Summit: A Novel

by Harry Farthing

  17

  East Rongbuk Glacier Camp, Mount Everest—21,200 feet

  May 28, 2009

  1:45 p.m.

  Since awaking at 11:00 a.m., finally released from a revolving, repeating dream of being trapped in the gorak cave on the Second Step, Quinn had just lain there in that small tent, completely stunned. Cocooned in someone else’s stinking yet warm sleeping bag, with no feeling in his fingers or toes, it was all he could do to drink endless cups of warm, sugary tea and watch a series of strange cartoon animals acrobatically climbing the tent’s zip.

  Or had I?

  Are the tiny animals just a hangover of my dream-racked, tormented sleep?

  Whatever, they were gone now, leaving only the bright light illuminating the tent’s thin yellow canvas to burn his nearly snow-blind eyes, and the wind howling down off the North Col to stir his pounding headache. If he shut his stinging eyes to try and rest them, he saw instead his painful descent from the Second Step. It had taken thirty-six hours of stumbling, staggering, and resting to make it down the North Col and then to the relative safety of their camp on the East Rongbuk Glacier. The starting, the stopping, the constant drifting in and out of reality anchored only by the dreadful fact that Nelson Tate Junior, his responsibility, was dead. The creatures were preferable to that. Anything was preferable to that.

  Isolated and alone, Quinn took no comfort from the realization that if the animals had gone then the rest and rehydration were returning him to normality. Some kind of normality that was going to be anyway; it might not feature the surreal daydreams of an exhausted mind, but his biggest nightmare was now going to haunt him forever: he had lost a client.

  Why did Dawa save me? I should be the one still up there.

  But Dawa had saved him and Quinn should be grateful. He hoped there would be a day when that would be so, but he couldn’t imagine it anytime soon.

  Dawa Sherpa.

  Unbelievable really. Despite struggling down from the summit with Pemba, who had never properly recovered from his own collapse, Dawa had found Quinn and brought him back to life too. Physically pulling him away from the boy’s lifeless corpse, he had got him moving down again as soon as he could, saying over and over to him, “There is nothing you can do.”

  Even Dawa had started to flag as they made their tortured way down through the Yellow Band, toward the pinpoints of light slowly moving up the hill to meet them. Bearing fluids and fresh oxygen, three Sherpa, one of them Lhakpa, despite the fact he had already been to the summit with Durrand, and two strong Czech climbers, who knew full well that they were throwing away their own summit chance by making a rescue, had met them at the very last moment to lead them down via the High Camp.

  There is nothing you can do.

  The words continued to ring inside Quinn’s aching head as if bouncing between the immense walls of a cathedral.

  But there was nothing more he could have done for the boy.

  Quinn had done everything humanly possible.

  But the boy is dead and I am alive.

  His stomach churned just thinking about it.

  And it didn’t even make sense. Nelson Tate Junior had still seemed strong after they made it around the buttress. If anything it was Quinn who had been the weaker. The boy had almost pulled him along the snow ledge ...

  Didn’t he?

  Am I remembering it right or am I the one not making sense?

  He couldn’t be certain.

  You are never really sure of what happens up there.

  Quinn’s painful soul-searching was interrupted by the curved tent above him bowing inward twice under the gentle push of a hand. The arched doorway then zipped open and Lhakpa stuck his head inside to pass another thermos of tea to Quinn.

  “How are you, Mr. Neil?”

  “Recovering, I think.”

  “Okay, Mr. Neil. Drink more bed-tea. Good for you. We also make noodle soup. Ready soon. Also good as you must go Base Camp tomorrow. Sarron insisting. He wait for you before go Lhasa to make report of climber death with Chinese. Boy’s father making big noise. Chinese officials in Lhasa involved now. Rest of team will return to Kathmandu with expedition kit.”

