A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  Harry took the two pistols and the four spare clips of ammunition they had between the pair of them. He found handcuffs, secured both men, then threw the tiny keys over the mountainside.

  In front of him, the tall man in hat and coat stared at them, his face a picture. “Wer sind—?” He stopped. “Harry Brown,” he said as the penny dropped. “You.”

  “Yes. Me. But who the hell are you?”

  Ingrid moved to his side. “I know him,” she said. “Dieter Berger. Federal Minister for Internal Security. I’ve seen you on the news.”

  Berger didn’t look flattered.

  “Thomas!” The girl tugged her hand away and ran to Thomas. Her hat came off and long brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were a startling green.

  “Harry, Mum, this is Jamilla,” Thomas said solemnly.

  “Hi Jamilla,” Ingrid said. “You’re safe now.”

  “Safe?” Berger was recovering his composure. “Safe? You have just signed her death warrant. Your own as well.”

  Harry stepped up to him. He reached into the shapeless coat and did a quick search. No gun. Berger didn’t need one. Like Gutman he had other people to do his dirty work. Except Skoda Man and Sidekick weren’t up to the job just at that moment. Skoda Man was starting to groan and move but Sidekick was out of it.

  Harry stood face to face with the Minister. “Did you really think you could get away with this forever? Everything has a shelf-life. Yours just expired.”

  Berger wasn’t impressed. “Heinz told me of Krantz’s records. But he has them, not you. He has given me assurances.”

  “And you believed him? A man who flogs clapped-out planes to Third World airlines? A man who deals with the terrorists you and your department are supposed to keep out of the country? How did you ever get to where you are?”

  “By knowing the right people, Harry. That’s how the system works. Always has been throughout history. Connections and influence.” He leaned closer. “Protection.”

  “And that allows you to keep underage girls in a cellar? In a living hell?”

  “But a necessary one, Harry. We are the men who rule the world. We have appetites that need attention. Tastes. Gutman calls them his fine wines. To sample whenever we choose—”

  Berger didn’t finish his sentence because he was flat on his back, face bloody.

  “Sample that, you piece of shit,” Harry said. “You think your money and position lets you do whatever you want.”

  Berger started to get up. “Oh but it does. As you are about to find out.”

  “What does he mean?” Ingrid asked.

  “What I mean, Frau Weber, is that help is on the way. Gutman called me from the cable car station at the bottom of the mountain. His men are coming. Mine too. All ways off the mountain will be covered. You’ll be hunted down and exterminated like the vermin—”

  Harry punched him unconscious. He stood above him, enjoying the spectacle of the Federal Minister for Security splayed on the rocky ground, blood spouting from his shattered nose.

  “We have to go.” He checked around them, three-sixty degrees. They were in the heart of cloud. Mist eddied and flowed on every side. He unbuttoned Berger’s coat, pulled it off him and put it on. Then his jacket which he gave to Ingrid. With Thomas in Harry’s jacket, the three of them looked like scarecrows.

  Only Jamilla wore clothes the right size. She looked terrified. “Promise me I never have to go back to them.” Her English was excellent. “If they are going to get us, shoot me. Promise me that at least. Or I’ll run over the edge of the mountain now. I can’t go back. Not to that.”

  “We won’t let them take you,” Ingrid said. “I promise you.”

  Harry had the map open. He orientated it to the ground. Identified their position and the direction of the different paths off the summit.

  “Okay. There are five routes off the mountain by foot. If we get a move on we can make it down by last light. Just. We don’t want to get caught on the rocks when night falls.”

  “Can we do it without climbing equipment?” Ingrid asked.

  “Yes, so long as we don’t take the route due west. And we don’t want to go down the Devil’s Valley route ’cos that just takes us back to Garmisch-Partenkirchen where Gutman will be waiting for us.”

  “So?”

  “So we’ll go south then west, down the line of some of the ski runs. There’s some via ferrata, but—”

  “What?”

