Damnation

by Peter Beck

  Back home he threw the papers on the sofa, puffed up the squashed cushions and put some coffee on.

  Fatima appeared, gave Winter a dozy wave, and vanished into the bathroom without a word.

  In the various newspapers, Winter read different versions of the hedge-fund collapse. Thanks to big leverage the managers had rapidly made huge profits, but when the tide turned they slipped even more quickly into a downwards spiral. Growth couldn’t go on forever. Winter didn’t have any sympathy. He drank coffee, pressed fresh orange juice and filled Tiger’s bowl.

  Three-quarters of an hour later Fatima was ready for an expedition to the North Pole. For the three-day conference, Winter placed a dark suit in a protective cover on the back seat, and put his wheelie suitcase into the Audi’s boot. For today’s excursion, a small rucksack with a few supplies and a spare jumper would suffice.

  Now the red dot on Max’s mobile started to move southwards.

  AUGUST 6 – 10:23

  Winter left the Susten mountain pass and parked beside the base station of the cable car. They bought two tickets and entered the small red cabin, which held a maximum of eight people. Fatima and Winter were the only passengers. Mountain climbers and pensioners went up earlier, family outings were rare during the week.

  On the outer wall of the cabin were two bulky luggage crates in which the inspector stacked supplies for the mountain huts.

  At half past ten, the small gondola left the base station, wobbled a little and then quickly soared skywards. Winter sensed Fatima tensing up. She was used to flat country, but now bravely held on tight to the poles at the side and tried to look relaxed. Fatima wanted to see a glacier, and that meant going up. As if she could read his thoughts, she asked, ‘Where is the glacier?’

  ‘Higher up and further into the mountains. After the cable car we’ll have to walk another couple of hours.’

  Winter knew the valley and the surrounding mountains from an exercise his special unit had carried out. The scenario was that his team had to free hostages who’d been abducted by a doomsday sect and held captive in a remote Alpine hut. They could only approach it unnoticed at night. During the endless wait his deputy had got badly sunburned.

  Beyond the large windows of the cabin, the houses, cars and people shrank. Below them, the lush-green meadows turned into barren pastures. The beech forest became a fir forest.

  Winter and Fatima kept yawning to combat the changing pressure in their ears.

  Ten minutes and an ascent of three hundred and fifty metres later, they got out of the former works cable car. A cool wind blew through the top station. Once outside they took the fresh air deep into their lungs and marched off.

  A dusty path led across an alp with cows and cowpats, both fresh and dried. The well-nourished cattle ignored the tourists, chewing away serenely. They were far plumper than the scraggy cattle on the fields along the Nile.

  They crossed a mountain stream via a wobbly wooden bridge. The cows were replaced by more scrawny-looking sheep, each of them with a small bell around their neck; the tinkling delighted Fatima. Then the path became steeper and stonier, the vegetation sparser and hardier. Gentians were in flower.

  After a scree slope they discovered to their left a small reservoir. Above the drinking-water reservoir, the glacial stream had dug deep into the bare rock.

  Winter felt the sweat running down his back. His shirt stuck to his back beneath the rucksack.

  Fatima, who didn’t seem to be sweating, followed him step for step. She was fit and had good balance. To start with, Winter stopped at the particularly steep and narrow parts to offer her a helping hand. But after she’d declined a few times he left it. She climbed the tricky bits flexibly too.

  The last section to the Windegg hut zigzagged steeply up the mountain. Around midday they reached the lee of the hut. They ate the rolls they’d brought with them, drank tea and looked down into the valley. Far below they could see the Audi in the car park, beside it a green off-road vehicle.

  The hut warden came out of his shelter, looked delighted to have company and forced them to taste his spicy alp cheese, which he’d stored for three years up here in a stone hollow. He served them finely-shaved cheese, gherkins he’d preserved himself and two fresh tomatoes on a wooden board. Fatima asked the cheesemaker, ‘Is it far to the glacier?’

  ‘Just around the corner,’ he replied in English, with a thick Oberland accent.