  Quinn thanked the Sherpa and took in both the tea and the new information. With every new flask of restorative tea, accompanying snippets of news had also been delivered to unintentionally counter the effect:

  “Sarron is crazy insane with rage. Even Old Dorje, who has worked as his camp cook for years, has never seen anything like it.”

  “Pemba is recovering. He is saying to everyone the No Horizons oxygen was bad. Dawa telling him to be quiet.”

  “No one is getting paid.”

  “Nelson Tate Senior want us to retrieve boy’s body. Sarron refuse, saying too high, too late in season now, not possible anyway. He right, Mr. Neil. Not possible from Second Step.”

  “Dawa say you do everything—not your fault. Sarron saying is your fault, all your fault. Dawa, Pemba, also.”

  “Big mess, Mr. Neil.”

  Yes, on that last point they were all agreed.

  It was indeed a big mess, one that was only going to get worse when they arrived back at the No Horizons Base Camp.

  18

  Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Berlin, Germany

  October 10, 1938

  7:58 p.m.

  His meal finished, Heinrich Himmler left the officers’ dining room in a meditative silence. Seeing him to be deep in thought, his chief of staff, SS-Grupenführer Karl Wolff, and his personal adjutant, SS-Obersturmführer Jurgen Pfeiffer, said nothing.

  Silently, they walked behind him to the room where they habitually took their after-dinner coffee. Only when they were sat in the black leather armchairs of the salon did Himmler, turning directly to Pfeiffer, speak.

  “Did you look into that newspaper article as I requested?”

  Pfeiffer, a tall, thin man whose choirboy complexion and soft flick of backswept blond hair belied the fact that he was the most ambitious and ruthless young officer within the elite Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler regiment, replied in the affirmative.

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer.”

  Pfeiffer reached into the inside breast pocket of his jet-black uniform and extracted an envelope, opening it to take out two pieces of paper and a folded map. He smoothed the map open on the coffee table and put an annotated photograph of an immense black mountain on top of it. The other paper, a page of handwritten notes, he rested on his knee. He said nothing more, only awaited his next instruction.

  Himmler nodded in approval at his protégé but quickly turned over the photograph to obscure the map, remaining silent as a white-jacketed orderly approached and poured coffee. After the orderly had left the room, the reichsführer revealed the map and the photograph once more and spoke.

  “From the moment that my SS Tibet expedition set foot in India earlier this year, it has been continually insulted and harassed by the British authorities in the region. Five of our finest SS scientists treated as if they were some sort of invasion force rather than a legitimate visiting delegation from one sovereign nation to another. You will recall that this behavior has necessitated I write to Admiral Domville in London a number of times in order to request the group’s unhindered onward passage to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet.”

  As the two officers nodded in acknowledgement, Himmler took a sip of the black coffee before speaking again.

  “Even now Dr. Schäfer and his team remain blocked in the British-controlled territory of Sikkim to the northeast of India with only one short reconnaissance over the border into Tibet to their name.” He stabbed at the map with his stubby index finger. “About there, I think. Anyway that brief visit was more a by-product of Ernst Schäfer’s resourcefulness than the result of any improved cooperation by the British. Sir Basil Gould, their political officer in Gangtok, seems determined to obstruct us
at every move. Likewise, I understand that the British Cadre in Lhasa is using every opportunity it can to poison our name within the Tibetan Council of Ministers.”

  His voice accelerated to keep pace with a growing anger.

  “The British disgust me. They behave like snakes, appeasing us at the negotiating table without the guts to resist our demands, exactly as we saw at the Munich Conference, yet out of our sight, winding and worming behind our backs to hinder us in every way they know how.”

  Himmler stopped, his face taut, lips pursed, straining to control his temper. Taking off his pince-nez spectacles, he began to clean them with a white silk handkerchief. Rapidly polishing the crystal lenses, squinting down at his short, fast-working fingers, he slowly relaxed until he could speak calmly again.

