Shadow Of Evil

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  Over dinner Tiny explained what had happened. “Seems that when Guth concluded his investigation he phoned Weber—that was first thing this morning—ordering him to eliminate you. Weber came to me in a terrible state, crying and shaking. He told me he couldn’t do it. Begged me to do it.” Tiny shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly. “Seems I have a bit of a reputation, fostered no doubt by the CIA. I assured him I would take care of things and warned him to do nothing and say nothing to anyone until I contacted him and confirmed that you were dead. I desperately needed to buy time to allow us to get away. I certainly didn’t want Weber creating mayhem in Bariloche.”

  “But Tiny, it means you can’t go back now,” said Sybilla anxiously.

  Tiny shook his head. “That is of no matter, my job here is done. I’ve found everything worth finding about Richter and his little charade—that was my mission—and I’ve also sent back a few titbits about many of the Nazis who visit here. All of that is a bonus. So, it’s time to go.”

  Tiny adopted a comic, wistful look. “Of course, I had planned to go on vacation to Buenos Aires then out on a luxury airliner through diplomatic channels to the US of A.” He tried to look sad but failed, and instead smiled broadly. “But hell, this is as good a way as any, the exciting, adventurous route, not to say the bloody cold route!”

  They both laughed, then Sybilla, becoming serious, said, “I really appreciate what you’re doing. You’ve blown your cover to get me out. You could have told Weber to go away and do his own dirty work and left me to my own devices.”

  Tiny looked askance at her from the corners of his eyes. “Would you have left me to my own devices?”

  Sybilla smiled and shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t. Thanks, Tiny.”

  “Thank me when we’re both sat on a plane out of Santiago and heading for the States. As things stand, we have a fairly major task in front of us. Speaking of which, we need to make an early start.”

  Just before five the next morning, they strapped their skis onto their bergens and began the long uphill hike to the ski slopes. The snow had stopped, but in the dark, the route was difficult to negotiate, and it wasn’t until the sun was making a half-hearted effort to climb over the eastern mountains that they reached the slopes.

  Having rested for only a short spell, they continued up the same valley towards the distant ridgeline. Tiny had an inner toughness and fitness not always found in men of his muscularity. Sybilla, despite the hard going during the dark, found it relatively straightforward and was well within her comfort zone. They reached the ridge in under an hour from their last stop, and Tiny pointed down the eastern slope. Sybilla could see the frozen lake shimmering and glistening in the morning sunshine. On the southern shore of the lake, she could see the safety cabin Tiny had told her about. That would be their next checkpoint, and a chance to eat some of the rolls and cold meat the hotel proprietor had kindly left for them, neatly wrapped, on the reception desk.

  The first hundred yards or so of the descent was tricky in the extreme—rocky, icy and devoid of snow—but, after what could have been a treacherous scramble down, they eventually reached the snowline. It was with some relief that they clipped on their skis. Even so, the slope on this part of the basin was steep, and they were forced to take it slowly and carefully. Now would not be a good time to have a skiing accident. However, as they moved closer to the bottom of the basin, the slope became much shallower and they were able to ski with greater freedom.

  They shot around the northern shore of the lake and travelled down the eastern side. They were within a hundred yards of the cabin when Tiny suddenly slewed to a halt and held up his hand.

  Sybilla pulled up alongside him. “What’s up?”

  “What’s that?” he responded, pointing to two slight indentations in the snow. They had been all but covered in fresh snow, but Sybilla could see that the marks travelled parallel to each other, in the direction of the cabin.

  “Ski tracks!” said Sybilla. “Who …? When …?”

  “What time did it stop snowing last night?” asked Tiny, apprehension in his voice.

  “I couldn’t sleep and went out on the balcony at about ten,” said Sybilla. “It was just stopping then.”

  “Then just before ten last night, someone skied to the cabin along this side of the lake,” said Tiny, his face set hard. “See? The tracks have been partially covered in snow.”

  “But who on earth would be skiing in pitch black during a snowstorm?” asked Sybilla. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s not the who that bothers me,” said Tiny quietly, “it’s the why.”

