The Eagle's Covenant (2 page)

“Let us take our baby home,” he said warmly.

Outside the hospital, waiting in the sunshine of a warm day, the newsmen held their cameras ready. An immediate bustle of activity started among the Mercedes cars as though there was more to be done than simply open the doors. Schiller had that effect on people. Flashlights began shattering the morning brightness as they bounced off the walls and reflected back in a flickering display from the glass doors and nearby windows. Schiller appeared on the steps with Joanna beside him, his face a picture that would undoubtedly fill the front pages of all the world’s leading magazines. Here at last was the new heir to Manfred Schiller’s immense fortune and almost limitless power.

Voices called out from the phalanx of pressmen.

“Frau Schiller, how is the baby?”

“Herr Schiller, Does he look like you?”

It was a continuum of the usual banal, sycophantic questions one hears from the unfortunate hacks whose task it often is to spend hours waiting for someone without the benefit of being granted a personal interview. And even if they had, it was of little doubt that the sycophancy would continue. How else would anyone dare interview such a man as Manfred Schiller? How else could they?

The great man allowed them a few minutes of posing, a theatrical but genuine show of thanks to the hospital staff, a wave of the hand and he finally escorted Joanna and her baby to the waiting limousine.

A police car moved out at the head of the convoy as soon as the other cars started to move. Two Mercedes saloons were riding one in front and one behind Schiller’s limousine. The convoy swept out of the hospital gates, following the police car and on to the main road. There were no obstructions and no traffic to bar its way as the cavalcade moved swiftly, given its freedom by the flashing blue light on the green and white police car.

Inside the quiet, air conditioned luxury of the limousine, Schiller took Joanna by the hand and smiled for what seemed to be the thousandth time at her. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it gently. Because it was a sunny day, the air conditioning worked noiselessly to keep the interior of the car at a comfortable temperature.

“We are a family again,
meine liebchen
.” He said nothing else but just continued to look at her. Many times he had wished he was not an old man. Joanna was so beautiful. Her hair was the colour of obsidian blackness which shone and glittered with each movement of her head. Her eyes were the clearest blue he had ever seen, and she had an Aryan quality about her which belied her Englishness yet somehow strengthened it. No angular features to dull the quality of her face or the smoothness of her porcelain like skin. Her high cheekbones proclaimed the calibre of her breeding, which was so important to German sensibilities.

Joanna was well aware of Schiller’s feelings and quietly thanked him for never imposing himself upon her, particularly now that she was alone. It would not have surprised her if people suspected, or indeed believed, that she was no more than an uneducated bimbo who would soon find herself a sugar daddy in Manfred Schiller to sustain her luxurious lifestyle once the grieving for her dead husband had come to an end.

To her Schiller was the kindest man she had known after her own father who was dead now, and she was quite happy to remain part of his family for as long as he wished.

“Thank you Manfred.” She responded by squeezing his hand. “You are such a treasure to me. We will always be your family. Nothing will ever stop that, ever.”

*

The fourth man in the terrorist team was Conor Lenihan. Conor had been born in Catholic Belfast and brought up in the sectarian ways of his peers. He was streetwise at a very early age, and had learned quickly how to stone the men of the security forces and bait the Protestants of the ‘other side’. Conor had also been fortunate enough to spend many weekends on his uncle’s farm in County Fermanagh along the shores of Lough Erne.

It was there that Conor had learned the skills of the hunter. His uncle had taught him how to stalk game, how to set traps. He had shown the young boy how to bivouac at night and live off the land. He became an expert with a shotgun and rifle. Handling a pistol was as easy to Conor as handling a pen.

But these skills were not being imparted to Conor to improve his life among the dangerous streets of the city. Conor’s uncle was a recruiting officer for the IRA and the boy’s tenacity, fearlessness and obvious qualities among his peers had been noticed by the local IRA commander.

Conor, like many of his friends, had always nursed an ambition to serve the Finian masters in whatever capacity they wished. And it was a massive disappointment to him when he learned that his remit was to join the hated British Army. Much to Conor’s surprise, however, he took to the life like a duck to water and it wasn’t long before he was nursing the ambition to join the British Army’s Special Air Service, otherwise known as the ‘Regiment’.

Conor served the army well and his IRA chiefs, and when his career in the army came to an end, Conor was sent to County Kerry in Ireland where he helped train IRA recruits. Conor’s time in the Parachute Regiment and with the SAS had been peppered with excitement and adrenalin charged moments of tension which had honed him into a refined, fighting machine; the complete soldier. But the change from that lifestyle to one of almost total boredom had taken the edge of Conor’s skills and had almost cost him his life.

It was a mixture of luck and instinct that helped Conor to escape when an SAS hit team turned up at Conor’s farm in County Kerry posing as tourists. Where Conor would normally have been working out in the fields or around the farm at that time of day, he had gone into the farmhouse for a few minutes. He saw the two men from the window talking to his uncle. That had been the lucky bit. The instinct kicked in for some unknown reason and he felt suspicious. For all he knew they could have been a loyalist hit squad.

He slipped out of the farmhouse and tailed the two strangers using the techniques he had learned in the SAS. Within twenty four hours he knew they were SAS, and there was no reason for them to be there, which meant that his cover had been blown. Somehow the British had discovered that he had been a ‘sleeper’ while in the Army, so there was no other reason for the soldiers to turn up at the farmhouse than to kill him.

Twenty four hours later his IRA masters had spirited him away to a safe house in Germany and released him from his obligation to the cause. Conor Lenihan was now a free agent.

