ROAD TO MANDALAY

by Rolf Richardson

  My initial reaction had been one of annoyance at being summoned so peremptorily. Did Gudrun not realise I had a bar to run? Bars that tended to be heaving at just the time we were due to meet. On reflection I realised that my £2,000 a month did give her certain rights. My presence at what might be an awkward time was not too much to ask. Fortunately, I’d had over two months to get the business running smoothly and had a reliable Number Two. My absence for a short while should not mean the end of the world.

  Halfway through the afternoon on that following Wednesday I received a short text: “Arrived Cointrin on time”. If Gudrun was already at Geneva airport that was good news. It was mid-week, so traffic should be light. There had been no major snowfalls for a week so driving conditions would also be okay; no need for chains, a horrible finger-freezing job I always hated, but the only way to stay mobile in real winter weather.

  7pm found me at the Hotel Glacier, approaching Reception and the same mournful and acned youth who had been on duty during my previous visit. With an attempt at a smile, he pointed to the far corner of the lounge.

  “Madame Larsen is waiting for you. Over there.”

  I had not seen him since last season, but he remembered me. Full marks, acned youth.

  Gudrun already had a glass of something in front of her. We shook hands. Quite formal. Not the hugging sort. Wearing a pair of dark slacks that set off her short blonde hair, she looked in good form, her face having obviously seen some winter sun; not every moment spent interviewing a computer.

  After I’d ordered a beer and we’d exchanged the usual opening remarks, she said,

  “So Ricketts is keen to fly the nest?”

  I shrugged. “Just a short break. Should do him good.”

  “How do we know it will only be a short break?”

  “We don’t. But why would he want to stay any longer?”

  “Because Panda will tempt him. Maybe to remain permanently.”

  “That’s only guesswork.”

  “Of course. But we know Panda is not some simple peasant, keen to have a western cyber pal. He works for the Chinese government.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course we’re sure!” Gudrun showed her irritation. “It’s been your job to penetrate Ricketts’ personal defences; become his friends, so he trusts you. At Stockmanns we look at the broader picture. Try and fathom what he’s really up to. Which isn’t easy. Since that youthful indiscretion he’s been very careful. Done nothing we can legally nail him for. What we do know is that he has built up a huge body of information - sensitive and secret information - about some of the west’s largest multi-national companies. Information is power and it looks as though Ricketts is beginning to realise this. Wants to cash in on it.”

  “By selling the stuff to Panda?”

  “‘Selling’ might not be the right word. If you’re clever with figures and have the patience, it’s not that difficult to make money. Warren Buffet, the sage of Omaha, has become one of the world’s richest men by doing just that. All perfectly legal. On a smaller scale Ricketts already has enough of an income from his Premier League betting scheme to cover his needs, which are pretty basic. This is not a man who craves Ferraris and yachts and a palace in Monte Carlo. What he enjoys is the chase. The game. And recognition from his peers that he’s the best.”

  “No harm in that,” I suggested.

  “Selling secrets to the enemy!” Gudrun was scathing. “Call that harmless?”

  “Didn’t know we were at war.” I tried to make light of it.

  “To be at war is a permanent human condition,” she said. “Doesn’t have to mean bullets and bloodshed, thank goodness, but the fight for our place in the sun never stops. Selling commercial secrets to our rivals is a form of treason.”

  “There must be something we can do.”

  Gudrun sighed. “If only it were that easy. Secrets are... exactly that. Things you don’t want the opposition to know. With Ricketts in London we can do our best to limit the damage. He has come close to being caught once, so has to watch his step. But Ricketts in China would be a man off the leash, the authorities there encouraging him to do what he loves.”

  “Don’t see how we can stop him,” I said. “He’s a grown man, no criminal record. Can go to wherever he likes.”

  Gudrun nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right. That’s why we must make sure it remains only a holiday. That he does return. The prospect of Ricketts staying in China, to wreak havoc on our business interests from where we can’t touch him, is too awful to contemplate.”

