by Allan Folsom
“Paul, look at me!” suddenly she screamed at him, her voice rocked with emotion. “Look at me.”
For a long moment he stayed motionless, the snow falling silently around him. Then slowly, reluctantly, he turned to her. Despite the cold he was soaked with sweat.
“Listen to me, please,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how you’ve come to the conclusions you have. The truth is I’ve nothing to do with Von Holden or the Organization and never have. This is the moment when you must believe me, you have to believe me and trust me. Believe and. trust that what we have together is real and transcends anything else—anything . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Osborn stared at her. She’d hit a chord deep within him, a nerve he no longer thought was. there. If he chose no, that was one thing. Simple and done with. To choose yes was to trust beyond anything he knew or had ever known. To cast himself, his father, everything, aside. Make it all irrelevant. To say, after everything—I do trust you and my love for you—and if in doing that I die, then I die.
It would have to be total trust. Total.
Vera was looking at him. Waiting. Behind her, through the falling snow, were the lights of the restaurant. It was all on him. What he chose.
Ever so slowly he raised his hand and touched her cheek.
“It’s all right,” he said, finally. “It’s all right.”
148
* * *
VON HOLDEN came up on his elbows and inched forward. Where were they? They’d come right up to the edge of the light and then disappeared from view. It should have been simple. He’d tested Osborn by showing himself and Vera in the Ice Palace tunnel. If Osborn had followed them he would have dragged him into the side tunnel where he’d taken Vera and killed him there. But he hadn’t. Which was why he’d used Vera now. She’d been a drawing card, nothing more. He knew Osborn had seen them board the train together in Bern. The last time he’d seen her she’d been arrested by the German police in Berlin. What could he think but that she and Von Holden were- co-conspirators, fleeing the disaster at Charlottenburg. Filled with rage and betrayal, Osborn would find a way to free her and no matter her argument otherwise would make her take him to Von Holden, either as a hostage or bargaining chip.
A gust of wind twisted a snow devil across the snow in front of him. Wind. He didn’t like it. Any more than he liked the snow. Looking up, he saw a line of clouds advancing from the west. And it was getting colder. He should have killed them sooner, as soon as they’d started toward the ski school, but taking out two people and getting rid of their bodies that close to the main building was risky, especially when it might jeopardize his main objective. The air tunnel was eighty yards away from it, in the dark and snow, distant enough to be safe for the killing. And Osborn, upset and unbalanced, would follow his footprints straight toward it. The two shots a split second apart wouldn’t make a sound. Then Von Holden would take their bodies to the back of the dog runs where the cliffs fell sharply away and toss them over into the black nothing of the abyss. Osborn first, and then
“Von Holden!” Osborn’s voice echoed out of the darkness. “Vera’s gone back to telephone the police. I thought you might like to know that.”
Von Holden started, then scrambled backward and slid behind a rock outcropping. Whatever had happened had abruptly turned against him. Even if the police were called, it would be an hour or more before they got there. He would have to forget everything else and move on.
Directly in front of him, like some ghostly sentinel, the Jungfrau rose up more than two thousand feet. A hundred yards to his right and down maybe forty feet, a rocky path led around the face of the cliff on which Jungfraujoch was built. Three-quarters of the way down that, hidden by a rock formation, was a secondary air shaft that had been opened in 1944 when the impenetrable system of tunnels and elevators had been constructed below the weather station inside the glacier. If he could reach that before the police came, he could hide. For a week, two weeks. Longer, if need be.
149
* * *
OSBORN HUNCHED a few feet to the side of the dog run and listened. But all he heard was the soft coo of the wind as little by little it increased in intensity. Before he’d gone out with McVey in Berlin he’d changed to a pair of black high-top Reeboks. Other than that he was still dressed in the shirt and business suit he’d been wearing since he got there. Not much at eleven thousand feet in the dark and snow, with the wind picking up.
In one incredible instant Osborn’s anger and distrust of Vera had vanished. It was what she’d said and what he’d seen in her eyes when she’d said it. The challenge to him of who he really was and what he really believed.
In that moment doubt disappeared and he remembered pulling her back away from the dog run and down into the snow on the far side of the cages, holding her against him, both crying, sharing the realization of what had happened, and of what he had almost let happen. Then he’d sent her back.
For a moment she’d been stunned. They’d both go back. Von Holden wouldn’t come after them in there, not with the bright lights and other people around.
“What if he does?” Osborn had said. And he was right. Von Holden was capable of anything.
“There is a blonde woman, an American,” he told her; “she’ll be waiting to take the train down. Her name is Connie. She’s a good person. Take the train with her to Kleine Scheidegg and call the Swiss police from there. Have them get in touch with a Detective Remmer of the German Federal Police at Bad Godesberg.”
He remembered her staring at him for a long time. He wasn’t staying behind only to protect her. It was why he’d come after Von Holden in the first place, why he’d done what he had to Albert Merriman in Paris, why he’d gone to Berlin with McVey. It was for himself and for his father, and there was no going back until it was finished. It was then she’d pressed her lips to his and turned to go.
