Focusing the Zeiss glasses on the hut, he swung them across the valley floor, pleased when he could find nothing on the darkening western slopes of the Tacul where his support team were dug in, watching the hut like he was. They were invisible on the mountainside; they had done their job as well as he knew they would.
Putting the glasses down, he lifted the tin of food from the burner straight to his lips and hungrily sucked in the thick, cheesy mixture. Then, finally, he dug around in his gear and, finding the ice screws that Lacoste had bought, took a hack saw blade and began to cut through the tip of one. An hour later, he zipped up the down jacket tight and, taking a head lamp just in case, lowered himself off the edge into the darkness.
Below him there was nothing for almost a mile straight down.
After abseiling two hundred feet, he took his barracuda ice axes in hand and began a fast traverse across the ice wall to get hard in the runnel. The axes were specifically designed for ice waterfalls and, with the crampons and the blind faith that ice climbers need in their gear, he was up against the jutting rock shoulder in under fifteen minutes. There he paused to slip a crammer into a small crack and then, leaning back, took the ice screw he had tampered with and, taking a final check of his position relative to the wall and the remaining climb, hammered it in an inch. After he was sure it was in, he turned it, careful not to put too much tension on the weakened head.
As he worked, the wind began to pick up, taking on a more urgent force. Braced against it, he finished his work and, rubbing his hands together, took the crammer from the crack, then began to work his way back to the point he had come down, but now diagonal upward. His axes and crampons slammed into the ice as he moved upward against the frozen face, the wind snatching at his coat and the ice forming on his eyebrows. He stopped to take up the slack in his figure eight and tie off, then moved on, his breathing harsh in the bitter cold, and rolled over the lip, back into his bivouac.
He’d been away only an hour.
Breaking open another fuel cell, he began heating tea, working out the odds that they might use his ice screw in the morning. If they come. Talk to me, Alexi. You must be away by now, he thought.
It was another twenty minutes before the radio hissed and Kirov’s voice came through.
He had followed the glacier for two miles until he was sure he was out of sight, and then ducked behind an odd shaped hummock that he had found earlier that day. Hidden here, he changed into the camouflage gear that had been left for him and moved back up the glacier. Half an hour later, he was back in the snow cave, his legs aching from the awkward uphill run. He got through to Quayle on his fourth attempt.
“Blue one blue one, weather for tomorrow is as expected over.”
Quayle didn’t speak, just smiled grimly and pressed his transmit button twice to signal he had heard. His eyes glittering, he stood on the ledge in the wind and, for the first time in months, began to perform his mantra, settling his mind and becoming one with his body for the dawn and whatever it would bring.
*
Tansey-Williams took the proffered drink from Borshin and stood before the big fireplace, facing the American.
“So you mean to tell me that this has been going on for some time and you only involve us now?”
“Relax,” Borshin said dryly. “You’re lucky you are in at all. This is a localised problem, other than your minutemen being involved...”
“It’s a question of ‘who is who’,” Tansey-Williams said, sipping his drink noisily, then coughing and peering into his glass to see what measure the Soviet had used when pouring the Scotch. “Your people, from the Supreme Court down, could be involved.”
“Bullshit, gentlemen! My people are clean!” Borshin laughed out loud and Gershin glowered at him. As a KGB General, he would know. “And I don’t consider an attempt to wipe out half the heads of Eastern Europe a local problem...”
Into the silence that followed, the German spoke for the first time. “It’s not a question of clean, Leo. It’s a question of politics and beliefs. The company is made of extreme right wingers and conservatives. That’s why you, amongst others, take them.” Then, leaving that thought to dangle in the air, he stood and walked to the drinks trolley, starting to heave ice into a cut glass tumbler.
In the anteroom, the German’s aides sat eating sandwiches with Chloe Bowie, who had accompanied her Director General from London. Upstairs, listening to the conversation on a speaker in one of the bedrooms, was yet another man, grey haired and drinking milk from a tall glass. Only Borshin knew he was there.
“Minutemen, you say they are called. Let me at a secure line and I’ll let you have what we have inside half an hour. The policies on co-operation are clear here...”
“Which means you help us when you feel like it?” Tansey-Williams said. “And bugger you Jack when you don’t. Rather like ours, really.” He paused. “There’s a phone in the study. My communications people tell me it will patch you through London.”
“They gonna listen in?”
“Certainly not!” Tansey-Williams replied stiffly.
Up in the spare room, the grey haired milk drinker turned of his speaker and sat back to think. As Director of the CIA, it was something he did a lot of.
*
A hour before midnight, Kirov took his turn at the observation hole, drawing back the nylon flap and the space blanket that shielded the cave from infrared imaging equipment. He had seen none amongst the gear the men were handling at the refuge, but that meant nothing. Behind him, the remainder of the team – with the exception of Sergi, who was out in the dark somewhere with a radio – were checking their own equipment. Two of them sat on the sleeping platform and the others gathered around the gas lamp, cleaning and oiling their weapons, waxing skis, and preparing ropes. Another sergeant crouched, stirring a pot of something thick and meaty. When they left the cave, they would not be back.