*

The drive from the hospital to Schiller’s residence was about twenty miles through some of the loveliest countryside in the
Eifels
Mountains, west of Koblenz. The convoy followed the green and white police car, trailed by a posse of pressmen and
paparazzi
, towards the foothills overlooking the Mosel’s route to the Luxembourg border. The towering beauty of this place was never lost on Schiller and he would often spend time there whenever he could.

Schiller’s home was set high in the hills of the
Eifels
. Access to it was by a single road which cut its way through a forest of pine trees. The area around the house, with its commanding views across the valleys and peaks had been cleared of trees for reasons of security. It was bounded by a double fence, the inner of which was electrified. It was monitored by security cameras and patrolled at night by guards with dogs. Another fence had been constructed lower down the slope. This was a standard chain link fence, not electrified, and was there to determine the boundary of Schiller’s property. On both sides of the mountain this fence was about six miles in length. It was never patrolled and only checked as part of a standard maintenance programme.

The police car drove past the gates leading to the access road and stopped. Immediately the lead Mercedes turned in towards the gates and was greeted by a security man. The convoy came to a halt. The pressmen and
paparazzi
automatically pulled into the side of the road and leapt from their cars to continue blazing away with their flashlights and TV cameras.

The driver in the leading Mercedes lowered the window. “What the fuck’s going on?” he wanted to know.

The guard was unmoved. He came round to the open window and placed one hand on the roof of the car and the other on the car door. He glanced inside at the occupants.

“Herr Schiller’s instructions, said there should be extra security.” He nodded in the direction of Schiller’s limousine. “Make sure them
paparazzi
bastards don’t get in.” 

As he spoke he placed his thumb at a point immediately below the driver’s shoulder. He rolled it against the paintwork, unseen to the people in the car. It was quite an unobtrusive movement, but when he pulled his hand away it left a white mark where his thumb had been.

At that precise moment the driver in the police car rolled his window down. He had in his hand a small transmitter about the size of a mobile phone. He put his arm out of the open window and held it aloft. He made a pretence of waving and let the clutch up. As the car moved away he pressed a transmit button on the transmitter. Then he pulled his arm in and rolled the window up. He smiled at his companion.

“
Frei geld,
” he said and laughed. ‘Easy money’.

*

Karl Trucco saw the red light flicker on and off. The small receiver was propped up against his back pack. The sound had been turned down to a minimum level, but he was just able to hear the intermittent bleep and the sharp, vibrating pulses. He suddenly felt nervous and his breath seemed to catch in his chest. It was no more than he expected. He got up and went through the trees to where Breggie and Joseph were concealed.

“They are coming.” It was simply stated. Nothing more was required. He turned and immediately went back to his own patch, his own killing field.

Breggie got up and put the Uzi around her shoulders so that it was carried across her chest. Joseph picked up his bag and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. He could literally feel the tension in her body. He kissed her again and then jogged up the road to a position about twenty metres further on from Karl.

The three of them were ready. There was no need to let Conor know the convoy was on its way. He knew exactly what he had to do.

*

Schiller was surprised to see a security guard at the gates. These were normally manned by a gatekeeper whose job it was to receive all deliveries of incoming goods, mail and unwanted callers. Anything the gatekeeper was unable to deal with could be handled by the security office established at the entrance to his residence.

He saw the security guard talking to the driver of the lead Mercedes and stiffened. Joanna thought nothing of it but was immediately aware of Schiller’s sudden curiosity. He touched the button on the small control panel set into the door and lowered the window. The guard walked up to the limousine and saluted.

“Sorry for the little delay, Herr Schiller.” He stooped and looked in through the open window. “The boss decided it would be better if we had someone here to keep the
paparazzi
out.”

Before Schiller could respond the guard had stood up and was redirecting his attention to the last Mercedes. Schiller grunted and leaned back in his seat. The window closed noiselessly and the car moved on.

The men in the third car had watched all this with interest and curiosity. The guard walked over to them as their driver lowered his window. He went through the same drill, explaining the reason for the extra security. He waved them through. None of the occupants of the three cars had ever seen the man before.

When the cars had disappeared from view, he then closed the gates and slipped a padlock through them from the inside. He paused momentarily, staring absently at the assembled pressmen, and then went back inside the small gatehouse.

*

Trucco lifted the rifle and pulled the stock close into his cheek. Nothing obscured his vision as he looked through the scope and sighted the crossed hairs on the trunk of a tree immediately across the road from him. He then swung the rifle to his right and waited.

Joseph dropped into position behind a tree on the edge of the tree line. He opened his bag and emptied out its contents; several magazines of 5.45 mm. hollow point bullets and two hand grenades. He was beginning to sweat and had to wipe his hands down the front of his combat vest. Joseph would not have the opportunity to pick his target as carefully as Trucco would. He had to wait for the car to come to rest.

Breggie held the Uzi tightly, as though she was afraid she might drop it. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. She was almost salivating and could feel wetness in her loins.

Conor heard the sound of the cars climbing the hill. He held a limpet bomb in his hand. In the waist band of his trousers he had stuffed a Browning 9mm automatic pistol and around his chest was a Heckler and Koch 9 mm MP5 submachine-gun.

Trucco saw the leading Mercedes briefly through the trees. There was very little sound, much of it being absorbed by the forest. Suddenly a vibrant noise shattered the calm; the machine-like rattle of a woodpecker scything through the wood. Trucco closed his eyes and swore softly beneath his breath. His finger had tightened perceptibly on the trigger. Had it not been for the fact that the sound of the woodpecker had been attendant on them since early morning, he would probably have mistaken it for gunfire.