As she did, he pulled her back. His eyes were alive. He was already shifting gears. Preparing for the next. Asking her deliberately if she knew what was inside the case Von Holden had carried from Berlin.
“He said they were documents exposing the neo-Nazi conspirators. But I’m sure it’s not true.”
Osborn watched her move back through the shadows and toward the safety of the main building. Seconds passed and there was a shaft of light as the door opened and she went inside, then there was darkness, as it closed behind her. Instantly his thoughts went to what Von Holden really carried in the rucksack. Without a doubt they were documents, but they would hardly be a listing of prominent neo-Nazis, instead they would be about the cryosurgery. Reports, discourses on how it was done. The procedures for freezing and thawing, software instructions for the computers, design schematics for the instruments, perhaps even his father’s scalpel. They would be one of a kind, which was why he was guarding them so carefully. For whatever evil the process had been conceived, to the world of medicine the procedure was fantastic, and no matter what happened it was imperative the notes be protected.
Suddenly Osborn realized he had been drifting; Von Holden could easily be coming up behind him. He looked around quickly but saw nothing. Then, checking the .38’s firing action, making sure it hadn’t frozen in the cold, he slid the gun in his waistband and glanced back toward the main building. By now Vera should have reached it and be inside looking for Connie.
Moving up, he eased along the edge of the dog run until he saw the light of the tunnel. The footprints, he was certain, had been a trick to draw him into the light. Von Holden had crossed toward the tunnel but would not have gone back to it, it was too confining and he could be trapped, especially if someone came through from the other side.
To Osborn’s right the Jungfrau itself rose almost straight up. To his left the land dipped down and seemed to level off a little. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he moved off in that direction. Assuming he was right, it was the only logical way Von Holden would have gone.
Übermorgen, and the box that housed it inside hi
s backpack, remained Von Holden’s fundamental concern. As it should have for the last survivor of the Organization’s hierarchy. Sector 5, “Entscheidend Verfahren,” the Conclusive Procedure, had been intended for this kind of emergency. That it had become more difficult than anticipated was the reason he had been chosen in the first place and why he had survived. Perhaps, he thought optimistically, the worst might be over. There was every chance that the lower elevators had not been destroyed in the fire because the air shaft above them would have worked as a chimney, an exhaust for the heat, thus sparing the mechanical workings below.
The thought of still reaching the elevators, and the sense that he was executing his duty as a soldier, lifted him as he worked his way along the rock shale path against the face of the cliff. The falling snow, the increasing wind and cold, would hinder Osborn as much as himself. Probably more so because Osborn would not have his training in mountain survival. The advantage would extend his window of escape. His chance, to get to the air shaft and inside with all traces covered by the snow.
That left only Osborn and himself, and time.
150
* * *
THE TRAIL cut away sharply to the left and Osborn followed it. He was looking for Von Holden’s tracks in the snow but he’d seen nothing so far and the snow wasn’t falling fast enough to cover them. Perplexed and fearful that he might be going the wrong way, he came to the top of a rise and stopped. Looking back, he could see only a swirl of snow and darkness. Dropping down to one knee, he looked over the side. Below him a narrow trail snaked downward along the edge of a cliff, but there seemed no way to get to it. There was no way to know if it was the trail Von Holden would use, anyway. It could be one of dozens.
Osborn stood and was about to turn back when he saw them. Fresh tracks, tight against the side of the cliff. Someone had passed that way and not long before. They’d gone down close against the inside edge of the trail that cut along the face of a sheer cliff. Whoever it had been must have found the way down several hundred yards or more up the trail. But trying to find where that was could take hours and by then the tracks would be covered.
Moving to one side, Osborn thought it might be possible to drop over the side and slide. It wasn’t far. Twenty feet at most. Still, it was dangerous. Everything here was tundra. Just rock and ice and snow. No trees, roots or branches, nothing to grab on to. With no way of knowing what was on the far side, if he got going too fast and was unable to stop, he could sail headlong over the side and into a gaping chasm and drop thousands of feet like a stone.
Osborn was willing to chance it anyway, when he saw a sharp outcropping of stone that fell away directly to the trail below. It was covered with a massive buildup of icicles caused by a constant melting and refreezing of glacier ice. They looked sturdy enough to use for handholds. Venturing out on the rock, he dropped down, eased to the edge and slid over the side. The trail here was no more than fifteen feet below him. If the icicles held, he would be down in no time. Reaching out, he took hold of an icicle three or four inches in diameter and tested it. It held his weight easily and he swung around, starting down. Feeling for a foothold, he got a toe in and started to pull his upper hand free to grab the icicle below it. But his hand wouldn’t move. The warmth of his skin had bonded it to the ice. He was stuck, his right hand above his head, his left foot extended to a toehold far below him. His only choice was to jerk his hand free. Which meant tearing the skin from it. But there was no alternative. If he clung much longer, he would freeze to death right there.
Taking a deep breath, Osborn counted to three and tugged. There was a searing pain and his hand came free. But the motion cost him his toehold and he rocketed off, sliding on his back. A second later he hit sheer ice and picked up speed. Desperately, he used his hands, his feet, elbows—anything to slow the rate of his descent, but it didn’t work. He went faster and faster. Suddenly he saw darkness open up below him and he knew he was going over the side.