  I thought she was exaggerating, but the drift of the conversation was clear. If Ricketts did go to China, Gudrun wanted me to go with him. And make sure he came back. Reluctantly, I told her that, if necessary, I’d do it.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be enough,” said Gudrun. “I’ve discussed this with my colleagues and we are agreed the situation requires both of you.”

  “Alexei as well?”

  She nodded. “China is enemy territory. An autocratic government that makes its own rules. Not a place to mess with. If Panda does try to keep Ricketts from returning, it would be prudent to have as many of our people on site as possible.”

  “Not sure I like the sound of this,” I said. “One minute I’m no more than Freddie’s cat minder, now there’s talk of dropping us into enemy territory. Next thing, you’ll be wanting us to go in at dead of night by parachute.”

  My last quip produced a wan smile, but Gudrun made no denial, merely added, “We would of course offer you a most attractive package...”

  “Very useful if we’re banged up in a Chinese jail.”

  “At least discuss it with Alexei. Who we know is keen to set up on her own...”

  ...That’s news to me...

  “A successful China trip could fund it.”

  I thought about it. And the more I thought, the less I liked it. Gudrun’s expression ‘a successful trip’ begged the question what if it were not successful. The words ‘Chinese jail’ came to mind.

  Furthermore, it was unlikely Alexei would need more cash to set up on her own, a topic we’d only discussed as a distant possibility during the time I’d known her. Alexei must already have enough stashed away from her years at Morgan Durlacher to manage without any outside help.

  It was not politic to tell Gudrun that her China plans for us sounded like dangerous rubbish, so I merely repeated that I’d consider it.

  “Excellent,” she replied. “Time for dinner.”

  20

  The Glacier Hotel dining room lay directly above the lounge/reception area and offered the same view of the nursery slopes and distant Haute-Savoie peaks. Or would have done had it been daylight. Now we were entertained by the twinkling lights of the resort.

  In my years in the Alps I’d almost always eaten either in my apartment, one of our chalets or a local restaurant, so a five star hotel with white tablecloths was a rare experience. It was an ambience Gudrun was clearly used to. She gave me carte blanche with the expensive menu and ordered up an equally expensive bottle of Burgundy. Making the most of it, I choose their top-of-the-range Chateaubriand steak. And to make the most of my first chance to quiz Gudrun on her own, I leapt in at the deep end with,

  “How come you’re working for an outfit like Stockmanns?”

  She thought about it. Took a sip of wine. Eventually replied, “It’s a question I’ve often asked myself.”

  More thought. More food and wine. “I suppose it started during the war.” She grinned. “No, I’m not that old. But our family has history. You see, ‘mor-far’ - my mother’s father - was a war hero. A dead war hero. Tell me, how much does your generation know about the war?”

  Like most lads I enjoyed the old war films: Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton pretending to be Nazis, that sort of stuff. So I wasn’t completely clueless. Replied, “Wasn’t Norway occupied by the Germans?”

  Nod of approval. “Clever boy. Occupied by the Nazis and run on behalf of their
Führer by a nasty piece of work called Josef Terboven. Some Norwegians went along with it and became what we called collaborators, but most of us hated having foreign troops on our soil. Granddad was a well-known ‘advokat’ - a lawyer. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, calling the Germans all sorts of nasty things, so they locked him up in Grini concentration camp. Which was unpleasant but usually survivable. Unfortunately for him, the resistance decided on a show of strength. Blew up a load of ships in Oslo harbour, big bangs, most spectacular. Reichskommissar Terboven went crazy, decided an example must be made, grabbed a few of Grini’s most high profile prisoners and put them up against a wall. Shot them. They included ‘Bestefar Jens’ - my mother’s father. Thereafter always spoken of in hushed tones.”

  “A martyr in the family,” I said.

  Gudrun nodded. “I suppose it bred in us a sense of duty. To do ‘what was right’. Behave like ‘mor-far Jens’. Whatever the consequences.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  “Maybe. But the family experience lingers on. Usually in the background. I married, had children of my own, but we were not the typical family. Kjell, my husband, was a diplomat, so we lived in all sorts of outlandish places...”

