Authors: Wilbur Smith
Wild Justice (18 page)
âWill you help me, Peter?' she asked.
âYou know I will,' he answered quietly. âI do not have any choice.'
S
he flew in the brilliance of high sunlight reflected from snowfields of blazing white, jetting through her turns with flowing elegance, carving each turn with a crisp rush of flying snow, swaying across the fall line of the mountain in an intricate ballet of interlinked movement.
he flew in the brilliance of high sunlight reflected from snowfields of blazing white, jetting through her turns with flowing elegance, carving each turn with a crisp rush of flying snow, swaying across the fall line of the mountain in an intricate ballet of interlinked movement.
She wore a slim-fitting skin suit of pearly grey, trimmed in black at the shoulders and cuffs, she was shod with gleaming black Heierling snowbirds, and her skis were long, narrow, black Rossignol professionals.
Peter followed her, pressing hard not to lose too much ground, but his turns were solid Christies without the stylish fallback unweighting of the jet turn which gave her each time a fractional gain.
The dun he ran like a stag of ten
But the mare like a new roused fawn
But the mare like a new roused fawn
Kipling might have been describing them, and she was a hundred yards ahead of him as they entered the forest.
The pathway was barred with the shadows of the pines, and sugary ice roared under his skis as he pushed the narrow corners dangerously fast. Always she was farther ahead, flickering like a silver-grey wraith on those long lean legs, her tight round buttocks balancing the narrow waist and swinging rhythmically into the turns, marvellous controlled broadsides where the icy roadway denied purchase, coming out fast and straight, leaning into the rush of the wind, and her faint sweet laughter came back to Peter as he chased. There is an expertise that must be learned in childhood, and he remembered then that she was Polish, would probably have skied before she was weaned, and suppressed the flare of resentment he always felt at being outclassed by another human being, particularly by the woman who was fast becoming his driving obsession.
He came round another steeply banked turn, with the sheer snow wall rising fifteen feet on his right hand and on his left the tops of the nearest pines at his own level, so steep the mountain fell away into the valley.
The ice warning signs flashed past, and there was a wooden bridge, its boards waxen, opalescent with greenish ice. He felt control go as he hit the polished iron-hard surface. The bridge crossed a deep sombre gorge, with a frozen waterfall skewered to the black mountain rock by its own cruel icicles, like crucifixion nails
To attempt to edge in, or to stem the thundering rush across the treacherous going, would have invited disaster, to lean back defensively would have brought him down instantly and piled him into the sturdy wooden guide rails. At the moment he was lined up for the narrow bridge Peter flung himself forward so that his shins socked into the pads
of his boots, and in a swoop of terror and exhilaration he went through, and found that he was laughing aloud though his heart leaped against his ribs and his breathing matched the sound of the wind in his own ears.
of his boots, and in a swoop of terror and exhilaration he went through, and found that he was laughing aloud though his heart leaped against his ribs and his breathing matched the sound of the wind in his own ears.
She was waiting for him where the path debouched onto the lower slopes. She had pushed her goggles to the top of her head, and stripped off her gloves, both sticks planted in the snow beside her.
âYou'll never know how much I needed that.' She had flown into Zurich that morning in her personal Lear jet. Peter had come in on the Swissair flight from Brussels, and they had motored up together. âYou know what I wish, Peter?'
Tell me,' he invited.
âI wish that I could take a whole month, thirty glorious days, to do what I wish. To be ordinary, to be like other people and not feel a moment's guilt.'
He had seen her on only three occasions in the six weeks since their first meeting at Abbots Yew. Three too brief and, for Peter, unsatisfying meetings.
Once in his new office suite at the Narmco headquarters in Brussels, again at La Pierre Bénite, her country home outside Paris, but then there had been twenty other guests for dinner. The third time had been in the panelled and tastefully decorated cabin of her Lear jet on a flight between Brussels and London.
Though they had made little progress as yet in the hunt for Caliph, Peter was still exploring the avenues that had occurred to him and had cast a dozen lines, baited and hooked
During their third meeting Peter had discussed with her the need to restructure her personal safety arrangements. He had changed her former bodyguards, replacing them with operatives from a. discreet agency in Switzerland which trained its own men The director of the agency was an old and trusted friend
They had come to this meeting now so that Peter might report back on his progress to Magda. But for a few hours the snow had seduced them both.
âThere is still another two hours before the light goes.' Peter glanced across the valley at the village church. The gold hands of the clock showed a little after two oâclock. âDo you want to run the Rheinhom?'
She hesitated only a moment. âThe world will keep turning, I'm sure.' Her teeth were very white, but one of them was slightly crooked, a blemish that was oddly appealing as she smiled up at him. âCertainly it will wait two hours.'
He had learned that she kept unbelievable hours, beginning her day's work when the rest of the world still slept, and still hard at it when the offices of Altmann Industries in Boulevard Capucine were deserted, except her own office suite on the top floor. Even during the drive up from Zurich she had gone through correspondence and dictated quietly to one of her secretaries. He knew that at the chalet across the valley her two secretaries would be waiting already, with a pile of telex flimsies for her consideration and the line held open for her replies
âThere are better ways to die than working yourself to death.' He was suddenly out of patience with her single-mindedness, and she laughed easily with high colour in her cheeks and the sparkle of the last run in the green eyes.
âYes, you are right, Peter I should have you near to keep reminding me of that.'
âThat's the first bit of sense I've had from you in six weeks' He was referring to her opposition to his plans for her security He had tried to persuade her to change established behaviour patterns, and though the smile was still on her lips, her eyes were deadly serious as she studied his face
âMy husband left me a trustâ' she seemed suddenly sad beneath the laughter' â a duty that I must fulfil. One day I
should like to explain that to you â but now we only have two hours.'
should like to explain that to you â but now we only have two hours.'
