Damnation

by Peter Beck

  The pilot maintained a hover. ‘When you’re hanging on the rope I won’t be able to see you. I’m reliant on your instructions. And make sure that you don’t swing too hard. No jerky movements. Good luck!’

  Winter swallowed and supported himself with both arms either side of the hatch, like a gymnast on the horizontal bars. ‘I’m going to let you down now,’ he heard the pilot say. The winch jolted into life, and the red, synthetic rope began to unwind quickly. Winter let go of the helicopter and clung onto the rope with the harness. When his head was level with the floor he saw the ribbed, plastic mat and the metal bench legs.

  The wind blasted into his face. Instinctively he looked up to check that the rope was holding, but all he saw were the bright-red metal plates of the underside of the helicopter and the braced chassis.

  With both hands on the rope Winter slowly started spinning. The valley with its green fir forest, the dried-out stream bed, further down the Secer bunker and Lake Brienz in the distance. Alpine meadows on the mountain slopes with thinned, low woodland, then the dam wall again. Behind it the reservoir. Winter tried in vain to stop the spinning, with a gentle counter-movement of his torso. After the second full turn he heard Hari’s voice in his helmet.

  ‘Everything okay, Winter? How’s the view?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Winter let his gaze roam the panorama. In the sky with its grey clouds he could see a single paraglider circling. The puffed up glider didn’t sport the usual bright rainbow colours, but was a military green. The pilot was just a tiny black figure.

  Max!

  That was all he needed.

  The bulky rucksack had been a paraglider. The rat could land anywhere on a meadow far below, jump into a waiting get-away car and drive away as cool as a cucumber.

  By now, Winter was a hundred metres below the helicopter, gently swinging back and forth. One thing at a time. The bomb was still below him.

  ‘Can’t this thing go any faster? We don’t have much time.’

  ‘The winch is at maximum speed. We’re almost there. I’m approaching the edge of the dam wall.’

  Hari let the hovering helicopter lose height. As Winter passed the crown of the dam, the water vanished behind the concrete wall. He was now about thirty meters from the wall. It was shady and cool. All of a sudden the winch juddered; the two hundred metres of rope were fully extended.

  ‘That’s the end of the rope,’ he heard Hari say.

  ‘I’m thirty metres from the wall and fifty metres above the explosives,’ Winter explained.

  ‘Your wish is my command.’

  The distance to the concrete shrunk to twenty, then ten metres. Now Winter could clearly see the black seams of the concrete formwork. He kept calm to reduce the spinning and swinging to a minimum. He looked straight up the wall. The helicopter was partly obscured by the edge of the wall and the red rope swung slowly back and forth. The C-4 explosive device was still about thirty metres from his feet.

  ‘I’m still thirty metres above it.’

  ‘It’s getting tight.’

  Hari meant the metres, but Winter looked at his watch. One more minute, assuming that the devices had been set to explode simultaneously. ‘Yes.’ The rope swung away from the dam wall.

  ‘Wrong way. Closer to the wall!’

  ‘Apologies. The wind is pretty unpredictable up here above the edge.’ And the helicopter was a plaything for these downwinds. Winter was getting inexorably closer to the concrete wall. He tried to absorb the impact with his feet and forearms. Then he knocked against the wall, his helmet clanking against the concrete.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hari said.

  ‘I’m at the wall. Three metres to the left, away from the car park, and five metres lower.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as impossible.’

  ‘I’m almost touching the railings.’

  ‘I need another metre to the right and two down.’

  The rope now pulled him against the concrete and he had to brace against it with hands and feet. The service lift might have rubber rollers, he didn’t. Above Winter’s head the synthetic rope fluttered and nervously slapped against the dam wall. Hopefully it wouldn’t wear through and break.

  Now Winter could almost touch the outer ring of the C-4 plastic explosives with the tips of his toes. The central detonator was the same model as before. The black box hung on a climbing hook that was sticking from a neatly drilled hole. Grey, industrial tape criss-crossed the whitish blocks of explosive, holding it fast to the wall.

