“They will acclimatize with the team but set off slightly earlier than the others for their ‘summit attempt’ even if they will actually be stopping at the Second Step to make the investigation. As this is happening, I will be visiting the Base Camp with Martin. We estimate this is likely to be some time from mid-May onward. Between us, we will then deal with all necessary matters once they have descended. It will be really quite exciting to go there, won’t it, Martin? Martin tells me he hiked Kilimanjaro once, so it won’t be an entirely new experience for him.”
She smiled at Emmerich and then abruptly closed the file of papers she was holding to prompt an end to the meeting.
It worked. The civil servant rose from his chair and showed them to the door.
Exiting the austere Ministry, Quinn began to rant at Henrietta as he slowly and painfully walked down the building’s steps to the street. “I’m glad that pompous twit seems to think it’s so easy to wander up to the Second Step, recover a few bits and bobs, and then head back down in time for bloody tea!”
Telling him to “Sssh,” Henrietta lowered her voice so that Emmerich wouldn’t hear her over the passing traffic. “Neil, the man is not actually a fool. He has agreed to a very effective operation with the German authorities so that together we—and I mean we—can make what could be a major problem at a time of resurgent neo-Nazi activity quietly go away. Who do you think wrote the report that he was reading from? I did, and I hope you appreciate that, bar their inclusion of the ex-paratrooper, they are effectively permitting us to manage the whole thing.”
Quinn knew she was telling the truth. All the time he had been in Guy’s Hospital, she had visited him daily and put the plan together.
“And another thing,” Henrietta continued testily, quickly glancing at Emmerich to be sure he wasn’t listening. “Why do you think you received no further legal letters on behalf of Tate Senior amidst the get-well cards?”
“I rather assumed that once you were able to speak with Dawa, you confirmed that his son’s death was not my fault.”
“Neil, I have made an entire career based on assuming nothing. I would suggest you start doing the same. Tate Senior will never forgive you for what happened to his son, whether you are innocent or not. However, his own need for a little forgiveness due to some financial naughtiness involving offshore funds in the British Virgin Islands has enabled us to persuade him to focus his ire on Sarron and leave you alone.”
There was little Quinn could say to that, so they walked on in silence until Henrietta pointed Quinn and Emmerich to a small corner pub, saying, “I think that before we go our separate ways over the winter, we should have lunch and compare a few notes to be sure that we are all on the same page.”
The pub was dark inside but warm. While they waited for their food at a table in a corner, Emmerich updated them on his subsequent investigations relating to Sarron. After their cold war in Munich, he was open and friendly to Henrietta. He knew that he had been totally outplayed by “Agatha Christie,” as he had secretly nicknamed her, but was smart enough to know that he should learn from it. His inclusion in the recovery plan had been Henrietta’s way of apologizing for the trouble she had caused him and, in return, he seemed satisfied that it gave him fair representation in the process ahead.
Emmerich told them that Sarron had killed Graf as suspected but that they also now knew he had been assisted by Oleg Vishnevsky, a Russian known to International Police as an enforcer for organized crime in Moscow. The German police officer continued to add that Oleg Vishnevsky always worked in tandem with his brother, Dmitri, so it was thought likely that he was the one who had followed Quinn into the Weisshaus Club. Since then, he added, Sarron had vanished, possibly going to Moscow with the Vishnevskys in a private plane owned by one of Putin’s inner circle.
Henrietta was disturbed by the information. “If Sarron’s back together with those two then that is very bad news indeed.”
“But surely if the bloody man is wanted for murder in Europe now as well as Asia, he’ll have been caught by someone before the spring?” Quinn said, looking to Emmerich for some reassurance.
“I would hope so,” Emmerich said but with little confidence in his voice. “However the Vishnevskys have established quite a reputation for themselves in Moscow, making a lot of friends in high places. It would be easy for them to get new documents, travel papers, whatever Sarron needs to move around under the radar. We do, at least, have some time to play with even if, in the meantime, Quinn, you will have to be very careful.”
