by Peter Beck
AUGUST 7 – 13:20
Winter sprinted back across the dam. With each step Max had been moving further away, assuming he was going to leave the wall from the other side. Winter would prepare a nice reception for him.
The crown of the dam was almost five hundred metres long and there was no help anywhere near. A cloud floated in front of the sun. The blue water turned dark grey. The strip of concrete seemed endless. Winter’s lungs were burning and his thighs hardening. He approached the service lift.
This consisted of an open, metal cage with a large hanger and fat, rubber reels. It was let down by a winch on steel ropes.
Winter peered down. Far below him he could see a bulky, grey mass. There could only be one explanation: the two fake technicians had used the lift to mine the dam wall from the outside.
Should he go down? The buttons that operated the lift were in a massive, weatherproof box that couldn’t be forced open without tools. The key for the console was missing. Of course. Winter slapped it in anger. Time was running out.
But Max was inside the dam.
That meant there must be explosives inside as well. And a way out, as Winter didn’t think Max was planning on sacrificing his own life by staying inside the dam.
Winter kept running. Max had to be his priority. During the long sprint he focused on the end of the dam, which bordered a steep granite rock face. Around twenty metres before this was a small, cube-shaped, concrete structure containing the access steps to the inside.
Winter slowed, then stopped. The door was on the leeside, the other side from Winter. There was no cover on the dam and Winter didn’t want to fall naively into a trap.
Where were Max and the younger technician? Did Max have more accomplices? He tried to get a view of the blind spot behind the stairs.
Beyond, at the end of the dam, a narrow path led into the mountains. The first section of path had been blasted into the rock face and in places made safe with ropes. At the steepest part, the path even led through a small tunnel. Had something just moved in that black hole? Winter aimed his gun at the shadowy aperture of the tunnel.
At that moment, from the corner of his eye, Winter glimpsed a blue windcheater appear from behind the cube of concrete and aim a pistol at him. Fortunately he was ready to shoot too. Swinging his .45 to the left, he fired a shot.
A scream. A hit. Windcheater and pistol disappeared behind the steps.
Winter had no cover between himself and the steps, and he didn’t want to push his luck any further. He only had a tiny window of opportunity. The shooter hadn’t expected to take a bullet. Winter sprinted to the concrete structure. Pressing his back against the wall, he glanced around the corner to the footpath.
There! A man, all in black, was exiting the small tunnel and hurrying up the mountain. Max was carrying a heavy, almost rectangular rucksack. He had a several hundred metres head start and had left behind at least one accomplice to stop Winter.
Max was out of reach. For the moment.
One thing at a time, Winter thought. The next opponent was waiting on the other side of the structure. Winter didn’t know how many men he was dealing with. He felt the coarse and cold concrete against the back of his head. He listened carefully.
Wind.
Alpine choughs.
Silence in the mountains.
But time was running. Against him.
In his trouser pocket Winter found the tied-up technician’s flick knife. He weighed it in his hand, flicked out the blade, then tossed the knife in a wide arc over the concrete structure. The knife spun several times, almost came to a stop at the highest point, then made its way downwards, blade first. When it disappeared from Winter’s view he moved away from the wall and slinked around the cube of concrete.
The metal blade clanked on the ground.
Distracted, the shot man turned his head.
Winter came around and aimed the SIG at the technician’s torso. Right at the heart. ‘Drop your gun!’
He hadn’t seen this left-hander before. The man’s shooting arm started moving upwards. Winter couldn’t be sure if this was deliberate or just a reflex, but he had no time to weigh up the risks and certainly no time for diplomacy.
Without any further ado he shot the man in the hand. The pistol fell to the ground. Another Heckler. Maybe the guns had been bought in a multipack.
Where was the third maintenance man?
Winter chucked the Heckler into the reservoir and motioned with his SIG for the man to move from the door to the edge of the dam. He took off the technician’s belt and tied him provisionally to the balustrade.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
In a flash, Winter was back, flying the last metre through the air and ramming his shoulder against the door.
The third maintenance man was wedged between the steel door and the frame. Winter grabbed his outstretched forearm and prised the pistol from the hand of the surprised attacker with a sharp twist away from the body. This gun flew into the water too, increasing the reservoir’s lead content.
The young technician from earlier made an attempt to fight back, but Winter elbowed him with full force in the side of the head, his knees buckled and he fell unconscious.
During this struggle the second man had freed himself from his belt and was running away. Despite the grazing wound to his shoulder and the hole in his hand, he refused to accept that it was over for him.
Aiming carefully, Winter shot him in the thigh. The man staggered a few more paces forwards, fell and stayed put. Winter shook his head. Learning difficulties.
He tied up the unconscious man and gave him a fleeting search. He didn’t have a mobile that Winter could have used to expedite the assistance he’d requested.
Max was gone.
Doubting that the chopper pilot and Fatima would be able to muster an official back-up in time, it looked as if he would have to defuse the explosives himself. Winter prayed his explosives know-how hadn’t gone rusty.
A black crack opened up behind the door. Winter held the pistol in front of him at the ready. He opened the door fully. A surprisingly broad staircase led down. Stark light. No saving energy here.