  His feet were at the level of the central detonator. If he stretched in the harness and bent forwards his hands could reach the outer explosives but not the detonator in the middle.

  ‘Hari! Just another half metre lower!

  The rope tore Winter away from the wall.

  AUGUST 7 – 13:31

  The helicopter jerked Winter upwards. The harness cut into his thigh and trussed his chest. At the end of the rope he flew back into the valley. The unexpected movement sent him into a spin, which he couldn’t control. He swung from the end of the long, now wild pendulum, helplessly rotating back and forth. Thrashing about with his arms and legs in the air proved useless. Winter’s pulse was at the upper limit of the optimal zone.

  The mountains circled around him. He was in the middle of a carousel that had sprung its axis and was now turning too quickly.

  He held on tight to the rope with both hands.

  ‘Hari! What are you doing?’

  ‘The rope almost snagged on the service lift. It could have brought the chopper down. I had to get away immediately.’

  ‘The next attempt has to work. Quick!’

  Hari flew straight back to his old position; with a slight lag the rope also swung back, slowly at first, then faster. Winter careered towards the concrete wall, lifting his legs at the last moment to avoid getting entangled in the explosives. He smacked hard into the wall.

  His palms and right cheek scraped against the rough surface. His hands left bloody streaks and prints on the concrete. Finger painting.

  ‘Slightly lower! One metre!’

  Hari set the helicopter with the front end of both runners gently onto the service lift. He couldn’t go any lower. The rope was vibrating. Winter felt a jerk. The rope was still too short.

  ‘I’m touching the service lift. I can’t go any further.’

  ‘I need another half a metre.’

  Winter pulled himself and stretched in the harness.

  He looked at the red numbers on the central detonator relentlessly decreasing. Four zeros already. Less than a minute.

  His arms were too short.

  In the changing downwinds, Hari kept the helicopter as steady as possible over the edge of the dam. The small waves on the water showed him when the wind changed direction. With the cyclic he adjusted the helicopter’s direction to the millimetre. He tried to lower the tail with the rope slightly, to give Winter the extra length he needed.

  From a distance Fatima, Hugentobler and the two men from the operating company watched the helicopter perch on the railings, its rear section hanging over the abyss.

  Fatima forced herself not to put her hands over her eyes. She felt she owed Winter that.

  Everyone held their breath. But then the runners started skidding on the edge of the service lift and Hari had to manoeuvre the helicopter back to the horizontal.

  The rope bobbed up and down.

  Winter got closer to the central detonator.

  But not close enough.

  And there was no time left.

  The plastic explosives were stuck in a circle.

  Like a tornado.

  When the charge exploded he would be in the eye of the storm. A quick death. What would happen to the helicopter? Would the rope break? Would the violence of the explosion make Hari lose control of the helicopter?

  For a moment time stood still.

  Then it clicked. Winter was trapped in the harness that was fasten
ed to the rings of the rope by the carabiner hooks. The red hook was at belly button height, the blue one up by his chest, an arrangement that was keeping Winter upright. He pulled himself up slightly and unhooked the blue carabiner.

  The laws of physics immediately spun Winter around the red carabiner at his navel. Upside down, he was now secured to the rope by a single hook. The unfastened blue carabiner smacked against his chin. Coins fell out of his pocket, clinking against the stone wall as they fell. Winter felt for the rope with his feet and stabilized himself.

  ‘Hari, don’t move! I’m at the detonator.’

  The keypad was now level with his chest.

  00:00:34, 00:00:33, 00:00:32.

  Blood rushed to his head.

  As the rope seesawed he compensated for the movements with his arms. Carefully he stretched his hands out to the black box. With blood-smeared fingers he watchfully cupped the detonator.

  Then, using both thumbs, he simultaneously pressed the * and # keys.

  Nothing happened.

  Winter’s heart missed a beat. Not the ideal time for cardiac arrest. At least with this pilot he was in good hands. The helicopter must have a defibrillator too.

  00:15, 00:14, 00:13.

  Had he slipped? Had his fingers trembled? Did this detonator have a different mechanism?

