The Heights of Zervos (32 page)

'Only one way to find out.'

'I have told you,' Grapos repeated hoarsely. 'In winter the monks take their ox-wagons over the lake when the road is blocked.'

'As late in the year as this?' Macomber asked critically.

The Greek hesitated and Ford, disliking the hesitation, looked at him quickly. Grapos cleared his throat before speaking again, but his voice was confident. 'It is not usual - but five years since we also have the bad winter and then they take the wagons across in April. That was also the time of the great landslide - the avalanche. Much snow had fallen all through the winter and when the spring comes the mountain comes alive...'

Macomber lit his last but one cigar, then interrupted the Greek's flow of words. 'Let's hope it's as thick as it was five years ago, then. And now I'd appreciate it if the League of Nations debate could be adjourned - this is going to take a little concentration.' He released the brake, exerted a little foot pressure and they were moving out over the ice.

He kept his speed down to a crawl, to less than ten miles an hour as the tracks rumbled hollowly over the ice sheet and their treads ground into the surface with a brittle sound which tingled his nerves. It was almost spring, the time of the year when the ice would imperceptibly begin to thin, to lose that extra inch of solidity which might make all the difference to whether they crossed safely or plunged through shattered ice into the depths below. And the depths were something which didn't repay thinking about. During their discussion the Scot had asked Grapos about the depth of the lake and his answer had not exactly raised anyone's morale. 'Fifty metres. More deep in places,' had been the answer. Fifty metres. More than one hundred and fifty feet of sub-zero water below the frozen floor they were crossing. The right-hand track wobbled gently as it mounted an area of unevenness in the ice and then there was an unpleasant crushing sound as the track squashed the tiny ridge. Inside the vehicle Prentice, with his back against the right-hand side, felt the slight incline, followed by the trembling fall. His heart leapt, his hands locked round his machine-pistol and his eyes met Ford's. The staff-sergeant had an opaque look but Prentice saw the flicker of fear as Ford observed the brief contraction of the lieutenant's eyebrows. Then the half-track was rumbling forward smoothly again while Prentice flexed his fingers and let out his breath, breath expelled like a small puff of steam in the chilled temperature inside the vehicle.

The ordeal was probably more mind-wracking for the men concealed on the floor than for Macomber, because hidden away inside the half-track they couldn't see where they were going or how far they had come; and they experienced everything by feel alone, leaving their imaginations free to conjure up the most frightful possibilities. At least Macomber had a task to accomplish, a vehicle to steer; but for him the pressure built up in other ways. He had intended keeping close to the shore, driving past the immense snowdrift as he followed the line of the invisible road, but shortly after moving onto the lake he had taken an irrevocable decision, plagued by the desperate shortage of time. So he had changed his mind and was now heading on a course which would take them along the diameter of the circle - straight over the centre of the lake.

The half-track was rumbling smoothly on, wobbling only occasionally, a wobble which was probably only the natural sway of the unwieldy vehicle, although for Macomber it had an unpleasant similarity to the bowing of weakened ice under a great weight, when he noticed the paler colour of a huge area of ice towards the centre of the lake. His lips tightened - he was on course to cross directly over this strangely discoloured section. In early winter, when ice had formed, it must have formed first at the fringes along the shore before creeping inwards until eventually it had encompassed the entire lake. So the ice in the centre was the freshest, the youngest, probably the thinnest. The wheels were close to this distinctive section when he changed direction, steering a curve which would take him beyond this possibly treacherous zone. He only hoped to God he had turned in time, that he wasn't already moving over ice only a fraction of the thickness of what they had already crossed. With an effort he resisted the urge to reduce speed -the advantage now might lie in crossing this area as swiftly as possible - but he also resisted the succeeding temptation to increase his speed over ten miles an hour, since faster movement might intensify the danger.

