The Stealers Read online

  Penny looked down, ‘I would like to think so, Sammy. I really would. Perhaps some food will help you keep your strength up, just in case he does.’

  *

  As soon as the Bentley had passed by, Crane moved from his position behind the bunker. He dodged behind the rows of bushes lining the drive, which twisted and turned, towards the chateau. The Bentley came into view once more, it was parked adjacent to the front door outside the house. Crane paused for a moment, to check for movement inside the car and, judging it was now empty, he kept low, as he ran deftly up to the front door. It was wide open and all was quiet. Feeling apprehensive, he remained there for a while, listening. There was not a sound to be heard.

  Very slowly, he gingerly stepped into the large entrance hall, paused for a moment and listened again: nothing. It was as though the place was empty. Crossing the hall, he approached the door to the sitting room and gently nudged it open with his foot and looked inside. He saw Girard sitting in an armchair, looking decidedly relaxed. He had a half-filled glass of red wine in his hand and his foot was firmly straddled across the chest of one of the men from the car. The other man, lying prone on the floor, appeared to be out cold. Upon seeing Crane, Girard looked up. He smiled and said nonchalantly, ‘Ah, there you are, I was beginning to worry about you. Are these the two men we have been waiting for?’

  Crane, recovering from his surprise, grinned and said, ‘I reckon they must be. Were they armed?’

  Girard nodded towards the table, ‘Large calibre Smith and Wesson magnum revolver and a brand new nine mil Glock.’

  There was movement and a groan from the floor and they saw that the prone figure was recovering and coming round. Crane grabbed the revolver from the table and said, ‘The man under your foot… is he still alive?’

  Girard shrugged and wriggled his foot on the man’s chest, ‘I’m not sure.’ There was a groan and he said, ‘Yes, I think so. He is alive.’

  ‘Okay, let’s find out what they have been up to.’

  The men began to sit up and Crane said, ‘Okay, on your feet the pair of you and take a seat.’

  The groaning men sat down in chairs opposite each other and looked scathingly at Crane. One of them complained, ‘What do you want with us, money?’

  Crane looked at the man who spoke, ‘Are you Claude Mullah?’

  There was an arrogant tone in Mullah’s voice as he replied, ‘What if I am? Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I want the women and children who were here.’

  Mullah smirked, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. There were no women or children here. What have you done with my staff, Mackie and Louise?’

  ‘They are locked up in the bunker. Now, tell me, where did you take the woman and two children this morning? And please don’t lie to me.’

  ‘What are you, police or something?’

  ‘No, now tell me.’

  ‘What are you going to do if I don’t?’

  ‘You’ll be no use to me or to my friend Girard; he’s already wanted for murder – we’ll kill you, simple as that.’

  There was no fear in Mullah’s eyes; just hatred. ‘They are at sea.’

  ‘Get them back.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  Crane looked long and hard at Mullah. His face reflected pure ferocity as he drew back the hammer on the .45 calibre revolver. He pointed the gun at Mullah’s leg and said, ‘You’ve got just one chance of coming out of this alive, don’t ruin it! One bullet from this gun would blow your kneecap right off and that would be just for starters.’

  Mullah’s self-assured confidence drained rapidly. Rivulets of sweat began to run from his hairline and down the sides of his face. His eyes darted between Crane’s savage expression and the handgun that was pointing directly at his knee.

  ‘Mobile phone,’ Mullah stammered, ‘mobile phone.’

  ‘Where is it,’ Crane hissed.

  ‘In the car. It’s in the car.’

  Girard leapt up, ‘I’ll get it.’ Within a few minutes he was handing Mullah the phone. As Mullah began to dial Crane said, ‘Turn the speaker on.’

  Mullah reacted nervously by nodding several times. The quietened room was filled with the sound of a ringing tone, but before long the automatic voice responded in French with an, ‘Unable to connect you; please try again later.’

  Mullah shifted uneasily in his seat. His eyes darted from Crane, who stood leaning against the table, to Haj, who had remained silent throughout. They were both well-built men, but not as broad or as muscular as Girard. Crane guessed the ruthless pair to be in their late thirties.

