They wanted the Mafiya to think they were moving the gold. Actually, the trucks were the cover to insert a team of SPS commandos into the bank. The gold bullion would stay in the vault. Duncan and the SPS were betting the Mafiya would key on the convoy and go after it. Or better yet, split their forces to hit both targets in a knee-jerk reaction. No matter what, they were walking into the waiting arms of the SPS. But the Mafiya needed time to react.
The young Pole looked perplexed. “There’ve been no communications with the Palace of Culture.” He rotated the sound boom on top of the van toward Exclusive Studios and listened. “I can still hear music and laughter.”
“Damn,” Duncan muttered under his breath. “It must be one hell of a party.”
Duncan called the SPS commander on the secure radio. “They didn’t see you arrive at the bank. Drive around the block and make a little noise when you pull up.”
“We’ll unload first,” the commander replied. Duncan waited and, in his mind’s eye, he could see the blacksuited SPS spilling out of the trucks and moving silently into covering positions and into the bank. Within minutes, the commander radioed, “Moving. Any reaction?” The communications specialist in the van shook his head. The Mafiya lookouts were still partying. When the convoy reappeared six minutes later and turned onto Zlota Street, there was still no reaction from Exclusive Studios.
“Slow down,” Duncan ordered. The trucks did as ordered and chugged slowly down the street, gearboxes whining and engines revving. Still no reaction. “They must be screwin’ themselves deaf in there,” he muttered to himself. “How in the hell can they miss this?” Desperate, he radioed, “We need an accident. Have one of the APCs sideswipe a parked car.”
On cue, the last armored personnel carrier brushed against a car. It was meant to be little more than a kiss, but the mass of the six-wheeled APC crushed it. The convoy pulled around the wreck and slowly turned into the alley leading to the back of the bank, again disappearing from view. The communications specialist scanned his instruments and shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” Duncan grumbled. He pointed to one of the men who was dressed in civilian clothes. “Go ring their doorbell and ask if that’s their car that was hit. Tell them who did it.”
The man jumped out of the van and ran to the double-glass doors to Exclusive Studios. On the third ring, a voice on the intercom said they were closed. The man shouted back, describing the accident. From the van, Duncan pointed to the bank and gave him the high sign to say more. The man said the APC that did it was still parked behind the bank with a convoy of trucks. Duncan motioned him to leave when a shadow appeared at one of the studio windows. In the van, the communications specialist gave Duncan a thumbs-up. Someone had finally made a telephone call. Now they had to wait.
Forty minutes later, the SPS commander called on the secure radio. “Are they coming?”
“The road-watch teams report negative activity,” Duncan said.
“It’s too obvious if we stay here any longer,” the commander said. “Moving now.” The convoy started engines and reappeared from behind the bank. It drove slowly past the studio and turned south on Chalubinskiego Street.
The communications specialist listened to the telephone traffic and gave Duncan a thumbs-up. “They saw you leave,” Duncan radioed. “Drive slowly and go straight ahead. Maybe someone will follow you. Make it easy for them to find you.”
Two minutes later, the road-watch teams reported a string of cars approaching Zlota Street from the north. Duncan radioed the convoy. “They’ve taken the bait. They wanted you to move. Expect guests in a few minutes. They’re coming up behind you.” But much to his surprise, all the cars turned into Zlota Street and stopped well short of the bank. Duncan swore under his breath, certain the Mafiya was playing a game. He keyed his radio and called the convoy. “Is anyone following you?”
“Negative.”
“Slow down and stand by,” Duncan transmitted.
Men jumped out of the cars and gathered in a large group in the center of Zlota Street. They all had on hip-length black leather jackets and a few carried AK-47s. The communications specialist swung the van’s sound boom around to hear what they were saying. “They’re drunk!”
“Damn,” Duncan groused. “They like to party on Christmas. That’s why it was planned for Monday. They needed time to sober up.” Another car skidded around the corner and slammed to a stop, scattering men in front of it. A tall man wearing a full-length leather trench coat got out and shouted orders. “Get this on video,” Duncan ordered. One of the specialists trained the infrared camera on top of the van on the man and punched at the video controls. Another specialist readied a handheld camera.
The newcomer had created some semblance of order and four men carrying AK-47s ran down the alley to the rear of the bank. Two trucks drove up and more men jumped out of the back, adding to the confusion. The trucks started to back up but three more cars arrived and blocked their exit. A loud argument broke out and peaceful Zlota Street turned into a mob scene. Duncan was incredulous and keyed his radio, relaying the scene to the SPS commander. “These guys are clowns and can’t make up their minds what to do.”
A single shot rang out. “What was that?” Duncan asked. The communications specialist roared with laughter as he replayed the videotape. A thug was waving his AK-47 around and accidentally fired a single shot. He fell to the ground, holding his foot.
“One just shot himself in the foot,” Duncan radioed.
“We better put them in the bag before they hurt someone,” the commander replied.
Duncan shrugged. “Why not?”
It was easily coordinated and the APCs from the convoy raced back. They roared into position and blocked off both ends of Zlota Street as the commandos inside the bank surged out the back. The four Mafiyosi covering the rear raised their hands without transmitting a warning and the commandos moved up the alley. A bullhorn on one of the APCs ordered the men in the street to surrender and it was over.
Four SPS commandos kicked in the door to Exclusive Studios and charged inside, closely followed by one of the communications specialists with a video camera. They pounded up the stairs where they received a warm welcome from the girls and hard looks from the Mafiya guards. Then the girls turned their wrath on the guards, all of which was dutifully captured on tape.
The SPS commander arrived in his Humvee in time for the first head count. He spoke into the radio. “All secure. Sixty-seven in the bag.”
“What do we do with them?” Duncan asked.
“Call the police.”
“What’s the charge?”
The commander was perplexed. He had assumed the cleanup would be a problem for the morgue and street sweepers. “They’re Russians,” he finally said.
NINETEEN
Shaw guffawed loudly, making Maura uncomfortable. She moved away from the TV set and the small group watching the videotape with her daughter. Noreen could deflate you with two words, Maura told herself. She missed Noreen Coker. The tall black congresswoman from Los Angeles had been a vital member of Maddy’s Kitchen Cabinet and her unfailing good humor and common sense had helped avoid many partisan potholes on the political road to success. And in Maura’s eyes, Patrick Flannery Shaw was the biggest pit in the pavement.
Can anyone replace Noreen? Maura thought. She knew how her daughter needed people as a sounding board and how vital a close circle of friends was to her. At least it won’t be Shaw. An image of Matt Pontowski flashed in the back of her mind. But he was leaving for Poland. She smothered her distaste for Shaw by falling back on the social amenities and freshening their coffee.