The Milieu Principle

by Malcolm Franks

The time had reached ten in the morning when the bus pulled into the centre of St Wolfgang. Matt felt tired and drawn but cautiously optimistic. Events had unfolded far better than expected in Brussels.

  Matt and Catherine had agreed upon a plan. The Austrian was due to host a conference in the New Year to which every Interior Minister of each EU State had been invited. The topics for discussion were to be security and constitutional amendments. Catherine had suggested she would add Matt’s computer presentation to the agenda under any other business, without specifically designating the conspiracy by name. This way, only the two of them and Rosa would know what was to be shown to the audience, offering no opportunity for outside interference. It was the perfect platform from which to showcase the Milieu files.

  He began the walk to the lodge, to meet up and report back to Rosa. Matt looked forward to seeing her beautiful face and hoped her physical recovery was going well. He wondered how she was managing to cope with Johannes’ untimely end. Despite Rosa’s bravado, Matt had worried constantly about her state of mind throughout his absence. He could only hope the news he was bringing would provide her with some grain of comfort, some sense of meaningful progress.

  The trek to the lodge was arduous, due to the uphill nature of the walk. His arrival was later than planned. Nearing the outer gate, Matt instinctively stopped to survey the area. This was almost second nature to him now, courtesy of Rosa’s intense training.

  He could see nothing out of place and strode purposefully to the door, brimming with excitement over the news he had for Rosa. He saw the door lay slightly ajar and the muscles in his body automatically tensed.

  Unsheathing the knife he pressed his back against the wall of the lodge and listened for sounds of movement inside. He leant forward and gently eased the door open with the point of the blade.

  There was no noise from within.

  Using the reflection from the blade he slowly turned the knife in his hand to view the interior of the cabin. The couch had been pushed onto its back, cushions had been scattered indiscriminately around the floor. The drawers of the side cabinet had been wrenched away, spilling their contents. He caught sight of the shattered pieces of the hi-fi system. Matt wasn’t sure if the mess had been caused by a struggle or whether it was due to a brutal search of the property.

  There was no sign of Rosa’s presence and his first instinct was to fear she’d been taken or, worse, murdered. We’ve been betrayed again, his mind ranted. And it could only be the bitch, Vogel.

  What a fool he’d been!

  A million or more separate thoughts galloped into his mind at the same time, creating mass confusion in his brain and scrambling his emotions. Anger was replaced by fear which, in turn, was replaced by feelings of guilt and despair. After all the effort to keep her alive, Rosa could be dead by now. And her demise would be a product of his own carelessness and stupidity in trusting an unknown. Unwittingly he had led them here, directly to her door.

  No, his mind raged to the sky. You can’t have her. I won’t let you take Rosa. He’d promised he would never leave the way Johannes was taken from her life. He’d never considered she might leave him. Inexplicably, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss, as though someone had reached inside his body and ripped away his soul. The feeling was incomprehensible.

  And then, his mind abruptly settled. Vogel was going to suffer a terrifying end, his mind demanded. But first, he had to find out what happened to Rosa.

  Taking a big gulp of air he surged into the lodge, expecting to be assaulted by any number of assassins, and rolled along the hard wooden floor. He paused and prepared his body for the inevitable conflict, waited for the surge of bodies that would soon be on him. And then waited some more. Nothing happened.

  Springing to his feet he began the frantic search for clues on Rosa’s whereabouts. He checked the kitchen and bathroom area, the bedroom. Then he opened the back door and looked outside onto the paved outside eating space. There was no sign, nothing.

  Come on, Rosa, I know you too well, he thought. You would have left something, a clue of some description.

  And then he saw it. The toy steam engine placed on top of the replica model railway. Miraculously undisturbed by the mayhem, it pointed the way. Rosa, he was sure, had fled to the summit of the Schafberg.

  Matt had no idea how much of a start she had. It could be minutes or hours, even days. In which case, he could be too late. He had to at least try and keep his promise.

  Matt retrieved the two spiked walking poles from the lodge cupboard, a pair of gloves, several bottles of mineral water and one of Johannes’ warm hiking jackets before setting off. The new pair of binoculars, too. They’d been an impulse buy on his way back from Brussels, thinking he could use them to view the surrounding valleys from the mountain top one day. He’d never expected to need them so urgently.

  Normally, it would take the train forty five minutes to do the journey whilst experienced hikers could take many hours to reach the summit. Rosa would be on foot with only human muscle to rely on, a challenge at the best of times. Getting to the top on foot at this time of year would be a test of real endurance for the fittest of people. Matt hardly dared contemplate the effect it would have on Rosa’s body, given the physical injuries she was carrying.

  Suddenly he remembered, and pressed the speed dial of Johannes’ phone. Martin answered.

  “It’s Matt. Are you taking supplies up to the peak today?”

  “Yes, Matt. I am just about to start.”

  “Martin, you must wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” and switched the phone off.

  Matt surged back down hill to meet up with the train driver.

  “What is it Matt, what is wrong?” he asked the Englishman as Matt threw himself onto the carriage.