  “Like Russia,” I said, with a sudden flash of inspiration.

  “How did you know?”

  “Vishnevskaya - Kuznetsov - you spoke to him in Russian.”

  “Surely you don’t speak Russian?”

  I laughed at the thought. “No, but Alexei understands a little; through her granddad, who learnt it during the war.”

  Gudrun nodded slowly. “To you Russia must seem a long way away, but for us they’re neighbours. We have a common border up in the north and they have mining rights in our Svalbard islands. Our most famous bad boy, Quisling, spent several years in what was then the young Soviet Union. So we’re really quite used to the Russians. When Kjell became ambassadør in Moscow, I made a big effort to learn the language. In the end I’d become quite good.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how you came to work for Stockmann.”

  “Kjell died five years ago. Cancer. Only in his fifties. By then our two children had gone off on their own, leaving me...”

  “Bereft?”

  A thin smile. “In need of an interest. Norway is a small country, little more than a big village. Everyone seems to know everyone else. As an ambassador’s wife I’d always got things done... was reliable, so when Stockmanns was launched they invited me in as a founder member.”

  “And member of their inner circle?”

  “That as well.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Like James Bond. Licensed to kill by pushing people down snowy slopes”. But I saw sense and remained silent.

  “That’s enough about me,” she announced briskly. “Now let’s talk about you.”

  I’m as vain as the next man, so talking about myself was no hardship, but I had the feeling it was all pretty pointless: mere window dressing. She would already know more about me than I did myself. But it passed a pleasant half hour.

  As we finished dinner, Gudrun said, “I’ve had a long day, so early to bed. I only have tomorrow here and I want to make the most of it, so I’ve booked a morning with Dave. From Fornet Experience.”

  “Dave the American? The off-piste man?”

  She nodded. “You’re also invited.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “A change from topping up your cirrhosis in a bar.”

  “I usually manage a morning on the slopes,” I said, miffed that she saw me as some big-time boozer. “Before work.”

  “In that case you’ll enjoy the Nord Couloir.”

  “Fornet’s Nord Couloir?”

  Gudrun grinned. “Think you can cope?”

  Couloirs are steep and narrow gullies coming down from mountain ridges. They vary in difficulty. Courchevel’s Grand Couloir is a fairly standard black run, routine for any competent skier. At the other end of the scale are the couloirs favoured by the extreme ski fanatics. I’d never tried Fornet’s Nord Couloir, but its reputation put it nearer the fanatic end of the spectrum. Only to be attempted by experts. And guides with capable clients.

  I gulped. Replied, “Of course I can cope. As long as Dave is happy to have me.”

  Gudrun was still smiling. “Dave tells me you’ll be okay.”

  She came up, looked me in the eye and added, “Meet me here tomorrow at eight- thirty, then.”

  I nodded. Her hands clasped me round the hips, drew me towards her. This was a lady who didn’t do hugs, so that was as far as it went. But not quite. Her lips met mine in such a fleeting fashion I wondered whether I’d imagined it. Then she was gone.

  21

  8.30 am on a February morning in Val Fornet is always cold. Today it was colder than cold. I would guess close to minus twenty. A ridge of high pressure was edging in, the sort of weather where cold air sinks to the valley floor, creating an inversion. As you climb the temperature rises before stabilising; then drops again. The top of the Nord Couloir would be very chilly indeed.

  Gudrun was wrapped up to the hilt in a one-piece grey ski suit, furry hat, and big gloves. Little visible flesh. After minimal waves of acknowledgement we walked round the corner to the Fornet Experience office, where Dave was waiting for us with his usual greeting.

  “Hi folks. Welcome to the Fornet Caribbean. A tropical day compared with Mount Washington.”

  I’d heard his spiel so often I could almost recite it myself. He waited for Gudrun to bite. Which she duly did.

  “Mount Washington? Is that cold?”

