Summit: A Novel

by Harry Farthing

  Reaching for the head of the old axe and with his other arm still under the kid, he struck the axe’s long metal point into the icy floor. Pulling down hard on the T-shaped head of the vertical axe, he forced himself and the squirming, panicking boy back up onto their feet. Still looking down, for a moment, Quinn caught sight of a deep gash in the side of the mound of snow, the place from where the head of the old ice axe must have originally broken free. Within the hole, he saw something blacker than shadow.

  The kid started to move, snapping Quinn’s eyes back to him instead. Grabbing at the boy’s suit and rucksack, Quinn used Nelson Tate Junior’s growing momentum to direct him out of the cave onto the side of the stone buttress. There, utilizing his much bigger body to surround the boy completely, he pushed him face-first, tight against the rock and, with the old axe, pulled them both slowly back around to the other side. All the way he had to fight in order to pin the flailing, squirming boy into the mountainside, to stop him from pushing them off.

  On the other side they fell onto the snow ledge together. Quinn, exhausted from the exertion of pinning the kid onto the buttress, could do little more than hold on to the still straining boy who actually began dragging them both, inch by agonizing inch, along the ledge to the foot of the rock wall of the Second Step. There, they finally stopped in the bloodstained snow where the kid had first gone missing. Looking up at the darkening sky above him, unable to move any further, Quinn gave in to a black inertia, welcoming the solitude it brought.

  Flickering images began to strobe his failing mind. Mere hints of faintly remembered feelings, faces, places flashed and vanished.

  He began to plummet downward again.

  Above him now, the images lingered and merged, growing like time-lapsed crystals into recollections, vivid and real.

  He clutched desperately at the memories to try and stop himself from falling. But, fading to white, they offered no holds.

  Quinn continued to drop, revolving now, down into a black hole.

  Looking back up at that receding circular patch of light far above him, he saw that a gorak had alighted on its edge.

  The black bird was staring down at him, angling its head as if in question.

  He knew what it was waiting for.

  He no longer cared.

  A voice began to call a name.

  His name.

  “Quinn. Quinn. Quinn.”

  Over and over until …

  “Quinn? Mr. Neil?”

  Neil Quinn forced his eyes open to see Dawa’s face inches above his. “Dawa?”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Neil. It’s okay.”

  With a spike of adrenaline, Quinn twisted his head from side to side, searching once more.

  “The boy? Where’s the boy?”

  “Gone.”

  “What? Down? Down with Pemba?”

  “No, he here with you but …”

  “What is it, Dawa?”

  “Mr. Neil, I sorry, but boy dead.”

  14

  Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Berlin, Germany

  October 5, 1938

  4:54 p.m.

  SS-Untersturmführer Goerdeler was seated opposite Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. Every single word issuing from Goerdeler’s full, wide mouth was a study in precision. With equal resolution, he was ignoring the painful ache in his lower back that came from the constant effort of compressing his tall body down into the chair. Franz Goerdeler never questioned that the smaller man to the front of him was the bigger man and never let his large physique imply otherwise. Their weekly meeting on miscellaneous domestic matters, a one-hour review where he personally briefed the reichsführer, accompanied only by a secretary to take shorthand notes, was an outstanding opportunity for a junior officer to impress. A little back pain could not be allowed to jeopardize it.

  The untersturmführer’s task was clear: bring to the reichsführer’s attention any minor matters or inquiries that he considered his office might have otherwise overlooked. To Goerdeler it was yet another reflection of the precision and attention to the smallest detail that his punctilious superior brought to every facet of his leadership. He knew that it was also his first step on the ladder to a position of trust and responsibility within Himmler’s personal staff—the dream of every young SS officer. Perhaps he could even be his next adjutant; surely SS-Obersturmführer Jurgen Pfeiffer was soon to be destined for a command position.