  “Some patches of rock-face with fixed hand-cables and iron rungs screwed into the rock, but we can do it.”

  “In the fog?”

  “The fog will be a blessing. It’ll hide us. Until we get low enough and come out of it.”

  He stood up and put the map away. “That’s our route,” he said, pointing to a spot where the rocky ridgeline disappeared into nothingness.

  They set off. Thomas held tight to Jamilla’s hand, Ingrid beside the two of them. Harry led the way. The cloud quickly removed the sight of the three crumpled bodies. Soon afterwards, there was a shout. Skoda Man had woken up. He didn’t sound happy. His calls for help would be answered soon enough and then the hunt would be on. Harry didn’t like to think about the resources that Berger would be able to call on. He could imagine the sort of tale the minister would spin.

  Once over the top of the ridge the path dropped rapidly. The surface was gravel, then larger chunks of loose rock. At least the way was well marked. Walkers made frequent use of it. As Gutman wouldn’t know which route Harry was taking he would have to divide his forces to cover the cable car station at Eibsee, the cog railway in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and all five of the main footpaths off the mountain. Then, once the paths reached the lower levels, Harry would have the option of leaving the known routes altogether and cutting out on a path of his own. The lower they got, the better their options. It was a race against the clock.

  They came to a rock face. The path disappeared, melting into a sheer wall of stone. Iron rungs were hammered into it, descending vertically. Below, they could just make out a metal cable, the hand hold where the rungs ended. Via ferrata.

  “Mum.” Thomas held on to his mother.

  “You can do this, Tom. Remember how you did gym classes at school? You were a star. This is easier than that.”

  “Your mum’s right,” Harry said. “Forget where we are. Just focus on the rungs. Like coming down from the attic at home. No different.”

  “It’s very, very different,” Thomas said staring down into the abyss. Mist swirled beneath them, shutting off any view of the ground far below. They would be descending into a cauldron of gas.

  “Follow me,” Jamilla said. She took his hand. “Come on. We’ll do it together. I’ll go first. You just put your hands and feet exactly where you see me put mine.”

  She started down the rungs. Thomas took one look at his mother, then gathered his baggy jacket around him and followed the girl. Ingrid went next. Harry brought up the rear. The only sound was the wind against the rocks. It penetrated the crevices making an eerie whining noise as if the rock was sighing.

  The iron rungs were rusted and cold. Jamilla was making good progress but kept on looking up to check Thomas was close above her, following her lead. Twice she stopped to let him catch up.

  “You’re doing very well,” she called up. “You are like a mountain goat!”

  Thomas managed a smile. Above him, Ingrid stayed as close as she could. There was still no view of solid ground beneath them. No way of knowing how great the drop if one of them fell. Perhaps a few metres. Perhaps a thousand.

  They came to the end of the rungs. The sheer rock sloped outwards into a confused tumble.

  “Hold fast to the cable,” Jamilla ordered. Thomas watched her and copied. The next phase was harder than the rungs as they had to choose their own footing rather than simply descending the iron ladder. The cable was a life-line. Thomas clung to it with both hands. His knuckles were white from the effort and the cold. Every few steps he would take one
off the cable, rub it on Harry’s jacket to warm it and blow on the numb flesh.

  “Not far now,” Harry called down. He had checked the map. Though no one could see it in the mist, the via ferrata was coming to an end.

  A short while later Jamilla called up, “I’m at the bottom! Just a few more steps, Thomas.”

  Then he too was down. Ingrid followed, then Harry. They got their breath back and Harry did a quick check. Everyone was okay. Hands were numb but would recover now the icy metal cable had ended. Coming out of the mist, he saw green. They had reached the tree line.

  “It’s forest from here all the way to the valley floor,” he said. “The really long bit starts now, but there’s no more scrambling or climbing. Just a long, steep slog. Everyone okay?”

  They set off, Harry leading again. Jamilla held Thomas’ hand and Ingrid brought up the rear, checking behind them. All was silence.

