White Death: An Alex Hawke Novella (4 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“B
aron von Stuka,” Blinky said, puffing away on his pipe like a steam locomotive, his eyes rapidly fluttering, “is a
divisionnaire
in the Swiss Army. Friends call him ‘Wolfie.’ I do. A captain, basically, when he’s called to active duty in the mountain passes. He’s the one man who might help us get to the bottom of this. Not only help to unravel this financial sneak hack attack but to find those responsible for it, take them off the board. So far so good, right? And then a game changer happened.

“He rang me up a week or so ago and said one of his grenadiers, a Lieutenant Hartz, had a very odd thing happen while on search-and-rescue duty that morning. He took a near fatal fall. And then found a decapitated head on the snowy ledge that had broken his fall. Saved his life.”

“A what?” Congreve exclaimed.

“A head. Hartz thought it was just a head, lying frozen on the snow. That’s what it looked like anyway. He took a squad of grenadiers back up to the site next morning. They dug away all the ice beneath the head for over an hour. And, voila, le corpse! Dressed quite oddly. Baron von Stuka has a strong feeling that, based on its appearance, that body is related to our mystery.”

“How?” Hawke asked.

“Wolfie intends to investigate it. There were certain things about the corpse that . . . never mind, I’ll let him tell you about it. He’s not saying anything for public consumption, but privately he thinks he may well have found the Bat Cave.”

“Bat Cave?” Congreve said.

“Hmm. Bat Cave, yes. I’m sure Sir David mentioned someone known as ‘the Sorcerer’? When he briefed you?”

Congreve said, “He did. Very mysterious chap, apparently. Disappeared a decade or more ago.”

“Wolfie believes Sorcerer may be involved in this computer crime wave. And that the corpse may lead us to the Sorcerer’s lair. Where he’s been hiding all these years.”

“Batman is our new villain? How marvelous!” Congreve said, smiling amiably at Blinky.

“Batman? No, not exactly. No cape, no Robin, no Batmobile. But a cave? Maybe, maybe not. It’s something we must talk about after you both know a bit more about the case. Yes?”

Blinky was indeed a delight, Congreve thought. He had an infectious smile, lightning-quick mind, and a very direct approach to things. He wore a lovely Austrian jacket, grey wool with forest-green trim and reindeer-antler buttons. Blinky seemed to epitomize all of Congreve’s most cherished romantic notions about the eccentric Swiss character come down from the mountains. And he wanted that grey wool jacket.

Blinky said, “Let me tell you a little about Wolfie, Chief Inspector: Baron Wolfgang von Stuka. Patriarch of one of our country’s wealthiest, oldest, and most noble families. A citizen soldier and a businessman. That is our baron. No matter where this trail leads us, Wolfie will be a vital asset to us, as you’ll soon discover.”

“Sir David told us only about von Stuka’s sense of duty and sterling reputation for bravery,” said Hawke. “Now tell us the truth about this fellow who’s too good to be true.”

Blinky smiled. “Of course, of course! We grew up together, and my children and Herr Baron’s children are still great friends. Well. Where to start? It’s a little-known fact that Europe’s twelve ruling families remain deeply competitive about who has the swankiest palaces, the biggest yacht, the shiniest diamonds, and the biggest bank balances. It’s always been an expensive business, being a Royal. Wars to fight, castles to build, daughters to marry off, pageants to perform, and all that.

“Then there is our poor Wolfie. Poverty stricken by the standards of the original Twelve Families. He keeps the von Stuka family dynasty going by selling off land and art. He also invested in a wildly successful business in Texas that develops not oil fields but hybrid rice for developing nations. He has devoted his life to charitable work, much like your friend Prince Charles, Alex.

“These exalted people are expected to look shiny and regal and good on a postcard. But you’ll never see a picture of Wolfie published anywhere. He’s too modest and too humble. No Rolls in his garage—he drives around Zurich in an old blue Lexus.”

“I find this chap rather likable already,” Hawke said.

“Hmm. I suspect you two will get along, Alex. Wolfie was recently asked by a newspaper reporter about his legendary humility. His answer? ‘I would rather not talk about humility, as to do so would not be humble.’ That’s Wolfie in a nutshell.”

“So when do we finally meet this saint in human form?” said Hawke. A modest man himself, he hated exorbitant praise on anyone.

“Tomorrow morning. He’s on maneuvers with his Tenth Mountain Division high up in the mountains south of Lucerne, but he knows you’re both coming to talk. I’ll provide you with transportation, of course. We’ll be driving down there at first light, a little under an hour. And then military transport to his classified location high in the southern Alps.