  “Some days ago Untersturmführer Goerdeler, in a commendable display of initiative, showed me a recent editorial in Der Stürmer about two British mountaineers inquiring of our own alpine association as to whether they could have their approval, ‘blessing’ was what they called it, to climb Nanga Parbat. We all know, of course, something of the tragic losses incurred in our country’s many attempts to climb that accursed mountain in India. As always, Editor Streicher was admirably passionate in his anger at what I now understand is considered to be a huge insult in German alpine circles. I too will admit to being moved by the emotions of the correspondence that the editorial generated.”

  He paused to reposition the pince-nez on the bridge of his nose.

  “Normally, I would say that we have more important things with which to concern ourselves. However, given the trouble the British have caused my Tibet expedition—an SS Ahnenerbe project that you both know is close to my heart—I could not help myself from thinking, as young Goerdeler read me Julius’ editorial, how magnificent it would be to send a team of Germany’s finest alpinists to climb Mount Everest and have them plant a swastika on its summit, right under the noses of the damn British.”

  The two staff officers looked at each other in an instant of surprise before their eyes were drawn back to the reichsführer, who was looking again at Pfeiffer.

  “Please, my dear Jurgen, given that you now have had a few days to read Goerdeler’s file and learn something about Mount Everest as I requested, explain to me why that would not be a good idea so that I might return my mind to where it is better needed.”

  Pfeiffer leaned forward and, with a faint smile, responded. “Actually, Herr Reichsführer, I think it is a most interesting propaganda idea but one that would be very difficult to effect. I have discussed Streicher’s editorial at some length with Professor Markus Schmidt, the senior mathematics professor from Munich University, who, you will recall, led our recent study into the possible human freight capabilities of a unified Central European railway system.”

  “I remember the man.”

  “Evidently Schmidt is quite the enthusiast of alpine sport. He was able to tell me a great deal about the Himalayas and the background to the comments made in the editorial.”

  Looking down at the piece of paper in his hand, Pfeiffer continued. “It is correct that since 1921, the British have sent seven expeditions to try to climb Mount Everest from the Tibetan side, as the mountain is shown in this photograph that Schmidt gave me. The most recent was earlier this year in the spring, as they always are. Every expedition has met with failure. In 1924, two of their climbers, a George Mallory and a Sandy Irvine, did get very high on the mountain’s Northeast Ridge.” As he spoke, his well-manicured fingernail traced a line up the photograph’s mountain only to stop just short of the top. “But they were never seen again. Some say they could have actually made the summit before they died, but there is no proof, and until someone does come down with such proof, the British persevere.”

  Pfeiffer’s cold eyes glanced at his paper once more.

  “They have got close a number of other times. Over the years at least four of their men have gone higher than twenty-eight thousand feet, which is over eighty-five hundred meters, only a few hundred meters below the summit. One of them was actually the same Mr. Smythe mentioned in Streicher’s article—probably good reason in itself to keep him away from Nanga Parbat.”

  “But have any other countries even tried to climb Mount Everest?” asked Wolff.

  “No. As you can see from the map, the mountain straddles the frontier between Tibet and Nepal. The Kingdom of Nepal is completely closed to the outside world. Only diplomats can visit its capital, Kathmandu, and no one may travel beyond. Tibet is a slightly different matter. Some foreigners, such as the famous Swedish explorer Sven Hedin—a great supporter of the führer as we all know—and your own Dr. Schäfer have been able to visit the country sporadically in the past. However, Tibet only provides regular formal access to the British under an agreement that dates to what were little more than surrender terms imposed on them by Younghusband after the British invasion of the country in 1904. As long as Everest remains unclimbed, it can be assumed that the British could and would demand that Tibet prevent any other country from having access to the mountain.”

  Pfeiffer’s mention of British control contorted Himmler’s face once more into a look of anger. The younger officer carried on, regardless, intent only on his precisely assembled facts.

