The Heights of Zervos (33 page)

With the cloud gone he was bathed in the cold bright sunlight of winter and he could see the Aegean to his right, but rising ground shielded the destroyer from view; he could see the stark triangle of Mount Zervos, a peak of whiteness where the light caught the snow crystals, but the monastery was still invisible; and he could see the deep, trench-like gulley along which Grapos had led the other two men, but they had disappeared. He checked his watch: ten seconds to go. Reaching inside his pocket he dragged out the Luger from the sodden folds and laid it on the seat beside him. Five seconds left. His hand clutched the brake, waited, released it. He was off.

He accelerated rapidly, mounted the rise, crested it. The road ran straight to the monastery which rose up less than two hundred yards away. He took in the impression in a flash. The towers and the wail linking them were lower on this side. The greenish shell of a dome, which he remembered was the church, showed beyond the wall-top. The ancient gatehouse, a tumbledown wooden structure which appeared to lean back against the stone for support, was in the centre of the wall. Three or four storeys up wooden box-like structures were attached to the stonework, protruding from the wall like giant dovecotes, each structure faced with tall shutters which led out to a small balcony. The ground between the crest and the monastery was bare and level with huge boulders strewn close to the left-hand section of the monastery. Mid-way to the gatehouse he swerved off the road, crossing open ground in a sweeping half-circle, which brought him back on the road again with the half-track's rear presented to the monastery. So far he had seen no sign of life and the place had a derelict look. He changed gear, began reversing towards the closed gate which barred his way, twisting round in his seat as he kept one eye on the road, another on the gateway rushing towards him as he built up speed and the monastery canie closer and closer.

He saw out of the corner of his eye movement on the roofed-in, railed walk which spanned the first floor of the gatehouse, the movement of a field-grey figure steadying himself as he took aim, and he knew something had gone fatally wrong. The Alpenkorps cap was not enough to make the German pause, or had he spotted one of the others at the last moment - Macomber had no idea which - but he knew that within seconds the German would open fire, that he must ignore the threat of almost certain death, that the rifle would be discharged at point-blank range if the man had the sense to wait only a few seconds longer when he couldn't possibly miss, firing down from his elevated position at a target moving rapidly closer under his gunsight.

During the final rush up to the closed gates Macomber became aware of everything around him - the snow-covered ground where rocks poked up through the whiteness, the shabbiness of the small balconies where decrepit paint exposed the mellow woodwork, the open-necked collar of the Alpenkorps soldier on the gatehouse who was steadying himself against the wall as he aimed his rifle, the rotting umbers of the large double gates, the mildewed-looking dome of the church vanishing from view as the wall rose up and screened it, the high-powered throb of the engine, the metallic grind of the whirling tracks...

He heard the report of the rifle above these sounds, a sharp crack, the first shot fired in the coming encounter - the shot fired by Grapos from behind a large boulder. The German on the balcony was stood immediately over the roadway and he staggered forward as the bullet penetrated, reached out a hand to steady himself on the frail balcony rail, sagged forward with his full weight, which was too much for the support, and he fell through it at the moment the half-track smashed through the gates, tearing both loose from the upper hinges so they toppled inwards and the vehicle stormed over them and continued reversing under the archway and into the vast courtyard beyond. Macomber blinked with relief, heard something thud down behind him, glanced back swiftly and saw the dead German folded over the second bench. The half-track roared on inside a stone-paved square which was larger than he remembered it, a square with a plane tree in the centre, the church to the right, an ancient stone well beyond the tree - a square large enough to accommodate a small army, overlooked on all sides by windows and arcaded walks which ran round the inner walls at each floor level. The vehicle was charging towards the tree when he reduced speed, changed gear, went forward and began thundering round the square, turning the wheel erratically as though the half-track had gone berserk. His Alpenkorps cap was prominently on view, as was the German soldier behind him, a soldier impossible to identify from his crumpled position. Macomber completed one circuit, heard the sound of shots, described a wild S-bend tour round the church and reappeared suddenly from the other side as he headed into the square again and accelerated afresh. For anyone inside the monastery the speeding half-track had become a hypnotic focal point - a focal point to divert their attention for vital seconds from what might be happening elsewhere.