  ‘Try again,’ Crane barked.

  Mullah carefully dialled once more, but receiving the same response, looked up fearfully at Crane.

  ‘When and where did the boat leave?’

  Mullah looked at his watch, ‘About an hour ago from a private mooring near Boulogne.’

  ‘What kind of boat are they on and where is it heading?’

  ‘A motor launch about ten metres long; it’s heading for Morocco, but it will stop, refuel and take on supplies and more, erm… passengers at a private mooring near Le Havre.’

  ‘And the arrival time?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Three, four, five hours maybe.’

  Crane checked the time and said, ‘You can take us there.’

  Mullah looked at Crane askance but Crane continued, ‘We can hire a helicopter from the airport at Le Touquet; it’s about twenty kilometres from Boulogne. I take it you’ve got plenty of cash knocking around?’

  Mullah nodded vacantly but was beginning to succumb to Crane’s resolve. Haj’s eyes alternated between Crane and Girard as he leant back in his armchair trying to hide the hatred he felt towards this intrusion. His mind was awash with schemes to get himself and Mullah out of this situation. ‘There’s a private airfield; it’s nearer and has a helicopter service,’ Haj offered.

  Mullah nodded vacantly and Girard confirmed, ‘I passed it on the way here.’

  ‘Okay,’ Crane said, ‘we’ll try that one first.’

  Girard accompanied Mullah to the Algerian’s Bentley and, using his remote control, Mullah opened the rear compartment. Under Girard’s watchful eye, Mullah reached inside and grabbed hold of a large expensive-looking black-leather holdall and together, with Girard trailing close behind, they went back inside the chateau where Mullah tossed the bag onto a grandiose polished table.

  Crane looked at the bag and said, ‘How much is in there?’

  ‘A little over two hundred thousand euros.’

  ‘That’ll do. Open it and tip the contents onto the table, slowly.’

  Mullah did as he was told and feeling some of the fear evaporating remarked, ‘You’re a very cautious man, Mr Crane.’

  Crane scoffed as he watched the neatly bundled notes cascade onto the table together with a small pearl handled revolver, Crane smiled and said, ‘Yeah,’ as he picked up the weapon and, turning around, he handed it to Girard and said, ‘Give the airport a call to see if they have a chopper available, your French is better than mine!’

  Mullah’s eyes shifted from Haj to Crane, ‘Look, Mr Crane, why don’t you take the money and forget about everything else – eh?’

  Crane said, ‘You’re forgetting something – I’ve already got the money.’

  Girard, rummaging around for a phone book, grinned at Crane’s answer. Within a few minutes, the Frenchman was talking to a private charter company and, when he put the phone down, he said, ‘When I mentioned cash, they seem to have a helicopter at our disposal.’

  ‘Okay!’ Glancing at Mullah, Crane said, ‘We can only take one of you with us so your friend will have to stay here; in the bunker.’ Haj looked up scathingly as Crane continued, ‘We’ll make sure there is enough food and drink to last until our return. If anything should happen to us, well the bunker is very remote and whoever is in there will rot there. Do I make myself clear?’

  Mullah, unused to being ordered around, nodded sullenly.
Haj remained silent, but Crane was not seeking approval as he watched, gun in hand, while Haj and Mullah took supplies from the kitchen, and ferried them over to the bunker. Haj was then locked up inside the bunker with Mackie and Louise, who were still lying there sound asleep.

  *

  Crane was beginning to feel he was getting somewhere, when the three of them, in Mullah’s Bentley, headed off in the direction of the airport. With Girard at the wheel, they made good time and upon turning into the main entrance, followed the signposts to Heli-hire. As the car approached the building, the occupants saw a man, drawing heavily on a cigar, standing framed in the open doorway, his free hand resting casually on the door post. As the car pulled up he propelled himself off the door frame and greeted Girard and Crane with a huge grin as they leapt out. Mullah took his time getting out of the car and trailed behind. The laid-back man introduced himself as Pierre Durand and directed them into his office. It was soon apparent that he spoke good English, ‘Where exactly do you want to go to?’

