The Valhalla Exchange - Jack Higgins [92]
And the trees were not too far away, some sort of protection there. He moved to the right in a wide curve that took him into their shelter within seconds. He halted, turning to glance back.
The avalanche had almost overtaken the Finns. The enormous cloud of white smoke rolled over the one in the rear, enveloped him completely, but Gestrin and the remaining man rode the very edge, managing to turn at the last minute, coming to a halt above the line of trees.
The rumble of the avalanche died away, Gestrin pushed up his goggles, searching for Gaillard whose red anorak gave him away instantly. They started down the slope at once and the Frenchman turned and pushed himself forward and through the trees, every bone aching.
From the shattered great window of the upper dining room Finebaum sniped down and across the yard at the half-track.
'What's happening, Mr Finebaum?' Claudine Chevalier, crouched on the floor, asked him.
'Whatever it is, it ain't good, ma'am. I figure it's time maybe you and me made a move upstairs.'
There was a burst of firing and more of the window shattered above their heads, spraying them with glass. Amazingly, she showed no fear.
'Whatever you say, Mr Finebaum.'
'You're something special,' Finebaum said. 'You know that?'
He took her arm and helped her towards the door, and below in the courtyard the half-track surged forward.
For Gaillard, the sight of the road below was like a shot in the arm, and he dropped towards it with renewed hope, although his pursuers were closer than ever now, Gestrin trailing his companion, a young man called Salmi.
Gaillard glanced over his shoulder, aware that this couldn't go on, that he had been existing on will-power alone for too long. There was one final suicidal chance, and he took it, dropping straight down through the trees like a bullet to the embankment at the side of the road below.
As he hit, he dug in his sticks at precisely the right moment, launching himself into space. The road flashed beneath him, he soared across, landing perfectly in soft snow on the other side, sliding broadside on in a spray of snow. At the last moment, the point of his left ski caught a branch hidden beneath the white blanket. As he crashed heavily to the ground, the ski splintered.
He lay there, winded, and Salmi soared through the air across the road, smashing straight into a pine tree with a terrible cry.
Gaillard sat up. There was no sign of Gestrin. He tore at the frozen bindings of his skis and got them off. When he rose to his feet, he was convinced for a moment that his limbs had ceased to function. He took a hesitant step forward and fell headlong over the embankment, sliding down to the road.
He picked himself up and started to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, a roaring in his ears, and Gestrin slid down the embankment about fifteen yards in front of him. He'd taken off his skis and held his rifle.
'No!' Gaillard said. 'No!'
He turned away, and Gestrin shot him in the right shoulder. Gaillard lay on his back, the roaring in his ears louder, then pushed himself up on one elbow. Gestrin stood, holding the rifle across his chest, and now he started to raise it.
The roaring became the sound of an engine and a Cromwell tank came round the bend in the road. Gestrin swung to face it, raising his rifle. A burst of machine-gun fire hurled him back into a snowdrift at the side of the road.
Gaillard lay there, aware of footsteps approaching, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hanging on to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw to his astonishment that the officer leaning over him in a tanksuit wore a kepi.
'Oh, my God,' Gaillard said in his own language. 'Can it be true? You are French?'
'But of course, monsieur.' The officer dropped to one knee. 'My name is Dubois. Captain Henri Dubois of the 2nd French Tank Division. We are at present pushing towards Berchtesgaden. But who are you?'
'Never mind that