Winter raced down thirty or so steps and arrived in a five-by-five metre concrete catacomb. Concrete and nothing but concrete. A few ducts on the ceiling. It was cool and musty like a wine cellar. He stopped for a moment and listened inside the dam. It was silent. Eerily silent.
He could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears.
There were two narrow, vaulted tunnels. Winter took the one that led to the centre of the dam. His shadow followed him, then a moment later leaped ahead. Another catacomb. Tunnel, catacomb, tunnel. A small catacomb every thirty metres. In the fourth or fifth vault Winter came across a narrow, spiral staircase that seemed to lead downwards ad infinitum. Beside it lay an orange helmet and some abandoned empty wooden crates. They’d obviously been too unwieldy for the narrow metal stairs.
Winter put the pistol back in its holster, placed both hands on the banister and ran, slid, stumbled down as fast as he could, taking three or four steps at a time. He’d watched sailors use this technique. His palms burned. It wasn’t half as easy as the sailors made it look.
About forty metres down he reached another chamber with two horizontal tunnels leading off from it. The curvature of the dam made it impossible for Winter to see more than fifty metres in either direction.
Down here it was warmer and stickier than in the upper tunnels. Winter stayed on the spiral staircase. The bomb device on the outer wall had been attached about two hundred metres below the crown. The explosives on the inside were probably at the same depth.
With increasing confidence Winter slithered ever faster down the spiral stairs. He stopped at the fourth tunnel.
Not a sound.
But no explosives to be seen either. Winter dashed into the adjoining catacomb. Nothing. He hastened back and glanced into the catacomb on the other side. At least the attackers couldn’t hid
e the explosives in these bleak caves. Turning back again, Winter descended another forty metres down the staircase.
He smelled the bomb before he saw it. The sour tang he’d detected in the Land Rover was worked into the explosives by the manufacturer for safety reasons. When he entered the catacomb a few steps later, it was impossible to miss the device. Dozens of blocks of white C-4 plastic explosive were stuck to the wall with thick industrial tape. Each block was about forty centimetres long, five-wide and eight-deep. Winter gave the device a careful examination.
A capsule containing the initiating explosive was stuck into each block. Stiff, black-and-white copper wires connected the detonators. The wires came from a roll that lay half finished in a corner. The C-4 explosive and the wires spun a deadly spider’s web inside the catacomb.
The central detonator hung in the middle of the web: a small metal box. On three sides it had copper clips, into which the wires from the individual blocks had been stuck. On the front of the box was a number keypad and a small screen like pocket calculators have.
Red digits: 00:11:03, 00:11:02, 00:11:01, 00:11:00, 00:10:59, 00:10:58.
Winter wiped the sweat from his brow.
Defusing bombs was definitely not his favourite pastime.
Plastic explosive was robust.
You could shoot at it and nothing would happen. The blocks would only explode if the much more unstable, initiating explosive were detonated by a gentle, electrical shock. The problem he faced was the central timer – he had no idea about its mechanism or programming.
No risk, no fun.
With his index finger Winter pressed the * button.
AUGUST 7 – 13:24
The little black box was beeping. 00:10:52, 00:10:51, 00:10:50. Jesus Christ! Winter tried the # key. The box was welded shut and couldn’t be opened without the right tools.
Should he just rip out the wires? During explosives training, the instructors had always impressed on him that with many modern detonators the explosion was triggered early if there was electrical feedback.
There must be a way of overriding the central detonator with the right combination of buttons.
Winter pressed the # key several times.
Beep, beep, beep. Nothing.
Where were the instructions?
Winter wiped the sweat from his face.
His only hope was trial and error.
He pressed the * and # keys together.
Beep. The two zeros denoting the hours started flashing. Winter pressed two then three for twenty-three hours, then pressed the * and # keys again. Now the minutes were flashing. Five, nine, * and #.
Winter breathed a sigh of relief.
It wouldn’t go off for another twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. Long enough for the experts to defuse it. Part of the disaster had been postponed. But that was the easy bit. The more difficult part was waiting on the outside wall. He had just ten minutes and no idea how to operate the lift and get to the other bomb.
Running up the spiral staircase took longer. Winter struggled, taking more steps at a time. He had to force himself to ration his energy. The bomb was about two hundred metres down the dam. Each step was twenty centimetres. Five steps were a metre. A thousand steps. Too many to count.
He wouldn’t be going jogging after work today.
Winter was breathing heavily.
He was short of oxygen.
A stabbing in the lungs.
Cramp in the ankles. Winter felt giddy from spiralling up the staircase. It was the same feeling he’d had as a child when his father had held him by the hand and ankle, and he’d flown through the air with centrifugal force like a plane. Back then his only fear had been that he might bang his head against the plum tree. At that moment he stumbled and cracked his right kneecap against the edge of a metal step.
A few minutes later, he finally reached the exit.
Bright light.
Winter paused, panting heavily. The unconscious man he’d tied up didn’t appear to have moved, and the technician with the learning difficulties was leaning against the railings like a boxer after a knockout. As Winter sped past him he curled up into a defensive position.
