DESMOND BAGLEY
The Snow Tiger AND Night of Error
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
The Snow Tiger
Dedication
Part 1
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Part 2
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Part 3
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Part 4
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Part 5
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Part 6
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Part 7
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Night of Error
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface
Map
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Acknowledgments
Keep Reading
About the Author
Praise
Also by the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
THE SNOW TIGER
DEDICATION
To JOAN, on her birthday.
I said I would and I did.
EPIGRAPH
Snow is not a wolf in sheep’s clothing – it is a tiger in lamb’s clothing.
Matthias Zdarsky
Absence of body is preferable to presence of mind.
Anon.
PROLOGUE
It was not a big avalanche, but then, it did not need to be very big to kill a man, and it was only because of Mike McGill’s insistence on the Oertel cord that Ballard survived. Just as a man may survive in an ocean with the proper equipment and yet drown in a foot of water, so Ballard may have perished in a minor slippage that would have gone unrecorded even in avalanche-conscious Switzerland.
McGill was a good skier, as might be expected considering his profession, and he had taken the novice under his wing.
They had met in the ski lodge during an après-ski session and had taken an immediate liking to each other. Although they were the same age McGill appeared to be the older man, possibly because of his more varied life, but he became interested because Ballard had much to teach of areas other than snow and ice. They complemented each other, which is not an uncommon basis for friendship among men.
One morning McGill proposed something new. ‘We’ve got to get you off the piste,’ he said. ‘And on to soft snow. There’s nothing like cutting a first track.’
‘Isn’t it more difficult than on the piste?’ queried Ballard.
McGill shook his head decisively. ‘A beginner’s myth. Turning is not quite as easy, but traversing is a cinch. You’ll like it. Let’s look at the map.’
They went up by the chair-lift, but instead of going down by the piste they struck off to the south, crossing a level plateau. After half an hour they arrived at the top of the clear slope which McGill had chosen, following local advice. He stopped, resting on his sticks, while he surveyed the slope. ‘It looks all right, but we won’t take chances. Here’s where we put our tails on.’
He unzipped a pocket of his anorak and produced a bundle of red cord which he separated into two coils, one of which he handed to Ballard. ‘Tie one end round your waist.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s an Oertel cord – a simple device which has saved a hell of a lot of lives. If there’s an avalanche and you get buried there’ll be a bit of that red cord showing on the surface to show where you are so you can be dug out fast.’
Ballard looked down the slope. ‘Is there likely to be an avalanche?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said McGill cheerfully, knotting the cord around his waist.
‘I’ve never seen anyone else wearing these.’
‘You’ve only been on the piste.’ McGill noted Ballard’s hesitancy. ‘A lot of guys don’t wear cords because they think it makes them look damn fools. Who wants to go down a slope wearing a red tail? they say. To my mind they’re damn fools for not wearing them.’
‘But avalanches!’ said Ballard.
‘Look,’ said McGill patiently, and pointed down the slope. ‘If I thought there was a serious avalanche risk down there we wouldn’t be going down at all. I checked on the snow reports before we left and it’s probably as safe as the nursery slopes. But any snow on any slope can be dangerous – and it doesn’t have to be in Switzerland; people have been caught in avalanches on the South Downs in England. The cord is just a precaution, that’s all.’
Ballard shrugged and began to tie the cord. McGill said, ‘We’d better continue your education. Do you know what to do if the snow does slide?’
‘Start praying?’
McGill grinned. ‘You can do better than that. If it goes at all it will go under your skis or just behind you. It doesn’t go in a rush so you have time to think about what to do – not much time, mind you. If it goes underfoot you might have time to jump higher up the slope, in which case you’ll be out of it. If it starts sliding behind you and into you remember just one thing – you can’t ski out of it. I might be able to, but not you.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘The first thing is to get your wrists out of the loops of the sticks. Throw the sticks away, then snap off the quick release fastenings on your skis. They’re supposed to release automatically in a fall but don’t trust them. When the snow hits you start swimming upstream and try to head up to the surface. Hold your breath and don’t get bunged up with snow. When you feel yourself slowing bring one arm in front of your face, but not too close – that will give you an air space to breathe, and maybe you can shout so that someone can hear you.’ He laughed at the expression on Ballard’s face, and said lightly, ‘Don’t worry, it may never happen. Let’s go. I’ll go first, not too fast, and you follow and do what I do.’
He launched himself down the slope and Ballard followed and had the most exhilarating ride of his life. As McGill had said, turning was not as easy in the soft snow and his ankles began to ache, but schussing was a joy. The cold wind stung his cheeks and whistled past his ears with a keening sound but, apart from that, the only sound was the hiss of his skis as they bit into the virgin snow.
