The Eiger Sanction (19 page)

“Sexual, of course.”

Randie nodded earnestly as she swallowed a sip of wine. “Yes, probably. This wine's half fizzy, isn't it?”

He put his feet upon an empty chair and leaned back to receive the sun. “It has the giggling sparkle of Swiss maidens, blushed but pleased by the attention of rural swains, but these high spirits do not eclipse the underlying tartness of the petulant Oberland peasant that resides largely in the wine's malolactic fermentation.”

Randie was silent for a moment. “I do hope you're teasing.”

“Of course I am, Randie. Don't people usually tease you?”

“Not men. They typically try to make love to me.”

“How do they do? Typically.”

“Well, of late they've been doing very well indeed. I'm in Switzerland for a sort of holiday before I go home and settle down to a most proper married life.”

“And you're spreading the blessings of your body around while there's still time.”

“Something like that. Not that I don't love Rodney. He's the dearest person, really. But he is Rodney.”

“And he's rich.”

“Oh, I imagine so.” Her brow clouded over for an instant. “I certainlyhope he is. Oh, of course he is! What a fright you gave me. But the nicest thing about him is his name.”

“Which is?”

“Smith. Rodney Smith.”

“And that's the nicest thing about him?”

“It's not that Smith is all that grand of itself. I believe it's actually a fairly common name. But it will mean that I shall finally be rid of my name. It's been a plague to me all my life.”

“Randie Nickers sounds all right to me.”

“That's because you're an American. I could tell that from your accent. But 'knickers' is British slang for panties. And you can imagine what the girls at school did with that.”

“I see.” He took his glass back and poured himself some wine. He wondered what it was about him that attracted the nutty ones.

“You see what I mean?” Randie asked, forgetting that she had been thinking, rather than speaking.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, I have this theory that strangers gravitate immediately to the topics of their greatest mutual interest. And here we are talking about panties. It rather tells on us, doesn't it?”

“You ride horses, don't you,” he said, succumbing to the rule of non sequitur Randie's mind demanded.

“Yes, as a matter of fact! I show for my uncle. How on earth did you know?”

“I didn't know, really. I more hoped. Do you have a theory about women who delight in having strong beasts between their legs?”

She frowned. “I hadn't really thought about it. But I imagine you're right. It's something like your mountain climbing, isn't it? It's always delightful to have something in common.” She looked at him narrowly. “Don't I know you from somewhere. The name's familiar.” She mused, “Jonathan Hemlock... Ah! Aren't you an author?”

“Only a writer.”

“Yes! I have it! You write books about art and everything. They're very keen on you at Slade.”

“Yes, it's a good school. What would you rather we did, Randie? Take a walk through the village? Or shall we rush directly to bed.”

“A stroll through the village would be grand. Romantic, actually. I'm glad we're going to make love. I have a theory about lovemaking. I view it as a first-rate icebreaker. You make love with a man, and the first thing you know you're holding hands and calling each other by first names. I prefer first names. Probably because of my own family name. Did I tell you what knickers are in England?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, you can appreciate my attitude toward names. I have this theory about attitudes...”

Jonathan was not disconsolate when he discovered that Randie would be returning to London the following morning.

Jonathan smiled as he remembered her tactic of self-excitation which consisted of calling parts, places, and postures by their most earthy names.

He turned up the steep cobblestone road that connects the village to the hotel. He had arranged to take a training climb with a local guide up the west flank of the Eiger. Although a far cry from the North Face, this west route had been blooded often enough to demand respect.

Beyond the training and acclimatization, there was another reason prompting him to stay away from the hotel as much as possible. Somehow, as always, despite the greatest precautions, the management of the hotel had sensed there was an attempt at the Eigerwand pending. Discreet telegrams had been sent out; the best suites were being held vacant for rich “Eiger Birds” who would soon begin to descend on the hotel. Like all climbers, Jonathan resented and detested these excitement-hungry jet setters who seek to titillate their callused nerve ends by vicarious thrill. He was glad that Ben and the other members of the climbing team had not yet arrived, because with them the carrion would descend in force.