“Hope you don’t mind driving in a fifty-year-old Mercedes 200 with studded tires for the first leg of our journey. Heavy snow tomorrow. Anything else? If not, I’ll have a schnapps and then on to a lovely fondue!”

“Splendid!” Ambrose said. “I could eat a horse.”

“We have that, too, Chief Inspector. A great delicacy here at the hotel Bauer au Lac!”

Hawke laughed out loud.

“You’ll get to see the famous Eiger tomorrow—you know, the one they filmed that spy movie about. Clint Eastwood, I think, yes.”

“I’ve seen that mountain from a distance but never climbed it,” Hawke said. “Looked down on the Eiger from near the summit of Der Nadel. Quite a spectacular sight.”

“Quite the view from up there, Alex,” Blinky said.

“Not really. I was hanging upside down by my heels at the time.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

T
he two Englishmen got their first glimpse of Baron von Stuka the next morning as he climbed down from his command vehicle. It was a clear and frosty morning in mid-December, and a giant, bright red Sno-Cat with brilliant white Swiss crosses on the doors was gleaming against the mountain newly frosted with snow. The sun was shining, almost blinding at this altitude, and Hawke had to use his binoculars to see their host.

He strode quickly down the length of a long, wide swath in the snow, one the Sno-Cat had just carved on the slope. It was near a wide crevasse on the snow-packed Eiger, six thousand feet above the lake below.

Hawke raised his binoculars to his eyes and watched von Stuka’s descent down the mountain. On the baron’s shoulders—and nested in the fleece of his Finnish hat—were pairs of stars. There was a Swiss cross in the center of each star. The
divisionnaire
was tall and trim, with wavy dark hair, a narrow, suntanned face, and a manner about him that was quietly convincing.

It occurred to Hawke that Gregory Peck in his military film roles had resembled the baron, who in turn actually resembled General Douglas MacArthur.

Blinky, his apple-red cheeks wrapped in a fur-trimmed parka, said, “The baron must go to remote locations to see his men in action. In Switzerland there are no Fort Braggs, no Fort Knoxes like the U.S. Army has, you see, no vast terrains set aside for explosive games. If the Tenth is using live ammunition, like today, they must climb to the higher elevations to shoot and blow things up. This company of grenadiers looks upon themselves the way United States Marines or your SAS men see themselves. A breed apart. Only these men specialize in combat that takes place at altitudes of six thousand feet and skyward.”

“Most impressive, Blinky,” Hawke said, and he honestly was impressed.

“These Tenth Mountain Division troops are all technical climbers, extreme skiers, demolition experts, and crack shots. They sleep on granite mattresses and eat chocolate-covered nails. Some of them, like Wolfie, are wealthy bankers, or CEOs of major Swiss corporations. The older man you spoke to when we first arrived, carrying the heavy machine gun, is the chairman of Nestlé.

“Others are chauffeurs, dental technicians, civil engineers, and alpine guides. One young lieutenant up here works for IBM in Armonk, New York. Today the grenadiers have uncovered an enemy command post and are moving up toward it under the covering live fire of Russian automatic weapons, simulating what might be a reality one day. You see them up there, yes?”

“We do,” Congreve said, the binocs glued to his eyes.

“Crawling through snow under bullets, they will soon reach the lower wall of the Russian command post, a dotted line in their minds, and rig it with Semtex explosive charges. You’ll soon see the explosion. Chunks of broken rock will rise out of the snow and fly in all directions, right over the heads of our warriors . . . ah, here he is . . .
Guten morgen, Herr Baron!
We made it!”

Wolfie laughed and embraced Schultz, delighted to see his childhood friend again. “So you have, so you have! And these are your two colleagues just arrived from London.
Wilkommen,
both of you! I am Baron von Stuka. A great pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Alex Hawke, Baron,” Hawke said, extending his bare hand. “Blinky told me I may call you Wolfie?”

“Please do, Lord Hawke, everyone does. And you are Chief Inspector Congreve, yes? How do you do? I’ve been looking at you on Wikipedia recently. You’re quite famous, you know, Chief Inspector. A highly respected criminalist well known in the newspapers as ‘the Demon of Deduction,’ the modern Sherlock Holmes! I’m very honored to meet you, sir. We will need a man of your brilliance to solve this mystery, I assure you.”

Congreve, thrilled beyond measure at the Holmes compliment, shook the baron’s hand and said, “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Wolfie. I have had a few successes, but nothing even remotely to compare with my hero, the incandescent Holmes. But, what a brilliant morning up here. Blinky here was just giving us a briefing on what your Tenth Mountain Division grenadiers are doing up there on the mountain. Fascinating.”

“Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it? Mountain warfare. You see what’s happening up there right now?”