Ahead of him, at the bottom of the slope, he saw McGill execute a stop christiania and come to a halt. As he drew alongside he said enthusiastically, ‘That was great! Let’s do it again.’
McGill laughed and pointed. ‘We have a way to go to get back to the chair-lift; it’s around the spur of the mountain. Maybe we’ll have another crack at it this afternoon.’
At about three in the afternoon they arrived at the top of the chosen slope and McGill pointed to the two sets of tracks. ‘There’s been no one here but us chickens. That’s what I like about this – it’s not as crowded as the piste.’ He handed an Oertel cord to Ballard. ‘You go first this time; I want to watch your technique on the way down.’
As he knotted the cord he studied the slope. The late afternoon winter’s sun was already sending long shadows creeping across the snow.
McGill said, ‘Keep to the centre of the slope in the sunlight; don’t go into the shadowed areas.’
As he spoke Ballard took off, and McGill followed leisurely, keeping an eye on the less experienced skier and noting any faults for future instruction. All went well until he noted that Ballard was swinging to the left and towards slightly steeper ground where shadows lay. He increased speed, calling out as he did so, ‘Keep to the right, Ian. Keep to the main slope.’
Even as he shouted he saw Ballard apparently trip, a slight hesitation in the smooth downward movement. Then the whole slope started to slide taking Ballard with it. McGill skidded to a halt, his face pale, and kept his eyes on Ballard who was now plunging out of control. He saw him throw away his right stick and then Ballard was hidden in a swirl of powder snow. A rumble filled the air with the noise of soft thunder.
Ballard had got rid of his sticks but found himself in a world of mad instability. He managed to release his right ski but then found himself upside down and rotating violently. He struck out vigorously with his arms, sternly repressing the rising tide of panic within him, and tried to remember McGill’s instructions. Suddenly he felt an excruciating pain in his left thigh; his foot was being twisted outwards inexorably until it felt as though his leg was being unscrewed from the hip.
He nearly passed out from the pain but, after a sharp intensification, the pain eased a little. The tumbling motion ceased and he remembered what McGill had said about making an air space about his mouth, so he brought up his left hand across his face. Then all motion stopped and Ballard was unconscious.
All that had taken a little over ten seconds and Ballard had been carried not much over a hundred feet.
McGill waited until there was no further snow movement and then skied to the edge of the disturbed scar of tumbled snow. He scanned it quickly then, jabbing his sticks into the snow, he removed his skis. Carrying one stick and one ski he walked carefully into the avalanche area and began to quarter it. He knew from experience that now time was of the utmost importance; in his mind he could see the graph he had been shown a few days earlier at the local Parsenndienst Station – the length of time buried plotted against the chance of survival.
It took him half an hour to explore the area and he found nothing but snow. If he did not find Ballard he would have to begin probing with little chance of success. One man could not probe that area in the time available and the best bet was to go to find expert help – including an avalanche dog.
He reached the lower edge of the slide and looked up indecisively, then he squared his shoulders and began to climb upwards again through the centre of the slide. He would make one quick five-minute pass and if he did not find anything by the time he reached the top he would head back to the ski lodge.
He went upwards slowly, his eyes flickering from side to side, and then he saw it – a tiny fleck of blood red in the shadow of a clod of snow. It was less than the size of his little fingernail but it was enough. He dropped on one knee and scrabbled at the snow and came up with a length of red cord in his hand. He hauled on one end which came free, so he tackled the other.
The cord, tearing free from the snow, led him twenty feet down the slope until, when he pulled, he came up against resistance and the cord was vertical. He started to dig with his hands. The snow was soft and powdery and was easy to clear, and he came across Ballard at a little more than three feet deep.
Carefully he cleared the snow from around Ballard’s head, making sure first that he was breathing and second that he could continue to breathe. He was pleased to see that Ballard had followed instructions and had his arm across his face. When he cleared the lower half of Ballard’s body he knew that the leg, from its impossible position, was broken – and he knew why. Ballard had not been able to release his left ski and, by the churning action of the snow, the leverage of the ski had twisted Ballard’s leg broken.
He decided against trying to move Ballard, judging that he might do more harm than good, so he took off his anorak and tucked it closely around Ballard’s body to keep him warm. Then he retrieved his skis and set off down to the road below where he was lucky enough to stop a passing car.
Less than two hours later Ballard was in hospital.
Six weeks later Ballard was still bed-ridden and bored. His broken leg was a long time in healing, not so much because of the broken bone but because the muscles had been torn and needed time to knit together. He had been flown to London on a stretcher, whereupon his mother had swooped on him and carried him to her home. Normally, when in London, he lived in his own small mews flat, but even he saw the force of her arguments and succumbed to her ministrations. So he was bedridden and bored in his mother’s house and hating every minute of it.