The service lift was the only access to the second bomb. He had no idea how to get it working. He had to improvise.
From the valley he could hear the drone of a helicopter. At last. The helicopter zoomed over the dam wall. It was the same bright-red Alouette III that had flown him and Fatima here half an hour ago.
The helicopter turned and hovered over the reservoir.
Beside the pilot’s moustache, Winter recognized the financial group’s head of security. Winter waved, happy that he’d updated Hugentobler on the investigation yesterday evening. Fatima and two men were sitting on the passenger bench. The pilot was reticent about approaching the car park again, but Winter waved to signal that it was safe now and he should land there.
He set off at a pace. When he reached the car park, the doors were opening and the passengers getting out. Winter checked his watch. Less than five minutes. No time for detailed explanations.
The helicopter noise grew deeper and duller. The rotors slowed. Hugentobler was the first out. Grabbing him by the shoulder, Winter shouted in his ear, ‘In four minutes a massive load of C-4 will go off.’
‘Where?’
‘Down there,’ Winter replied, pointing at the dam. ‘I’ve managed to reprogram the other load inside the dam. It’s in the fifth underground level. In the middle. You’ve got to fly in the explosives experts from Spiez immediately.’
‘Right. What about you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. But time’s running out.’
‘What’s the situation?’
‘Baumgartner dead. Four others, one on the run, three incapacitated. One’s there,’ Winter said, pointing to Salami by the Land Rover. ‘The other two are injured and lying at the other end of the dam. Get them out of here. But not till we’ve defused the bomb!’
The two other men, wearing grey-orange fleece jackets with the logo of the operating company, joined Hugentobler and Winter, who shook two coarse, powerful hands and asked, ‘Do you have a key for the service lift?’
‘No. Not here. Why?’
Winter ignored the question.
‘Where’s the spare key?’
‘In the maintenance room.’ The man’s chin pointed to the dam wall. Winter did some calculations. The service lift only moved at a snail’s pace.
One of the men in fleeces tried to open the steel door to the dam. Without success. The fake technician had bolted it from the inside or just left the key in the lock. They didn’t have time to break open the massive door.
Improvise.
Winter looked around.
Situation analysis.
The mission was clear. Defuse the bomb in four minutes. Little time. Speed of the essence.
How?
Fatima stood beside Winter, looking anxiously at him. He smiled at her, but in his mind saw Anne, who gave him an idea.
‘Winter!’ Fatima cried when he ran from her.
He half turned around and gave her the thumbs-up. Fatima wouldn’t forget her minibreak in Switzerland quickly.
Anne’s laughter flashed in his head. Winter felt anger and upset brewing inside him. Focus. He yanked open the door of the cockpit. The pilot with the Lech Wałęsa moustache grinned at him, baring his yellow teeth. ‘How was your swim?’
‘Refreshing.’
The pilot put out his hand. ‘Hari.’
‘Winter.’
Fixing the pilot’s eyes, Winter couldn’t detect any nervousness. Just professional curiosity, a touch of mischief at the corners and the concentration of a man who can’t afford to make a single mistake. Ever. Over a beer this evening he’d light a long, thin cheroot, twiddle his sweeping moustache and serenely tell his colleagues another hair-raising story. Winter could be sure that their collaboration would work. He was in reliable hands.
‘Do you fly mountai
n rescue missions?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Do you have the right equipment on you?’
‘Always. Who do you want to rescue?’
‘The dam wall.’
‘The dam wall?’
‘In the centre, about a third of the way up, a bomb has been fixed to the wall. It’s going to explode in less than four minutes. Where’s the gear?’
Lech Wałęsa pointed his thumb at the passenger area. ‘In the box beneath the benches.’
‘Let’s go!’
Winter slammed shut the front cockpit door. The rotors started to accelerate again. He hauled himself into the passenger area and closed the sliding door. One bath a day was enough. He put his helmet on and positioned the microphone. The helicopter took off and the pilot said, ‘Hello, Winter. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, loud and clear. Give me instructions.’
‘Open the bench.’
Inside, Winter found a climbing harness with loops and several carabiner hooks. As they flew across the reservoir he put on the harness and pulled the loops tight. ‘Where’s the rope?’
‘The winch is between the benches. The red carabiner to the red ring, and the blue one to the blue ring,’ the pilot instructed.
By now they were facing the wall and the pilot said, ‘I see the target area on the wall. It’s quite far down. It’s going to be tight. We’ve got two hundred metres of rope at most.’
‘Should be enough,’ Winter said optimistically. If not, he thought, at least we’ll have a box seat for the explosion. He hooked up the red and blue carabiners and checked they would hold.
‘Open the hatch,’ the pilot said. In the middle, between the two parallel benches, Winter unbolted a security mechanism. Now he was able to push part of the floor to one side. A rectangular hatch about eighty centimetres by one and a half metres opened.
The wind blew in.
When Winter opened his eyes again he could see the sheep grazing far, far below. They had no idea of the danger they were in.
‘Are you ready?’
‘One sec.’ Winter sat at the edge of the hatch, opposite the winch. Both his legs were hanging out of the helicopter. The wind was ruffling his damp trouser legs. They would dry very quickly.