The distant shoreline crawled nearer with agonizing slowness. The huge snow-covered bluff to their left where the rock rose vertically from the lake slid behind them as they drew level with the rampart walls of the monastery. And now Macomber saw that there was someone at the summit of the lofty tower which overlooked lake and sea, a tiny, faceless figure too minute to be identified as monk or German soldier, and the Scot blessed his foresight in arranging for the others to conceal themselves on the floor. The sun was low, casting the interior of the half-track in deep shadow, so even a lookout with field-glasses would see only a German half-track driven by one man, a man in a nondescript coat with an Alpenkorps cap rammed down over his head. You see what you want to see, Macomber told himself, so with luck a German lookout would see one of his own vehicles sent ahead to test the stability of the ice. He sucked in a deep breath of chilled mountain air to revive his flagging reserves. God he was tired, he was so damned tired! Within the next few seconds he was stirred into petrified alertness.

He was within two hundred yards of safety, coming closer to the shoreline where the road emerged from the snowdrift, when he felt the vehicle-begin to tremble, saw the ice sheet ahead of him tilt and quiver prior to the moment of fracturing fatally, realized that the huge weight under him was beginning to drop... His hands tightened on the wheel, his foot pressed down on the accelerator - reflex actions he was unaware of - and the sagging motion of the half-track quickened. He was speeding forward over the ice when he grasped what was happening - happening to him rather than to the vehicle: he was suffering a violent attack of giddiness. He leaned back hard against the seat, sucked in quick gulps of the pure air, felt his lungs expanding, his head clearing, and then he was closing the gap between lake and road, keeping his foot pressed down regardless and with only one idea in his mind - to get clear of this bloody lake come hell or high water. The wheels bumped over rock-hard ruts, the half-track drove forward through frosted grasses which broke off and scattered like pine needles as it moved onto the road, and it was soon ascending until it was lost from the view of the monastery under the leaning overhang of the bluff towering above them. Macomber pulled up, left the engine running and rested on the wheel. His eyes were still open when Prentice scrambled to his feet and laid a hand on his snow-covered shoulder.

'You've made it! Are you all right, Mac?'

'Give me a minute... Look down there...'

The words came out in gasps and while he struggled to get a grip on himself Prentice extracted the Monokular from his coat pocket and focused it out over the gulf. In the distance to the south a lean grey vessel was approaching with smoke streaming from its stack and a clear wake to stern. A British destroyer was heading for the peninsula. Her deck was crammed with troops and Prentice fancied he recognized the individualistic hats the Australians wore - Australians and some New Zealanders probably, steaming directly for Cape Zervos where the tortuous track led up the cliff face.

'It's packed with troops,' Prentice said quickly. 'Aussies and Kiwis. God, if only they'd get here in time.'

'They won't!' Macomber was recovering and he clambered unsteadily out of the vehicle to stand by the lieutenant. 'Burckhardt should make it within the hour and...' He looked back at Grapos who was seated on a bench beside Ford. 'How long do you reckon it would take a man to come up that cliff track?'

'Three or four hours. It would depend on the man. Mules find it difficult.'

'There you are,' Macomber said grimly. 'And they haven't even landed yet - won't for a while. That's always assuming they're heading for the cape - they could easily be bound for Katyra.'

'Lord, no!' Prentice was appalled. 'If only we had a Verey pistol - or even a mirror.' He turned to the others. 'It would be just too damned convenient if anyone had a mirror, I suppose?'

It was too damned convenient; no one possessed a mirror. Macomber brushed snow off his leather coat and began walking stiffly downhill the way they had come, and every step jarred his cramped body, cramped with sitting behind the wheel, cramped with the tension of crossing the lake. Feeling as though at any moment he might keel over and fall in the snow, he reached the point where the road turned under the bluff to continue along the shore, and with Ford at his heels he came round the corner. He stopped abruptly, holding back the sergeant with his hand. 'There you are - that shows how much time we've got. Sweet Fanny Adams.' The bluff loomed above them, and above that rose the sheer climb of the monastery wall, terminating in the high tower which reared like a pinnacle in the sunlight. But it was across the lake where Macomber was staring, his face bleak as his lips chewed briefly. Round the flank of the snow-covered slope on the distant shore a small dark bug-like object was crawling forward. The first half-track had arrived already.