  They approached to within fifty yards, at which point Tiny stopped and removed his skis, whilst watching closely for any sign of life in or near the cabin. Nothing!

  “Stay here!” Tiny ordered peremptorily.

  Unclipping her skis, Sybilla nodded. “Okay. Tiny, be careful!”

  Tiny strode forward until only a dozen paces separated him from the cabin, “Halloooo!” he called. “Anybody there?” No answer.

  Tiny strode forward to the door and unlatched it before swinging it open and stepping inside. Immediately there was a loud retort and Tiny staggered back out of the cabin and fell on his face, the snow around him taking on a crimson hue.

  Startled, Sybilla sprang forward, then stopped abruptly with a gasp of horror. Framed in the doorway of the cabin—and levelling a Luger at her—was Herwig Weber.

  The Long Trek

  Sybilla’s first instinct was to rush toward Tiny, but Weber halted her with a snarled command. “Don’t go near him! I know he has a pistol. If you approach any closer, I will have no hesitation in ending your filthy useless life.”

  Sybilla had been in the business long enough to know that now wasn’t the time for heroics. She must be patient, bide her time. A chance might come.

  “Inside!” growled Weber, waving her toward the door of the cabin with his Luger.

  Sybilla took in the interior of the cabin as she entered: a basic single-roomed hut, bunk beds in one corner, the table and chairs in the centre. Hanging on a side wall was a wooden sled with metal runners next to a coil of rope. A first aid box, painted white with a red cross, was attached to the wall next to it. A sleeping bag lay draped across the lower bunk.

  Once inside, Weber sat on the lower of the two bunk beds in the corner of the room and pointed at one of the chairs beside the simple small rectangular wooden table. “Sit!” he growled.

  Sybilla complied. “You slept here last night?”

  “Yes, I wanted to be here nice and early to welcome you and be the first to congratulate you on your outstanding failure.” He laughed mirthlessly.

  “How did you know?” Sybilla asked. Keep him talking, wait for an opportunity.

  “That ape-man outside was too willing to do my bidding and was clearly agitated, so I waited until he left his apartment and followed him. He went straight to your hotel. At first, I was in torment—I thought he had gone to kill you—but when the two of you emerged, dressed in cold weather kit, my heart sank. I knew he had betrayed me, and worse, I knew you had betrayed me.”

  “But how did you get here?” asked Sybilla, feigning surprise. Get off the bed. I can’t try anything while you’re on there, get up!

  “It wasn’t difficult to hire a pleasure launch on a Sunday. I followed you to Puerto Blest, the foul weather hiding my pursuit. When I tied up at the quay, I saw your boat and assumed you would stay the night, as I’m sure you have done many times in the past when I wasn’t around.” Weber spat out the latter part of his statement, bitterness choking his voice.

  “You climbed up here in the night?” asked Sybilla, trying to inject wonderment and admiration into her voice.

  Weber sprang to his feet and advanced a few steps towards the table, waving his pistol menacingly.

  “Oh, yes! I’ve been here many times with my great friend Tiny, out there. We used to come up here and ski together, my great friend and I; and now he’s be
trayed me, he’s got what he deserved.” Weber’s voice was now filled with a mixture of anger and anguish. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  A little closer now. “There was never anything between Tiny and me—it was always you, Herwig, and it can be again. I was running away because I was frightened, but you can straighten it out—it can be good again, just you and me, Herwig.” Just a little closer.

  “No!” Weber roared. “Let you go free so that you can whore yourself with me again? No! I didn’t think I could kill you, but now I see you for what you are. A cheap, filthy, scheming little slut …”

  Weber reeled backwards, his face registering alarm and shock as the door burst open and Tiny lurched through and crashed into him. Instantaneously there was a pistol shot and Sybilla saw an arch of blood spurt from the rear of Tiny’s leg.