  “The people who killed Johannes have chased Rosa up to the mountain. I have to get up there as quickly as possible.”

  “You know I can only travel slowly,” the Austrian replied.

  “It’s a lot quicker than climbing. Go Martin, now.”

  Nothing was said as the train moved up the narrow gauge railway. Martin noticed the agitated Englishman’s nervous, practically manic, tapping against the side of the machine.

  Thirty painfully slow minutes later and they had reached the Schafbergalpe. Rain had begun to fall heavily. Matt at last got a clear view up towards the mountain peak and the various buildings located on the summit.

  He looked through the binoculars and scoured the area but could see nothing. Gradually shifting his gaze down, he saw three figures making slow upward progress, using the winding path through the mountain meadows. The complement was being led by a tall, fit looking man, who seemed to be berating his companions for their lack of speed. Rosa had said once Tillman liked to work a target in teams of three, and it appeared to Matt this grouping bore all the hallmarks of such a team.

  Matt shifted the line of sight of the binoculars back at the summit and scanned the entrance and then the windows of the hotel. Desperately he searched for evidence Rosa had made it to the top and was still alive. Several times he swept his gaze from one side to the other. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, there was no sign of Rosa.

  He was about to shift his gaze further down the hill when he glimpsed a movement in a tiny outbuilding, some yards down from the main block. It was the sty, where the pigs were kept during the summer. He imagined at first it was one such beast. Then he looked again.

  No, it was definitely a person’s head and it was definitely Rosa. The rain had flattened the dark hair to the sides of her face and she looked awful; drenched to the skin, pale and miserable.

  God only knew how long she’d been there.

  He signalled to Martin to resume the ascent. The nervous tapping of his fingers quickened, faster than the speed of the train as he tried to remain calm. Matt struggled to contain his anxiety, wondering if he could reach the troupe before they located Rosa. He wondered how he was going to manage to take them all out, knowing he
needed to find a way to separate them. Taking on all three together would leave him with little chance.

  The train passed through the final tunnel, metres from the last stop. Matt’s attention was drawn to a flickering light he could see through the dark drizzle a little further ahead. He recognised it to be one of the men. The figure sat on a large boulder next to the summit train station, looking as though he was lighting up a cigarette. Matt raised the binoculars to his eyes and magnified the view to examine the shape in more detail. He spotted the shoulder holster.

  He tapped Martin on the shoulder and the Austrian nodded. Stealthily, Matt clambered off the train before it emerged from the dark corridor, starting his circling manoeuvre to get into position.

  The man saw the engine and turned to look curiously at the slowly approaching mass. There were no carriages of tourists and he wondered why it should be here at all. Martin jumped from the engine and lifted the first of the cases down.

  “Supplies,” the Austrian said with a smile and proceeded to carry the first package up to the pulley mechanism, just above the tunnel exit, as the man looked interestedly on.

  Matt took one slow step at a time, closing undetected upon his prey.

  Then he struck.

  Less than a second was all it took to ram the spiked end of the walking pole into the man’s throat and then withdraw it again. Blood gushed out of the neck wound as the figure jumped from the boulder, gurgled in shock, and then collapsed to the floor.

  Two, Matt thought as he searched the body. The gun was in the shoulder holster, the silencer in the deep outside pocket of the all-weather jacket. Matt continued to rummage through the clothing but could find no spare clips of ammunition and cursed at the discourtesy.

  A voice called down from above.

  “Jenkins. Are you okay down there?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, and then waited motionless. He felt sure the voice would suss out the reply hadn’t come from Jenkins lifeless body.

  “Get yourself up here,” boomed the voice.

  Matt could hardly believe his luck. They obviously couldn’t see him from their elevated position above. He looked across to Martin and raised his eyes in relief.

  He moved swiftly back to the engine, and pulled out another of the cases. Resting it on his shoulder he shouted a few words of German across to Martin. The Austrian nodded as Matt started to walk up the path towards the hotel, package lodged firmly in place.

  Passing the pig sty to his left without peering inside, Matt paced steadily uphill looking for the remaining two enemies, desperate to finish them off before they discovered Rosa’s hideaway.

  He could see only one, leaning up against the lower wall of the main building to rest tired and aching limbs.

  “Workman coming through, Mr Francis,” said the man.

  Matt’s recognition of the name was instant. Grace’s ex-beau, the man who had called her back into active service and the man she had preferred to Matt. The loud speaking, uber-confident Canadian was a very long way from home.

  He was almost upon the second man when he lifted his free hand to the case, took a firm hold of the object, and flung it at the man’s head. Before the look of surprise had set itself upon the shocked face, Matt pointed and fired to the heart. The figure collapsed to the ground.

  One, he thought. Matt was determined to enjoy what was to follow. He skipped up the steps to the hotel in search of the tall man, looking left and then right for his prey. Deciding Francis must have entered the building his hand grasped the handle to the door. He had just touched the wooden surface when a shape burst into view. Matt felt a blow to his chest, catapulting him along the walkway and throwing the gun from the safety of his grasp.

