Summit: A Novel

by Harry Farthing

  Seeming to sense that Macfarlane was looking at him, the Tibetan slowly turned his head to stare straight back. His eyes bore into Macfarlane’s. They were narrow and dark, deep set within the cruelest face the young lieutenant had ever encountered. The Englishman broke his gaze away from the Tibetan immediately.

  “Sergeant, send Zazar down into the town to see what he can find out,” he quickly ordered, turning back into the room. “Then you and your riflemen should make camp and rest, as we will need to make some sort of start early tomorrow, even if I have not yet decided which way we should go. I will study Colonel Atkinson’s orders and make a decision tonight. We have to find these two men, Sergeant, and quickly too.”

  The sergeant saluted and left the bungalow, leaving Macfarlane to unseal the pouch he had delivered. Within, he found a long handwritten order from Colonel Atkinson. There were also some detailed survey maps of Sikkim, copies of more rudimentary hand-drawn maps of the Tibetan borderlands, and passe-partout documentation for him and the patrol, allowing them to travel onward into Tibet if necessary. Macfarlane glanced at it all before returning to his instructions from the colonel. Hastily written, they were rambling and lengthy, little attempt made to hide the colonel’s fury with the whole matter, which he clearly saw as the lieutenant’s failure.

  The diatribe revealed that Atkinson was convinced that the German, accompanied by a Sherpa who, he added, was already known to be anti-British, must have slipped away to stir up trouble for British interests in the region. At best, it was Sikkim, at worst, Tibet. If it was Sikkim, Atkinson stated he was fairly confident that British control of the tiny country was such that Becker’s whereabouts would be revealed quite easily, possibly before the patrol even met Macfarlane and delivered the very document he was reading. However, if they had gone into Tibet, then matters would be far more difficult. The country was huge, and the British, while influential with the country’s rulers, had little actual authority, particularly beyond the country’s capital, Lhasa.

  The letter continued with the information that, although nothing had been proven, the British authorities in India were already wary as to the true purpose of Himmler’s ongoing expedition to Tibet, especially now that it had established itself in Lhasa. Schäfer and his four team members were all known to be SS officers, and the fact that another suspected SS man was now on the loose only made matters more suspicious.

  It was on this subject that Atkinson saved his best for last. If Macfarlane could prove that Becker was in Tibet deliberately seeking to damage British interests, then beyond apprehending him, which was to be his priority, it would have the added bonus of allowing the British authorities in India to demand that the Tibetans also expel Schäfer’s team. As the colonel put it, such a “result” might go some way in restoring Macfarlane’s sullied reputation for vigilance and endeavor.

  A gentle shaking pulled Macfarlane up from the depths of sleep.

  His watch told him it was 3:35 a.m.

  “Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir, Zazar has returned. He says he has news of the two men we seek.”

  Macfarlane bolted upright, instantly awake.

  “What news, Sergeant? Where are they?”

  “I will bring him in, sir.”

  Macfarlane got up and lit a candle as the sergeant returned to the door of the bungalow, leaned out, and summoned the Tibetan.

  Zazar’s shadowy form stepped inside to dwarf the stocky Gurkha. Macfarlane could smell the man now that he was close. It was a rancid, heavy smell that turned his guts as Zazar began to speak in a low growl to the sergeant.

  The sergeant translated it for the benefit of Macfarlane. “Zazar says he has been up in the town’s monastery speaking to the last monks and traders to arrive from Tibet for news. Some monks tell him that they met a white-skin and a Sherpa on the Sepu-La.”

  “What?”

  “It is a mountain pass due north of here. It is the most direct route into Tibet—much more difficult than the one Zazar thought they might take.”

  Macfarlane felt his heart jump with this first report of their quarry. The hunt was on.

  “We will leave at daybreak,” he said to the sergeant. As he spoke, Macfarlane could feel Zazar staring back at him as if he had already found his prey.