  ‘Over one hundred and fifty years ago the British discovered the Bernese Oberland as a tourist destination,’ Winter explained.

  ‘You get the best view from the suspension bridge.’

  ‘The suspension bridge?’

  ‘Yes,’ the hut warden said, ‘in the past the Trift Glacier used to extend far into the valley and was easy to cross. Then a large part of it melted away. Global warming. The meltwater lake is getting bigger and bigger. Thanks to the bridge we don’t have to make a big detour to get to the hut.’

  ‘Is there another hut higher up?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good two and a half thousand metres above sea level.’

  The hut warden nodded. For dessert, there were dried apricots and hot coffee with a shot of strong, homemade plum schnapps.

  They thanked him, paid, set off and ten minutes later caught sight of the Trift Glacier glittering in the sun.

  The icy mass lapped in massive steps down a col. Lengthways, cracks furrowed the ice, which was covered in scree. In the valley basin, the tongue of the glacier ran into a milky meltwater lake, in which small icebergs drifted. The lake was blocked at the entrance to the valley by a natural dam. On the shadowy northern slope of the basin, individual slabs of snow remained from last winter.

  Fatima and Winter stopped to allow the inhospitable but fascinating scenery wash over them. They stood there in silence until Fatima said, ‘This is my first glacier.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s massive.’ After a while, she added, ‘I feel really small.’

  ‘I find it calming.’

  ‘Yes, somehow the valley gives off a sense of serenity.’

  ‘I can understand that. But don’t delude yourself. The glacier with its cracks is dangerous, the water in the lake is ice cold and the weather up here can turn very quickly.’

  Fatima took photos with her mobile. The little bars that showed phone reception had vanished. They were in a dead spot. A helicopter with a low-hanging net flew high above them. Supplies for the hut or building materials to improve a path.

  They kept walking and reached the bridge at the end of a ridge. To Fatima’s surprise the bridge was endlessly long. A fragile nothing hovering above the abyss. The suspension bridge was almost two hundred metres long and hung one hundred metres above ground.

  ‘Shit!’

  Fatima was familiar with wobbly suspension bridges, but only from developing countries. Luckily this one looked new. She bent forward cautiously. Far below, the glacial stream frothed over the natural dam and disappeared into a gully.

  She paused and filled her lungs with air. This would be worse than the trip in the swaying cable car. Her head said: whatever happens the bridge will hold, the Swiss are reliable. Her heart said: never! A queasiness spread throughout her stomach. Her innate reflexes were automatically resisting the chasm.

  Fatima glanced at Winter, who looked totally relaxed. In the faint hope of being able to avoid crossing the bridge, Fatima said in a deliberately firm voice, ‘It looks pretty rickety.’

  ‘Don’t be scared. Many hikers have crossed this bridge.’ Winter smiled impassively.

  ‘I don’t have a head for heights.’

  ‘Me neither. The best thing is simply not to think about it. The bridge is as wide as a pavement and you’d never think about not walking on one of those.’

  That was easier said than done for the suspension bridge seemed to lead into nothingness.

  Four, thick, steel cables had been stretched over the valley, two at foot height and two at chest height. The two lower cab
les were connected by cross braces, upon which lay three parallel boards, running lengthways, each about a foot wide. Through the gaps between the boards you could see right down into the valley. Finer cables had been woven between the cables on either side to make a broad-meshed balustrade.

  The bridge swung slightly in the fresh breeze. Fatima banished the thought of a gale which might toss the bridge from side to side. ‘It’s only in storms that you have to be careful,’ Winter explained. If the bridge is wet it acts like a lightning conductor, so in an electrical storm you could end up toast. But today the weather’s fine.’

  He grinned.

  Fatima gave a tormented smile.

  Winter pointed at the glacier, then down into the depths of the valley. ‘Far more dangerous would be if part of the glacier broke off, as that would create a tidal wave and the dam wouldn’t be able to hold the water.’