  Until Harry stopped and cocked his head towards the sky. He opened his mouth and popped his ears.

  “What is it?” Ingrid came up beside him.

  “Helicopter.” He listened some more. Then angled his head another way. “Wrong. Helicopters. Can’t tell how many. But more than one.”

  “That’ll be Berger’s men.”

  “Maybe. Either that or Gutman’s. Doesn’t really matter. They’re hunting us, whoever they are. Better get as deep into the forest as we can.”

  They were still in cloud. Without visibility it was impossible to gauge the direction of the helicopters. Their noise filled the mist, growing then fading as they changed direction, circling, hunting for a break to see through to the ground. Harry could imagine them filled with hunters, whether Gutman’s or Berger’s. They would have the full array of kit. Sniper rifles and automatics. He just hoped they didn’t have thermal imagers. If they could detect body heat then the cloud wouldn’t be of any use.

  The path broadened, winding steeply down through a forest of huge trees. Moss grew on the trunks and creepers hung from the upper boughs. At this altitude it was like a temperate rain forest. Great fat water droplets plopped onto the walkers as they hurried downwards. By now they had been going for several hours and the helicopters continued to circle. Sometimes their sound disappeared altogether as their search moved to another part of the mountain. Then they would return.

  At last the cloud was gone. One moment they were moving through a world of mist and murk, the air wet on their faces. The next they burst into open air. Out of nowhere, the view extended before them. Through a break in the trees they could see for miles.

  “Which way are we facing?” Ingrid asked. “I don’t recognise where we are.”

  Harry unfolded his map. The detail on it was pitiful. He laid it on a stone and angled it until he thought it matched the view before them. A steep re-entrant ran away to their front, becoming an enormous valley, miles wide. He couldn’t see the edges of it. The whole mountain simply dropped into the land below. There were other mountains in the distance. On the lower slopes the forest thinned and eventually became farmland, great rolling fields interspersed with lone farmsteads, each isolated in the centre of its patchwork of green. There were thin threads of road. Nothing major.

  “Is that Bavaria?” Ingrid asked.

  “Austria,” Harry said. “Has to be better than Bavaria.”

  Out of nowhere, a helicopter shot over the tops of the nearest trees. The sound of the rotors had been masked by a steep ridge of forested stone.

  It blasted close overhead. From the open sides, men in sunglasses were scanning the ground beneath them. One of them flung out his arm, pointing straight at them. He spoke into the mouthpiece of his headset. The helicopter reared up, coming to a complete stop in mid-air. The rotors surged. It stood on its tail and flipped back over, banking towards them.

  “Run!” Harry stuffed the map in his pocket and they headed off down the path. Away from the viewpoint, the track again buried itself between the huge trees. Their tops closed over the fugitives, hiding them from sight. But it was too late. The hunters had found them. Harry knew that radio messages would be going out to all of Gutman’s men, to all of Berger’s, and to anyone else who was hunting them. Forget every other path, every other avenue of escape. They had been found. Concentrate all resources on this one route.

  Time had just run out.

  Forty Seven

  Without a clear line of fire through the trees, Harry knew the helicopters would be looking for somewhere to put down. They would need to drop off hunter groups to carry on the chase on foot. From what he had seen, there wasn’t a nearby clearing large enough, so they would be forced to drop their teams further out. The hunters would then have to walk in and find them.

  He knew he couldn’t stay on the path. It would be too easy for their pursuers to find them or lay an ambush and wait for them to walk into it.

  He spotted a gap in the undergrowth bordering the gravel track. “This way.”

  Ingrid checked on Thomas and Jamilla. Both of them were tired but managing. They left the track and headed into the trees. Harry stayed behind and scuffed up the foot prints trying to hide the spot. Where they had pushed through the trackside bushes, he carefully rearranged them back into their original tangle.

