by Jack Higgins
'Any minute now. Why?'
Strasser told him. When he was finished, Ritter said, 'So we don't have too much time, that's what you're trying to say? You needn't have bothered, Reichsleiter. We've been a little short on that commodity from the beginning. Over and out.'
He replaced the phone and turned to Sorsa. 'Trouble?' the Finn asked.
'Gaillard's managed to escape. He's taken to the mountain on skis. Strasser's sent Gestrin and his boys after him.'
'No problem,' Sorsa said. 'The best in the business. They'll lay him by the heels soon enough.'
'I wouldn't count on it. He was an Olympic gold medallist at Chamonix in 1924. If he runs across a British or American column before Gestrin and his men get to him ...'
Sorsa looked grave. 'I see what you mean. So what do we do?'
'Get this little affair over with as quickly as possible. We move out now.'
He started towards one of the half-tracks and Sorsa caught his arm. 'A moment, Sturmbannfuhrer. The first half-track through that tunnel is likely to have a hard time. I'd like to be in it.'
'I command here,' Ritter said. 'I thought I made that clear.'
'But these are my boys,' Sorsa persisted. 'We've been together a long time.'
Ritter stared at him, a slight frown on his face, and then nodded. 'I take the point. Very well, for this occasion only, you lead and I follow. Now let's get moving.'
He turned and scrambled up into the second half-track.
15
Claudine Chevalier was sitting at the piano in the dining hall playing 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair' by Debussy. It was one of her favourite pieces, mainly because the composer himself had tutored her in how to play it when she was twelve years of age.
There was a knock at the door and Finebaum entered. His M1 was slung from his left shoulder, a Schmeisser from his right, and there were three stick grenades in his belt.
She kept on playing. 'Trouble, Mr Finebaum?'
'Well, I'll tell you, ma'am. General Canning, he thought it would be a good idea to have someone look out for you personally. You know what I mean?'
'You?' she said.
'I'm afraid so, ma'am. Mind if I smoke?'
'Not at all - and I couldn't be in better hands. What do we do?'
'I'll take you up to the top of the tower when the time comes - out of the way of things.'
'But not now?'
'No need. They haven't even knocked at the gate yet. Say, my old lady used to play piano. Nothing like that though. I learned the clarinet when she got one cheap, from my Uncle Paul. He was a pawnbroker in Brooklyn.'
'Did you enjoy it?'
'Well, I ain't Benny Goodman but I made front row with Glenn Miller.'
'But that's wonderful. Do you like this piece that I'm playing now?'
'No, ma'am. It makes my stomach feel cold. It worries me, I don't know why, and that ain't good because I've got enough to worry about.'
'Ah, I see. Perhaps you would prefer something like this?'
She started to play 'Night and Day'. Finebaum moved round the piano to look down at the keys. 'Hey - that's great. That's really something. I mean, where did you ever learn to play like that?'
'Oh, one gets around, Mr Finebaum. Isn't that the phrase?'
'I guess so.'
A roar of engines shattered the morning stillness.
'Oh, my God,' she whispered and stopped playing.
As Finebaum ran to the window there was a sudden booming explosion and the rattle of machine-gun fire.
Gaillard, high in the woods now, on the upper slopes of the mountain, heard the echoes of that first outbreak of firing and paused to listen. His lungs were aching as he struggled for breath, leaning heavily on his sticks, and his legs were trembling slightly.
He was too old, of course. Too many years under his belt, and the truth was he simply wasn't fit enough. When it came right down to it, the only thing he really had going for him was technique and the skill born of his natural genius and years of experience.
The Finns, on the other hand, were young men, battle-hardened to endure anything and at the peak of their physical fitness. He really didn't stand a chance - had not done from the beginning.
He langlaufed across the small plateau that tilted gently upwards and paused on the ridge. On the other side the snow slope was almost vertical, dropping into grey mist, no means of knowing what was down there at all.
