The Spear of Destiny

Chapter EIGHT



Officer Gianni Balotelli of the Carabinieri glanced at his watch. It would soon be time for his break. He patrolled a section of the A12, a major road in the Lazio region of Italy. Speeding tickets were his thing and there was a particular section of the highway which had a long hill that articulated lorries struggled up. There were solid white lines in the middle of the road but motorists could see for quite a distance ahead and impatient drivers would often overtake the lorries thus crossing the white lines and that’s where Balotelli came in. He enjoyed sitting in his police car at the brow of the hill where there was a large pull off area and catching the offending motorists. On the spot fines were his speciality and he always gave chase. He liked to listen to offenders excuses and would occasionally nod or agree with them while writing out tickets.

This morning had been quiet though. He’d only issued two tickets and so far it had been an uneventful day. The only highlight so far that had caught his attention was witnessing three black Hummers that had passed about an hour before. They had been moving swiftly in a convoy. With their blacked out windows and German number plates Balotelli had assumed that they were diplomatic vehicles. They certainly looked it.

Balotelli watched more lorries coming up the hill. No-one attempted to overtake and he sighed. The road was clear for a long way and he looked at his watch again. It was 11.45am and he decided to go for his lunch break.

He started his police car and moved into the road, deliberately slowing other road users down until someone stopped for him to pull out. There was an old abandoned airfield nearby with a small lay-by at the metal gates and he liked to stop there and doze in his car everyday.

When he got there he was surprised to see the gates were open. He was even more surprised when he had to stop suddenly as an Alfa Romeo convertible sped out of the gates narrowly missing him. He looked over his shoulder through the back window of his police car with one hand still on the gear stick. He was very tempted to give chase. The convertible was soon lost from sight. It had happened so quickly Balotelli hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the number plate. He turned his attention back to the open gates, put his police car into first gear and moved slowly through them.



Petrov’s men had almost finished unloading the Hummer’s. The last crate was being carried upstairs by two men and they bumped into the man who was drilling new locks into the door and he cursed them when his drill slipped. Mocking him in return they bumped the heavy crate down. One of them stood up straight and pressed his hands into the small of his back to ease his aching muscles. He glanced out of the window and his eyes widened. He was reaching for his radio as his colleague turned to look outside.

Petrov was outside with a laptop and a small satellite antenna. He had the equipment on a pile of old, rusty, oil drums and he was placing a memory stick into the computer’s USB socket when his radio crackled and he heard his name being called. He took his own radio and pressed the talk button.

At this moment the small satellite dish connected to the internet and he put the radio down to concentrate on the laptop. He stopped to look at the radio when he heard the word ’police.’

Petrov moved away from the oil drums slowly and went to the corner and peered round. He saw the Carabinieri police car come to a slow stop. He watched as the policeman got out and glanced around slowly. Then the man reached back into the car and took out his hat and put it on. The car door was closed slowly and quietly. Petrov shrank back away from the corner. He held his radio to his lips and pressed talk.

“Radio silence,” was all he said.

He returned to the laptop. The download on the screen was at 86% and he cursed under his breath and clicked cancel download and closed the laptop. He quickly put it back in its case, folded up the satellite dish and placed both on the ground in amongst the oil drums. He then returned to the corner and unclipped his handgun from its holster in front of his chest.

Balotelli was poking around the outbuildings. He’d noticed some fresh tyre marks on the grass and in some mud and assumed they belonged to the speeding Alfa Romeo he’d seen earlier.

He pushed the door open to the outside toilet and turned his nose up at the filth. Then he decided to use the toilet and he aimed his stream making patterns in the dirt and dust to amuse himself. He shook himself off and pulled the chain. There was no water and he shrugged and pushed the door to when he left. He poked around the other buildings for another minute then looked across at an old building which must have served as a hangar years before.

Balotelli found himself at the foot of a flight of steps and he glanced up them. He thought for a moment about climbing them and decided aginst it. Whatever that Alfa Romeo was doing here it didn’t appear to be much. Probably a drug deal Balotelli decided and the participants long gone. The policeman hovered around for a few more moments then turned to leave.

Behind the door at the top of the stairs the man who had been replacing the locks stood silently with a Glock pistol in his hand. He watched through a crack in the door as the policeman turned to leave. His radio suddenly screeched at his hip. At the foot of the stairs Balotelli spun around and drew his gun from its holster. He moved up the stairs hugging the wall with his gun raised. At the top the man watching put the Glock in his pocket and picked up his cordless drill.

Halfway up the stairs Balotelli tensed as he saw the door move. He readied himself to rush up the remaining steps and burst through the door when he heard the sound of a drill. Relaxing slightly he lowered the gun though still holding it in both hands at his waist.

“Policia,” he called.

He heard the drill stop and Balotelli pushed the door open to be greeted by a man holding a drill while holding a large screw between his teeth. The man looked genuinely surprised. Balotelli rolled his eyes and holstered his Beretta.

“I nearly shot you!” he said, “I thought you were an intruder. What are you doing here Signori?”

The man with the drill took the screw out of his mouth.

“I’m fixing the lock,” he said in English.

“The lock?” Balotelli looked around at the state of the room.

“My boss has just bought this airfield and he wanted the lock repaired. This is the control room.”

“Yes. It needs a lot more than just the lock replaced. It’s not been used in years. Any of it.”

Balotelli watched the man for another minute as the lock was fiddled with.

“Who is your boss?” he asked.

The man stopped what he was doing.

“Pardon?”

“I asked you who your boss was.”

The other man looked at him for a moment.

“No one you would know.”

“Oh really? Try me.”

“He is a successful German businessman. No one famous.”

“German!” Balotelli nodded, “I like Germany. I’ve been there many times.”

Now it was the man with the drill who nodded.

Balotelli wandered closer to one of the crates.

“What’s in these?”

The man shrugged at the ammunition crates.

“Just equipment.”

He glanced towards the door to the other room where his two colleagues were hiding, no doubt with guns drawn. The man with the drill moved his hand closer to his pocket with his gun in it as Balotelli got dangerously close to the other door. Then he relaxed as Balotelli turned and smiled at him.

“Oh I almost forgot. Do you know anything about a speeding Alfa Romeo?”

“No. Sorry!” the man shrugged.

Balotelli smiled again.

“Well good luck! I must go,” he said cheerfully, “Ciao.”

The man with the drill just nodded. The drill poised. Balotelli put his hand up in a friendly gesture then left. The man with the drill rested his head against the door and blew out his breath in relief. The two that had carried the crate came back into the room.

“That was close,” one of them said. He had an MP5 machine gun across his chest. Balotelli suddenly burst back through the door.

“Hey I almost forgot. There’s no water in the downstairs….”

His voice trailed off as he saw the gun. Instantly his hand went for his gun as he reached for the radio at his left shoulder. The man with the MP5 was lightning quick and he swung the muzzle of his gun and sent a burst of machine gun bullets into the policeman’s chest throwing him backwards. Blood dribbled from Balotelli’s mouth as he slid down the wall.

Petrov bounded up the stairs two at a time with his Glock handgun drawn. He peered around the door then put his gun back in its holster when he saw the inert form on the floor. Two of his men were arguing but they both stood to attention when they saw Petrov.

“What happened?”

“He went for his gun sir.”

“Did he make a radio call?”

“No.”

“Let us hope he didn’t radio his whereabouts before he came here. You two! Get rid of the body. You,” Petrov said to the man with the drill, “Get rid of that police car.”

“Yes Anatoly. What should I do with it?”

“For now put it in the hangar with the Hummers. You’ve killed a policeman,” Petrov said, looking out of the window, “They will come looking for him.”