philanthropist, had teamed up with a Japanese industrialist to smuggle a van Gogh painting into Germany during World War Two. Now the two countries were teaming up again to smuggle it out, right past a sports stadium built by the Nazis. For Jones, the only thing that would make this better was if a couple of tanks rumbled by.
‘What’s the status on transportation?’ Jones asked.
Huber answered. ‘The ski stadium has a giant plod that’s never used in the summer time. It’s like those ice machines for hockey rinks.’
‘You mean a Zamboni?’
‘If you say so. I don’t speak Italian.’
‘Actually, it’s American. It’s named after the guy who invented it.’
Huber shrugged. ‘Anyhow, the cableway operator said the stadium has something for the ski jump that’s parked in their maintenance garage. He called over there, and they’re pulling it round for us. It should be here any minute.’
‘Is it big enough for Kaiser and the cargo?’
‘According to him, yes. But I haven’t seen it yet.’
Jones glanced into the corner of the station. Kaiser was lying on a wooden bench, still being watched over by the French surgeon. ‘How’s your boss?’
‘Doc says he’ll be fine. He keeps waking up, but he’s loopy as all hell. Probably has a concussion or something.’
‘And the crates made it down okay?’
Huber nodded. ‘They didn’t complain at all.’
Jones smiled. ‘It sounds like everything is running smoothly. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to run across the car park and talk to your pilot. Right now we’re missing a chopper.’
‘No problem, sir. Things are under control.’
Krause pulled into the car park and circled it twice, looking for security guards and potential witnesses. According to the digital clock on his car radio, he had completed the trip from Griesen to the ski stadium in a little less than thirty minutes. Not as fast as he had promised Krueger, but not too shabby considering the unexpected traffic on the Bundesstrasse 23.
Thankfully, the helicopter was right where it was supposed to be. Parked on the far side, it sat in the middle of several empty spaces. The pilot, a middle-aged German with a military haircut and dark aviator sunglasses, stood beside the chopper like the cocky owner of a new Corvette. Every once in a while, he took a cloth out of his back pocket and removed a speck of dirt, whether real or imagined, from the side of his shiny toy. Whether the pilot was killing time or trying to impress tourists, his actions reminded Krause of his stint in the German Army. While Krueger and Krause were busting their humps over treacherous terrain, the pretty flyboys used to swoop into town and dazzle all the frauleins in the local beer halls. No matter what he did or said, he simply couldn’t compete with their tales of aerial assault.