He turned and saw the first of the Finns appear from the trees on the other side of the plateau no more than thirty yards away. Gestrin was number three and the big Finn waved his hand to bring the patrol to a halt.
He pushed up his goggles. 'All right, Doctor. You've put up a wonderful show and we admire you for it, but enough of this foolishness. Now we go home.'
There were two more violent explosions somewhere in the mist below. The rattle of small-arms fire persisting. Gaillard thought of his friends; of Claudine Chevalier and of Claire de Beauville and what had happened to her.
He was filled with a fierce, sudden anger and shouted down at the Finns, 'All right, you bastards! Let's see what you're made of.'
He went straight over the edge of that near-vertical drop, crouching, skis nailed together, and plunged into the mist. The Finns, as they reached the edge, followed, one after the other, without hesitation.
Canning, Birr and Hesser were in the tunnel, Howard on the wall, when the engine's roar first shattered the morning calm. A few moments later, the half-tracks emerged into view and took up position. The Finns spilled out and started to deploy. Hoffer and the men under his personal command took up position to the left.
Howard trained his glasses on them, trying to make out what they were doing. In the moment of realization there came a tongue of orange flame; a second later, a violent explosion as the first Panzerfaust projectile struck the wall beside the drawbridge.
Everyone crouched. 'What in the hell was that?' Birr demanded.
'Panzerfaust,' Hesser replied. 'It's an antitank weapon rather like your bazooka.'
'So I see,' Canning said grimly, ducking as another violent explosion rocked the drawbridge - a direct hit this time.
'Obviously it's the chains they're after,' Birr said. 'I wonder how long it will take?'
Heavy machine-gun fire raked the top of the wall, bullets ricocheting into space. 'Give them everything we've got,' Canning cried. 'Really pour it on.'
Schneider opened up with the MG34 and the rest of the Germans backed him with their Mauser rifles, sniping from the embrasures in the wall. The Finns took refuge behind the half-tracks, one of which moved position slightly to cover the Panzerfaust group.
The fourth projectile, fired by Hoffer personally, scored a direct hit on the drawbridge just below the chain-mounting on the left-hand side. The woodwork disintegrated, the chain coupling tore free, the drawbridge sagged.
'Strike one,' Howard said. 'Not long now.'
Two more projectiles homed in, a third landing just below the top of the wall above the gate, its shrapnel killing Schneider and the other two men in the machine-gun crew instantly, hurling the MG34 on its side, battered and useless.
Canning crawled across to Howard, blood on his face.
'Not long now.' He turned to Birr and Hesser. 'Justin, you and Howard stay up here as long as you can with half a dozen men. Max, you drop back on the tower.'
'And what about you?' Birr demanded.
'Big Bertha and I have business together. You make things as hot for those bastards as you can on the way in, then get off the wall and join Max in the tower.'
Birr started to argue, but in the same moment there was another frightful explosion just below them. The remaining chain disintegrated, the drawbridge fell down across the moat with a resounding crash.
There was a general cheer from the Finns, and Ritter jumped from the half-track to join Hoffer.
'How many have you left?'
'Two, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
'Make them count, Erich. The gate this
time.' He ran to the other half-track and Sorsa leaned down.
'Hoffer is going to blast the gate,' Ritter said. 'You make your move as soon as you like. Smash straight in and we'll cover you. Good luck.'
Sorsa smiled, waved a gloved hand and pulled down his Panzer goggles. He shouted an order in Finnish and a dozen men scrambled over the side and joined him in the halftrack. He clapped his driver on the shoulder and, as they started to move forward, took over the machine gun himself.
The first of Hoffer's last two projectiles punched a hole through the massive gate and exploded at the end of the tunnel. The blast knocked Canning, standing beside Big Bertha, clean off his feet, showering him with dirt and tiny fragments of shrapnel.
