Damnation

by Peter Beck

  ‘Excellent. Now stand up and hold on tight with both hands.’

  Fatima got up very cautiously. The cables swung and vibrated, but she was able to pull herself up and get her other foot onto the cable. She stood in a strangely contorted pose, gazing into the valley far below. She seized up and one foot slid outwards, but she caught herself in time and regained her footing.

  ‘Stay totally calm,’ Winter said. ‘We’re almost in safety. I’m going to let go of your arm now.’ The two of them were standing upright and he added, ‘Watch, Fatima. The best thing is to push your feet along the cable like this.’

  At that moment, something tugged at his rucksack, the aluminium flask pinged and he felt a blow in his back. A bullet had entered the rucksack and penetrated the thermos.

  The blow reeled Winter around.

  He lost his footing. The bridge lurched perilously to the side. He swung outwards. This time there was no bungee rope.

  ‘Aargh!’ he cried.

  ‘Winter!’

  Fatima wanted to hold out a hand, but had to get a grip on herself. The cables were seesawing wildly. A bullet shot through her hair, but she didn’t notice it. The movement was making life difficult for the marksman. As the bullets flew the targets were yo-yoing.

  ‘Quick!’ Winter cried.

  Fatima pushed herself in rapid strides towards the outcrop, reached the last intact metre of bridge and ran. Behind her the boards shattered. The gunman had followed her with his rifle, but he’d been too late. She dived to safety, landing on her stomach, and immediately turned around to Winter.

  He was still suspended a few metres from the rock face, manoeuvring himself along the cable with his hands using the oscillations of the bridge. A bullet shredded Winter’s trouser leg on his inner thigh. He felt the puff of air and was relieved that the bullet had missed his most sensitive part.

  Then he too reached the concrete anchoring of the bridge, pulled himself up, reached shelter behind the rocks and crawled over to Fatima. His forearms left a trace of blood on the bare rock.

  Drained, Fatima closed her eyes. ‘What was that?’

  He pulled splinters from his arm. ‘Someone’s hunting us.’ He placed his uninjured arm around Fatima’s shoulder.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you see the gunman?’

  ‘No. Thankfully he was far away. Somewhere below us. There’s a direct path to the bridge that doesn’t make a detour to the hut. I expect the shooter went that way. But with no bridge he can’t follow us.’ Winter crawled to the edge and peered down into the valley. Unable to spot anybody, he pulled himself back. He was dripping blood.

  ‘You’re bleeding. Let me see.’

  Winter slipped off the rucksack and removed his shirt. Feeling his arm he said, ‘It’s not so bad, just a few scratches. The muscles are unharmed.’ He clenched his fist several times. His fingers were in perfect working order.

  Fatima cleaned his arm as best she could with a tissue. Winter tore the sleeves of his shirt into strips and together they bandaged the flesh wounds.

  Then he pulled the rucksack over and first removed the large splinter. He took out the thermos flask, which bore a bullet hole. The tea had leaked out. The flask and the liquid had checked the bullet.

  Winter shook the thermos. The bullet rattled around and rolled out. ‘A .308 calibre. These bullets are used for hunting and sniper rifles. You can easily buy them here. All you have to do is show your ID and wave a bit of money in the air.’

  Winter let the events play out again in his head. First the boards in front of him, then the ones behind. A shot for the boards below him and then the hole beneath Fatima. Then a pause for reloading.

  A hunting rifle, maybe a Remington. A weapon like that wouldn’t stick out around here. The US Marine Corps used a similar model. With the police Winter had tested custom models with which he’d been able to hit a coin from eight hundred metres in good conditions.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ Fatima asked, holding her mobile phone. No reception.

  ‘We’ll just stroll across the glacier,’ Winter said dryly.

  ‘See the glacier and die,’ Fatima retorted. The steel cables hung serenely over the chasm, swinging back and forth. A solitary wooden board dangled from it.