Halfway up the cobblestone road, Jonathan stopped off at an outdoor cafe for a glass of Vaudois. The fragile mountain sun was pleasant on his cheek. “Do you ever buy wine for girls you meet in bars?” She had approached from behind, from the dark interior of the cafe. Her voice hit him like a palpable thing. Without turning around, and with fine command of his feelings, he reached over and pushed out a chair for her. She sat looking at him for a time, sadness balanced in her eyes.

The waiter came, received the order, returned with the wine, and departed. She slid her glass back and forth over a small puddle of water on the table, concentrating on it, rather than on his cool, uninviting eyes. “I had this whole speech worked out, you know. It was a good one. I could say it quickly, before you interrupted me or walked away.”

“How did it go?”

She glanced up at him, then away. “I forget.”

“No, come on. Let's hear it. I'm easily conned, as you know.”

She shook her head and smiled faintly. “I surrender. I can't handle it on this level. I can't sit here and swap cool, mature words with you. I'm...” She looked up, desperate at the paucity of words in the face of human emotions. “I'm sorry. Really.”

“Why did you do it?” He was not going to melt.

“Try to be a little fair, Jonathan. I did it because I believed—Istill believe—you have to take this assignment.”

“I've taken the assignment, Jemima. Things worked out just fine.”

“Stop it! Don't you know what it would mean if the other side had a major biological weapon before we did?”

“Oh, of course. We have to keep it out of their hands at all costs! They're the kind of heartless shits who might drop it on some unsuspecting Japanese city!”

She glanced down. “I know you don't think it makes any difference. We talked about it that night. Remember?”

“Remember? You're not a bad in-fighter.”

She sipped her wine, the silence heavy on her. “At least they promised me that you wouldn't lose your painting.”

“They kept their promise. Your conscience is clear.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “But there's still this problem I have.”

"What's that?'

She said it matter-of-factly. “I love you.”

After a pause, he smiled to himself and shook his head. “I've underrated you. You're a great in-fighter.”

The silence grew denser, and she realized that she must abandon this heavy line of talk lest he simply walk away. “Say, I saw you walking around yesterday with a most un-Jemima type—blond and Anglo and all. Was she good?”

“Adequate.”

“As good as—”

“No.”

“I'm glad!”

Jonathan could not help smiling at her frankness. “How did you know I was here?”

“I studied your file in Mr. Dragon's office, remember? This assignment was detailed in it.”

“I see.” So Dragon had been so sure of him that he had included this sanction. Jonathan despised being predictable.

“Will I see you tonight, Jonathan?” There was bravery in her voice. She was willing to be hurt.

“I have a date to climb a hill today. We'll be up there overnight.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Please go away. I have no intention of punishing you. I don't want to hate you, or love you, or anything. I just want you to go away.”

She folded her gloves in her lap. She had made up her mind. “I'll be here when you come down from the mountain.”

Jonathan rose and dropped a bill on the table.

“Please don't.”

Her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. “Why are you doing this, Jonathan? I know this isn't a one-way thing. I know you love me too.”

“I'll get over it.” He left the cafe and walked to the hotel with vigorous strides.

True to type, the Swiss guide grumbled and complained that they should have started with the first light of dawn. As it was, they would have to pass the night on the mountain. Jonathan explained that he had all along intended to pass the night there, for the conditioning. The guide classified himself: At first he did not understand (genus, Teutonic), then he refused to budge (species, Helvetic). But when Jonathan offered to double the fee, there was a sudden comprehension coupled with the assurance that the idea of spending a night on the mountain was a splendid one.

Jonathan had always found the Swiss to be a money-loving, dour, religious, money-loving, independent, well-organized, money-loving people. These men of the Bernese Oberland are fine mountaineers, always willing to face the rigors and risks of rescuing a climber trapped on the face of a mountain. But they never fail to send a carefully itemized bill to the man they have saved or, that failing, to his next of kin.