  Fatima wasn’t interested in hearing such thoughts. Ignoring Winter’s words, she braced herself mentally for her passage across the abyss. Two hundred metres would take no more than a few minutes. She decided to walk swiftly, hold onto the side cables and only look straight ahead at where she was heading. Focused, but careful. Absolutely no tripping. There were large holes between the cables on the sides. Fatima was certain that she could fall through one of those.

  ‘Come on. We’ll be at the glacier in an hour. Would you like me to go first?’

  Fatima nodded and Winter began marching across the bridge without the slightest hesitation. As she stepped onto it, Fatima noticed that the suspension bridge wasn’t flat. It went down at first and rose again after the mid-point.

  Winter had demonstratively put his arms out like a ‘T’ and cast her an encouraging glance over his shoulder. Her palms glided along the rough, cold cables. This calmed her. She circumspectly shuffled one foot in front of the other, ensuring that she distributed her bodyweight between two boards at any one time. Better safe than sorry.

  When, after twenty or so paces, the bridge hadn’t collapsed, Fatima felt emboldened. The suspension bridge bounced gently. The tension of the cable. The horizontal oscillations were so slow that neither Fatima nor Winter really felt them. Adrenalin shot through her body as she started to enjoy this mini adventure. The view was breathtaking.

  Against her good intentions she even ventured a glance down into the valley. But when she saw the eddies of the glacial stream far below, her stomach convulsed again and she fixed her gaze squarely on Winter’s rucksack five paces ahead of her. To compensate for the up and down movement she had adjusted her rhythm to Winter’s and was now walking in step with him. The sky was blue, the air fresh. It was glorious.

  In the middle of the suspension bridge they stopped and marvelled together at the blaze of colour. From this vantage point the milky green of the glacial lake was even more intense. They stood beside each other quietly. The bridge swung. Far above, a bird of prey was circling, keeping an eye out for groundhogs. A buzzard, a kite or even an eagle. Freedom.

  All of a sudden their peace was disturbed. On the other side, a group of mountain climbers stepped onto the bridge.

  It started to sway.

  They had to cross each other.

  Fatima and Winter shifted carefully to one side, holding on tight to the steel cables with both hands. The bridge tipped sideways slightly. Inadvertently they looked down into the depths.

  The mountain climbers, all men around forty with checked shirts, heavy-duty shoes, ice picks and ropes over their shoulders, marched past. The last in the group raised his cap by way of a greeting.

  Now Fatima was keen to get off the bridge and feel the glacier beneath her feet. She pushed her way past Winter. The bridge led gently upwards. In her knees she could feel the vibrations of the mountain climbers.

  Winter paused for a moment. It was about another hour to the glacier. Maybe they could walk a short distance on the glacier ice. In summer the crevices weren’t covered in snow and so clearly visible. The local tourist board may have marked out a safe section for visitors. Winter followed Fatima.

  The rocky outcrop on the other side was still about thirty metres away when a wooden board split right in front of him. The adjacent boards were ripped from their brackets, opening up a gaping hole. One of the stray splinters bored into his forearm.

  Someone had shot at them. Up here they were exposed, without protection.

  Human targets.

  AUGUST 6 – 13:13

  When she heard the wood crack, Fatima turned around and stared at the hole between her and Winter. Her eyes were wide with horror.

  Pointing to the end of the suspension bridge, with his bleeding right arm and outstretched finger, he cried, ‘Run!’

  Fatima saw the blood and seemed frozen, unable to move.

  A second shot destroyed more boards between Fatima and Winter.

  Panicked, Fatima ran towards land.

  Winter felt surrounded by a peaceful bubble. Calmly, he analysed the situation. The shooter was below them. He hadn’t heard a report. The shots had been fired with a rifle from a long distance. A hunting rifle with a telescopic sight. They didn’t start hunting chamois until autumn.

  A shot from that distance and this angle was tricky. So far the marksman had only hit the wooden boards. Was he a poor shot or just a sadist?

  Winter turned around and hurried back to the middle of the bridge.

