The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani
what the hell. Anatoly sighed and turned back to the Goya. Raising his Steyr, he was about to whack the protective glass casing when he remembered what that prick Maisky had said about the impregnable security shutters that would come slamming down to seal off the whole place if anyone messed with the artwork. Before it could be taken off the wall they had to enter the three codes to disable the secondary alarm system. Right. Some parts of his father’s plan did make sense.
Anatoly walked back to the side room, swinging his gun as he went. Passing the food table he scooped a handful of stuffed olives from one of the plates he hadn’t blown apart earlier on. He popped it through the mouth hole of his balaclava and chewed noisily as he approached the clustered hostages. Gourko and Rykov were standing over them with their weapons trained menacingly. Turchin was over by the window, refilling a magazine from loose rounds in his pocket. Rocco Massi and one of his guys were slumped in a couple of canvas chairs, holding their guns loosely across their laps. The two Italians Rocco had sent upstairs hadn’t returned yet.
Anatoly popped another olive and surveyed the crowd of frightened faces, feeling supremely in control. His gaze stopped at the young girl who was in the arms of her mother. Her face was hidden by a mass of blond curls, but running his eye down the curve of her body he liked what he saw. The strap of her pretty little dress was just off the shoulder, showing the flimsy bra strap underneath. She couldn’t be more than fifteen, he thought, and wondered if she was still a virgin. A budding little flower, just waiting to be plucked by ol’ Anatoly. Nice. Very nice.
A couple of the hostages gasped in fear as he stepped forward and reached down abruptly to grab the girl’s bare arm. She let out a whimper as she felt his fingers close tightly on her skin. He hauled her away from her mother, yanking her body round so he could see her face. So adorable. He stroked her cheek lightly. It was sticky with half-dried tears, and that really turned him on. He cocked his head a little to the side, looked into those sweet, moist blue eyes and gave her a crooked smile. ‘Later, babe, later,’ he muttered in Russian.
First, though, he had more pressing matters to take care of. He dumped the girl back down on the floor. Scanning the rest of the hostages he quickly picked out the faces of the three men whose photos his father had shown him. ‘You, you and you,’ he said, pointing with his Steyr.
Rocco Massi stood and jerked his thumb at the three men. ‘Get up,’ he barked in Italian. De Crescenzo, Corsini and Silvestri nervously got to their feet, stiff and rumpled from crouching on the floor. The count was deathly pale. Silvestri dusted off his suit and tried to look dignified. Corsini’s chubby face flushed with indignation; he opened his mouth to say something, but it never came out, because Gourko slapped him hard across the face and then grabbed a fistful of his collar and shoved him brutally towards the door. Corsini stumbled, and Anatoly aimed the toe of his boot at those fat buttocks, sending him sprawling on his face through the doorway.
‘There is no need whatsoever for this violence,’ De Crescenzo stammered. ‘Whatever it is you want, we’re more than happy to comply.’
‘Oh, we know that,’ Rocco Massi said. De Crescenzo and Silvestri were prodded through the door at gunpoint as Corsini picked himself up with a moan.
Anatoly pointed at the closed door a few metres along the end wall. ‘Ask them what’s in there,’ he said to Rocco. The big Italian translated. De Crescenzo cleared his throat and replied, ‘That is the office from which we control the security system.’
‘Open it.’
The count fumbled in his pocket, took out a key ring and unlocked the office door. Anatoly shoved it open and led the way inside. The room was small and quite bare, except for a couple of steel filing cabinets, a worktop with a bank of computer equipment and some office chairs.
The three gallery owners were made to sit. Anatoly leaned against a filing cabinet, twirling his weapon. Rocco stepped up to Corsini’s chair, bent down so that his nose was just inches from the man’s sweaty face, and said, ‘Each of you has a separate passcode to disable the secondary alarm system. You have five seconds to enter it.’ He grabbed the back of the chair and wheeled the fat man brusquely over to the worktop. The computer was on standby mode and the screen popped up into life as Rocco nudged its wireless mouse. He tapped a few keys and an empty box opened up, a blinking cursor at its far left inviting someone to enter the code.
‘I won’t do it,’ Corsini mumbled.
‘What did the fucker say?’ Anatoly asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘He says he won’t do it,’ Rocco said.
‘Thought so. We’ll see about that.’ Anatoly walked purposefully past the seated men and out of the office. There was a commotion from next door. Moments later, Anatoly came back into the room, dragging a kicking, screaming woman by the wrist – the girlfriend of the bearded guy whose nose Gourko had broken. Anatoly kicked the office door shut, let the struggling woman slump to the floor and knocked her half senseless with a backhand blow to the jaw. Standing over her, he racked the bolt of his Steyr. Pressed the muzzle to her head.
Corsini had turned from purple to white. Silvestri and De Crescenzo both stared at him.
‘Luigi,’ De Crescenzo said in a trembling hoarse whisper. ‘For the love of God, do as he asks.’
Corsini looked from his colleagues to the woman, from the woman to Anatoly. His face twisted with the agony of responsibility. A nervous tic made his left eye flutter wildly.
‘The code,’ Rocco Massi said.
Every second that ticked by was a torment as Ben explored his new surroundings on the second floor. The room he was in might have been a plush bedroom at one time during the building’s history, with ornately carved ceiling beams and a magnificent double doorway. In its more recent past, the owners of the art academy had converted it into a classroom. A large oak table at the side of the room bore a slide projector and a portable TV hooked up to a VCR. Bookshelves were stacked high with books and old video cassettes with titles like Art of the Renaissance and Grand Masters of Florence. Rows of chairs faced the teacher’s desk, on which lay assorted pens and writing pads, a heavy paper punch, a roll of tape.
Ben glanced out into the corridor, thinking hard and fast because he knew the gunmen were combing the building every moment he hesitated. He could almost hear their running steps closing in on him. He snatched the paper punch from the desk, weighing it in his hand and imagining its best use as a weapon.
He desperately needed to gain some kind of advantage. Escape was an option – it was only a few minutes’ sprint back to the village he’d passed through earlier. If he could get to a phone, he could alert the Carabinieri; but he couldn’t stop thinking about what could happen to those people down there during the precious minutes he’d be gone.
A few metres down the corridor, an antiquated fire hose on a big red metal reel the size of a tractor wheel was fixed to the wall. It looked as though it had been sitting there unused since the war. Next to it, held by steel clips behind a panel of dusty glass, was an old fire axe. Ben ran over to it, used the paper punch to break the glass and tore the axe away from the wall. The hickory shaft felt thick and solid in his hands.
Now he really could hear footsteps. They were some way off, resonating through the empty building, but approaching fast.
He propped the axe handle against the wall and tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his T-shirt. Sorry, Brooke. Snatching a long, pointed shard of broken glass from the floor, he wrapped the cloth around its base to create an improvised knife. With a hard spin of the reel, metres of pipe spilled like entrails over the floor. He used his makeshift blade to slash four lengths of the thick rubber, then spun the reel back the other way to wind up the trailing hose. Grabbing the axe again, he sprinted back towards the classroom.
‘Luigi,’ Count Pietro De Crescenzo repeated urgently. ‘Do what he says.’ Corsini seemed paralysed with indecision.