  65

  Klinikum Grosshadern, Nussbaumstrasse 20, Munich, Germany

  September 25, 2009

  10:12 a.m.

  When Quinn opened his eyes and saw someone who looked remarkably like Henrietta Richards standing at the foot of his bed, his first instinct was to close them again. In the next seconds, he questioned whether he was actually dead, but the pain was too real, he couldn’t be. It left him instead to ask himself what Henrietta Richards was doing there—if it really is her?

  His brief glimpse had showed her engaged in conversation with a younger, dark-haired man. He was standing between her and the end of his bed, talking in an agitated manner, gesturing at her with his hands. Henrietta was slowly nodding her head in return, as if saying to a small boy who’d fallen off his bicycle that things would be all right, that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. It was doing little to mollify the irate man.

  Looking again to check that he wasn’t hallucinating, Henrietta’s eyes caught his over the man’s right shoulder. Instantly she turned toward the door of what Quinn now realized was a hospital room. Drawing the young man after her, he heard her say, “Of course, Martin, of course. As soon as he regains consciousness,” and they both stepped out into the corridor.

  Left alone in the room, Quinn took in the banks of monitors and wires and tubes that fanned around him. An image of Dawa’s tortured coma flooded his mind before morphing into a flickering recall of his last moments in the Weisshaus Club. The memory made him wince.

  Henrietta returned.

  It’s definitely her.

  “Florence Nightingale, at your service,” she whispered, standing at the end of Quinn’s bed, looking down on him and putting a finger up to her mouth. “Don’t say a word. If you see anyone else coming in, close your eyes immediately.”

  Quinn resisted the temptation to wish he really was dead and raised his right hand up from the bed in acknowledgment. The difficulty of moving it surprised him. A shot of panic made him curl his toes to check he had movement in the rest of his body. He did. Thank God.

  “Good,” Henrietta said, moving to the side of his bed to sit on a chair she must have been using before. Picking up a book from it, she sat and, pretending to read aloud, said instead, “Neil, you don’t need to talk. In fact, you shouldn’t. I would prefer everyone here to think you were still out for as long as possible. Close your eyes.”

  He closed them.

  “However, you do still need to listen to me. It is no accident that the hospital staff here think I am a mad Englishwoman. If they see me mumbling at you from a book while you are still unconscious, they are unlikely to think anything of it. Do you follow me?”

  Quinn slowly nodded once, every bone and muscle in his body hurting with the slight movement.

  “Okay. So, other than telling you that you have been more or less comatose for the past four and a half days in this very clean and modern Munich hospital, I will let the doctors advise you of the injuries you have suffered. Suffice it to say you will live, although you won’t be running up a flight of stairs, let alone a mountain, for a few months.

  “Once again you’ve been lucky, Neil. You should be dead. Possibly you deserve to be, but I will let that go for the moment. We have more important things to discuss first.”

  Turning a page, she continued.

  “The rather agitated young man you saw me talking to is not a doctor but actually Inspector Martin Emmerich of the Bavarian State Police, Group Crimes Division. He undoubtedly saved your life when he pulled you from the bottom of a pile of bodies that had been riddled with machine-gun fire by your accomplice …” As
Henrietta said the word “accomplice,” she stressed its three syllables and raised her penciled eyebrows in question at Neil, awaiting a reply.

  “Henrietta, there was … no accomplice … I was taken there … alone … by force …” Quinn struggled to reply, intent on denying that anyone was with him.

  “Neil, I’m using Inspector Emmerich’s words, not mine. However, it does appear that you did have some sort of ‘guardian angel,’ even if I suspect its intentions were no more angelic than those of the neo-Nazis who beat you senseless. Actually, I must say that I find Inspector Emmerich to be an intelligent and honest young man. He seems very good at his job, passionate about it even. Reminds me, in some ways, of a younger version of myself, which is a little frustrating, but, so be it, I have my work to do also.”