  He pressed both buttons again, this time with greater determination. Together.

  00:12. Beep.

  The digits for hours started to flash and Winter reprogrammed the detonator. He breathed a sigh of relief. Close, but better than 00:07. The explosives experts would have twenty-four hours to defuse the device properly, via the service lift.

  ‘Bingo! Hari, you can go up now.’

  ‘Congratulations! Very good. Hold on tight.’

  The helicopter rose backwards. Hari flew over the valley in an elegant arc and Winter swung gently by the mountainside. The winch started to reel him back in. Tensing his stomach muscles, he pulled himself up the rope with his arms, fastened the blue carabiner again and gave the thumbs up with an outstretched arm to the onlookers in the car park. Fatima waved back.

  ‘How about a little Alpine flight?’ Hari joked.

  ‘Maybe later. It’s not over yet,’ Winter told Hari. Where was Max? Winter’s eyes scanned the valley. The rapidly moving clouds cast dappled shade onto the Alpine meadows.

  There!

  ‘Can you see the green paraglider over there on the right-hand side of the valley. At about three o’clock.’

  Confirmation came after a few seconds. ‘Yes, I see it. Military. What about it?’

  ‘That’s the fourth terrorist. Stop the winch. We’re going to get him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. It would be better to call the police and they can catch him when he lands.’

  ‘He’ll be long gone by then. We’ll be quicker in the chopper.’

  ‘Alright. We’ll have a go. But I’m going to call the police anyway.’

  Hari stopped the winch and turned into the valley. The rope tensed. Winter was now hanging about fifty metres below the helicopter. He heard Hari radio the police and explain the situation.

  When he’d seen the camouflage paraglider for the first time it was circling peacefully. Max wanted to watch the performance he’d staged himself from the air. But now that the programme had changed, the paraglider was speeding away into the valley in a faint wavy line.

  The helicopter followed the paraglider from above, like a bird of prey. The gap quickly shrank. They flew above the rocky narrow section. Winter saw the forest, the bright stream bed and the little road leading to the bunker. On the gravelled forecourt stood cars with flashing blue lights. A few heads looked up momentarily.

  The valley opened again and Winter could see Lake Brienz glittering far in the distance. Behind the bunker lay a huge, gently sloping cone, the result of a powerful landslide. A recent storm had scarified the dense fir forest. Beyond the forest, stretched a plain with lush meadows, scattered farmhouses, a railway line and a busy road. It was the ideal place for Max to land and make his escape.

  He was still about three hundred metres ahead of the chopper and one hundred metres below. Despite the camouflage the paraglider was easy to spot. Maybe it was from military supplies. It wasn’t just the chemical traces in the explosives from Strittmatter’s helicopter that suggested an army connection.

  Winter could clearly make out Max’s blond hair and the pale face which had impressed itself indelibly on his mind a moment prior to the bungee jump. The fugitive didn’t seem to have noticed the helicopter above him. The noise of the wind must be drowning out that of the rotors, Winter supposed. He was gliding a hundred metres above the treetops. For the time being.

  ‘Lower,’ Winter instructed. ‘Before he lands. We’ll get him above the forest.’

  Although the two men had only been collaborating for a few minutes, they worked together seamlessly. Winter directed and Hari immediately translated the instructions with supreme accuracy.

  Max looked around, and Winter thought he sensed a moment of panic. Then the paraglider contracted for an instant, before turning left abruptly. He was trying to sidestep them. At once Winter and Hari corrected their course.

  Soon Winter was almost able to touch the wing of the paraglider and he heard it flapping. He caught the occasional glimpse of Max between his feet and through the puffed-up wing. As Max tried to evade them he had to watch out that he didn’t lose height too quickly above the trees. Leaning forward in the harness, Winter tried to grab the wing.

  ‘Drop five metres, and two metres to four o’clock.’

  Hari reacted so quickly that Winter virtually fell onto the nylon wing.

  It collapsed.

  It felt silky, smelled synthetic and blocked his view.

  Max yelled.

