Movement was always more visible than stillness, however, so he said ‘Drop and keep still’, and did the same himself, lying in a position where he could keep watch below them. The two men eventually abandoned the search for the look-out and returned to the Landcruiser, but they did not drive off and remained standing by it. A couple of minutes later, Harper saw a momentary glint of light as the sun reflected from the binoculars one of the men was using. They remained there for another ten minutes, scanning the valley walls on both sides of the river, and then the two men suddenly jumped into the Landcruiser and set off with such speed that Harper saw a puff of smoke from the tyres as they accelerated away.
‘They’re in quite a hurry,’ he said, ‘which is probably not good news for us. I think we’ve got to assume we’ve been spotted.’ He looked at Scouse, who was pale with fatigue. ‘Normally I’d opt for doing the unexpected, which would be to turn round and back-track, on the assumption that the last place they would be likely to search for us is the one where they know we’ve already been, but you’re looking pretty knackered, mate, so I’m thinking that the best thing is to keep going. Once we’ve rounded the shoulder of the ridge, we’ll be into much easier terrain for a while, with only a short climb up to the Inca Road on the far side of the valley. I doubt very much if it’s wide enough for vehicles - the Incas never invented the wheel so they didn’t have carts or wagons or anything like that, so they’d no reason to build their roads wider than a couple of men or a man with a llama would need. And there’s no other road in that valley, so if they’re going to come after us, it will only be on foot, which will give us a bit more of a chance. You all right? Then let’s go.’
They moved on up the slope, but Scouse was now struggling so badly that their pace was agonisingly slow. Two hours had passed by the time they at last reached the shoulder of the ridge and were able to look down on to the terrain they now had to cross. It was more of a plateau than a valley, a narrow span of roughly level ground sandwiched between two towering and brutally steep mountain ridges. Beyond the far one, ranks of jagged peaks marched away to the far northern horizon, including the mighty summit of Huayna Potosí, soaring over six thousand metres into the sky.
There was no river running through the plateau, just a series of glacial lakes, separated by patches of sparse, frost-bitten grassland, and expanses of glittering white snowfields, the ice crystals in their frozen surface blindingly white in the glare of the sun. The lake water was a vivid aqua green, coloured by the tiny flakes of mica ground from the bedrock by the glacier that spilled through a break in the north wall of the mountains. Its meltwater fed the lakes and their surface was so still, undisturbed for the moment by even the gentlest breeze, that it was difficult to tell where the rocks ended and the water began, so perfect were the reflections in it.
In different circumstances Harper might have sat down and spent an hour just soaking up the beauty of the scene, but this was no time to be admiring natural wonders and he barely gave the scenery a glance before first raking the entire length of the plateau for any sign of figures or movement, and then, finding none, turning his attention to the far side. He found what he was looking for two-thirds of the way up the ridge, a thin, wavering line, extending from east to west along it, following the contours of the ridge but too straight and level to be natural. ‘That’s it,’ he said to Scouse, who had slumped down to rest. ‘The Inca Road.’
‘Is it safe for us to use?’
Harper shrugged. ‘Normally I’d avoid any trail or road, but I think using it is a pretty low risk in these circumstances. You’re already pretty much done in, but once we get to the trail it’ll give us pretty level and easy going, so it’ll be a lot less taxing for you and we should be able to make much faster time than picking our way over the rocks or around the lakes and across the snowfields on the plateau. Although there’s still a risk of the sicarios spotting us, we’ll be moving farther and faster than they would probably expect, so with luck we may out-run them. Anyway, it’s our best option,’ he said, seeing Scouse’s dubious expression. ‘So the only question is whether you’ve got enough strength left to make it up that ridge?’
Scouse nodded and stood up. ‘Just watch me.’
For all his bravado, their progress across the plateau and up the rock-strewn mountainside beyond was even more painfully slow and by the time he hauled himself the last few metres onto the edge of the Inca Road, Scouse was grey-faced with exhaustion. Harper scanned up and down the track for signs of potential danger, and then checked Scouse’s pulse. He frowned as he felt its shallow, rapid and irregular beat beneath his fingertips. ‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘Don’t be brave, just tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘I’m all right,’ Scouse said. ‘Tired obviously, and a bit light-headed, that’s all. And maybe a little bit nauseous as well.’ As he said it, he began dry-heaving. ‘Honestly, I’ll be all right,’ he said again, but Harper could hear that he was slurring his words slightly and a few moments later, he was dry-heaving again.
‘I’m not sure you will,’ Harper said. ‘It may just be exhaustion, but it may also be altitude sickness and if it is, the only short-term remedy that will work is to get you away from the altitude that’s causing it, which means getting you down from the mountains.’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘We may have no choice.’
Harper helped Scouse along the trail for another hundred yards, supporting him with an arm round his shoulders as he stumbled his way onwards. He stopped by a group of boulders at the edge of the track and sat Scouse down. Harper refilled their water-bottles from a half-frozen spring trickling out from under the rocks and handed one to him. ‘Drink this, sit still and try to relax,’ he said, listening to Scouse’s wheezing breath as he did so. ‘We’ll rest here for a few minutes and then we’ll head a little further on again. You’ll be better in a little while.’
Scouse nodded but didn’t trust himself to speak. While he waited, Harper studied the map again, and spotted something - a building, a ruin or maybe just a cairn - marked on the map, only mile or so from where they were. ‘Just wait here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to walk as far as the next bend and take a look-see along the track. Don’t move.’
Scouse forced a smile. ‘I’m not sure I could, even if I wanted to.’
