Sunday 1st January 2012, 10.30am, The Kehlsteinhaus, the Kröndlhorn Mountain, Austrian Alps
The Kehlsteinhaus or Eagle’s Nest, was situated close to the summit of the 2,444 metre high Kröndlhorn Mountain in the Austrian Alps. The high security luxurious mountain top villa was perched precariously on the rock and was extremely private. The only way to and from the residence was by the helicopter, private helicopter. Anyone, any other helicopters or aircraft risked being shot at if they strayed too close.
To the naked eye, the large five star complex looked like an exclusive luxury holiday retreat for the rich and famous. But the pristine facade masked a high tech complex that was sunk deep into the solid granite core of the mountain.
It was a bitingly cold, crisp morning and the sunlight glistened off the ice coated walls and verandas of the white buildings.
“He’s coming your way Chigashev!” shouted Frolov in Russian into his radio.
“Which way is he coming from Frolov?” replied his partner in crime.
The two burly muscle men, ex weightlifting, KGB hatchet men, were wearing their ‘uniform’ of black leather lace up boots, black combat pants, and three quarter length black leather jackets. As usual the hairs on their heads were cropped so closely that you could almost see their pink flaky scalps. They were both wearing designer dark glasses to help deal with the blinding glare from the sun reflecting off the snow and ice.
Chigashev and Frolov were the sort of men you hired if you wanted things, evidence, people, whatever, to disappear. But these two weren’t for hire anymore because they worked for just one boss, Herr Krater. They were completely devoted to Krater and would do anything he asked without ever questioning an order.
“Round the south veranda!” said Frolov as they organised themselves.
As he positioned himself, Chigashev could hear heavy breathing coming his way as he turned the last corner. Quickly he lifted his Kalashnikov AK-103 machine gun, its stock folded to make it more pistol like so he could use it one handed. He skidded to a halt, grabbed a railing to steady himself and waited, his breath held. At the very last minute he jumped out in front of his victim, his gun ready to fire.
“STOP!!” yelled Frolov, holding his hand up, “Don’t fire!”
Just in time Chigashev checked his natural instinct to squeeze the trigger.
“Frolov? It’s you!”
“For sure it’s me! What are you, an idiot?”
“Where’s he gone?” asked Chigashev, looking confused.
“What do you mean? He didn’t pass you?” questioned Frolov.
“No way! Believe me, no one could have got past me!”
“So that means there’s only one place he could have gone!”
The pair both rushed, slipping and sliding on the shot ice over to the perimeter railings and peered over. There, in the far distance a thousand feet below they saw a streak of white zooming away across the mountain valley. Without thinking both men opened fire and let rip a couple of long blasts into the fresh air, but the chances of hitting such a fast moving target at such long range were extremely low.
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