  The neat pile of eighteen manila files stacked on the table to Goerdeler’s right signaled the day’s briefing was coming to a close. He had raised more matters than normal. The reichsführer had been in Munich for the week previous, present at what all the Berlin newspapers were heralding as a German triumph, the final laying to rest of the humiliation of the Great War and the perfidious Versailles diktat that followed. Goerdeler had heartily complimented the reichsführer on that great success before they opened the first file and the meeting seemed to have proceeded satisfactorily thereafter, even if he could never be totally sure. It was not an easy job to decide what he should bring to the reichsführer’s attention and often even more difficult to gauge his superior’s true reaction to what he did present.

  The reichsführer always listened to every matter raised with equal attention, each time closing his eyes and resting his face forward on the tips of his index fingers and thumbs as Goerdeler read out the salient points of the matter. He would then quietly request the file, studying the supporting documents himself, applying his keen eye to every page before handing it back. Only then would he issue concise, precise instructions as to how to proceed, leaving SS-Untersturmführer Goerdeler to feel nothing but awe at the reichsführer’s mastery of all matters. The success of the meeting was so important to Goerdeler’s burning ambition that if he thought it had gone well, the young SS officer would reward himself with a surreptitious small cigar during his four-block walk back to his quarters followed by a brandy after dinner. If he felt that he had not impressed, he would be unable to eat or sleep for the disappointment.

  The nineteenth and final file of the day was now in Goerdeler’s big hands. He had resisted some pressure in the office to leave the matter off that day’s agenda. Others had advised that perhaps it lacked the gravity worthy of the reichsführer’s attention, that it was just a piece of journalistic bombast. One fellow junior in the office even warned him that not all the Nazi leadership liked the weekly Der Stürmer, that Reichsmarshall Göring actually forbade his staff to read it.

  Goerdeler had, however, persisted, believing that due to the reichsführer’s known interest in the region mentioned and the amount of correspondence that the matter generated, it should be raised. He told them all, in turn, that it was exactly the sort of thing that should be included, something that at first sight appeared trivial but was actually much more serious, easily overlooked given the attention that week on Munich. Petulantly, he had even added that his colleagues would do well to remember that the newspaper in question was the führer’s favorite, and what the führer liked, so did the reichsführer.

  The young officer opened the file before him. On seeing the newspaper clipping within, he hesitated for a moment, wondering only then if he should have listened to the others. Raising such a matter might well be a waste of his superior’s time, a mistake that would not go unnoticed.

  But it generated so many letters from the general public to the reichsführer’s office, it must be right to raise it, surely?

  “This is the final matter on our agenda for today, Herr Reichsführer.”

  “Proceed.”

  “It is a brief editorial from a recent edition of Der Stürmer accompanied by a selection of the correspondence it generated to this office. I hope that you do not consider this to be frivolous use of your valuable time, Herr Reichsführer, but the people see you as their protector and guide in all matters relating to the honor of the Fatherland, and I am aware of yo
ur keen interest in Asia. As a result, I … we … we considered that you should be made aware of this matter as the last item on today’s agenda. I apologi—”

  Himmler held up his hand, stopping Goerdeler midsentence. There was a pause as he looked directly into the junior officer’s eyes, his own hidden by the reflection of the ceiling lighting on the small round lenses of his pince-nez.

  Only when the silence had grown into a buzz of white noise in the young man’s eardrums did Himmler break it. “Then, Untersturmführer, I suggest you quickly read to me what Editor Streicher has to say, as your allotted time is nearly over.”

  Goerdeler swallowed and glanced furtively at his watch to confirm the time remaining. It was indeed just a few minutes. Feeling his heart beating heavily, he took the newspaper clipping from the final file, careful to hold it in both hands so as not to permit the slightest tremble. For a brief moment as he looked at the dense, black blocks of heavy print thumped onto the coarse grey paper, he struggled to make out any words at all.

  Blinking his eyes twice nervously, he forced himself to start. “Of course, Herr Reichsführer. The editorial for your attention is taken from the fifteenth of September issue of Der Stürmer. The title of the editorial is ‘An Insult of Mountainous Proportion.’”