There was more blood on his face, his own this time, and as he started to get up, Hoffer fired the remaining Panzerfaust. The left-hand side of the gate sagged and fell in.
The lead half-track was half-way there, Sorsa firing the machine gun furiously, his men backing him up, and Ritter followed in the second half-track, spraying the top of the wall with such a volume of fire that it was virtually impossible for the handful of defenders to reply.
Howard tossed a couple of stick grenades over at random as the lead half-track got close and Birr grabbed his arm. 'Let's get out of here!'
Of the German soldiers who had stayed on the wall with them, only three were left on their feet. Howard beckoned to them now, and they all went down the steps on the run and started across the courtyard to where Hesser and seven of his men waited on the steps of the tower entrance.
Canning leaned heavily on the cannon, blood running into his eyes, and Howard swerved towards him. The general sagged to one knee, groping for the length of smouldering fuse he had dropped as Howard joined him.
'Get the hell out of here!' Canning ordered.
But by then it was too late, for, as Howard handed him the fuse, the lead half-track smashed what was left of the gates from their hinges. It emerged from the tunnel, Sorsa firing the machine gun, and Canning touched the end of his fuse to the powder charge.
Big Bertha belched fire and smoke in a thunderous roar, rocking back on her solid wheels, disgorging her improvised charge of assorted metal fragments and chain at point-blank range, killing Sorsa and every man in the half-track instantly, hurling the vehicle over to one side and back against the wall.
Both Canning and Howard were thrown down by the force of the explosion. As the roar of Ritter's half-track filled the tunnel, Howard grabbed the general by the arm, hauled him to his feet and urged him into a stumbling run.
Hesser and his men were firing furiously now, retreating up the steps and back through the door at the foot of the north tower, but continuing to give them covering fire. As Howard and Canning made it to the steps, the half-track emerged from the tunnel across the courtyard and its machine gun tracked them across the cobbles.
Hesser's men were already getting the doors closed when, as Howard urged Canning up the steps, the general stumbled and fell. Hesser and Birr ducked out through the narrowing opening and hurried down the steps to help.
Howard and Birr got Canning between them and dragged him up the steps. Behind them, Hesser turned, firing a Schmeisser one-handed across the courtyard, catching a full burst from the machine gun in reply that drove him across the steps, hurling him over the edge into the snow.
A second later, Howard and Birr staggered in through the narrowing gap with Canning and the massive doors closed.
Gaillard's speed was tremendous as he hurtled down into the grey mist, yet he was entirely without fear. What lay ahead it was impossible to say. He could be rushing straight to his death, his only consolation the knowledge that his pursuers would follow him.
And what good would that be? he asked himself, suddenly angry, and moved into a parallel swing, changing course, the right-hand edge of his skis biting into the snow.
The mist was thinning now and he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the lead Finn was perhaps forty yards behind, closely followed by another. Gestrin and the other two were a little further back.
Gaillard came out of an S-turn and went down vertically again, knees together, and suddenly, a gust of wind dissolved the remaining shreds of mist in an instant and below was the valley, an awesome sight, the present slope vanishing into infinity fifty yards further on.
Gaillard didn't deviate, but held his course true, skis so close together that they might have been one. At the last possible moment, that edge which meant certain death rushing to meet him, he hurled himself into a left-hand Christie. It came off beautifully and he had a brief impression of the glacier far below as he skirted the ultimate edge.
His pursuers were not so lucky, for behind him the lead Finn went straight over the edge with a terrible cry, his companion following him.
Gaillard, out of the area of immediate danger, started to traverse the lower slope. Above him, Manni Gestrin and his two remaining comrades changed course and went after him.
Canning had a deep cut in his forehead above the right eye of a kind that would require five or six stitches at least. Howard hastily bound a field dressing around it.
'Is he all right?' Birr asked.
'Sure I'm all right,' Canning told him. 'How many of us left?'
'Six Germans and us three. Finebaum upstairs, of course.'
'Not so good.'