Kirov wiped some snow from his face and leant into the glasses again. Across the glacier, the glow of lamps around the refuge was warm and cheery. He looked again and saw a silhouette move across one light. Here we go, he thought. Movement. Titus had said they would leave just after midnight to give themselves enough time to cross to the foot of the mountain safely and be in place before dawn. He looked at his watch. It was near enough. Satisfied, he crawled back into the main chamber of the cave and grinned at the others.
“We go soon.”
“Right, you fuckers!” the senior man said, lifting the pot from the tiny burner. “Eat and drink now. There’ll be fuck all until we’re back.”
Kirov held the radio to his lips.
“Grepon grepon Pierre…”
Sergi came back, “Grepon allo Pierre.”
“Grepon message for you, please phone Phillipe when you are in. His wife has had the baby, he is leaving now.”
“Oui Pierre, I will do that.”
Up on the mountain, Quayle – who was waiting for a message about a woman with a baby – turned his radio off and settled back to rest. It would be six hours before there would be enough light to begin the climb, and he pulled the sleeping bag, with its oilskin outer, on and rolled back against the ledge. The snow began to settle immediately so, drawing his balaclava down, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. At this altitude it would be days before he could acclimatise enough to sleep properly, but he had to try.
As soon as he closed his eyes, all he saw was Holly. Soon now my love, he thought. Soon all this will be over.
For Kirov below, the problem was now how many of them were leaving to cross to the head of the glacier, and how many would stay at the hut. He had seen two telescopes. Big powerful ones that could see up the mountain at that distance. That suggested that the bulk of the team would wait at the refuge, there to support the main attempt and provide security, but going no closer unless the situation demanded it. Vague silhouettes were still moving around the lamps, fetching and carrying, figures bent and coffee cups lifted. So how many of you will go and how
many will stay? he wondered. He had planned their deployment as best he could. Their job was to support Quayle. To take care of the base camp group if the need arose. Now much depended on just who donned packs and walked out of the refuge in the next hour. Putting the glasses down, he took a piece of chocolate from his pocket, broke off several squares and ate them, wiping his hand on his smock and then going back to the watch.
Quayle opened his eyes for the hundredth time and peeled back the layers of clothing to look at his watch. It was still dark, but he knew that to his right the sun was rising. Because the north face dropped into a glacial basin, there would be no light below for some time yet. Once they began the climb, they would be at least five hours before getting to him. He rolled to look over the edge for the last time in the relative safety of darkness, and thought briefly about what he would need to do today. All his instincts and training in the mountains, all the background and legend, the ethos and mystique, came back to one thing. Life. On a mountain, as anywhere, life was sacred. But on a mountain it seemed more precious than ever. Men risked and sometimes gave their lives for others on mountains. He had selected this place because, up here, they would be most exposed and distanced from their retinue by altitude and technique. And here, where life was more sacred than ever, he would confront them.
He flicked his lighter and held it up to the cigarette, drawing back deeply. It was light now. They would be at the base of the big wall now, and he had to resist the urge to look over and count. It made no real difference. He would just need to isolate one of the three – Girard, the industrialist or the politician – and he would have what he needed. If the others came to his aid then he would have to deal with that situation as it arose.
Kirov’s men had settled in just before the dawn. One sat dug in to one side of the Glacier de Pierre Joseph, a small steep flow that was little more than a vast ice fall, ending at the wide flat bottom of the main Leschaux. The new snow was deep at the base of the glacier and, along the base of the spur, the ground was steeply sloping, ideal for what they intended.
He watched the refuge with binoculars from behind a hummock of ice and snow he had built up himself. Beneath him were two cables, one set at four feet and one at seven – where he could rest well below the surface and possible sight. He had set two other screws into the wall and rigged his thigh harness so that he could hang there indefinitely. With water, chocolate and high energy cubes of sugar and honey, he would need no resupply. His job was to alert the remaining members the moment any of the support group left the refuge. They were spread in a line along two huge crevasses, three hundred meters further out, positioned either side of two snow bridges that were the obvious choice for a crossing.
Kirov sat down in his harness and eased the straps around his thighs. They had been in position for two hours now and they were as ready as they would ever be. He looked up at the scudding clouds. Come on, he thought. Let’s get it over with.
Quayle was thinking the same thing. Perfectly camouflaged against the grey brown rock, he leant over the edge of his ledge and focused the glasses down the ice wall. Beneath him, four figures moved steadily upward, deep in the shadows of the Walker spur. First, the leader moved, then settled down to await his partner, the other two following the route on the same holds. At one stage, Quayle thought he saw the leader of the second pair point and shout – but the gesture was lost in the wind.
It was after noon when Quayle first heard the lead climber’s axe heads biting and his crampons scrape. He had cleared up his bivouac, re-packed his gear and set up two other secure points further along the ridge line. He was ready. Now that he had three of the prime movers in the conspiracy separated, it was time to go to work. He sneaked a look over the edge. His position was, he knew, the only half decent flat section in the entire area. They would head for here, planning their ascent to finish here, drink some tea and rest before moving east along the ridge for the long abbess down to the Hirondelle. Even so, this late they would want to keep the rest as brief as possible.