One morning, after a gloom-laden visit from his doctor who prophesied further weeks of bed-rest, he heard voices raised in argument coming from the floor below. The lighter tones were those of his mother but he could not identify the deeper voice. The distant voices rose and fell in cadences of antagonism, continuing for a quarter of an hour, and then became louder as the running fight ascended the stairs.
The door opened and his mother came into the room, lips pursed and stormy in the brow. ‘Your grandfather insists on seeing you,’ she said curtly. ‘I told him you’re not well but he still insists – he’s as unreasonable as ever. My advice is not to listen to him, Ian. But, of course, it’s up to you – you’ve always done as you pleased.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me besides a bad leg.’ He regarded his mother and wished, not for the first time, that she would show more sign of dress sense and not be so dowdy. ‘Does he give me any option?’
‘He says if you don’t want to see him he’ll go away.’
‘Does he, by God? He must have been touched by an angel’s wing. I’m almost inclined to test this improbability.’ Sending Ben Ballard from a closed door was fit for inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. Ian sighed. ‘You’d better show him in.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Bring him in, Mother; there’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘You’re as pig-headed as he is,’ she grumbled, but went to the door.
Ian had not seen old Ben for a year and a half and he was shocked at the transformation in the man. His grandfather had always been dynamic and bristling with energy but now he looked every day of his eighty-seven years. He came into the room slowly, leaning heavily upon a blackthorn stick; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunk deep into his head so that his normally saturnine expression was rendered skull-like. But there was still a faint crackle of authority as he turned his head and said snappily, ‘Get me a chair, Harriet.’
A small snort escaped her but she placed a chair next to the bed and stood by it. Ben lowered himself into it creakily, planted the stick between his knees and leaned on it with both hands. He surveyed Ian, his eyes sweeping the length of the bed from head to foot and then back to the head. A sardonic grin appeared. ‘A playboy, hey! One of the jet-set! I suppose you were at Gstaad.’
Ian refused to be drawn: he knew the old man’s methods. ‘Nothing so grand.’
Ben grinned widely like a shark. ‘Don’t tell me you went on a package tour.’ One of his fingers lifted to point to the leg. It trembled slightly. ‘Is it bad, boy?’
‘It could have been worse – it could have been taken off.’
‘Must you say such things?’ Harriet’s voice was pained.
Ben chuckled softly, and then his voice hardened. ‘So you went skiing and you couldn’t even do that right. Was it on company time?’
‘No,’ said Ian equably. ‘And you know it. It was my first holiday for nearly three years.’
‘Humph! But you’re lying in that bed on company time.’
Ian’s mother was outraged. ‘You’re heartless!’
‘Shut up, Harriet,’ said the old man without turning his head. ‘And go away. Don’t forget to close the door behind you.’
‘I’ll not be bullied in my o
wn home.’
‘You’ll do as I say, woman. I have to talk business with this man.’
Ian Ballard caught his mother’s eye and nodded slightly. She made a spitting sound and stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind her. ‘Your manners haven’t improved,’ Ian said flatly.
Ben’s shoulders shook as he wheezed with laughter. ‘That’s why I like you, boy; no one else would have said that to my face.’
‘It’s been said often enough behind your back.’
‘What do I care about what’s said? It’s what a man does that matters.’ Ben’s hands tightened momentarily upon his stick. ‘I didn’t mean what I said about you lying in bed on company time – because you’re not. We couldn’t wait until you’re up and about. You’ve been replaced.’
‘Fired!’
‘In a manner of speaking. There’ll be a job for you when you’re fit enough. I think it’s a better job, but I doubt if you will.’
‘That depends on what it is,’ said Ian cautiously.
‘Nearly four years ago we opened a mine in New Zealand – gold. Now that the price of gold has gone up it’s beginning to pay its way and the prospects are good. The managing director is an old idiot called Fisher who was brought in for local reasons, but he’s retiring next month.’ The stick thumped on the floor. ‘The man is senile at sixty-five – can you imagine that?’
Ian Ballard was cautious when the Greeks came bearing gifts. ‘So?’
‘So do you want the job?’
There had to be a catch. ‘I might. When do I have to be out there?’
‘As soon as possible. I suggest you go by sea. You can rest your leg as well on board a ship as here.’
‘Would I have sole responsibility?’
‘The managing director is responsible to the Board – you know that.’
‘Yes, and I know the Ballard set-up. The Board dances on strings pulled from London. I have no wish to be office boy to my revered uncles. I don’t know why you let them get away with what they’re doing.’
The old man’s hands whitened as he clutched the knob on top of the blackthorn. ‘You know I have no say in Ballard Holdings any more. When I set up the Trust I relinquished control. What your uncles do is their business now.’
The Snow Tiger / Night of Error Page 1