In a last desperate attempt he grabbed out at the only rock he saw with his left hand. His hand slid off, but the crook of his arm caught around it and he stopped, his feet only inches from the edge.
He could feel his entire body shudder and begin to tremble. Lying back, he dug a heel into the snow. Then another. Wind came in a gust, and the snow blew savagely. Closing his eyes, Osborn prayed that he had not come this far, these many years, to freeze to death above a wild and godless glacier. It would make his life useless. And he refused to have his life be useless!
Beside him was a solid crack in the stone face of the rook wall. Easing up on his side, he swung one foot over the other and kicked a toehold in the snow. Then, rolling over on his stomach, he grasped the crack with both hands and pulled himself up. A little bit more and he got a knee into the crack, and then a foot. Finally he could stand.
Von Holden was above him. Maybe thirty yards directly up the cliff face, standing back against the edge. He’d been on the trail when Osborn slid past him. If he’d been five feet closer, Osborn would have taken him over the side with him.
Looking down, he could just see the American clinging to the stone facing above a two-thousand-foot drop. If he was going to climb back up, he would have to do it over an impossible incline of ice and rock made even more treacherous by the wind and falling snow. Von Holden, at this point, was less than three hundred yards of steep, twisting trail from the opening of the air shaft. It would be treacherous going, but even in the snow it could be made in no more than ten or fifteen minutes. And Osborn could not possibly climb—if he could climb at all—from where he was to the spot where Von Holden stood, in those minutes, let alone get down to where Von Holden was going. Once inside the air shaft, Von Holden would vanish.
Yes, the police would come but unless they stayed around for a week or more until he reemerged, which was highly doubtful, they would assume Vera had summoned them there to cover Von Holden’s escape elsewhere. Either that or they’d believe he’d plunged into a crevasse or disappeared into one of the hundreds of bottomless holes in the Aletsch glacier. One way or another they would leave, taking Vera with them as an accessory to the murder of the Frankfurt police.
As for Osborn, even if he did somehow manage to survive the night where he was, his story would be no better than hers. He’d chased a man out onto the mountain. And then what? Where was he? How would Osborn answer that? Of course it would be better if he were dead. To that end Von Holden could venture to the edge and risk a shot at him in the darkness. But that would be ho good all around. The footing was bad enough as it was and if he slipped or fired and missed, none of it was worth it. And if he hit Osborn—killed or wounded him, even if he fell— they would know Von Holden had been there, thus corroborating Vera’s story. And a further hunt would be on. No. Better to let him stay where he was and trust he would either fall or freeze to death. That was the correct thinking. The reason Scholl had made him Letter der Sicherheit.
151
* * *
OSBORN’S FACE and shoulders were flat against rock. The toes of his Reeboks dug in tight to what seemed little more than a two-inch ledge in the stone. Beneath him was cold, empty darkness. He had no idea how far he would fall if he slipped, except that a large stone above had somehow come loose and bounced past him. He’d listened but he never heard it land. Looking up, he tried to see the trail, but an icy overhang blocked his view. The crack he was standing on ran horizontally across the face of the rock wall that he clung to. He could go either left or right but not up, and after moving several feet in both directions he found the ledge to the right opened up more easily. The ledge widened and there were jagged pieces of rock overhead he could use as handholds. Despite the cold, his right hand, where the skin had pulled off as he’d torn free of the icicle, felt like someone was pressing a hot iron against it. And it made closing his fingers over the rock handholds excruciating. But in a way it was good because if focused his attention. Made him think only of the pain and how best to grasp onto a knot of rock w
ithout losing his grip. Hand right. Grab on. Foot right, slide, find footing, test it. Weight shift. Balance. Left hand, left foot the same.
Now he was at the edge of the cliff face, where it bent inward toward a kind of steep ravine. A chute, they called it in skiing. A couloir. But with the snow and wind it was impossible to tell if the crack kept running or simply stopped. If the crack stopped there on the edge, he doubted he could go back and reverse the moves he’d made to get here, Osborn stopped and put a hand to his mouth and blew on it. Then did the same with the other. His watch had somehow worked its way up inside his sleeve and would be impossible to get out without severely testing his balance so he had no idea how long he’d been out there. What he did know was that it was many hours until daylight and if he stopped moving, he’d die of hypothermia within minutes. Suddenly there was a break in the clouds and for the briefest instant the moon came out. To his immediate right and down ten or twelve feet was a wide ledge that led back toward the mountain. It looked icy and slick but wide enough for him to walk on. Then he saw something else. A narrow trail winding downward toward the glacier. And on it, a man with a backpack.
As quickly as the moon appeared it vanished and the wind picked up. Blowing snow stung Osborn’s face like shards of shattered glass fired from a high-pressure hose, and he had to turn his head back into the mountain. The ledge is there, he thought. It’s wide enough to hold you. Whatever force has brought you this far has given you another chance. Trust it.
Inching to the edge, Osborn put out a foot. There was nothing but air. Trust it, Paul. Trust what you saw. With that, Osborn pushed off into darkness.