'You were right,' Prentice said tersely as he peered over their shoulders. 'Those chaps on the destroyer will never make it.'

Macomber turned round, talking as he started back towards the half-track, his weary feet scuffling through the snow. 'We'll go ahead with the plan exactly as we arranged. We've got to find some way of warning that destroyer - if they land men and start them up that track with Jerries in position at the top of it there'll be a massacre.'

'Burckhardt will know he can cross that ice when he sees our track marks,' Prentice called out, panting up behind him. The Scot had temporarily recovered his vitality, spurred on by the sight of Burckhardt's arrival, and he was moving uphill with rapid strides as he shouted over his shoulder. 'He'll see nothing. The wind has practically obliterated the marks we made, so he'll have to make his own recce. Which gives us extra time. Not bloody much of it, though.'

Taking a last quick look at the oncoming destroyer, he climbed back into the half-track, glanced to his rear to make sure they were all on board, and then began driving uphill. For a short distance the road fell away steeply to the west - to their right - where the mountain slope sheered down towards the wind-ruffled Aegean far below, while on their left the toppling wall of the bluff leaned over them. The road was deep with snow, soft snow from the recent fall, and streaks of whiteness smeared the bluff's wall. Across the gulf Macomber could see the ship-wrecking chain of rocks extending towards him from the mainland, ending in the saw-tooth which had so nearly destroyed the
Hydra
, and beyond the rocks he could see the mainland itself where Allied troops would be moving up the vital supply road. Then another rock wall closed off the view and they were ascending a narrow, twisting canyon on the last lap of their long journey to the monastery.

He had ascended perhaps two hundred feet, confined between the narrowing walls of the canyon which climbed vertically above them, when he saw a trail of cloud creeping over the road ahead, blotting out what lay beyond. Switching on his headlights, he reduced speed as they slipped inside the vaporous mist; ice-cold drizzle chilled his face and there was a sudden drop hi temperature as he crawled round a bend and went up a steep incline. The headlights penetrated the cloud just sufficiently for him to see what was happening, to see where the road turned yet another bend as it spiralled up towards the summit of the bluff, and now water was starting to run down the snow-packed road and the snow itself was melting to slush.

He drove on up through the drifting cloud, feeling his clothes grow heavier as the damp clung to him, feeling the tracks slither once and then recover stability as they ground patiently upwards while he grew cold and miserable and sodden and it seemed as though the elements were flinging one final ordeal in his path almost within sight of their objective. Behind him the others had taken up position. Grapos stood at the rear of the vehicle, the Alpenkorps rope looped over his shoulder, while Prentice and Ford huddled on a bench close to him, their weapons gripped between their hands as they watched the Greek who stood facing the way they were going. Macomber turned another bend, saw the road levelling out, switched off his headlights, and heard the hammering of Grapos' rifle butt. The signal to halt.

He braked, left the engine running, and the tang of salt air was strong in his nostrils as the cloud began to thin and pale sunlight percolated through the haze. Grapos dropped off at the rear between the tracks and was followed by Prentice and Ford who went after him and vanished in the cloud. Behind the wheel, Macomber was wiping moisture off his watch-face while he timed five minutes exactly. The mistiness, which would have masked his onslaught until the last moment, was receding rapidly as the cloud left the peninsula and floated out over the gulf. He grimaced, saw ahead the final rise in the road which hid him from the monastery, checked his watch again. At four minutes and thirty seconds the cloud had dispersed completely, but again that would have been too damned convenient. Now for the break-in, the final effort - with everything staked on one vicious surprise attack.