  Franz Goerdeler had to moisten his lips and swallow before he could continue.

  “The editorial reads as follows:

  The role of the German weekly newspaper that fights for the truth is first and foremost to reveal the cancer that is the Jewry within our midst.

  He gulped again.

  As Der Stürmer always says, “The Jews are our misfortune!” and so we remain unsleeping in our desire to rout out their debilitating wickedness from within our great Reich.

  However, a true watchdog is attentive not only to the wolf, but also to the fox. A fox that sometimes lurks within the most innocuous situations, hiding behind cunning platitudes as it intends instead to wound and steal.

  Reading the newspaper article out loud, Goerdeler suddenly heard for himself how ridiculous the opening paragraphs sounded. Worse still, how little they actually said. He wondered if he had already lost the reichsführer’s interest.

  He couldn’t tell. There was no trace of a reaction, not a flicker of movement from the top of the pomaded crop of parted black hair angled toward him. A wave of nervous panic shot up the inside of his rib cage and branched out into the tops of his arms. The others were right; it was an error to raise this issue. But he had started now. There was no alternative. He must finish it. Fighting a still-drying mouth, Goerdeler continued:

  We have been alerted by our many friends in the DÖAV, our august Alpine Association, to a recent inquiry received from two British Alpinists, named Smythe and Shipton. A request that might have gone unnoticed by many in this proud country, were it not for the keen eyes and ears of this proud newspaper!

  So, once more inspired by the twin flames of devotion and duty that burn, ever present, in this vigilant editorial office, we reveal a shocking British request for what it really is, nothing more than a shameful insult, yet another bitter slight from a fading nation that wilts daily in the shadow of the Third Reich.

  What is the crime of Messrs’ Smythe and Shipton, you ask? It is none other than to have the effrontery to ask the German Alpine Authorities for their “blessing” to climb the mountain of Nanga Parbat.

  Do these fools understand nothing of history? Do they not realize that this is an approval that can never be given? Nanga Parbat is the German mountain of destiny, the scene of our greatest alpine tragedies, the future place of our greatest Himalayan triumph.

  With a justified sense of outrage, we respectfully call upon our leadership to respond in the strongest terms and forbid such a ridiculous idea. A response that says unequivocally, “Do not dare to approach our mountain, you, who once again have weakly succumbed to failure on the mountain that you cannot conquer, namely Mount Everest, in the country you cannot possess, namely Tibet!”

  How many feeble British Everest expeditions has it been now? We count at least seven since 1921. And how many of your sons have you lost in these pathetic attempts? We think it is only two or three, of the tens, or is it not now hundreds that you have sent to try and bully that great mountain into submission? Such a litany of failure and cowardice in no way qualifies such people to even walk near the graves of the eleven alpine martyrs of the Fatherland who sleep in eternal rest beneath the slopes of Nanga Parbat.

  Do the British invite us to climb Mount Everest? No, they do not! They jealously guard it for themselves in the manner of spoiled, weak children desperate that no others might—

  “Enough!” said Himmler.

  He gestured to be handed the file.

  With a visibly shaking hand, Goerdeler passed it over the table. Himmler opened it and, with no regard for time, studied the editorial and then the reams of supporting correspondence from an equally outraged readership. He read every page, slowly, as if hunting for hidden meaning in every word. Then, keeping hold of the file, the reichsführer stood. The young SS-untersturmführer barely had time to do the same and salute, hearing only the words, “This is indeed an insult,” as the figure departed the room.

  When Goerdeler turned back to the now-empty table to collect the other files, his notebook, and fountain pen, he noticed that the shorthand secretary, seated silently at the side of the room, was looking at him with something akin to sympathy in her eyes. There would be no cigar and brandy for SS-Untersturmführer Franz Goerdeler that evening, little food or sleep either.