  ‘Come on, then.’ They got to their feet and climbed up to the glacier. They washed and refreshed themselves at a small mountain stream. Winter still had two apples and a bar of chocolate.

  As they walked, they wondered who might be behind this. The most obvious theory was that someone wanted revenge for the events on the golf course. These TAA madmen were bound by the Old Testament. An eye for an eye.

  How had the marksman found them? Were they followed? Winter hadn’t noticed anything on the way here. But he hadn’t been looking in his rear-view mirror the whole time. Or had someone located them via their mobiles? That was routine for Meister. But there wasn’t any reception up here. The helicopter earlier on had just flown past, transporting something. Winter had another suspicion, but he couldn’t confirm it until they were back down in the valley.

  They reached the glacier. After the suspension bridge Fatima wasn’t particularly impressed any more. They crossed the ice on a marked path. Hours later and with weary knees they got back into the cable car that took them down to the valley. They didn’t meet a single person the entire way.

  Winter asked the young cable-car employee whether he’d seen a hunter. He said he hadn’t but he’d only replaced his colleague at three o’clock. He told them where the employee lived who’d been on the morning shift. Winter and Fatima found him just around the corner from the base station, in the garden of an ancient farmhouse made crooked by wind and snow. Winter stopped beside the fence. ‘Hello, do you mind if I ask you something?’ The man with the pitchfork looked up and just nodded. He wasn’t the talkative type.

  ‘This morning we took the gondola up the mountain.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  ‘Just after one o’clock someone mistook us for a chamois. So I’d like to know: did you see a hunter?’

  ‘The hunting season doesn’t begin till September.’

  ‘This hunter was ahead of the times.’

  Unflustered, the mountain farmer rested his chin on the pitchfork and had a long think. It was hard work. ‘One man went up about an hour after you.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  The farmer shook his head.

  ‘But he wasn’t a hunter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he didn’t have a rifle on him?’

  The farmer had another long think. Winter waited in silence until the other man felt uncomfortable. After a minute that seemed endless, the farmer said, ‘He was a sort of punk.’

  This astonished Winter. ‘A punk?’

  ‘Yes, you know, dressed all in black. And as pale as an albino calf. Too many computer games, I’d wager. And too little hard graft.’ He disdainfully dug the pitchfork into the ground and skewered a potato.

  ‘Hair colour? Height?’

  ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘He had short, blond hair and was fairly tall. I only saw him briefly at the ticket desk.’

  ‘Did he speak Swiss German?’

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t from around here.’

  ‘Rucksack?’

  ‘No. Wait. Yes, now that I come to think of it, he did.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I think he was carrying a paraglider. In a rucksack.’ You could easily hide a rifle in that.

  ‘Notice anything else?’

  A long pause. He scratched his back. ‘His shoes. He was wearing army boots. The ones that only officers used to be allowed to wear.’

  ‘You mean lace-up combat boots?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I suppose that’s all part of a punk’s get-up.’

  They thanked him and walked to the Audi.r />
  Fatima, who hadn’t understood much, said, ‘A punk?’

  ‘Punk is dead. That must have been Max. Same shoes, same hair.’

  The green off-road vehicle was no longer there.

  Winter bent down and examined the Audi. He didn’t find a bomb, but on the inside of the right rear hubcap he discovered an inconspicuous-looking transmitter, attached with a strong magnet. It was the sort you could buy in any electronics shop and favoured especially by detectives who specialized in divorce cases, but also used for tagging lynxes and bears.

  ‘This explains how Max found us.’ He left the transmitter in place and looked around. The valley was quiet.

  AUGUST 6 – 18:30

  The fake eyelashes of the smart women at the reception of the Grand Palace in Interlaken didn’t flicker when a sweaty Winter checked in with his bandaged arm. These women had seen all manner of things in their time. It was part of the five-star hotel’s successful business model that their employees kept a tight veil of secrecy over the whims and eccentricities of their clientele.

