the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (20 page)

Gaillard said, 'Are you certain?'

'I overheard Major Ritter and Herr Strasser discussing it in the bar a short time ago. Major Ritter has already left for the castle.'

'And Strasser?'

'There was trouble between them, Strasser wanted to go, but Ritter wouldn't have it. He stays here with five Finns to guard him.'

Gaillard turned and leaned on the window sill, considerably agitated. 'If a general assault is mounted up there they won't stand a chance. We must do something.'

'What can we do, Herr Doktor? It's a hopeless situation.'

'Not if someone could get out with news of what's happening here.' There was a new hope on Gaillard's face. 'There must be many Allied units in the vicinity of Arlberg now. You could go, Johann.' He reached out a hand and gripped Meyer's coat. 'You could slip away.'

'I am sorry, Herr Doktor, I owe you a great deal - possibly even my son's life - but if I go, it would be like leaving the boy to take his chances.' Meyer shook his head. 'In any case, it would be impossible to steal the field car with those Finns out in front, and how far could anyone hope to get on foot?'

'You're right, of course.' Gaillard turned back to the window dejectedly and saw something in the courtyard below that filled him with a sudden fierce hope. A set of skis propped against the wall beside the kitchen window.

He controlled himself with considerable difficulty. 'Pour me another coffee before that sentry decides you've been here long enough, and listen. The skis down there - they are yours?'

'Yes, Herr Doktor.'

'You are right, my friend, you do owe me something and now is your chance to repay. You will take those skis, an anorak, mittens and boots and leave them in the wood store at the top of the yard. That is all I ask. Getting out of here is my problem.'

Meyer still hesitated. 'I'm not sure, Herr Doktor. If they ever found out...'

'Not for me or my friends, Johann,' Gaillard said. 'For Arnie. You owe him that much, I think.'

The Finn moved into the room, said something in his own language, and gestured to Meyer, motioning him outside. Meyer picked up the tray.

'I'm counting on you, Johann.'

'I'll try, Herr Doktor.' Meyer looked distinctly unhappy. 'I'll do my best, but I can't promise more than that.'

He went out and the guard made to close the door, but Gaillard shook his head. He picked up his doctor's bag, brushed past him and went down the corridor to the next room. Claire de Beauville was lying down, and when the Finn tried to follow him in, Gaillard shut the door in his face.

She started to get up and Gaillard sat on the edge of the bed. 'No, stay where you are. How do you feel now?'

'A little better.'

'Not if someone comes in, you don't. You feel very ill indeed.'

'The sentry?'

'No, he's been rather more amenable since standing by and watching while I patched up two of his comrades in a room along the corridor. Casualties of some fracas up at the castle.' He opened his bag and took out a stethoscope. 'I haven't got long so listen carefully. This man Strasser or whoever he is. Do you still wish to serve him?'

She shuddered. 'What do you think?'

He glanced at his watch. 'In less than an hour they mount a general assault on Schloss Arlberg. Everything they've got. No holds barred.'

Her eyes widened. 'Claudine, Hamilton and the others - they won't stand a chance.'

'Exactly, so someone must go for help.'

'But how?'

'Meyer is hiding ski-ing equipment for me in the wood store at the back of the inn. Getting out is my own affair. Will you help?'

'Of course.' Her hand tightened on his and she smiled sadly. 'If you want the help of someone like me.'

'My poor Claire. We are all casualties of war to a greater or lesser degree. Who am I to judge you?' There were voices outside. She lay back hurriedly. The door opened and Strasser entered.

'How is she?'

'Not very well,' Gaillard said. 'I'm afraid a total breakdown is quite possible. She has, after all, gone through a lengthy period of intense stress. Add to this the trauma of more recent events. The news of her husband's death.'

'Yes, all very sad,' Strasser said impatiently. 'However, I want to talk to you.'

'It will have to wait. Madame de Beauville needs my full attention at the moment and I would remind you that I have two badly wounded Finns along the corridor.'

'Ten minutes,' Strasser said. 'That's all you can have, then I want you downstairs in the bar.' His voice was cold, incisive. 'You understand me?'