  Stunned, Matt rose unsteadily to his feet and then another blow pushed him forcibly backwards, off the hard surface and onto the cold wet grass below. He tried to shake some logical thought back into his mind. Looking up to where he had fallen from, he saw the tall figure of a man towering overhead.

  “We meet at last!” boomed out the lanky figure, leaping onto the ground in front of the startled Englishman.

  Matt rose to his feet and looked into the eyes of the healthy face with the stark, black expression. Francis was much bigger then Matt, with bucket-like hands which would give him a grip of iron. In a hand-to-hand tussle the Canadian would hold the advantage. Were he to get a firm hold of his opponent, Matt would struggle to break free from the powerful looking figure.

  Having lost possession of the gun, Matt could only hope his agility would be enough to balance up the unequal contest.

  “So you’re the murdering bastard that killed Sandra,” the voice boomed again.

  “Sandra Hayes died the moment you dumped her three years ago. Grace had never been happier without you,” Matt replied slowly.

  The two men stood, eyes locked in burning hatred for the other, neither willing to give ground or as much as blink.

  “I’m going to rip you apart,” spat the Canadian. “And then I’m going to throw you over the side of this mountain, piece by little piece.”

  Francis roared with the rage of a wounded lion and lunged for Matt’s throat. The adroit sway to the left caused the attacker to miss on his first attempt. A snap of a long right arm missed the side of Matt’s head by millimetres. The guy was quick, too quick.

  A feint of the shoulder and Matt was thrown backwards again by the heavy foot of the aggressor, causing him to drop to the ground breathless and roll further away from the hotel.

  Resting on all fours, Matt never saw the Canadian’s boot lunge up into his body, just below the ribs, winding him for a second time, and he crumpled to the floor in agony.

  “Get up!” yelled his attacker. “Get up, so I can put you back down again.”

  Matt started to rise only to be felled once more by the thick boot of the Canadian slamming against his body. This was quickly followed by a large fist smacking into his side as he tried to look up and refocus his eyes.

  Lying with his back on the ground, Matt could hear Francis circling. The hate-filled figure yelled obscenities at the dazed Englishman, prodding him with his black coloured walking boot.

  Matt sprang for the Canadian’s legs, toppling the giant to the floor. He rained a heavy blow to the side of his opponent’s head. It was enough to cause a shout of pain.

  Matt rolled away from his foe and climbed on to his feet, unsteady and unsure of his balance. His mind started to clear. Every blow thus far had been to the body; he rationalised this to be his aggressor’s preferred offensive strategy. His enemy was intent on draining Matt’s strength through constant blows to the body.

  The Canadian’s limbs began the next assault, probing and prodding at Matt’s steady, deliberate defence. Francis’ long reach made it hard for the Englishman to strike an offensive blow, and he found himself being pushed backwards. Matt’s mind was fully engaged and he was beginning to understand the Canadian’s sequence of blows.

  Seconds later and he was ready. Matt positioned his right leg behind his left and shifted his body sideways, ready to mount a counter-attack. His rear foot searched for firm ground and caught the rough edge of a small rock, causing it to slide out of position. He stumbled.

  The Canadian needed no second invitation. Spotting his opponent temporarily unbalanced he delivered the coup de grace, and landed a heavy blow to the pit of Matt’s stomach. The Englishman slumped to his knees. So fierce was the strike it completely took the air from Matt’s lungs and, before he could react, further blows rained down upon him. They struck his back and his front, weakening his resistance and sapping away his energy.

  Unable to absorb the continued fierce punishment, Matt was soon helpless to resist. The big man gripped his collar and dragged him ever nearer the edge of the rocky spur. Matt tried to halt the inevitable, reaching out to cling on to any object that might somehow slow his progress to the precipice. Everything he touched gave way in his hands.

  Matt made one last frantic attempt to halt
the interminable slide to oblivion. He desperately grabbed at one of the feet of the aggressor, only to find his fingers trampled violently into the ground underneath.

  A myriad of thoughts flashed through Matt’s mind. He felt sure this is what it was must feel like to be drowning, as the mental images of his life flashed by. Pictures of the past flew through his mind in what seemed like milliseconds before the passage of time came right up to date.

  He wanted to strangle the life out of Vogel, wanted to avenge the loss of Grace from his life. Most of all, he wanted to rescue Rosa. In all three things he was about to fail miserably. All the while these thoughts flashed through his mind, they neared the edge.

  And then they were there. Francis lifted Matt’s limp body from the ground and tossed the Englishman onto the edge of the spur. One more push and he would be over, falling the full six thousand feet into the valley below.

  “At least die like a man,” roared the Canadian giant. “Get up and look into the eyes of the man that’s going to send you to hell.”

  Matt gasped for air as he heard Francis’ taunts and frenetic goading, determined as hell not to die like a petrified mouse. He wanted to yell at his executioner, make some kind of barbed statement to at least wound the Canadian’s ego and hurt his pride. His mind had gone blank.

  Matt dragged his weakened frame onto all fours and stared back into the triumphant eyes of the avenger.

  All that remained was the final, inevitable, blow.

  Rosa, he thought, I can’t keep my promise. I’ve failed you.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Emergence of Truth