He peered out through a spyhole in the door. The remaining half-track had retreated into the tunnel. Nothing moved.
'I'd say they could walk in here any time they choose,' Howard said.
'Then we retreat upstairs, floor by floor, like I told you.'
The half-track nosed out of the mouth of the tunnel and stopped. Its heavy machine gun, Hoffer firing, started to spray the door at the rate of 850 rounds per minute. As Canning and the others went down, the door started to shake to pieces above them.
'This is bad,' the general cried. 'No good staying. Better get up those stairs now while we still have a choice.'
He called to the Germans and they all started to drop back.
Gaillard was incredibly tired. His body ached and his knees hurt. The amazing thing was that he hadn't fallen once, but now, as he went into a right-hand Christie to make for the cover of pine trees, he snarled a ski and took a bad tumble.
He slid for some considerable distance before coming to a halt, winded. His skis were still on and apparently undamaged, which was something. No broken bones in evidence. But God, how tired he was. Hardly enough strength to get up. He turned and saw Gestrin and his two comrades traversing the slope above him, terribly close now.
Suddenly, the earth shook, there was a tremendous rumbling like an underground explosion, and above the Finns the snow seemed to boil up in a great cloud.
Avalanche! Not surprising really, fresh snow falling so late in the season. But already Gaillard was on his feet and dropping straight down the slope, taking that vertical line again, for the only way to beat an avalanche was to stay in front of it - one of the first lessons he'd learned as a boy in the Vosges.
And the trees were not too far away, some sort of protection there. He moved to the right in a wide curve that took him into their shelter within seconds. He halted, turning to glance back.
The avalanche had almost overtaken the Finns. The enormous cloud of white smoke rolled over the one in the rear, enveloped him completely, but Gestrin and the remaining man rode the very edge, managing to turn at the last minute, coming to a halt above the line of trees.
The rumble of the avalanche died away, Gestrin pushed up his goggles, searching for Gaillard whose red anorak gave him away instantly. They started down the slope at once and the Frenchman turned and pushed himself forward and through the trees, every bone aching.
From the shattered great window of the upper dining room Finebaum sniped down and across the yard at the half-track.
'What's happening, Mr Finebaum?' Claudine Chevalier, crouched on the floor, asked him.
'Whatever it is, it ain't goo
d, ma'am. I figure it's time maybe you and me made a move upstairs.'
There was a burst of firing and more of the window shattered above their heads, spraying them with glass. Amazingly, she showed no fear.
'Whatever you say, Mr Finebaum.'
'You're something special,' Finebaum said. 'You know that?'
He took her arm and helped her towards the door, and below in the courtyard the half-track surged forward.
For Gaillard, the sight of the road below was like a shot in the arm, and he dropped towards it with renewed hope, although his pursuers were closer than ever now, Gestrin trailing his companion, a young man called Salmi.
Gaillard glanced over his shoulder, aware that this couldn't go on, that he had been existing on will-power alone for too long. There was one final suicidal chance, and he took it, dropping straight down through the trees like a bullet to the embankment at the side of the road below.
As he hit, he dug in his sticks at precisely the right moment, launching himself into space. The road flashed beneath him, he soared across, landing perfectly in soft snow on the other side, sliding broadside on in a spray of snow. At the last moment, the point of his left ski caught a branch hidden beneath the white blanket. As he crashed heavily to the ground, the ski splintered.
He lay there, winded, and Salmi soared through the air across the road, smashing straight into a pine tree with a terrible cry.
Gaillard sat up. There was no sign of Gestrin. He tore at the frozen bindings of his skis and got them off. When he rose to his feet, he was convinced for a moment that his limbs had ceased to function. He took a hesitant step forward and fell headlong over the embankment, sliding down to the road.
He picked himself up and started to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, a roaring in his ears, and Gestrin slid down the embankment about fifteen yards in front of him. He'd taken off his skis and held his rifle.