The Valhalla Exchange - Jack Higgins [86]
'Have you done as I asked?'
'Yes, Herr Doktor,' Meyer stammered. 'I've just come back.'
'Good man,' Gaillard said. 'If Strasser descends on you when I'm gone just play dumb.'
He opened the door, stepped out and closed it. The first pale luminous light of dawn was filtering through the trees. There was a slight ground mist and it was snowing a little. Meyer's tracks were plain and Gaillard followed them quickly across the yard to the wood store. He got the door open and passed inside.
He was excited now, more so than he had been for years, and his hands shook as he took off his shoes and pulled on the woollen socks and heavy ski-ing boots Meyer had provided. The anorak was an old red one which had been patched many times, but the hood was fur-lined, as were the mittens. He pulled it on quickly, picked up the skis and sticks and went back outside.
It was snowing harder now, cold, early-morning mountain snow, strangely exhilarating, and when he paused on the other side of the wall to put on the skis, he was conscious of the old, familiar thrill again. The years fell away and he was in the Vosges, practising for Chamonix. Nineteen twenty-four - the first Winter Games. The greatest moment of his life when he had won that gold medal. Everything after had always savoured a little of anti-climax.
He smiled wryly to himself and knelt to adjust the bindings to his satisfaction. He pressed on the safety catch, locking his boot in position, then repeated the performance with the other ski. So, he was ready. He pulled on his mittens and reached for the sticks.
It was perhaps five minutes later that Strasser, sitting waiting for Gaillard in the bar, heard a cry from outside in the square. He went to the door. Gestrin and the four Finnish soldiers Ritter had left were standing by the field car. One of them was pointing up above the houses to the wooded slope of the mountain behind.
'What is it?' Strasser demanded.
Manni Gestrin lowered his field-glasses. 'The Frenchman.'
'Gaillard?' Strasser said incredulously. 'Impossible.'
'See for yourself. Up there on the track.'
He handed the field-glasses over. Strasser hastily adjusted the lenses. He found the woodcutter's track that zigzagged up through the trees and came upon the skier in the red anorak almost instantly. Gaillard glanced back over his shoulder giving a good view of his face.
Two of the Finns were already taking aim with their Mauser rifles. Gestrin said, 'Shall we fire?'
'No, you fool, I want him back,' Strasser said. 'You understand me?'
'Nothing simpler. In this kind of country on skis, these lads are the best in the business.'
He turned away, giving orders in Finnish. They all moved quickly to the field car and started to unload their skis.
'You go with them,' Strasser told Gestrin. 'No excuses, no arguments. Just have him back here within the hour.'
'As you say,' Gestrin answered calmly.
They had their skis on within a few minutes and moved away in single file, rifles slung over their backs, Gestrin in the lead. Strasser looked up the mountain to the last bend in the track which could be seen from the square. There was a flash of red among the green, then nothing.
He hurried into the inn, drawing the Walther from his pocket. He went up the stairs, two at a time, and moved along the corridor. Arnie's door stood open. The boy slept peacefully. Strasser hesitated, then turned to Claire de Beauville's room. The Finnish guard lay where he had fallen, face turned to one side. The back of the skull was soft, matted with blood. There was a trickle from the corner of his mouth. He was quite dead and Strasser went out quickly.
'Meyer, where are you, damn you?' he called as he went downstairs.
Meyer emerged from the kitchen and stood there, fear in his eyes. In the same moment Strasser saw that Claire de Beauville was behind the bar, opening a champagne bottle.
'Ah, there you are, Reichsleiter. Just in time to join me. Krug. An excellent year, too. Not as chilled as I would normally