“Neil is going to be staying with a cousin of mine in the country over the winter. He will not be found,” Henrietta replied to Emmerich.
“Can I at least have the address? We have closed the file on Graf’s death and, once his lawyers finish settling his estate, we will be able to release the motorcycle and possessions you left in his storage unit the night you were kidnapped.”
“No, I’m sorry, Martin, but you can’t,” Henrietta replied. “Until Sarron is caught only I will know where Neil is while he trains to get back to full fitness. It has to be impossible for Sarron to find him. You can send it all to this address marked for my attention.”
“Just the bags,” Quinn added. “Keep the bike in Munich for now, I’ll come and get it when all this is over. I don’t want Henrietta riding it around London.”
73
Rongbuk Monastery, Rongbuk, Tibet
April 25, 1939
2:30 p.m.
To Josef’s tired eyes, the Rongbuk Monastery was little more than a ramshackle cluster of dusty buildings sliding down onto the wide valley floor as if part of the immense slip of rocks and rubble that curved down from the towering hills above. Flat-roofed and meager, the place spoke only of supplication before the great mountain that punctured the bright blue sky ahead. Bursting from the two sides of the valley, Everest rose up before Josef, utterly massive.
With each step nearer, Josef felt his spirit weaken under the mountain’s unfriendly gaze. A comment Ang Noru made during one of their long, cold nights huddled around a small fire returned to him: “Sahib Josef, to you, I think, all mountains are friends. You must understand that Chomolungma is not your friend. She is a goddess with no need for human friends. You are as important and interesting to her as the fly is to you. She will kill you just as readily if you annoy her.”
Josef told himself to stop looking, that this view of the mountain, separated from the rest of the Himalayas, entire for the first time, was too much to contemplate when he was so tired and hungry. Instead he turned to look at Ang Noru to escape the magnetic pull the mountain had on his eyes. The Sherpa smiled grimly back at him, flicking his head up at the mountain, pulling Josef’s eyes back to it, saying, “Only here in the Rongbuk do you feel her truly. This is the place where all sahibs begin to really understand her great height. Not good to do on an empty stomach, I think. Better to look at monastery instead and use slow walking time to ask your god to make kind words to the Mother Goddess for you. I will find place to stay and equipment supply.”
Josef nodded, too exhausted to even talk, setting his gaze on the large chorten that stood before the main entrance to the monastery’s cluster of buildings. The swollen, dirty white cupola thrust a golden mast, with emblems of the sun and moon, high into the air before them. Four strings of wind-torn, faded prayer flags arced down from the apex to be secured to the ground by small stacks of carved stones. His fatigued brain registered the sight as a big radio transmitter beaming messages to the pinnacle of the mountain, communicating directly between the monastery and the goddess on the summit. The surreal, rippling thought told him how much he needed to rest.
Arriving alongside the monastery, Josef let his heavy pack fall to the ground and slumped down onto the dirt, leaning back against the whitewashed stonework plinth that supported the chorten. Ang Noru walked on to tie their remaining pony to a loop set in the side of the main entra
nce. With a final, “Sahib Josef, rest here. Better when you have food, sleep,” he disappeared into the dusty compound.
Josef could move no more. His only surprise, concern really, was that Ang Noru was not similarly exhausted. How does he do it? His energy, his endurance seemed limitless. The Sherpa made a mockery of Waibel’s rambling discourses on Aryan racial superiority in the library at Wewelsburg. It was Ang Noru who was the superman, not Josef.
The Sherpa was also now his friend. He had changed toward Josef immensely since the rescue. He was considerate and talkative, at times humorous, even if he still used the title “Sahib,” he applied it to Josef not Becker. It was only when Ang Noru spoke about the mountain, reluctantly, when pushed into necessary response by Josef’s endless questions or another distant sighting of it, that he became dour again. The Sherpa’s chopped, broken observations and warnings about how Josef should try to climb the mountain had become his mantra as he walked, particularly the one in which he saw his only possibility for redemption.