“They’re about to take out a Russian command post, I believe,” Hawke said, holding a pair of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes. “Live fire, isn’t it? And Wolfie, please just call me Alex. Don’t use the title, never have.”

“Quite right, Alex it is. Well, where are we now in our little war story? Ah, yes. Do you see those heavy boulders over there? On the far side of the crevasse, just gone in shadow? My men are crawling through chest-high snow toward them. Any idea what they might be, Alex?”

“Enemy helicopters that have just landed?”

Wolfie smiled. “You’ve either got a very vivid imagination, or you’ve played these games yourself, Alex. Good for you.”

“A little of both, I guess.”

Congreve, struggling to get his pipe lit in the wind, said, “Now what happens, Wolfie? I must say this is jolly good fun for me. Never having been a military man, I’ve never seen this sort of live-fire thing done before.”

“Delighted to have you. It was all Blinky’s idea. He knew I was up here on maneuvers and said as long as he was bringing you both up here for lunch, why not come up a little earlier and get a peek at what makes the Swiss Army tick.”

“A clock?” Ambrose said, stifling a laugh.

“Quite a good one,” Wolfie said, then added,“So, Blinky, as you know, my command trailer is up there in that copse of evergreens. Do you think our guests would enjoy a bit of warmth and getting an overview of the operation from up there?”

Blinky Schultz, stamping his ancient leather boots against the cold, said, “Good idea, Wolfie. I believe you’re having lunch served up there in an hour. Why not?”

“To the Sno-Cat, then!” von Stuka said, marching back up the slope and signaling them to follow in his tracks.

Blinky stomped alongside Alex on the climb up to the red vehicle. He said, “I hope this suits you, Alex. Knowing how we wage war at the top of the world might just come in handy one day.”

“Are you kidding? I’m fascinated with Wolfie’s tutorial. We can talk about the Sorcerer tonight, after all.”

“As you can see, my country is prepared for an invasion at some point in the future.”

“Russians?” Hawke asked. “I don’t see it. Putin isn’t that crazy.”

“Hmm,” Blinky said. “Let’s talk about that tonight over dinner at Der Kronenhalle as well, shall we? The Russians may be involved in this financial chicanery. But military issues? That’s an entirely different matter.”

“Let’s go up!” von Stuka said.

“B
ear with me,” Baron von Stuka said, clearly grateful for the cozy warmth inside his command trailer. Hawke, Congreve, and Herr Schultz, plus a pair of uniformed military observers with powerful binoculars, were all seated in a row of chairs facing a very large window. They were watching the ballet of battle as it played out high up on the mountainside. Hawke was watching the live-fire exercise up above with laserlike focus. Even Ambrose was beginning to appreciate the gift of knowledge that Wolfie was giving them.

He had been explaining the nuances and intricacies of high-mountain warfare while the four of them had been sipping hot cocoa and eating pastries from Sprüngli, the most famous cafe in Zurich. It was, Congreve mused, a lovely way to spend a morning.

Von Stuka stood up to stretch his back and said, “Those huge boulders we’ve arranged over there, as you correctly assumed, Alex, represent enemy helicopters that have just landed. Remember that for seven hundred years, Swiss soldiers have been the masters of these mountain passes.”

“Sorry, did you say you arranged those boulders?”

“Sure. Indistinguishable from real granite, but they weigh only a tenth of the real thing. Brilliant invention created by scientists at the Ministry of Defense. Made of some synthetic rock called Granite 2. Comes in handy in a lot of situations. Good for camouflaging things up in the mountains, for example.”

“Extraordinary,” Ambrose said.

“Hmm, yes. Ours was a land where the invaders were at a supreme disadvantage. We knew the mountain terrain down to the square inch, every rock and stream. They hadn’t a clue. Centuries ago, we could even win battles with falling rocks. Roll them down the mountain and crush the invaders far below. And then helicopters were invented.”

“Changed everything, one would assume,” Ambrose said, polishing off a lemon tart.

“Yes. The modern Swiss Army has the ‘flying horses,’ as we call them, to contend with. We have substituted surface-to-air missiles for loose rocks. Should a swarm of enemy choppers come sweeping through that pass some day, we will be ready and—”

At that moment there came a deafening roar, one that echoed down the towering canyons of stone. Not an avalanche, the noise was loud to the point of pain. The enemy communication outpost had just been obliterated in an epic explosion. Giant chunks of granite had been thrown upward, and they now came tumbling down from the sky. As Alex and his friends watched, the Tenth Mountain Division climbed even higher toward their next objective, ducking and dodging the falling chunks of granite.

Shots rang out then, echoing down the canyons of stone.