  Away from the track the going was slower. The landscape resembled primary jungle without the heat. Huge towering tree trunks reared skywards, their uppermost boughs shutting out the grey heavens. At ground level in between them, shrubs and bushes and bracken messed up the ground, tripping them up and slowing them. They came to a stream coursing over smooth polished rocks. They stepped across.

  “Anyone thirsty?” Harry stooped to the water. He cupped his hand and drank. It was ice cold but wonderful.

  “Is it okay to drink?” Thomas asked, breathing hard from the march.

  “Better than the stuff that comes out of the tap at home.”

  Jamilla was already drinking. Ingrid too. Thomas gulped it down, restoring energy and spirit.

  “Thank you for saving me,” Jamilla said to Harry. “Why did you do it?”

  Harry reckoned there was no time like the present. At any moment the hunters might catch up with them. “Thomas told me about your father. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Gutman told you what happened to him?”

  “Yes. He was trying to rescue me but he died. He tried the only way he could to reach me.”

  “He must have loved you very much. Thomas said you told him your father worked for a man called Krantz. Was that in Kabul?”

  “Yes. My father was a restorer at the museum. He helped Krantz whenever he flew out. He was often there, my father said.”

  “And your father found out where Krantz hid his records? He was going to use that to try and bargain to get you back?”

  “Yes. He kept me out of sight because he knew what Gutman was after as well as treasure from the museum. But one day he saw me. He gave orders and I was taken by his men. He wanted me for himself. When my father tried to stop them he was beaten and thrown out of the building. But he had prepared for it. He had feared that might happen. He tried to save me but he couldn’t.”

  “He died trying to get to you. Krantz told me he was just coming here to blackmail Gutman for money. That didn’t ring true. No one would take such a hazardous journey just for cash. He did it for love.”

  Jamilla wiped her eyes. Beside her Thomas put an arm round her shoulders.

  Harry reached over to his jacket that Thomas was wearing. He put a hand in the pocket and took out the plastic envelope he had retrieved from Ernst’s apartment. He opened it. He handed Jamilla the ring with the flower emblem and the little bracelet. “Are these yours?”

  She took them. “Yes.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “He brought these with him?”

  “Yes. And this,” Harry said, pulling out the fragment of tablet. “This led us to Krantz’s hoard. It was in a cemetery near Munich.”

  She wiped her eyes with her sleeves. Thomas hugged her. �
��Tell Harry what you told me about the records,” he said.

  “What about them?”

  “About how your father said Krantz made a second copy.”

  “That is what he said. Sometimes in the evening at home, my father would speak about his work. I remember him saying that Krantz didn’t trust Gutman. That he had prepared his own insurance policy and had needed my father’s help to compile it. Also that he had made two sets to be extra safe.”

  Harry felt a surge of hope. It was true. There was a second set.

  “Your father recorded the location of the first set on the tablet. He scratched it on the back. Do you know if he recorded the location of the copy set?”

  She frowned, thinking. “I can’t remember. He never told me.”

  “Are you sure? This is very important, Jamilla.”

  She struggled to recall. “He never told me. I’m certain. He just said that there was one. Is it on the same tablet?”

  Harry showed it to her. The details of the tomb scratched on the back, and the Pashto inscription on the front. “What does the Pashto say?”

  She read the faint etching. “It is from the Koran. Nothing to do with any records of Krantz.” She handed it back. “I’m sorry.”

  Harry put it away. Ingrid placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find it some other way.”

  “How?” He stood up. He was suddenly tired to his core. Without Krantz’s records they were lost. It was hopeless.

  “We’d better get going. At least we’re alive.”

  Jamilla got up. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” she said. “That’s what my father used to say.”

  “Good saying.” Harry didn’t like to point out that her father was now dust. Much like the hope he had felt a moment before.

  There was a shout from the far side of the trees. Harry spun round. High above them, the figure of a man stared down through a gap in the forest. The next second a shot rang out. A bullet ricocheted off a rock in the centre of the stream. Fragments of it spat at them.