“Sahib Josef, your only chance is to pass unobserved. The British are noisy. They come with large expeditions like loud armies determined to conquer her. They are soldiers first and mountain people second. The Mother Goddess is not a castle to be stormed by a great force of men. You must be a mountain person first and a soldier second. Seek to live quietly on her sides, not fight her, and she will ignore you, allowing you to creep higher. The quieter you are, the higher you will get. You did it for me at Kampa Dzong; you will have to do it again for her, ten times over.”
74
Josef awoke to find himself still leaning back against the chorten. His back and neck were aching and he felt feverish and weak. Before him was a semicircle of shaven-headed young monks. Seeing him surface, one said, “Aha,” as the others smiled and pointed.
Another stepped forward from amidst the grinning faces to approach Josef. The monk stood in front of him, staring down, speaking without pause, a waterfall of language cascading from his smiling mouth. The novice pointed at Josef and then up at the mountain, his dialogue becoming just one word, “Chomolungma.”
The others quickly followed his lead. Shuffling their sandaled feet, the monks began chanting the name in unison. The incantation grew, louder and louder. It reminded Josef of the gamblers chanting in the caravansary and began to fill him with the same dread of discovery.
Ang Noru returned to push through the monks and reach out a hand to pull Josef back up onto his tired legs.
The monks instantly fell silent, staring at Josef as if surprised to see that he could stand, almost wary that they had angered him.
“Do they know?” asked Josef, his head beginning to spin as he followed the Sherpa back to the pony.
“Of course. There are few secrets here. There have been messengers; the British are looking for us in Tibet. The monks know well that if we have come here it is only for one thing: the mountain. They have offered us a room. Let us go there, and I will tell you all.”
The room was within a side building off the monastery’s central courtyard. It was bare and simple, but it shut out some of the cold and was clean. The sight of the mountain through its solitary square window resembled the fearsome framed picture in the entrance of the Hotel Nanga Parbat. Josef quickly shuttered the window to hide it from view, but it did little to block the roar of the wind racing over the summit. It sounded like an out-of-control freight train.
They unloaded, then sat on the floor and ate a meal that two young monks brought to them. It was simple and without taste, but its warmth and variety after their daily diet of plain flour cakes and dried yakmeat reinvigorated Josef a little as Ang Noru explained what more he had learned in the monastery about the British.
But only when the meal was finished did the Sherpa reach into the front of his baggy jacket and pull out a sealed letter. “From your countrymen, there is only this, Sahib Josef. No supplies or man with it so I think may be better to give after you eat. You stronger then if bad news.”
Josef opened the sealed envelope.
A formal printed letterhead across the top of the page inside read:
DEUTSCHE TIBET EXPEDITION ERNST SCHÄFER
Below, atrocious, hasty handwriting crammed the single sheet:
Sisyphus,
If you have made it to Rongbuk to receive this letter, then I salute you as a man of endeavor. I assure you that there is no one who understands better than I the difficulties of traveling through this savage and barren land. It is only out of respect for your possible arrival that I take the extreme risk of sending you this communication by native messenger. If apprehended, it could in itself compromise my entire Tibetan mission.
Be aware that from the start I expressed my fears to the reichsführer-SS regarding Operation Sisyphus. I considered it undoubtedly doomed—you do see the mountain before you?—but also bearing the potential to destroy the necessary business of my own SS expedition to Tibet.
While my opinions were ignored, my concerns have come to pass. It is apparent that the British authorities in both India and Sikkim have become aware of your illegal entry into Tibet. Their cadre, here in Lhasa, is already using the matter to increase pressure on the Tibetan government to terminate my expedition and expel me from the country.