  “The coldest skiing you’ll ever find. Take no notice of them temperature things. Sure, the Rockies may look cold, but they have dry snow. Where I come from not only is the snow wetter, but if you factor in the wind chill... know why I took to growing this...?” He fingered his beard, which was thick if not particularly long. “Thermal face protection. Mount Washington, New Hampshire, in the eastern US of A is the windiest place on God’s earth. They once measured a gust at two hundred and thirty one miles an hour. A record.”

  Having had his moment of fun, Dave turned to our equipment lying on the counter. Took each in turn and handed them to us.

  “Climbing skins. Only need them for about thirty minutes, but they’ll make the trek to the top of the couloir quicker and less tiring. And your safety equipment: avalanche airbag and beacon. Today the avalanche danger is rated as low, but we wear ‘em all the same. Okay, let’s go.”

  We set off in the opposite direction to La Bisque, where Gudrun and I had first met. This time Dave was leading the way to the Grand Nord téléphérique, a two stage monster that went from the valley to over 3,000 metres, within striking distance of the start of our run.

  It was a glorious morning, the first fine day for a while. Although the last substantial snowfall had been nearly a week ago, the days since had been an irritating mix of wind, drizzly snow and flat light. Val Fornet residents, like myself, who could afford to ignore the bad days, had mostly stayed in town. However, this interlude had set up a dusting of fresh snow on a stable base - an ideal combination.

  Emerging from the téléphérique top station, we fixed the skins to our skis and set off. ‘Skins’ are in fact usually man-made fibres, attached to the bottoms of skis, allowing you to climb quite steep slopes without sliding back. Once at the top and ready for the descent, just remove the skins and stow them in backpacks. Dave led the way, followed by Gudrun, with me as tail-end Charlie.

  Dave set a deliberately slow pace. At over 3,000 metres - about 10,000 ft for us Brits and Americans - it was rather puff-making. Dave and I had the advantage of living at about half this altitude, so were semi acclimatised, but Gudrun had presumably come straight up from sea level. Furthermore, she must be the wrong side of fifty, no longer a chicken. How would she cope with the altitude? How would she then cope with the run down through the infamous couloir? In fact, why had she chosen such a challenge in the first place? And why had
she ordered me - it had in effect been an order - to come with her?

  As I trudged up in Gudrun’s wake, I tried to make some sense of the puzzle in front of me. True, she had revealed a little more of herself over dinner last night, but that had, if anything, only increased my confusion. What was a middle-aged Norwegian mother doing working for Stockmann, which appeared to be some sort of semi-sanctioned vigilante organisation? Had she really engineered Kuznetsov’s death down that icy slope? Or was I imagining the whole thing?

  The ridge we were on sloped off to the south, bathing us in the morning sun, and there was a soft following breeze. Ahead of me Gudrun had settled into a nice rhythm, no obvious signs of distress. A perfect morning in the Alps.

  I was quite startled when Dave suddenly stopped. Told us this was it. We had arrived. A couple of tentative steps in his direction and I hazarded a look down. Whereas the mountain’s southern flank was gently rounded, this north face looked vertical. It wasn’t, of course. We were about to ski down it. But it was very steep. Much of the face was bare rock, but in front of us was a narrow ski-able gulley: The Fornet Nord Couloir.

  This run was totally different to the one where Alexei and I had first met Gudrun. Then we had been on a long but recognised black run, normally open to anyone and only closed because it had become too icy and dangerous. In front of me now was a steeper but also much shorter run with perfect powder conditions. Should I make a mess of it, I would only tumble in soft snow a few hundred feet to where the ground flattened out a bit, hopefully with little damage except to my pride. Unless I skewered myself on one of the bare rock shards that bordered the couloir. Best not to think about that. The run below the couloir was apparently standard off-piste stuff, which I was well used to.

  As we removed the skins from our skis, with slightly nervous chat about the coming descent, I realised what all this was about. Gudrun was arranging a demonstration and a test. A demonstration of her ability. And a test of mine.