When Grapos jumped from the stationary half-track as the cloud dispersed from the bluff he plunged straight into the gulley leading away from the road and towards the monastery, a ravine seven feet deep which hid the hurrying men from any possible observation from the monastery walls. He ran forward in a crouch, his rifle between his hands, the rope looped from his shoulder. He was heading for one of the towers which protruded out from the wall, so that the side farthest from the gatehouse formed a right-angled corner which couldn't be seen from that direction. Behind him came Prentice with Ford close at his heels. The staff-sergeant's shoulder still throbbed with a dull ache but he could use the lower part of his arm and, more important still, he could use his machine-pistol if he held it awkwardly.

Close to the wall, Grapos paused and lifted himself half-out of the gulley at a point where a large boulder hid him from the gatehouse. This was the position he must take up to cover Macomber when he had arranged the ascent of his companions. Dropping back into the gulley, he ran forward again and clambered out where the ravine ended at the base of the wall. They were now hemmed in by the corner, invisible from the farther extension of the wall unless someone came out onto a balcony. Ford took up a position where he could observe the receding wall while the lieutenant gazed upwards, his machine-pistol hoisted. It took Grapos less than a minute to prepare the rope for throwing, a rope weighted at the tip by the metal hook, and when he hurled it upwards and inwards the hook trapped itself on the floor of the projecting side-balcony •twenty feet above them. Taking a long breath, Grapos jumped up the rope, held on, swayed briefly like a pendulum as he tested its resistance, then dropped to the ground again and glared at Prentice.

'It is good - but you must be quick. You remember the way?'

'Perfectly!' Prentice glanced at bis watch, looped the machine-pistol over his shoulder, began to climb the rope hand over hand, his legs stiffened, his boots pressed against the roughened stonework as he half-hauled, half-walked himself up towards the balcony. The shaky structure trembled a little under his progress, but he ignored the warning of its instability, climbing faster as he got the hang of the ascent. If the bloody thing came down, it came down. Neck or nothing now. His face eased up to balcony level and he saw the hook firmly embedded between the open floor-boards. One final heave and he was clutching the shaky rail, hauling himself over the top, standing on the floor with the closed shutters behind him. He propped the machine-pistol against a post where he could reach it easily, looked over, saw that Ford had already tied the rope round bis body and under his armpits. As he started to haul up the sergeant Grapos was slipping back inside the gulley and running along it to take up position behind the boulder.

Hauling up Ford proved strenuous: the sergeant tried to help by splaying his feet against the wall, but he was unable to lift himself by his hands which were concentrated on gripping the rope, so the lieutenant had to haul up his full weight length by length, the rope taut over the balcony rail which was shuddering under the pressure, the floor quivering under his feet as Grapos' warning flashed through his mind. 'The balcony has not been used for many years because it is dangerous...' Sweating profusely, his arms almost strained from their sockets, his legs trembling with the arduous exertion, Prentice saw a tangle of dark hair appear, a hand grasp the floor edge, and then the railing gave way, collapsed inwards like broken matchwood. He jerked in more rope, his back pressed hard into the shutters, his feet driving into the floor as he heaved desperately and Ford was half-dragged, half-scrambled his way through the smashed rail and ended up on his knees on the balcony. The sergeant was still recovering his breath, blood was still oozing from his left hand where the wood had gashed it, while Prentice untied the rope, released him from it, and then dropped the rope end down to the ground for Grapos to use later. 'All right, Ford?' he croaked, leaning against the shutters as he reached out for the machine-pistol.

'Just like the obstacle course at Chester, sir.' He stood up cautiously and unlooped his own weapon. 'But maybe I need a refresher course. We'd better get inside - I can hear Mac coming.'