  He was doing the unexpected.

  And luring the gunman away from Fatima.

  But two more bullets, fired in rapid succession, tore up the boards in front of him. A long hole appeared. Winter stopped abruptly, shielded his eyes with his arms and collected another splinter.

  The ground beneath his feet was rapidly shrinking.

  He saw the broken boards falling slowly into the bottomless depths.

  One question had been answered, at least. The gunman was an excellent shot, and this meant he was a sadist who liked to let his victims suffer. This was the better of his poor options, as it might possibly give Winter time to come up with a plan.

  Movement.

  Although moving targets are more difficult to hit than static ones, most creatures usually froze. Like the deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. Winter spun around in a flash and leaped back blindly.

  It wasn’t a moment too soon, for the next shot destroyed the last three boards beneath his feet. The bullet whistled past him. A splinter sunk into the rucksack. He grabbed the right-hand cable with both hands and landed with his feet on the lower cable.

  He looked over at Fatima. She was ten metres from the safety of the rocks. The two cables sprung violently up and down and he tried to stabilize his position above the abyss.

  Fatima was still five metres from safety when the ground was shot away from beneath her. She plunged through the hole.

  It seemed to Winter as if she were sinking in slow motion, as through a trapdoor in the theatre. Or beneath the gallows.

  ‘No!’

  Her shrill, desperate scream was a mixture between ‘Stop!’, ‘No!’, ‘Help!’ and ‘Allah!’ in Arabic.

  The protracted echo of her shriek reverberated from the valley basin.

  And again.

  Then there was silence, and for a second the world stood still.

  When Winter opened his eyes he saw that one of the thin cross braces had somehow caught Fatima beneath her arms. Her chest, stomach and legs were hanging beneath the bridge. Her shoulders and head were where the wooden boards had been just seconds ago. A yawning chasm.

  ‘Hold on tight! I’m coming!’

  ‘I’m slipping.’

  With his feet, he pushed himself along the cable towards Fatima. Step by step. The thin cross brace creaked in the side brackets.

  ‘Almost there.’

  He’d turned his back on the marksman and was expecting another bullet any second. Reaching a few metres of undamaged bridge, he rushed towards Fatima.

  Had the gunman emptied his magazine? Was he reloading? Might the rifle be
jammed? He hadn’t been able to spot the shooter from this distance. He might even be five hundred metres away. But Winter had no time to contemplate this.

  Once again he put his feet next to each other on the lower cable and carefully groped his way towards Fatima.

  He heard a whimper. ‘Winter?’

  He edged his way forward.

  Fatima stared at him with opaque eyes. ‘I’ll get you out of there,’ he tried to reassure her.

  To keep a firm footing, he dug his heels into the cable and gripped more tightly on the upper cable with his left hand. Then he let go with his right and bent his knees. Grabbing Fatima’s left forearm, he slowly pulled her up. The stab wound from the golf course hurt like hell and the scar split open again under the tension. The blood mingled with that from his new splinter wounds.

  ‘Fatima, help me. Put your foot up.’

  Fatima’s stomach was now level with the lower cable and she tried to get a footing on it. But she couldn’t.

  Her wrist was slipping through Winter’s bloodied grasp as the thick, steel cable scoured his other hand. Time was running out.

  Winter gritted his teeth.

  He gave it his all.

  He swung Fatima upwards, but her feet missed the lower cable again and she fell back down. The cross brace snapped from its bracket. Fatima stifled a scream.

  She was hanging from Winter’s arm, dangling over the void.

  Winter’s shoulders were wrenched apart. His fingers dug into Fatima’s forearm, but his grip on the cable became weaker. Winter’s knuckles were white and blood flowed between the fingers.

  He took a deep breath. The jolt of her slip had set the bridge swinging more violently, and Winter used one of the upwards movements to pull up Fatima with the last reserve of his energy.

  She thrashed about with her free arm and managed to grab the upper cable on the other side. That was good. Now she could put a foot on the lower cable.