  Quinn reopened his eyes to see Henrietta staring at him intently.

  “I imagine you are probably asking yourself why I am here, Neil.”

  “Thought … at first … you’d got St. Peter’s job …”

  “Well, Neil, it’s good to see that the skinheads didn’t kick all the humor out of you. Whilst I may well be increasingly aged and sanctimonious, I can assure you that I am not yet a rival for St. Peter. However, you are correct in that I do still have a job. Now and again, I undertake work for Her Majesty’s Government, namely the Foreign Office, who rather euphemistically refer to me as a ‘private contractor.’ More specifically, I specialize in matters pertaining to the Himalayas, which has always been a sensitive frontier. I also have a bit of a track record of getting people who have made a considerable mess of things back home to dear old Blighty, and, I must say, you most definitely qualify for that category.” Hearing the click of heels in the corridor, Henrietta instantly stopped talking, returning her gaze to her book as Quinn reclosed his swollen eyes.

  A nurse briskly entered the room and took a look at a motionless Quinn. She glanced at Henrietta, who looked up and gave a sad little shake of her head that quickly diverted the nurse to fuss with a suspended IV bag, tapping its tube and adjusting the flow into the back of Quinn’s left hand. After observing a bank of electronic monitors, she then jotted something onto a clipboard at the end of the bed before leaving, saying only, in an abrupt, accented English that sounded like an order, “Summon me as soon as he is the waking.”

  “Of course,” Quinn heard Henrietta reply.

  When the nurse was gone, she resumed her quiet explanation. “I was over on one of my rare visits to England when someone from Legoland tracked me down to ask why I thought a well-known British Everest climber called Neil Quinn might have tried to get himself killed in a neo-Nazi nightclub on the outskirts of Munich. I have been asked many questions about Everest but that was really one of the best in a long time. As soon as I heard it, I realized that the very question itself answered a number of questions that I have had for a very long time.”

  “Legoland? What questions?” Quinn asked, increasingly confused.

  “Yes, Neil, Legoland—our rather too obvious military intelligence headquarters on the south bank of the Thames that looks as if it was designed by a focus group of preschoolers. It is the home of MI6, who thought me best qualified to provide an answer to the question of what the hell you were up to. If the answer was one that might interest them further, given the fact they are becoming somewhat alarmed at the resurgence of the far right across Europe, then I was to help in getting you to a hospital in England where you might explain it to them in person. By the way, if the answer is unsatisfactory, I am instructed to leave you here to rot.”

  She studied Quinn for a minute.

  “It is actually a fine question. What were you up to in there?”

  “Long story,” Quinn slurred in response.

  “Well, it is one that you are going to have to tell me, with no omissions this time. However, I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt for now assuming you confirm one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Over the last few days the very dedicated Martin Emmerich has been doing a lot of research into you. He is developing some interesting theories that include you, the renowned Everest summiteer currently somewhat embittered and down on his luck after the tragic death of his last client, being employed by some of the lunatics in that club to climb the mountain and plant a swastika flag on the top as some sort of publicity stunt. He has concluded that there must have been a somewhat emotional breakdown in the negotiations, financial or otherwise, that in fairly rapid succession led to you being beaten up on the dance floor and the shooting of at least ten people inside and outside of the club by an unknown person armed with an Uzi submachine gun, and, possibly, also you, armed with a smaller caliber pistol. Inspector Emmerich rather eloquently describes the Weisshaus Club as a ‘human hornets’ nest.’ One that you most definitely stuck a stick into, or rather, as one witness seemed to suggest, an old ice axe …”

  She paused to let everything she was saying sink in. “Funny how that old ice axe keeps turning up, isn’t it?”

  Quinn could say nothing in reply.

  “Actually, Neil, I think young Emmerich’s intuition is quite good about the swastika on the summit. He’s just about seventy years too late—am I not right?”

  This time he did try to say something, but still no words came out. All Quinn could do was nod in reply to her.