  Crane and Girard turned towards Mullah, who, considering his circumstances seemed to be somewhat ebullient. As Mullah strode forward, he gave a quick glance at Durand and stabbed his finger on the map. ‘There!’

  Durand thought for a moment and said, ‘No problem, but I need to file a flight plan.’

  Crane nodded and said, ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Not long. Once I’ve got that cleared, we’ll be there within thirty minutes or less.’

  Whilst the pilot was busy Crane looked at Mullah, ‘Are you sure your man will refuel the boat at the place you pointed out?’

  ‘There is no doubt; it’s my own private mooring complete with fuelling facilities.’ Mullah checked his watch, ‘We should be there before the boat.’

  Crane detected an almost cheerful note in the tone of voice, which seemed inappropriate considering the situation that Mullah had found himself in. However, like it or not, Crane dismissed this observation as being over cautious.

  Within minutes, a thin-faced willowy young man in his early twenties came into the office. He was introduced as Simon and Durand announced, ‘All is well. Let’s fly.’ They followed him as he walked towards an adjacent shiny red, Polish-made, Mi-2 helicopter which was parked close to the office. There was plenty of room inside the eight-seat aircraft, but Girard made a point of sitting close behind Mullah. The twin-turbo engines whined into action and with rapidly spinning rotors, they were airborne in seconds.

  *

  Since rousing from their induced sleep, the warmth and the cramped surroundings had taken their toll with Penny and the children. They had quickly got through the bottled water, which had been left down below with them. Their throats were now parched and they felt keen to move around and stretch their legs. Penny thumped on the hatch and shouted, ‘Is there a loo on board this boat, a toilet?’

  The sound of feet shuffling across the deck and a heavily-accented voice resounded, ‘You can come out for a little while, eh, then you go back, eh!’

  The hatch was thrown back and Penny clambered up a short flight of steps. As she stepped on to the deck, her hand shot up shielding her eyes from the bright intense sunlight. Sammy and Andrew were quick to follow; eagerly scrambling up the narrow ladder. When the sun’s rays spread across their faces, they closed their eyelids tight shut with discomfort. A gruff-looking man stood by, with a helping hand, making sure the trio found their sea-legs as the launch bucked and swayed over a heaving grey blanket of sea. Penny could see the land quite clearly as the boat hugged near to the coastline towards Le Havre.

  Penny let the children visit the toilet first and she asked her jailor, ‘Where are you taking us?’

  The man remained silent. After using the toilet Penny repeated the question – again there was no answer. Instead the man handed over a plastic shopping bag containing bottled water and snacks before directing them back to their confines below deck.

  *

  Bradley returned to the farm in time to see that the remaining vehicles were being taken out of the barn and that they were now being driven onto the car transporter. He stood leaning against his BMW – watching every move until they had finished loading. His eyes did not leave the huge, now fully-loaded, vehicle until it reached the hill and disappeared from view. His trance was interrupted when Ryan limped out of the farmhouse, ‘Okay, it’s tidied up inside and the owner’s been paid. Where to now?’

  Bradley thought for a moment before replying, ‘Our work is all done here, but before we head for home, I think a quick visit to Mullah’s chateau would be in order. It won’t take long. I’m curious to see what he has done with Crane.’

  Ryan grinned at the prospect of Crane’s demise as he hobbled towards the BMW.

  *

  The helicopter drifted around the desolate grounds of an tall old house, a typical French maison. Crane scanned the remote area for signs of life, but there were no other houses in sight nor any towns or villages to be seen. After a moment, the aircraft hovered over the area while the pilot considered a suitable spot for landing. Then the craft floated gently down and settled onto a dry, grassless patch of earth.

  Crane stepped out of the machine, followed by Mullah and Girard. They turned to face a modern newly-built boathouse complete with a jetty. It was sited some hundred metres away from the isolated house and it was an ideal location for the kind of business that Mullah was involved in.

  Crane looked at Mullah. ‘Anyone in the house?’