As I write, it seems that the British are not yet aware of either the exact nature of Operation Sisyphus or your current location. It is only because of this that they have so far been unsuccessful in their lobby. If I recall correctly, our führer writes that “leadership necessitates uncomfortable burdens,” and with this in mind, it is with regret that I advise you that, as de facto leader of the National Socialist Mission to Tibet, I cannot risk the issue of supplies or personnel to assist you as instructed.
Having to turn away when so near to your goal must indeed make you feel like Sisyphus himself, but I can assure you that it is in the best interests of our wider project for Tibet. I personally advise you to cross into the Kingdom of Nepal and make good your escape from there.
Heil Hitler!
Refolding the letter, Josef got up and reopened the window shutters to look at the the mountain again.
His eyes followed the line of the Northeast Ridge to the summit. Mouthing, “Berg heil!” at it and shaking his head in disbelief, he turned to Ang Noru to explain.
75
The Old Farmhouse, Betws-Y-Coed, Snowdonia, North Wales
March 15, 2010
11:00 a.m.
The ring of the doorbell followed by a heavy welsh accent shouting, “Delivery. Three packages for a Mr. Quinn,” announced the arrival of the bags from Munich that Martin Emmerich had promised. They had been a long time coming owing to the protracted legal process involving Graf’s estate which was, inevitably, thought Quinn, as obscure and complicated as the man himself.
As Quinn ripped open the three boxes to reveal his big kit bag and the two plastic pannier suitcases off his motorcycle, his first thoughts were of the climbing kit they contained. It was just one month before he was due to leave Snowdonia for Tibet and the absence of his bags had begun to make him think that he was going to have to purchase much of it anew, something he could ill afford to do.
The delivery, the same week that the Welsh valley turned yellow with daffodils, signaled that his winter of recovery from the events of Munich was now finished. He had spent all of it at that whitewashed farmhouse, run as a small yet comfortable hotel by some distant cousin of Henrietta, rebuilding himself for a return to Everest. He refused to call it hiding.
During the cold, damp days, he progressively pushed himself out of the medical rooms of the local physiotherapist and back into the granite and heath peaks that surrounded the small town. In the evenings he recovered from the aches and pains sitting by a log fire in the local pub, immersed in the notes and maps of Everest that Henrietta had loaned him.
Quinn thought he knew a lot about the mountain, but Henri
etta’s information was so much more detailed than the well-known histories of Everest that he had read in the past. It opened up a new world to him, one of unpublished mystery and endeavor that made him appreciate for the first time how the mountain had been a magnet for many unknown adventurers over the years. The more he read, the more he thought about Josef Becker and Ang Noru, the more inspired he became to follow in their tracks. The more he wanted to resolve the story and keep it, as Graf and Henrietta desired, from those that would use it for harm.
Opening the bags, still sealed with German police tags, he unpacked the contents and began to assemble the things he needed. One of the alpine climbing boots he took out was filled by a green T-shirt.
The sight shocked him.
He had forgotten all about it.
Quinn gently pulled the cotton bundle from the leather boot, feeling the hard lump within.
It’s still there!
He slowly opened up the crumpled T-shirt to reveal inside the antique Leica camera that the collector had given him.
For a moment, Quinn just held it in his hands lost in thought about Graf. He had only met the man briefly, but his murder at the hands of Sarron had, in a way, wounded Quinn far more than the nightclub shooting. Even if he suspected that such an end might have appealed to the collector, it made him increasingly fearful for Henrietta. She had the same intense curiosity in the story of the axe, a curiosity that was tending to kill the cat.
He would have been lying if he’d said it didn’t worry him that there had been no recent news about Sarron. Quinn knew that he was still out there, watching and waiting. To have hoped that the psychotic Frenchman would be simply apprehended by the police now struck him as ridiculous. With every hike up into the Welsh hills, he understood that he was not only preparing himself to go back to the mountain but also to finish this thing with Sarron once and for all. He owed it to many people.
Summit: A Novel Page 37