  “Thought as much. Good. That’s enough for now, Neil. You need to sleep because, be assured that when you next wake up, a lot more questions are going to start arriving, thick and fast.”

  Still talking, she began to collect her things. “When they do, you must, and I repeat must, stick to the following line: You were visiting Germany on a motorcycle trip after a summer season mountain-guiding in Chamonix. You drank too much beer in a rough bar near to your cheap hotel by the station which resulted in you, in a fit of macho curiosity, taking a solo trip to what you had been told by a couple of Hell’s Angels was the wildest, most dangerous place in town. Inside, a fight broke out, and when people realized that you were English, they got somewhat annoyed and took some delight in including you in it. Sadly, you don’t remember anything after that, absolutely nothing at all. Have you got it?”

  Quinn looked at her and responded with a whispered, “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  Quinn stopped her from leaving by saying, “Henrietta …”

  “What, Neil?”

  “The axe?”

  “It’s lucky for you, Neil, that it’s missing, just like your ‘accomplice’ and both of the guns used. The eyewitness reports as to what happened are generally unsound, particularly as the one police informant in the place remembers little after he thought you shot him in the thigh. With little evidence beyond a heap of bodies, Emmerich is struggling to accurately piece together what happened. I intend to exploit this uncertainty for as long as I can and you must stick to that story while I do.”

  Turning to leave, she added, “Just one more thing. Be aware that Emmerich is also trying to work out the connection between you and the horrific murder of an elderly antiques collector called Bernhard Graf. Given that it took place more or less whilst you were being set upon in the Weisshaus Club, even he accepts that you have an alibi, but the fact that Graf’s boyfriend, Dirk Schneider, was one of the people shot in the club has not gone unnoticed. Be careful, Neil. Emmerich is no fool. He’ll work it all out but hopefully not before I have made a deal to get you back to England. In the meantime, just stick precisely to what I have told you.”

  The shock of Henrietta’s final news put Quinn under again.

  66

  Kampa Dzong, Tsang Province, Tibet

  April 14, 1939

  4:20 p.m.

  Josef was losing hope. Nearly three days had passed since the brawl in the caravansary, and there was still no sign or word of Ang Noru. It was time to face up to the fact that the Tibetans must have taken him. Without Ang Noru, he re
alized he was lost. He had no chance of arriving at the mountain alone. Repeatedly cursing himself for his stupidity, for letting the alcohol get the better of him, for taking a risk that would kill more than just him and the Sherpa, Josef could do little more than pace the small stable where Phurbu had shown him a hiding place.

  Whenever the tyke or his mother appeared to bring food or items of his personal equipment, he would ask “Ang Noru?” to no reply, until, just as he was deciding that he would have to go on alone the next morning, little Phurbu raced back in and pulled him to the doorway. Pointing into the sky, the boy said repeatedly, “Ang Noru, Ang Noru.” Wondering at first if the boy was in some way trying to tell him that the Sherpa was dead, Josef soon realized that the youngster was actually stabbing his small finger toward the outline of the old fort on the hill above. When Josef nodded back to the boy that he understood, Phurbu continued to mime. The first gestures were impossible for Josef to decipher until the chopping motion of Phurbu’s left hand on his right wrist followed by a slicing motion across his throat left no scope for confusion.

  Josef retrieved a pair of binoculars from his things to better scrutinize the medieval-looking structure. The ancient castle’s tall, flat-fronted façades grew directly upward from the rock of the long, narrow ridge on which it was perched. On one side, the towering building trusted its protection entirely to a sheer cliff, seemingly safe in the certainty that no army would ever approach from that side, that no archaic cannon they might possess could ever fire that high. On the other, the building was defended by a stacked mass of swollen towers and battlements that dominated the gentler hillside that sloped back down to the valley. With an outstretched hand, Josef traced the twists and turns of the track that led up that hillside to the great entrance gates. The approach from that side was guarded from every angle, impregnable.