The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani

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       Chapter Eleven

      It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.

      ‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.

      The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’

      ‘Not that I was told about.’

      The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’

      Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’

      ‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’

      ‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’

      ‘I am the boss.’

      Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.

      Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.

      The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.

      ‘What is it?’ Buratti said.

      ‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’

      ‘You’re shitting us.’

      ‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.

      Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’

      ‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do we look like to you?’

      Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.

      The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.

      Buratti backed away in a panic, then let out a wheezing gasp as Bellomo stepped up behind him and buried a combat dagger in his back. He slumped down on top of Ghini.

      Spartak Gourko jumped down from the van. In his hand was the hilt of his knife, a long steel spring protruding where the blade should be. A trophy from his Spetsnaz days. He kicked over the bodies and retrieved the detachable blade from Ghini’s chest. Slipping it into a metal sheath, he compressed it back inside the hilt with an effort before replacing the weapon in his belt.

      Anatoly Shikov jumped out of the van next, followed by the other three Russians, each holding a large black canvas holdall. Strong hands grasped Ghini and Buratti by their collars and belts and bundled them messily into the back of the Mercedes.

      The ornamental slabs and edging stones were lying in a ditch miles away.

      Anatoly slammed the doors shut, peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, checked the dial of his shiny Tag Heuer. Dead on time, the radio gave a splurt and a fizz. He snatched it up. Petrovich’s voice, transmitting from somewhere beyond the woods.

      ‘You’re good to go,’ Petrovich said in Russian. ‘Landline dead?’

      ‘As disco.’

      ‘OK. You and what’s-his-name stand by.’

      ‘Caracciolo. Copy. See you when it’s done, boss.’

      Anatoly СКАЧАТЬ