The climb was rigorous enough, but relatively uneventful. Jonathan would have resented the guide's interminable complaining about the cold during the overnight bivouac, had it not served to keep his mind from Jemima.

Back at the hotel the next day, he received his bill. It seemed that, despite the double fee there were many little items still to be paid for. Among these were medical supplies they had not used, food for the bivouac (Jonathan had brought his own to test the freeze-dried rations), and a charge for “1/4 pair of boots.” This last was too much. He called the guide to his room and questioned him. The guide assumed an attitude of cooperation and weary patience as he explained the obvious. “Shoes wear out; you would not deny that. Surely one cannot climb a mountain barefooted. Agreed? For Matterhorn I usually charge half a pair of shoes. Eiger is more than half the altitude of Matterhorn, and yet I only charged you for a quarter pair. I did this because you were a pleasant companion.”

“I'm surprised you didn't charge me for wear on the rope.”

The guide's eyebrows lofted. “Oh?” He took up the bill and scanned it minutely. “You are perfectly right, sir. There has been an omission.” He drew a pencil from his pocket, licked the point, and painstakingly wrote in the neglected item, then corrected and checked the total. “Can I be of further service?” he asked.

Jonathan pointed to the door, and with a curt bow the guide left.

Jonathan's undefined sense of tension and anticipation was exacerbated by the depression Switzerland always brought upon him. He considered the placement of the magnificent Alps in this soulless country to be one of nature's more malevolent caprices. As he wandered around the hotel aimlessly, he came upon a group of lower-class Eiger Birds playing the fondue-kirsch-kiss game and giggling stupidly. He turned back toward his room with disgust. No one really likes Switzerland, except those who prefer cleanliness to life, he thought. And anyone who would live in Switzerland would live in Scandinavia. And anyone who would live in Scandinavia would eat lutefisk. And anyone who would eat lutefisk would...

He paced up and down in his room. Ben would not arrive until the next day, and Jonathan would be damned if he would spend an unnecessary day in this hotel, among these people, an object of curiosity for the early-arrived Eiger Birds. His telephone rang. “What!” he snapped into the receiver.

“How did you know it was me?” Jemima asked.

“What do you have planned for tonight?”

“Making love with you,” she answered without hesitation.

“Dinner first at your cafe?”

“Great. Does this mean everything is all right between us?”

“No.” He was surprised at her assumption.

“Oh.” The line was silent for a moment. “See you in twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen?”

Night had fallen quickly around the cafe terrace, as it does in the mountains, and they sipped in silence the last of their brandy. Jemima had been careful to make no allusions to their time together in Long far away, and he failed to notice the inset of cool air slipping down from the flanks of Eiger.

“Jonathan?”

“Hm-m?”

“Am I forgiven?”

He shook his head slowly. “That isn't the point. I would never again be able to trust you.”

“And you would want to?”

“Sure.”

“Then you're really saying we might have made something of it.”

“I'm pretty sure we could have.”

“And now no chance? Ever?”

He did not answer.

“You're a warped man. And you know something else? You haven't kissed me yet.”

He corrected the oversight. As their faces drew slowly apart, Jemima sighed, “Corn in Egypt, man. I didn't know lips had a memory of their own.”

They watched the last yellow light desert the ragged crests surrounding them.

“Jonathan? About that business at your home...”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“It wasn't really the money that hurt you, was it? I mean—we were so good together. All day long, I mean. Not just in bed. Hey, you want to know something?”

“Tell me.”

She laughed at herself. “Even after taking your money, I had to overcome an impulse to go back and make love to you again before I left. That would really have made you angry when you found out, wouldn't it?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Say, how's the crazy one? What's his name?”

“Mr. Monk? I don't know. I haven't been back for some time.”

“Oh?” She knew that bode poorly for her.

“No.” Jonathan stood up. “I assume your room has a bed.”

“It's pretty narrow.”

“We'll work it out.”

She knew better than bring up the past again that night.