  “It is evident that the British do treat Mount Everest as their own. Other nationalities are permitted to climb other mountains in their sphere of influence—they let us go quite freely to Nanga Parbat—but Everest, the highest, remains theirs. Given that Himalayan expeditions are generally huge affairs with tons of supplies and hundreds of porters, and the British control the approach routes to Tibet through India and Sikkim, it is impossible to envisage any other country assembling such an expedition and then passing unnoticed and unhindered to Everest, even if a secret permission could be negotiated with the Tibetans.”

  Himmler motioned Pfeiffer to stop talking. “But why could it not be a small team of two or three of our most expert alpinists?”

  “Yes, couldn’t we just parachute them in?” Wolff added.

  “No. Tibet is too big, too remote. It has no air facilities,” Pfeiffer replied. “Planes can fly above the Himalayas, but the current range and altitude ceiling of our existing transport, the Junkers JU-52, is insufficient, even if able to refuel in India without the British knowing, which would be impossible. As for parachuting, well—”

  “The only way is by land then,” Himmler interjected, reluctant to waste time on the merits of parachuting.

  “Yes, and interestingly, Professor Schmidt told me that four years ago a British man called Maurice Wilson did make it to the foot of Everest in what was an unofficial, clandestine attempt to climb the mountain alone. He traveled across Tibet in disguise with three porters, so it is possible.” As he said the last sentence, Pfeiffer drew their attention to the approximate route of Wilson’s approach, which had been drawn on the map with red pencil. “Evidently his original plan was actually to crash an airplane into the side of the mountain and then get out and climb to the top, but the British impounded his plane in India to stop him. Cruel, really.”

  “Why? What happened to him?”

  “He died a slow death from exhaustion beneath the mountain long before he got anywhere near the summit. If the British had allowed him to take his plane, it would at least have been a quicker suicide.”

  “So you are saying, Jurgen, that any such attempt is little more than a suicide mission?”

  “Yes. But we should recognize that the lone Englishman who died, whilst undoubtedly determined, had no real climbing experience at all.”

  “So, I repeat myself, why don’t we send a small team of our finest alpinists but in disguise? Those men who climbed the Eigerwand perhaps? Heinrich Harrer, I think, was one of them. That was a suicide mission and they survived it. Surely they could do it.”

  Pfeiffer smiled at the reichsführer’s joke. “Possibly they could,
but our best climbers are very famous now, not only in the Reich but also in England, France, and Italy. They would be unlikely to pass unnoticed in British India. No, for me, the only way might be to find some good yet unknown climbers that could be—how should I put it best?—‘motivated’ to climb the mountain yet are somewhat expendable and deniable should it go wrong, which it most probably will. It would be a very long shot, but something along those lines could possibly be imagined.”

  Himmler stood and began to pace the room.

  “Very good, Jurgen, as always,” he finally said. “However hard I try, I cannot get the image of a swastika flying from the top of Mount Everest from my head. Imagine a photograph of such an achievement: the undeniable evidence of our noble black order reaching the world’s highest summit before all others. What power such a picture would have. It would be the ultimate inspiration for the SS—the entire Third Reich in fact—and, at the same time, there could be no greater humilition for the British, particularly those very diplomats and spies who have worked so hard to hinder me in Tibet.”

  The reichsführer stopped to stare at Pfeiffer.

  “I have heard enough. SS-Obersturmführer Jurgen Pfeiffer, you will do the following two things: One, prepare a communication from me to the office of the Reich Minister of Propaganda, Josef Goebbels, that states, with immediate effect, any matter relating to the ascension of any mountain now comes under the complete control of the SS. No debate is to be permitted. I don’t want that man involved in any way. This is to be our gift to the führer.

  “Two, prepare a preliminary operation process that develops your idea with details of personnel required, suitable timetable, and estimated costs. Codify it as an SS Wewelsburg/Ahnenerbe project with security classification 12WBB, restricted. In your detail, always have regard for the fact that we must be able to completely terminate this operation at any moment of my choosing.”