  Then the material was torn from Winter’s fingers and puffed up again below him. Winter’s landing on top of the wing had crumpled it, nothing more.

  Max plummeted, but was able to regain control of the paraglider just above the treetops.

  ‘Up twenty metres,’ Winter commanded.

  But Max was hovering to his right at the same level. He was holding a pistol, its barrel pointing straight at him.

  Winter heard two shots in rapid succession. The bullets missed. Even for Max, hitting a moving target in flight was tricky. But if he wanted a shoot-out in the air, he was most welcome. The advantage lay with Winter; he had a helicopter reliably piloted by Hari. Max just had the wind.

  He reached for the SIG on his hip. Felt for it. The holster was empty.

  Max bared his teeth and laughed.

  The gun had fallen out when Winter had defused the explosives.

  A bullet whistled past his head.

  Unwilling to take any risks, Winter shouted, ‘Up! Fifty metres. Quick!’ Max disappeared beneath his paraglider.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ Hari asked. ‘The distance to the trees is not strictly regulation.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Winter reassured him. ‘We’re going to make a second attempt. Twenty metres to ten o’clock, thirty metres down.’ Winter was pursuing the paraglider in Max’s blind spot. ‘Excellent. Now, ten metres to eleven o’clock and, when I say, drop five.’

  Once again Winter’s feet were getting close to the wing from above. ‘Now!’

  This time, Winter was better prepared, having scanned the wing for a handle or a loop. As he dropped he grabbed a green, nylon cord and immediately clipped this to one of the free carabiner hooks on the support rope. Max was on the lead.

  The forest came rushing towards them.

  Winter was enveloped by the wing. ‘Up! Now!’

  He was yanked upwards again, the material of the paraglider was stretched vertically, and he saw Max aiming at him. For a split second the two men stared at one another. Then the terrorist was hit by the full force of the jolt upwards and the shot missed to the side.

  Max dropped his gun, and Winter understood from his defeated expressio
n that he didn’t have another weapon.

  ‘Hari? We’ve got him.’

  ‘Great. What now?’

  The patrol cars on the forecourt of the old bunker were nearest. Their best bet would be to drop Max off there. He checked that the cord of the paraglider was still hanging securely in the carabiner. Like a fisherman he pulled in more of the wing’s cords and clipped them in. Max was safely trussed in his harness, dangling ten metres below him. They’d done it!

  ‘Winter? You still there? Where are we going to deliver him?’

  ‘Did you see the police cars by the old bunker?’

  ‘Yes. Good idea. We’ll be there in a minute.’

  ‘No need to land. We’ll just drop him off.’ Winter had no desire for interrogations and paperwork. He could do all that later. ‘Then back to the dam.’

  ‘Roger.’ The helicopter turned, once more the rope above Winter tensed at an angle and they flew back at a leisurely speed, about twenty metres above the fir forest. Winter heard Hari notify the police and announce their arrival.

  Winter looked around. The dam wall stood unscathed at the far end of the valley. The grey clouds had cleared away behind the crest of the mountains and the sky was impeccably blue. It was going to be a lovely afternoon.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was all over. How he would have loved to take a secluded walk now with Anne, down one of these peaceful side valleys. That had been his plan. Their plan. On that ill-fated Friday. Anne had accepted the invitation for their second date at his house and hadn’t objected when he’d courageously added, ‘And on Saturday we can go walking in the mountains.’ Anne had just given him an impish look, smiled with her eyes, and said, ‘We’ll have to get up early.’

  Now, for the first time in a fortnight, Winter felt free, relieved and unburdened. The hunt was over. For him at any rate. Baumgartner was dead, Max was on a leash and Farmer… it was just a matter of time.

  He glanced down. Max had gone.

  ‘Hari, wait! The guy’s gone!’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s disappeared.’ The cords were hanging loose from the carabiner, flapping in the wind. The paraglider harness had vanished too. Max knew he was facing a long prison sentence, perhaps even the electric chair in America. ‘He cut himself free.’ Max had gambled on the chances of the fir trees breaking his fall.