  Mullah shrugged, ‘There is a housekeeper, but she is not always here.’

  Crane stood for a moment, looking towards the house, but he could see no signs of life. He turned his head in time to see Durand with his arm outstretched, holding a revolver. It was pointing at his chest. Mullah sneered at Crane and Girard as he shouldered past the pair and rushed towards Durand, beginning with, ‘You took your time… ’ However in his haste, Mullah crossed Durand’s line of fire and Crane, seizing the opportunity, snatched the purloined Glock from his waistband, flipped off the safety catch, then aimed and fired in a split second. A look of pain and surprise spread across Durand’s face as he clutched at his arm. His gun, held in a vice-like grip, pointed uselessly towards the ground. Mullah turned to face Crane, his eyes registering disbelief. Crane held the Glock steady and said, ‘Drop it now, Durand, or the next bullet goes between your eyes.’

  Durand, through gritted teeth, allowed the pistol to slip from his grasp. Girard casually strode forward, shaking his head and wagging a finger at Durand, chiding him like a naughty schoolboy, before stooping and retrieving the handgun. Crane called out to Durand’s co-pilot, Simon, who appeared frozen, his face registering a look of terror.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a first aid kit in the chopper,’ Crane snapped, ‘get it and no tricks!’

  Simon became reanimated. Wide-eyed, he nodded fearfully and scampered towards the helicopter.

  Girard offered the revolver to Crane, ‘I have to admire the way you handle difficult situations.’

  Crane pursed his lips with a feeble smile; he always felt awkward being praised for something that seemed to come naturally and said, ‘My pockets are full, can you shove it in your carrier?’

  Girard held out his hand, pursed his lips, shrugged – as the French tend to do – and took the weapon. He shuffled the haversack from his shoulder and looking inside said, ‘I already have the magnum and two others in there; it’s like I am walking around with an arsenal.’

  There was a distinct clinking of glass as the handgun dropped into his bag and noting Crane’s expression he added quickly, ‘And of course two very good bottles of wine from Mullah’s cellar.’

  Simon returned with the first aid kit and discovered Durand had suffered a flesh wound in the upper arm and so under the watchful eyes of Crane and Girard, he set about applying a bandage. Girard suddenly took his eyes off them and said, ‘Where’s Mullah?’

  Their eyes searched around the area and came to the conclusion that Mullah had probabl
y made a run for the boathouse. ‘Keep your eyes on those two,’ Crane yelled as he ran off towards the large boathouse by the jetty.

  *

  The chateau stood cold and empty but in the confines of the bunker the sun was shining through the wide slit. All three occupants were wide awake and sweating profusely as they paced around like caged animals in their prison. Louise was bemoaning her plight and insisted she would have to pee in the corner rather than wet herself, while stifled groans of protest enthused from Mackie and Haj. Their rhetoric was interrupted by the noise of an approaching car. Mackie sprung up and looked through the gun port; ‘It’s Bradley,’ he enthused, and extending his arm through the gap, began to wave frantically.

  Bradley put on the brakes, leapt out of the BMW and noticing the padlock holding the bar in place, called out, ‘It’s locked.’

  Mackie replied, ‘I have a spare key here in my pocket,’ and tossed it outside through the gap.

  When eventually they were inside the chateau, Bradley listened intently as Haj recounted the details of what had happened.

  Bradley’s mean face turned into a grin as he said, ‘And Mullah used our friend the helicopter pilot, Pierre Durand eh? Well Durand may have nailed Crane and his big lout mate, the Frenchman, but I wouldn’t bank on it. So we need to be prepared. Meanwhile, Ryan and I, we have a few things to clear up in England. Get in touch if you hear anything.’

  Mackie grunted an assent and Haj added, ‘If he comes back here, he will die here and I will bury him here.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the third time Penny and the children had been allowed to go up on deck and she observed that they were heading towards the coast. On this occasion they were allowed to remain up on deck in the fresh air, but while there, Penny was careful to accept only drinks from unopened bottles and only factory-wrapped snacks when offered anything for them to consume.