  The force of Tiny’s collision with Weber sent them both crashing to the floor, dislodging the gun from Weber’s hand and sending it skittering across the wooden boards and under the bunk beds. Sybilla didn’t hesitate. Dropping onto her stomach, she squirmed under the lower bunk. After an ecstasy of fumbling, she finally located the pistol and wriggled out from under the bed. Weber was extricating himself from under Tiny’s inert body and began crawling towards her, sobbing hysterically.

  “Billa, it’s like you said, we can be together again.” His voice was broken and quivering.

  As he reached out an arm towards her, Sybilla levelled the pistol and fired. A black hole appeared on the forehead of Weber’s startled face. He fell forward and lay still.

  Keeping the pistol levelled at him, Sybilla circled him. The back of his head was pulp—it had been a through and through. Herwig Weber would never move again.

  Moving quickly to Tiny, Sybilla eased him onto his back. He groaned loudly and his eyes flickered open. He lay for a moment before looking up into Sybilla’s beautiful but deeply concerned face.

  Giving his best effort at a smile, he quipped, “Jesus! I thought for a moment I had died and gone to heaven.”

  Sybilla made a wry face. “You phoney!” she said, but was nevertheless genuinely concerned at the blood seeping from his leg.

  Moving to the first aid cabinet, she found two army-style ‘first field’ dressings. Thick wads with a bandage attached. Easing Tiny’s injured leg up—not without some pain—she applied the wad to the underside on top of his trousers. The fabric of the trousers would help soak up the blood. She waited for a minute then, as the first wad started to discolour, she applied the second dressing on top of the first. Her training with OES hadn’t been completely wasted.

  Examining Tiny’s shoulder, Sybilla found that it was another through and through. The bullet had entered just below his left shoulder and exited through the shoulder blade. She didn’t know what sort of mess it had made of the shoulder blade on its way through but imagined it wouldn’t be good. Worse, Tiny seemed to have lost the use of his left arm. However, it didn’t seem to be bleeding too badly, and Sybilla patched it up by making pads from a couple of crepe bandages.

  Between the two of them, and helped in no small part by Tiny’s grit and determination—he must have been in great pain—they managed to manoeuvre him onto the lower bunk. Once he was as comfortable as Sybilla could make him, she set about sorting things out.

  First priority was to remove the body. She dragged Weber’s corpse to the door and stared out at the woods. It was over a hundred yards away; strong as she was, she doubted her ability to drag the body that far. The sled! That was the answer. The sleds were left in the cabins as a means of transporting injured skiers and climbers to safety. It was perfect for the job in hand. She manoeuvred it next to Weber’s dead body and heaved him onto it. By the time it was loaded she was exhausted and had found out the hard way the meaning of a ‘dead weight’.

  Sybilla hauled the body well into the woods before tipping it off the sled. She put a thin covering of snow over it and, without a further thought, set off back to the cabin. She felt no remorse for the Nazi she had killed, nor did she worry about the tracks she was leaving. The next fall of snow would cover all that. In all likelihood, Herwig Weber would remain undisturbed in his snowy grave until the spring of next year. On a positive note, using the sled to transport his body had given her the germ of an idea.

  Returning to the cabin, she set about cleaning it up as best she could. Rummaging in her bergen she pulled out a light jumper and, using this in combination with snow, she was all but able to obliterate the bloodstains. Raiding Tiny’s bergen she found his burner and billycan and soon had some coffee brewing. Then, breaking out the rolls and cold meat along with some powdered soups she had hurriedly packed, she soon had a banquet prepared.

  As they ate, Sybilla chatted cheerfully in an attempt to keep Tiny’s spirits up, but it was clear that he was in pain. He looked dreadful. Sybilla checked the bandages again; the bleeding from his leg wound seemed to have stopped. Sybilla breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t the artery—nor, it would appear, was it a main vein. Small mercies!

  “Billa,” said Tiny, staring at her intently, “you need to go. I can’t make it but you can. The border is only a few hundred yards from here.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting suggestion, Valentino,” said Sybilla, looking at the ceiling as if considering it, “but what was it you said only a few hours ago? If I was in trouble, you wouldn’t leave me to my own devices, was that it? Well, what makes you think I would leave you? Works both ways, buddy!”