  The bank valued this too and had commandeered half the hotel for three days. Winter had invited Fatima along as the new CEO of Orafin. Both were on the printed guest list.

  The Grand Palace was an old, nineteenth-century hotel that could boast monarchs, actors and presidents amongst its guests. In that order. The place had been extended and renovated countless times, the most recent overhaul being the restoration of the ballroom. Rich Russians and Indians, especially, loved hiring the hall, done out in pastel colours, for their parties.

  The security guard beside the lift made a decent impression from a distance. It was Anne who’d organized the security firm that would keep onlookers at a distance. The detailed contract was in Winter’s suitcase. He’d do an inspection of the hotel with the local person responsible.

  One of the receptionists asked if Winter had any particular requests. He selected two neighbouring rooms with parquet flooring on the fourth floor and ordered two litres of mineral water, two slices of cake as well as tea and coffee to be brought to his room. And a first aid box. Winter thanked the woman and took the documents and plastic cards she handed him.

  He looked around.

  Fatima had disappeared.

  But he could see Schütz, deep in conversation with an Asian client.

  The bank enticed clients to their annual conference with an exclusive programme. The men loved racing across the mountain pass in Jaguar sports cars under the instruction of an aging rally driver. The women usually preferred the guided excursions to see the nearby mountain flora, and of course the spa with its beauty treatments. This evening there was a genuine Swiss cheese fondue on the Jungfraujoch to mark the opening of the conference.

  Schütz gave a nonchalant wave.

  Grinning, Winter waved back with his uninjured arm and saw Fatima on the phone in an armchair.

  Looking at Winter’s arm the receptionist recommended the hotel doctor in the spa area just around the corner.

  When Winter just shook his head, all she could do was wish him a ‘wonderful stay’. The well-meaning woman had acquired her affected way of speaking during role-play sessions. In many languages.

  Fatima, who’d finished her call, got up and was heading towards Winter. He admired her elegant movements but she looked straight past him.

  Behind him he heard von Tobler’s resonant baritone.

  ‘Winter! What the devil have you been up to?’

  Von Tobler clapped Winter on the shoulder and he flinched involuntarily. The boss was wearing a bespoke, black suit and a starched, white shirt with a billowing silk tie fastened by a gold pin. On his lapel was a Rotary Club, wheel badge. As he shook Winter’s hands his golden cufflinks with the bank’s logo gleamed. Von Tobler was making his presence felt in the hotel lobby, personally greeting as many of the arriving guests as possible. When his gaze alighted on Fatima, Winter said, ‘Herr von Tobler, may I introduce Frau Hakim from Orafin?’

  Before Winter could finish talking, von Tobler had switched on his male charm. ‘Ah, what a pleasure to meet you finally. It’s a special honour for me to welcome such a distinguished personality to our humble event. You are even more charming in the flesh.’

  Fatima swept the hair from her face and gave von Tobler a professional smile.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  ‘Did you have a pleasant trip?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Herr Winter has been looking after me.’

  ‘Allow me once again to congratulate you on your success. I’m sure that you are a shining example to Egyptian women – and the entire business world.’ With both paws, von Tobler now clasped Fatima’s slim hands. He moved a few centimetres closer to her than what would be deemed a polite distance.

  ‘Many thanks, Dr von Tobler. Mr Kaddour was an excellent mentor.’

  ‘Enough. Enough of business. How do you like our little country?’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ Freeing her hands with an expansive gesture in the direction of the Alps, Fatima took a step away to recover some distance. ‘I was deeply impressed by the Trift Glacier.’

  As he spotted another client, von Tobler took Fatima’s hand again, bowed slightly and said in an unmistakeably lascivious manner, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you later.’

  In the mirrored lift, Fatima touched Winter’s arm. ‘I don’t think I’ll come this evening. It’s been a white-knuckle day.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the attack. I didn’t see it coming.’

  ‘The gunman or von Tobler?’