The clattering rattle of the approaching half-track was in their ears as Prentice dealt with the process of getting in. He used his machine-pistol butt to club the latch and the woodwork splintered swiftly under his third blow. Without realizing that the shutters opened outwards, he used his shoulder to go through them, head tucked well in as he rammed his body against and through the breaking shutters with such force that the impetus took him half-way across the room before he could pull up. He hardly saw the room: faded religious murals on the stone walls, a cloth-covered table, an ikon; then he reached the varnished door and opened it with great care. The musty odours of the unused room were in his nostrils as he peered both ways along a deserted corridor and from beyond the balcony he heard the grumble of the oncoming half-track. They'd cut the timing pretty fine. Beckoning to Ford, he ran down the passage to his left. It was like running through a cloister - wooden archways at intervals and large windows to his right which looked down on the square below - and the only sound in the monastic silence, now the walls had muffled the half-track's approach, was the sound of his clumping boots as he ran full tilt for the staircase at the end. He paused briefly when he arrived at the corner, looked to his right where another deserted corridor ran along the second side, glanced up the empty staircase and ran up it, turning at a landing before running up the second flight. On the second floor an identical view faced him - corridors stretching away from the corner in two directions. To his right, at the far end, Ford, who had just emerged from his own staircase, raised a thumb. Prentice returned the signal and went over to the nearest window, hid himself behind a section of the wall and waited.

In less than thirty seconds he saw the half-track coming backwards into the yard, but gave the vehicle only a brief glance as his eyes searched the windows across the square at different levels. His waiting time was very short - the half-track had entered the square, had reversed direction and started driving forwards round the square below them when a window opposite opened and two German soldiers leaned out to stare down at the half-track's mad career round the square. Prentice raised his machine-pistol, thrust the muzzle sharply through the glass, and the shattering noise was lost in the long burst as he sprayed the window steadily, saw the Germans crumple and disappear as movement higher up caught his eye. Through an open window on the top floor another German was aiming his rifle downwards at Prentice when Ford's machine-pistol opened up with a murderous rattle, one much shorter burst, short but lethal. The German with the rifle lost his weapon and followed it down into the yard below as Macomber sped towards the church. A burst of answering fire from farther along the top floor hammered Prentice's shattered window as he jumped back behind the wall. He heard Ford's weapon replying as something moved behind him. He swung his gun round, knowing the magazine was almost empty, and the muzzle pointed at Grapos who froze at the top of the stairs. He must have come up the rope like a charge of electricity.

The explosion came as Prentice, inserting a fresh magazine, was grinning crookedly at Grapos. The grenade landed midway along the corridor between Ford and the lieutenant, but Grapos had seen it fly in through a window and was sheltered behind the staircase. 'Jesus, this is getting rough,' Prentice muttered half to himself. He knocked a shard of glass from his sleeve, staring down at the Greek who stood with his rifle and the rope looped afresh over his shoulder, and started to move round the corner into the next corridor. Ford, protected by a section of wall, was firing again across the yard as the German on the top floor opposite changed tactics. He must have assumed that there were men spread along the side corridor because suddenly a stream of bullets began shattering every window along the passage Prentice was about to move into. Glass was strewn over the floor, bullets scarred the inner wall while the lieutenant, safe behind the wall in the next corridor he shared with Ford, waited for the barrage to cease. The next grenade landed closer to Ford, sent a fresh shock wave in both directions, and for the first time Prentice grasped what was happening.

A German had entered the corridor below them. Knowing the enemy was on the floor above, he hadn't risked coming up a staircase: instead he was leaning out of a lower window while he tossed grenades upwards and inside the second-floor windows. It was only a matter of time before he chose the right aperture for his deadly missiles. Prentice hesitated, reviewing the situation. Macomber couldn't fire on the German while he was driving the half-track round the square at that pace, and the plan called for him to keep up this diversion whatever happened. The fusillade along the next corridor ceased briefly and Grapos called out, 'I will deal with him...' He gestured along the corridor and then downwards, took out his knife and ran down the passage before disappearing inside a room mid-way along the building.