'Of course, Reichsleiter,' Gaillard told him calmly.

Strasser left, leaving the door open, the Finnish guard standing outside. 'That's bad,' Gaillard said. 'It doesn't give us much time.'

'If you don't go now, you won't go at all, isn't that how it stands?' she said.

'Very probably.'

'Well, then, it's now or never.'

She sat up and swung her legs down, somehow managing to knock his bag to the floor. She reached to pick it up, clumsily disgorging most of the contents, instruments, pill bottles and so on, on the carpet.

'Now look what I've done.'

The Finnish guard moved into the room and stood watching. She started to kneel and Gaillard said, 'It doesn't matter. I'll get them.'

Claire turned to the Finn, trying to look as confused and helpless as possible and he responded as she had hoped. He grinned, unslung his rifle, and put it on the bed, then dropped to one knee beside Gaillard.

She didn't hesitate. There was a cut-glass decanter half-full of water beside her bed. She seized it by the neck and struck with all her strength at the base of the skull. Glass fragmented, bone splintered, the Finn slumped on his face without a sound.

She froze for a few moments, listening, but all was quiet. She said, 'Go, now, Paul.'

'And you?' he asked, standing up.

'Don't worry about me.'

He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her briefly and hurried out. Claire stood there, looking down at the Finn, surprisingly calm, drained of all emotion and very, very tired. A drink, she thought, that's what I need, and she went out, closing the door behind her.

Gaillard went down the back stairs. As he reached the stone-flagged passage, the door to the courtyard opened and Meyer entered, stamping snow from his boots. He drew back in astonishment at the sight of Gaillard, who grabbed his arm.

'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 expect, but one can't have everything in this life.'

Strasser ignored her and menaced Meyer with his pistol, beside himself with rage. 'You helped him, didn't you? Where else would he obtain skis and winter clothing?'

'Please, Herr Strasser. Don't shoot.' Meyer broke down completely. 'I had nothing to do with this business. You are mistaken if you think otherwise.'

Claire poured herself a glass of champagne, perched on one of the high stools and sipped it appreciatively. 'Excellent. Really excellent - and he's quite right, by the way. I was the one who helped Paul. I had the greatest of pleasure in crowning that SS man of yours with a cut-glass decanter.'

Strasser glared at her. 'You?' he said. 'He's dead, the man you assaulted, did you know that?'

The smile left her face, but she replied instantly, 'And so is Etienne.'

'You bitch. Do you realize what you've done?'

'Ruined everything for you, I hope. There must be British and American troops all over the area by now. I'm sure Paul will run across one of their columns quite quickly.'

'No chance,' he said. 'Gestrin and four of those Finns of his have just taken off after him. Probably five of the finest skiers in the German Army. You think it will take them long to run down a sixty-year-old man?'

'Who won an Olympic gold medal in 1924. The greatest skier in the world in his day. I would have thought that would still count for something, wouldn't you?' She raised her glass, 'A
votre sante,
Reichsleiter - and may you rot in hell.'

He fired several times as the black rage erupted inside him. His first bullet caught her in the right shoulder, knocking her off the stool and turning her round. His second and third shattered her spine, driving her headlong into the wall, the woollen material of her jacket smouldering, then bursting into flame. He moved forward, firing again and again until the gun was empty.

He stood looking down at her and Meyer, his face contorted with horror, backed away quietly, then turned and rushed upstairs. When he reached Arnie's room, the boy was still asleep. He closed the door, bolted it, then dragged a heavy chest of drawers across as an additional barrier.

He went into the dressing room, lifted the carpet in the corner and removed a loose floorboard. Inside, wrapped in a piece of blanket, was his old sawn-off shotgun from the poaching days of his youth and a box of cartridges, hidden since before the war. He loaded both barrels and went back into the bedroom. He placed a chair in the centre of the room facing the door, sat down with the gun across his knees and waited.

It had been a long time, but some things you never forgot. Gaillard moved out of the trees and started into a flat plateau perhaps two hundred yards across, more trees on the other side. He was using the sliding forward stride much favoured by Scandinavians; a technique he had picked up in his youth and which ate up the miles at a surprising rate.