  Winter laughed. ‘Both. But I meant the sniper.’

  ‘Fate. Allah willed it to be so.’

  Winter admired Fatima’s pragmatic fatalism and wished he could pack away his past so easily. His father had told him from an early age that you create your own success and you also have to take responsibility for your mistakes. Memories he’d prefer to keep hidden surfaced, and then he noticed Fatima looking at him thoughtfully in one of the mirrors.

  The lift went ‘Ping’.

  When they stepped out onto the soft red carpet in the corridor Winter looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting in an hour. With the financial group’s head of security. If it comes to a takeover, he’ll be my line manager.’

  ‘Those are just rumours, aren’t they?’

  ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I hope von Tobler will shed some light on it in his speech this evening. The rumour mill’s going crazy.’

  ‘He seemed very confident just now.’

  Winter maintained a diplomatic silence. They walked down the long corridor, round a cleaning trolley, turned two corners, went down the two steps between the old building and the extension and came to their rooms.

  Winter handed Fatima her card.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They opened their heavy, bedroom doors and met inside between the connecting doors. Five minutes later the tea, coffee, cake and first-aid kit arrived. The waiter came from Morocco and spoke French. Winter gave him a handsome tip.

  Winter took a shower and tried to keep the burning soap away from his injured arm. Beneath the warm stream of water he was overcome by tiredness. He turned the temperature control to ice cold. His heart leaped and his pulse throbbed. Icy water. Glacial lake. He was awake again. Who wanted him dead? Stretching out his arms, Winter supported himself against the wall and let the cold shower patter on his back. This evening he would demand answers.

  He turned off the water and put on the hotel dressing gown, but it was too small. He took it off again, wrapped a towel around his waist and drank a cup of coffee.

  Fatima came through the connecting door. ‘Shall I patch you up again?’

  Nodding gratefully, Winter sat in an armchair and raised his arm. Fatima opened the box with the red cross and attended to Winter’s flesh wound. She was a pitiless nurse. Winter could not help flinching when she applied disinfectant. Ten minutes later he looked as if he were advertising plasters. />
  The movement and strength of his arm were not impaired but the flesh wounds were sensitive to touch. This opened up a whole array of new possibilities to avoid falling asleep later on during the speeches in the muted lighting. He’d just have to press on his forearm and the pain would keep him wide awake.

  He got dressed. Dark suit, white shirt and understated tie. The uniform went with the evening.

  He took a small plastic bag from his wheelie case and attached the holster with his semiautomatic .45 SIG to his belt behind his back. The spare magazine in his left trouser pocket, the flick knife in his right. This time he also tied the holster with his .22 Mosquito to his right lower leg. Not carrying the Mosquito during his round of golf with Al-Bader had almost spelled disaster.

  Today they had tried to kill him and Fatima.

  Better safe than sorry.

  In the early days Winter had hated carrying weapons, but over time he’d learned to live with them. And after having fired thousands of rounds he was now a good shot. Shooting was a technique that was as much part of his job as conversational skills or shadowing people. The SIG had twice saved his life.

  Winter took out the .22 and checked it. The .45 was all in order too. The SIG pistols produced by the Schweizer Industrie Gesellschaft were reliable, precise and indestructible. The beavertail grip lay reassuringly in his hand. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it.

  Winter closed the door and headed to the reception. He was on time to the minute: 19:45. The financial group’s head of security, looking bored in one of the chunky, leather chairs, put down his Financial Times and stood up. They shook hands.

  Live and let live. Hugentobler was fourteen years older and at least thirty kilos heavier than Winter. The financial group’s security chief was waiting for retirement. He was notorious for his long coordination meetings and he chaired a variety of committees. Winter liked him all the same, particularly his wily eyes and sharp tongue. It was traditional to invite him to these events.

  Winter had booked two seats in the 19:50 helicopter shuttle.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Seeing you in one piece makes me glad.’