He checked his lines one last time and then, using a small mirror, checked the position of the lead climber. A hard face, tired, dark hair, late thirties – this had to be Girard. He was scarcely ten metres below him. He heard him pause, take a breath, swing his boot against the ice , then move upward again. He moved the mirror slightly to look across the face and downward to the place where he had placed the screw last night. There was rope trailing back to that point. They had used it. Five metres. He would be looking upward any second, looking for the final stretch of ice, where the rock came through. He would need hand holds – possibly a wedge or something. He would be aware that it wasn’t over yet, but the elation would be there already.
Quayle counted to twenty and, as gloved fingers scrabbled over the lip, he rolled to the edge and peered over smiling, his face just twenty inches from Girard’s.
“Bonjour, dickhead! Time we had a little chat.”
Girard’s eyes widened in fright and surprise as Quayle grabbed the hand, pulling it back.
“No, you’re not going anywhere…” Quayle seethed.
Looking down, found a hold for his other hand, and someone below shouted a question at him. “Let me up, Quayle!”
“No…”
Another question came flurrying up from below, this one more urgent.
“You’re not going to do anything to me,” Girard said, his boot scrabbling for another hold, his arms aching now. “So let me up and we can talk about this.”
“I will do what I like,” Quayle answered.
“Take a look down, you interfering bastard! That’s your friend! A bit of insurance. Now let me up!”
Friend? What friend?
Quayle quickly looked over the edge, as Girard shouted, “It’s Quayle!” down to his companions.
Oh Jesus, thought Quayle. There, leading the second pair, looking upward in growing confusion was Pierre Lacoste. The job! He said he’d taken on a job! Quayle flashed a look across at the man roped to Lacoste. He was tugging at something in his jacket. A gun was being drawn.
Quayle didn’t hesitate. He swung his ice axe down hard and Girard screamed in agony as the serrated blade drove through his hand, pinning him to the mountain face like a butterfly to a display board.
“Hang around a while, you cunt! I’ll be back!” Quayle snarled, then dropped off the face like an avenging angel, all mountain honour aside.
They had started it.
But he would finish it.
His abseil jump took him thirty feet, straight onto the man with the gun as it went off. His crampons pierced and skewered the grey haired man’s left hand but, as he screamed, hanging in his figure eight, he turned the gun on Quayle.
Quayle was ready for it. The climber never even saw the sharpened blade of Quayle’s ice axe swinging downward. The first blow took him in the neck and the second cut his rope like a cotton thread. Screaming with his final breaths, he cartwheeled down through the air, his body striking the face every few seconds, the thuds sickening to the ear.
Quayle looked across quickly. One shot had been snapped of.
“Pierre!” he called across the face, his voice echoing back. “Are you OK? Pierre?” The old guide was hanging on his line, moaning in pain, blood dripping from his sleeve. “Hold on!” Quayle cried. “I’ll come for you!”
He looked back upward to the last of the three. Your turn, bastard.
The man looked down at him. His face was a mask of terror.
“No, please!” he cried. “It wasn’t my idea! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know…”
Quayle went up the rope, hand over hand like a sailor, until he swung next to the man, his eyes on fire.
“You have a gun? If I have to find it, you go too…”
“NO, NO, NO, GUN!” the man shouted quickly. He had been sick down his jacket. Suddenly, the enterprise had lost its glamour.
“Stay here,” Quayle said. “Don’t move!” Moving across the face, he took the rop
e that linked the man to Girard and tightened it, then moved back down to Lacoste who hung unconscious in his harness.
On the glacier things happened fast. The two men charged with watching events on the mountain raised the alarm simultaneously and, within seconds, men were running for skis and pulling guns from covers. Sergi watched for five seconds and then picked up his radio.
“Table, this is chair.”
“Go chair,” Kirov crackled back instantly.
“The movers are coming.”
“Thank you.”
Sergi dropped back down onto the second wire and scooped up his assault rifle. Then, in one hair raising jump five feet across the width of the crevasse, he crossed to his second set of wires to await the beginning of the action.
They passed him ten minutes later, some skiing well, others badly. In camouflage whites, he was next to invisible and, as the last man passed, he climbed up to the higher cable and calmly set up his rifle on the small pile of snow he had prepared earlier.
He would not fire unless someone broke from the main group, but would remain hidden and safe below the surface – because where he was, he was in the direct line of fire of his own team.
Kirov initiated the contact, a classic crevasse ambush. They rose from the ground like white ghosts and, with short measured bursts from silenced weapons, it was all over in under twenty seconds. Just bodies on the ice. There had been only four rounds expended by the annihilated force and, after forty seconds of wind blown silence, two of Kirov’s team came up from the ice and moved amongst the bodies, checking they were all dead. Thirty seconds later, the corpses were bundled into the crevasse, and Kirov picked up his radio and spoke quickly into the mouthpiece.
The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller Page 35