  Sybilla stood up from the side of the bed where she had been sitting by Tiny and thrust her hands onto her hips. Looking stern, she wagged a finger at him.

  “I remember something that’s been sticking in my craw. When I was on the plane coming down here you said you would have to look after me because I was a Norwegian, right? Ha! Well listen, buster, I thought at the time it was more likely that this little Norwegian lady would end up having to help her big American friend. Seems I was right!”

  Despite his pain, Tiny managed to chuckle. “You got me there, pal! I take it you have a plan, though I can’t think what.”

  Sybilla was serious once more, and sat back down. “It all hinges on how you feel tomorrow. That’s why I need you to rest today and take on as much liquid as I can get into you. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Sybilla wasn’t sure if her physiological logic actually made sense, but she was clutching at straws. “I can help you with everything you need, so don’t worry about anything. I’m not a blushing teenager. I’ll tell you the plan tomorrow morning, depending on how you feel,” she said with finality.

  “Okay, boss, you’re in charge.”

  “You better believe it, fella!”

  That night, Sybilla helped Tiny into his sleeping back, taking care not to disturb his leg or the bandaging around it. She then lay down beside him and placed her own sleeping bag over the two of them, to ensure that Tiny remained warm throughout the night.

  Sybilla was up before first light the next morning. Tiny had slept reasonably well. There had been spells when he was clearly uncomfortable, during which Sybilla had placed an arm about him, taking pains to avoid his injured shoulder, and comforted him. This usually led to him dozing off again, at least for a while.

  She poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and took it over to him, helping him to ease himself into a sitting position.

  “I wish it was tea,” she said apologetically.

  “TEA?” exploded Tiny, almost choking on his coffee. “TEA?”

  “Yes,” nodded Sybilla enthusiastically. “I’ve acquired a taste for it since I’ve been in England. It’s a great reviver! If you drank a cup of tea, you would jump off that bunk, hoist me on your shoulders and sprint up to the ridgeline.”

  “Really?” chuckled Tiny, looking very dubious. “I need to get me some of that!”

  “On a serious note, how are you feeling this morning?” asked Sybilla. Tiny’s brow was furrowed, his face looked pinched and wan, and dark shadows lay under his eyes. She tried hard not to a
llow the concern she felt reflect in her face.

  “I’ve felt better. Is now the time to ask what the plan is?”

  “Dead simple. We walk up to the border at the ridgeline, and then I lower you down the other side using the sled.”

  Tiny looked at her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief on his face. “That’s it?”

  Sybilla pursed her lips and shrugged. “Pretty much. Oh, there’s some fine detail to sort out of course. Like how the hell do we get you up that slope? If you can hobble at all, perhaps you can use a ski pole as a crutch with your good hand, and I can get on the other side with my hand on your belt to support and give a bit of a lift, and we just might make it. Once we reach the ridge, I’m certain I can lower you down the other side under control, on the sled. What do you think?”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” asked Tiny laconically.

  “Then we go to plan B.”

  “I don’t think I want to know what plan B is.”

  “So, what do you think?” persisted Sybilla.

  “You want my honest opinion? It’s a rotten plan, but it’s the best I’ve heard today. Here, give me a hand up.”

  “Not until we’ve had breakfast,” said Sybilla, holding an open can of Fray Bentos corned beef triumphantly in the air. “I packed it in my bergen, just in case.” So saying, she scooped two spoonfuls out before handing the tin to Tiny.

  “Billa, come on! Take some more out, you’ve hardly got any!”

  “Eat!” commanded Sybilla, with a look that brooked no argument.

  After breakfast, Sybilla helped Tiny onto his feet. If he was in pain—and he most certainly was—he made no complaint. They practised walking in the way Sybilla had described. In the warmth of the cabin on a flat floor, it was relatively easy, but Sybilla knew it would be a different matter once they started ascending the ridge to the border.

  Outside the cabin, Sybilla tied both of their bergens onto the sled along with three skis. The sled was attached to her waist by a rope.