It was snowing lightly, and the sun had disappeared behind the mountains of rock and snow and cloud as they walked back through the village. The lights were burning in the richly laden shop windows and they were part of the gaily clad stream returning from the slopes, clumping along the frozen sidewalks in their clumsy ski boots, carrying skis and sticks over one shoulder and chattering with the lingering thrill of the high piste that even the lowering snow-filled dusk could not suppress.
âIt feels good to be free of my wolves for a while.' Magda caught his arm as her snowbirds skidded on dirty ridged ice, and after she had regained her balance she left her gloved hand there.
Her wolves were the bodyguards that Peter had provided, the silent vigilant men who followed her either on foot or in a second car. They waited outside her offices while she worked, and others guarded the house while she slept.
That morning, however, she had told Peter, âToday I have as a companion a gold medal Olympic pistol champion, I don't need my wolves.'
Narmco marketed its own version of the 9-mm parabellum pistol. It was called âCobra', and after a single morning in the underground range Peter had taken a liking to the weapon. It was lighter and flatter than the Walther he was accustomed to, easier to carry and conceal, and the single action mechanism saved a flicker of time with the first shot, for there was no need to cock the action. He had had no trouble obtaining a permit to carry one as a trade sample, although it was necessary to check it before every commercial flight, but it carried neatly in a quick-release shoulder holster.
He had felt theatrical and melodramatic at first, but with a little sober thought had convinced himself that to follow
on Caliph's tracks unarmed was shortening the odds against himself.
on Caliph's tracks unarmed was shortening the odds against himself.
Now it was becoming habit, and he was barely aware of the comforting shape and weight in his armpit, until Magda spoke.
âI am close to dying from thirst,' she went on, and they racked their skis and went into the jovial warmth and clouds of steam that billowed from one of the coffee shops that lined the main street.
They found a seat at a table already crowded with young people, and they ordered glasses of steaming hot
Ghihwein
Ghihwein
Then the four-piece band thumped out a popular dance tune and their table companions swarmed onto the tiny dance floor.
Peter raised a challenging eyebrow at her and she asked with amusement, âHave you ever danced in ski boots?'
âThere has to be a first time for everything.'
She danced like she did everything else, with complete absorption, and her body was strong and hard and slim against his.
It was completely dark as they climbed the narrow track above the village and went in through the electronically controlled gate in the protective wall around the chalet.
It was somehow typical of her that she had avoided the fashionable resorts, and that externally the chalet seemed not much different from fifty others that huddled in the edge of the pine forest.
There was patent relief amongst her entourage at her return, and she seemed almost defiant at their concern as though she had just proved something to herself â but still she did not change from her sports clothes before disappearing into the office suite on the first floor with her two male secretaries. âI work better with men,' she had explained to Peter once. As Peter dressed in slacks, blazer and silk roll-neck after a scalding shower, he could still hear the clatter
of the telex machine from the floor below, and it was an hour later when she called him on the house telephone.
of the telex machine from the floor below, and it was an hour later when she called him on the house telephone.
The entire top floor was her private domain and she was standing at the windows looking out over the snow-fuzzed lights of the valley as he entered.
She wore green slacks tucked in après-ski boots, and a blouse of the same colour, a perfect match for her eyes. The moment Peter entered, she pressed a concealed switch and the curtains slid silently closed, then she turned to him.
âA drink, Peter?' she asked.
âNot if we are going to talk.'
âWe are going to talk,' she said positively, and indicated the soft squashy leather armchair across from the fireplace. She had resisted the traditional Swiss cuckoo-clock and knotty pine decor, and the carpeting was thick Wilton to match the curtains, the furniture low and comfortable but modern, sporty and good fun, the very best made to appear natural and unaffected, blending easily with the modern art on the walls and abstract sculpture in marble and grained wood.
She smiled suddenly at him. âI had no idea that I had found myself a gifted Sales Director for Narmco â I really am impressed with what you have done in so short a time.'
âI had to establish a plausible coverâ' Peter deprecated the compliment. âAnd I used to be a soldier â the job interests me.'
âYou English!' she told him with mock exasperation. âAlways so modest.' She did not seat herself but moved about the room; although never at rest, neither did she give the feeling of restlessness âI am informed that there is to be a definite NATO testing of Kestrel â after almost two years of procrastination.'
Kestrel was Narmco's medium-range ground-to-ground infantry portable missile.
âI am further informed that the decision was made to test after you had met with some of your former colleagues.'
âThe whole world runs on the old boy systemâ' Peter chuckled, ââ you should know that.'
âAnd you are on old boy terms with the Iranians?' She cocked her head at him.
âThat was a small stroke of luck. Five years ago I was on a staff college course with their new military adviser.'
âLuck again.' She smiled. âIsn't it strange that luck so often favours those who are clever and dedicated and who move faster than the pack?'
âI have had less luck in other directions,' Peter pointed out, and immediately there was no trace of laughter left upon her lips nor in the emerald eyes, but Peter went on. âSo far I have been unsuccessful with the contact we spoke about on our last meetingâ'
They had discussed the possibility of access to the Atlas computer link, of requisitioning a printout on âCaliph' from the Central Intelligence bank, if there was one programmed.
âAs I explained, there was the one remote possibility of access, somebody who owed me a favour. He was of no help. He believes that if there is a “Caliph” listing, it's blocked and buzzed.' Which meant that any unauthorized requisition would sound an alarm in intelligence control. âWe'd trigger a Delta condition in Atlas if we put in a printout requisition.'
âYou did not give him the name?' Magda asked sharply.
âNo. No names, just a general discussion over dinner at Brooks's â but all the implications were there.'
âDo you have any further avenues â ?'
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