The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani
Chapter Eighteen
Ben dragged Scagnetti’s unconscious body through the classroom, leaving a trail of blood from the guy’s mangled hand all the way to the balcony. He heaved him upright and slung him half over the parapet, so that just a light shove would send him tumbling over the edge. He did the same with the other man, Bellomo, then ran back to the corridor, unravelled more of the fire hose and slashed off a length. Back out on the balcony, he quickly knotted one end of the thick rubber around their ankles. He estimated the drop to the ground below, subtracted three metres and then secured the other end of the hose to the balcony before shoving both men over the edge. They dropped over the side like the world’s calmest bungee jumpers and then were jerked up short by the hose’s elasticity before their brains could be dashed all over the ground.
Ben peered down at the two swinging bodies. They weren’t going anywhere. He slung one of the Steyrs over his shoulder, stripped the magazine from the other and stuck it in his back pocket. Tossed the empty weapon off the balcony together with one of the radios, and moved quickly on.
Glass flew as the butt of Anatoly’s Steyr smashed into the display cabinet that protected the Goya drawing. He used the weapon to knock away the jagged pieces around the edge, then slung it over his shoulder and reached in with both hands to grasp the sides of the plain black wooden frame.
He gave a hard yank and felt something give. The piece of artwork came away easily from the wall, and he lifted it out of the broken cabinet and stepped back.
Nothing happened. No alarms, no slamming down of steel shutters. He grinned to himself. It was his.
And so was the rest of the stuff, as much as he could carry out of here. The old man might be nuts, but he, Anatoly, wasn’t.
Anatoly strolled back into the office, holding the Goya against his chest. Rocco Massi was fiddling with his radio, frowning through the mask. ‘I can’t raise Bellomo and Scagnetti.’
Anatoly ignored him. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, gentlemen,’ he said in Russian to the three gallery owners. ‘That will be all.’ He set the frame down on a filing cabinet, then unslung his Steyr and turned to Corsini. The fat man’s face was covered with sweat. He began to raise his hands, and his eyes widened in horror as he saw the gun muzzle swing his way. Anatoly made a clucking sound with his tongue, stretched a grin and the gun jolted in his hand. Corsini sprawled heavily backwards, tipping up his chair and crashing to the floor. Anatoly swivelled the Steyr towards Silvestri and pulled the trigger.
‘Shit.’ He looked at his gun. ‘Empty.’
Rocco Massi tossed him a spare mag. Anatoly grunted, dumped the empty one, slotted the new one into the receiver and racked the cocking mechanism.
‘You animals,’ Silvestri said. His next words were drowned out by the blast of gunfire that spilled him sideways out of his seat and misted blood up the wall behind him.
Pietro De Crescenzo was curled up in a ball like a trapped animal, shaking with terror as Anatoly turned towards him. A thin wisp of smoke curled out of the barrel of the Steyr. Anatoly blew it away and laughed. He took a step closer to De Crescenzo.
‘Bellomo, Scagnetti, come in. Where the fuck are you? Over,’ Rocco Massi said into his radio.
Ben was walking fast down a corridor when he turned on the radio handset and dialled it back to the frequency the gunmen had been using. He heard the harsh voice crackle out of the speaker. ‘Bellomo, Scagnetti, come in. Where the fuck are you? Over.’
The red plastic rocker switch on the side of the radio was the press and talk button. Ben thumbed it and said, ‘Uh, I’m afraid Antonio and Bruno won’t be joining us. They’re kind of tied up at the moment.’
Stunned silence.
‘I want to talk to the Russian,’ Ben said. ‘Now.’
There was another moment’s silence, then another voice rasped out of the radio. Speaking Italian, but with a heavy accent. The Russian. ‘Who the fuck is this?’
Ben’s Russian wasn’t as fluent as his Italian, but good enough to get his point over. ‘If you’re here to steal artwork, it’s my guess you’re interested in doing business. Correct? Over.’
Pause. ‘Go on,’ the voice rasped.
‘I have a business offer for you,’ Ben said. ‘Here are the terms. The police are on their way. You and your men put down your weapons and surrender to me immediately, and you have my word that eventually you’ll live to be a free man. Not for a couple of decades, maybe, but eventually. And I hear the food’s very good in Italian prisons. Over.’
The pause was longer this time. ‘Interesting. What if I decide to take my chances?’
‘Harm any more of those people down there, and today is the last day of your life.’
‘I see. You must be one of those one-man armies, that right? You’re gonna kick my ass, and the asses of all my friends down here? All on your own.’
‘Scagnetti and Bellomo didn’t take much.’
‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I think you’re the one who should surrender to me. I’d like to meet you.’
‘Maybe you will.’
‘Maybe I’ll just go on shooting hostages until you turn yourself in.’
‘Then I’ll withdraw my offer. You and all your men die.’
‘That’s a bold statement.’
‘It’s a promise,’ Ben said. ‘The offer is on the table. Think about it.’ He turned off the radio.
Anatoly tossed away the radio with a snort. He’d forgotten all about Pietro De Crescenzo, who was still cringing in his chair, shaking badly and expecting a bullet at any moment.
‘Who is this bastard?’ Rocco Massi said.
‘How the hell should I know who he is?’
Spartak Gourko had walked into the office, cradling his rifle in his arms. He barely glanced down at the bodies of the woman and the two dead men, or the blood that was pooling all over the floor.
‘He called the Carabinieri?’ Rocco said.
‘Fuck the police,’ Anatoly said, and Gourko let out a short laugh.
‘We should get out of here,’ Rocco said.
Anatoly snatched the Goya. ‘Come with me,’ he muttered, and burst out of the office. The others followed as he strode into the side room where Rykov, Turchin and Garrone were guarding the rest of the hostages. The guests were all much more subdued now, just a quiet sobbing from the young boy as his mother rocked him gently in her arms. A few faces peered up in fear as Anatoly walked in. He stuffed the Goya into its tailor-made case. It fitted perfectly, lying snug against the padding. He zipped it shut, then motioned to Rykov and Turchin. ‘Ilya, Vitaliy, some bastard is loose upstairs and thinks he’s John Wayne. Get him for me.’
‘He could be anywhere in the building,’ Rocco said. ‘You’ve got what you came for. Now let’s go.’
Anatoly gave him a long, hard stare. ‘You too. Get up there now. And you,’ he snapped at Garrone. The four men swapped glances, then headed for the gallery exit.
Now it was just Anatoly and Spartak Gourko left in the room. The fear among the hostages had intensified palpably.
‘Spartak, you stay here and make sure these pieces of shit keep still,’ Anatoly said. ‘Give me your knife.’
Gourko drew the weapon from his belt and tossed