Chapter 11
Schloss Stahlberg, Austria
Richard’s funeral took place two days later at the castle. It was a sign of his status that both the President and Chancellor were in attendance, with their respective security forces. Elena had initially been sceptical, but was persuaded that little could happen with the mass of armed police in the vicinity.
Their black armoured Mercedes had swept up the twisting road from the village, disgorging them in the courtyard, from where they followed the gravel pathway round the side to the chapel, where generations of Stahlbergs had been christened, had worshipped and been buried. The burial ground outside was filling up, but there was still space for Richard, as there would be for Elena.
Simon was unsure whether he should attend. He had seen little of Elena since their lunch; she had been taken up with the funeral arrangements. He had spent his time learning about Eric Weiss, but in truth, there was little more to say than he had discovered in the obituary. He had tried to contact the family through the factory they owned, but France was having one of its increasingly frequent general strikes, and there had been no answer.
His questions about the funeral had been answered that morning when he awoke to find a black suit and tie in the wardrobe. He still could not work how Georg managed to deliver things without waking him, but he was glad to have the opportunity to attend. Now, five minutes before it was due to start, he slipped down the path to the chapel, hoping to grab a pew at the back and remain inconspicuous.
There seemed to be two types of mourner. The locals from the village below had turned out in force to pay tribute to the latest generation of their former feudal lords. Their grief seemed genuine, a testament to the warm nature Richard had shown to all he met. The others were obviously important members of Austrian and maybe European politics. They were the ones with the chauffeur-driven cars, the ones looking wistful but not distressed. They were there to say farewell to an esteemed colleague and to be seen to observe the proprieties.
The stone chapel was simply furnished and lit by candles at the end of each pew. Elena sat in the front row, clad in black, the coffin in front of her to the left. The priest from Liebnitz conducted the mass, with the choir singing a requiem. Little light shone through the stained glass windows, making the combination of candles and chanting seem almost mediaeval. At the end of the service, six strong estate workers processed down the aisle, picked up the coffin and carried it gently out of the chapel. Turning right, they moved into the family plot where the grave-diggers had laboured all day to excavate the frozen soil.
The mourners once more split into groups, the locals near the front, and the dignitaries at the back where they could talk discreetly and make a hasty exit back to their cars once the deed was done. The priest conducted the final rites, consigning Richard to the care of his maker, and slowly the coffin was lowered into the ground. The mourners queued up to pay their last respects to Richard and to Elena before heading back up the pathway. Simon insinuated himself into the middle and, taking his leave, headed back to the Schloss.
Under the watchful eye of armed police on the roof and hidden in the vineyard, the President and Chancellor returned to their limousines which sped down the hill, accompanied by outriders and the remaining officers began to pack up their guns and headed for the vans parked a discrete distance down the hill.
One of them, the sniper in the bell tower at the entrance to the estate was slower than the rest, in no hurry to leave his perch and return to the relative warmth of the van. His job was not yet finished, despite the departure of the dignitaries. As Simon rounded the corner, he approached the end of his mission, putting down the binoculars he had used to observe proceedings, and picking up the suppressed Accuracy International AWS 7.62x51mm sniper rifle, fitted with a Schmidt & Bender PMII scope. He had been trained with Zeiss optics, but preferred the Schmidt & Bender as it had been designed specifically for the rifle.
His presence there had been easy to arrange. As the number 2 in Schwartz’s secret militia, he took care of long-range attacks, having trained as a sniper with GSG9, the elite German special forces unit. He still held most of their shooting records, but along with his commander, codename Wolf, he had found private enterprise more profitable and, in the present instance, more congenial to his political inclinations. While Wolf was the expert at close quarter action, he, Fox, always took over when distance was a consideration and so it has been his picture which had been inserted into the stolen warrant card.
Then it had simply been a question of turning up at the local station this morning, claiming to be a replacement for an officer from Vienna who was unable to make it in time. Wolf had arranged that, but it would be days before anyone discovered the real reason for the officer’s absence. Volunteering to take the perch in the tower, he had guaranteed himself privacy and time, two things snipers thrive on. Now, 4 hours after his arrival, it was time to complete his mission.
Centring the scope on the sandy head walking down the path, he slowed his breathing as far as possible. The target was well within range, and with no rain and little wind, it would not be a difficult shot. Slowly exhaling, he squeezed the trigger gently, eye fixed on the target. The trigger almost at the end of the guard, the man’s life span was now measured in micro-seconds.
Click. The trigger reached the full extent of its range, releasing a bullet down the suppressed barrel just as the target jinked out of sight. Damn! Looking up from the rifle, he saw the man he suddenly turned, as if someone had called him back. Perhaps the first time he had ever needed to do so, he hurriedly reloaded the rifle and prepared to take another shot. Preying that no-one had spotted the puff of dust sent up as his previous bullet hit the gravel pathway, he concentrated intently. Reacquiring the target, he exhaled once more, finger again caressing the trigger.
The time between the bullet breaking the glass and crashing its way into the skull was too short for the human brain to comprehend. Travelling at over three times the speed of sound, it ploughed its way through hair, skin, bone, brain and then bone again, killing instantly. The victim fell to the ground where a pool of blood rapidly formed from the back of his head, blown away by the force of the bullet.
Mark hastily disassembled his rifle, an M40A5 with detachable suppressor, standard issue for the US Marine Corps and began to make his way down the tree where he had been hidden for the past several hours. While Iraq had been dusty and unpleasant, at least it was warm, compared to this place. Even with several layers of insulated clothing and ghillie suit, the last several hours had been difficult, but the mission had been accomplished, even if he was not sure what it was. He had been ordered to pre-empt any violence at the funeral and had been about to pack up when he saw the tell-tale explosion of dust from the gravel. Scanning the buildings, he had seen the rifle poking out of the second floor window of the bell tower and instinct had taken over. It was not an instinct he was proud of, but it was one that had saved his life and those of others countless times over the years.
Sneaking through the forest, he made his way down the hill, towards the waiting car. He would drive to Graz, the nearest city, before awaiting further orders. He would also check in with Shelly and tell her that the crop investigation was going more slowly than he had hoped.
Later that evening, Simon became aware of commotion in the Schloss. He was not sure what was going on, but could hear loud voices, voices he did not recognise, and the sound of a large number of people moving around. A knock on the door. Elena. She had never been here. What was going on?
She showed him a picture. “Have you seen this man before?” The picture showed a man in his mid thirties, dark hair, and dark eyes. A scary-looking man, someone experienced in violence.
“No, never. Why?”
“He was found in the bell-tower 2 hours ago. Shot through the head. He left behind a mess on the floor and a sniper rifle.”
“He was a policeman? One of the bodyguards?”
“No Simon, he was not.” He could not remember her calling him Simon before. “He was a former member of the German special forces who resigned last year. The Germans lost track of him, but they think he had used his experience to become a mercenary. It is not uncommon in that line of work. The pay is much better.
“That does not, however, explain why he arrived at Leibnitz police station this morning claiming to be a protection officer from Vienna. I fear Simon that the assassins have tracked you down once more. We will have to leave. Georg will pack a bag for you and we will leave for Paris tonight. Let’s hope that Eric Weiss or his family have some answers.”
With that she got up and left. Simon joined her, heading for the study to pick up his research, the castle which had previously seemed warm and safe now seeming cold and lonely. Packing a backpack with his papers, he waited for Elena in the hallway, drawing little comfort from the police milling through it.
Until next time...
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