  15

  Apartment E, 57 Sukhra Path, Kathmandu, Nepal

  May 28, 2009

  9:00 a.m. (Nepal Time)

  Henrietta Richards first came to Kathmandu in 1969, but she was no hippie. In fact, she couldn’t have worked any harder to complete her degrees in politics and history at Oxford University the previous summer. During those long pleasurable days of intense study backdropped by a murmuring radio that promised a world beyond her academic cocoon, a world that finally had young, sharp edges, Henrietta had felt ready to take her place in it, fully prepared to experience a little of its excitement and danger. “Dropping out” would be for others.

  She was as determined and thorough in her pursuit of a job in the British Foreign Office as she’d been in earning her double degree with honors. With an outstanding academic record and a respected high court judge for a father, it was inevitable that Henrietta would be successful even though she was a woman intent on entering what was still very much a man’s world. Her first posting was as junior diplomatic secretary to Portugal in September that very same year.

  Once there she found the British Embassy in Lisbon crumbling and quiet, like the city itself. While her more senior colleagues constantly slipped away to Estoril to play golf or tennis, she remained, mindful of her lowly status and keen to prove herself. Henrietta diligently typed daily summaries of generally dull Portuguese current affairs and promptly dispatched them. She suspected no one in London even read them.

  Henrietta Richards herself had little weakness for diversions such as golf or tennis or even the eager-eyed men who, attracted by her tall, slender form; dark, glossy hair; and piercing blue eyes, continually knocked at her office door inviting her to play. Her only weakness was for the truth. She believed rigidly in it. Detesting the lies of others and utterly unable to deceive herself, she quickly concluded that she was little more than a prisoner in a seaside paradise. With dreams of living more challenging, relevant days in Berlin or Moscow or Saigon, Henrietta applied for a transfer. It didn’t take long, nor was it a matter of choice or discussion. A quick-talking, fruity voice called from London to say simply, “Kathmandu, in the mountain kingdom of Nepal, is suffering from a plague. The British Embassy there needs urgent assistance. You are to go at once. Travel details to follow in the next diplomatic pouch. Good luck.”

  H
enrietta knew little about Kathmandu beyond its name, which, like Timbuktu or Ouagadougou, conjured in the mind as somewhere hopelessly remote, exotic, exciting. As she hastily packed, she thought about what sort of plague could be ravaging her next destination. Was it disease or infestation? Cholera or TB? Locusts or rats? What precautions should she take in each instance? She had no clue. It was only when she got off the BOAC Boeing 707 at Tribhuvan International Airport and rode with the deputy ambassador into town in his battered Morris that she began to understand. The city’s plague was not some rampant disease or unending swarm of voracious insects. It was a “plague” of people.

  While the deputy expertly wove the little car through potholed streets teeming with pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, and sleepy, freely wandering cows, he explained everything to her in a mellifluous voice that instantly took her back to the lecture halls of Oxford. He told of how, a few months after the Battle of Waterloo and following its own smaller-scale yet surprisingly persistent war with the British, Nepal had agreed to the Treaty of Sugauli. A concession of much of the country’s lush Terai lowlands, the hillier territory of Sikkim, and the supply of an annual quota of fierce Gurkha troops won the tiny mountain kingdom little more than the right to be left alone.

  It was a splendid isolation that lasted for nearly 150 years. When Nepal finally reopened its borders in 1951, it did so as a medieval time capsule, an untouched land of old ways and beliefs that looked out onto a new world it had no hope of understanding. To the south, the once all-mighty British, bankrupted and diminished despite victory, had left India after the Second World War. Mohandas Gandhi assassinated, Nehru was now trying to lead the populous new nation through the complexities of independence. To the north, China was now an equally huge communist republic under Mao Zedong, particularly as the chairman had moved quickly to expand his already massive borders by “liberating” Tibet from its own people. Like a baby rabbit caught between two fierce headlights, Nepal did not know which way to turn, so all it could do was crouch and stare as people started arriving from all sides: Tibetan refugees from the north, Indian traders and migrants from the south, and then, most confusing of all, the hippies from everywhere.