Harper walked away but paused at the first bend in the trail and looked back towards Scouse, who managed to give him a thumbs up sign. Harper carried on along the Inca Road, marvelling at the quality of its construction. It was about ten feet wide, surfaced with compacted gravel and grit, and supported at its outer edge by a stone retaining wall that ran along most of its length, enabling the trail to cling to the steep mountainside. The wall had been constructed without a shred of mortar but was so artfully built that apart from a handful of small stretches where it was beginning to crumble, it had survived almost intact, for seven or eight hundred years, despite everything that the howling mountain winds and the effects of ice, frost and snow could do to it.
As he rounded another bend, a long straight stretch of the trail opened up ahead of him. Towards the end of it, just discernible in the distance, there was something set slightly back from the edge of the trail, at the point where there was a small patch of level ground before the wall of the mountains closed in again. Harper glanced behind him but Scouse was now out of sight. He hesitated, then hurried on, jogging along the trail until he reached what turned out to be a tiny building, a traditional hut, dry stone walled and roofed with a collapsing thatch of mountain grasses. What its original purpose had been was not clear. No shepherds or hunters would ever have patrolled these barren, frozen wastes, so he could only assume that it had been built - perhaps by the Incas themselves - as a refuge for those travelling along the trail, a place where they could pause and rest or wait out a snow storm sweeping through the mountains. If so, it might serve a similar purpose for him and Scouse now. When he pushed against the ancient, very weathered wooden door, it opened with
a protesting squeal from its hinges. He peered into the gloomy interior. There were no windows, and the only light inside the hut came from the open doorway. It was so small that there would barely be room for two people inside it but it would be a welcome shelter from the terrible cold of the night that would soon be coming on.
Every instinct would normally have told him not to use such an obvious and visible lying-up place, and instead he would either have pressed on or found a place to lie up out on the mountainside. But Scouse’s condition was now worrying him so much that he felt his only option was to use the shelter the hut would provide to allow him to rest and recover a little overnight. If he was still sick and dizzy in the morning, they would have to find a swift way down from the mountains and hope that they would not find themselves walking in to a sicario ambush along the way.
He ran back along the track and rounded the bend to see Scouse sprawled in the dirt. His heart missed a beat and he sprinted the last few yards and began shaking his friend. ‘Scouse! SCOUSE!’
There was an agonising pause before Scouse opened his eyes and looked up at him. ‘S’all right,’ he said drowsily. ‘Just resting.’
‘I’ve found us a better place to rest up,’ Harper said. ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’
He got Scouse to his feet, put his arm around him and they shuffled along the trail to the hut. It was less than a mile but took them almost an hour to cover the ground. He helped Scouse into the hut and propped him against the wall while he went back outside and gathered a few armfuls of dead grasses from the slopes around the hut. He spread them on the floor of the hut to give a little insulation from the cold stones, and made Scouse lie down on them. The sun was now touching the horizon and the temperature outside was falling dramatically, but their body heat was already starting to make the hut feel a little warmer.
‘I’m going to stand-to outside and keep watch until after dark,’ Harper said. ‘No one will be moving along the plateau or this track after that but while I’m doing that, you just rest up and try to get some sleep.’ Harper fell silent as he realised that his words were superfluous - Scouse was already quietly snoring.
Harper went back outside, closed the door and crouched against the wall, watching the track in both directions until the last glow of the sunset had faded and he could see no more than a handful of yards. Then he went back into the hut, trying to ease the door open and close it again without disturbing Scouse, though he was pretty sure he could have detonated a grenade without waking his friend. He lay down next to him, huddling together for warmth, closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 22
Harper woke before dawn, leaving Scouse still snoring gently, he let himself out of the hut, rubbed a handful of snow on his face to give himself a rudimentary wash and wake himself up, and then settled down to keep watch until dawn. He kept his eyes on the trail and the plateau below him as the skies lightened, and he waited until the line of the sunrise had gilded the snow-covered summits of the mountains and begun inching down the upper slopes before he went back into the hut to wake Scouse. ‘The sun’s up and we need to be moving,’ said Harper as his friend opened his eyes. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Too early to say,’ Scouse said, ‘but better for some kip, for sure.’
‘Okay, neck some water and then let’s see how we go. Don’t be a hero, though. If you start to feel dizzy or like you’re going puke, tell me. People can die of altitude sickness, so let’s not take any chances, right? I’ve not got you this far just to lose you here.’
They set off along the trail and Harper was relieved to see that Scouse was now moving at a reasonable pace without showing any obvious signs of discomfort. ‘Maybe all you needed was a bit of shut-eye,’ he said.
‘Maybe, though what I really need now is a full English breakfast with all the trimmings: bacon, sausage, egg, black pudding, beans, mushrooms, fried bread and a shedload of toast and tea on the side.’
‘Thanks, that’s really helping,’ Harper said. ‘The only thing worse than hearing my empty stomach rumbling is to have to listen to someone telling me all the things I could be putting in it.’ He grinned. ‘Brown sauce or red?’
Scouse laughed. ‘Gotta be HP sauce,’ he said. ‘And being the rebel I am, I often throw on a few picked onions.’
‘You’re an animal,’ said Harper. He kept a constant watch on the track ahead of and behind them, and paused every few hundred yards to rake the plateau and the ridge on the far side of it with his gaze, but there was nothing to worry him as they moved steadily further west. The mountains still spread out to the north and south of them, but they could see the way ahead beginning to open out as they crossed the watershed and the plateau began to slowly dip towards the west. From the map, Harper could see that the Inca Road would soon begin to curve round to the north, following the line of the mountains towards the ancient, far distant Inca strongholds of Cusco and Machu Picchu in Peru, and he was just beginning to think about when would be the right moment to break away from it when he saw a figure moving along the trail towards them. He was too far away yet to distinguish much about him, but he seemed to have an unnaturally bulky outline.
‘We have company,’ he said. ‘And either that guy’s extremely tall and broad-shouldered or more likely, he’s either wearing a bergen or carrying a rocket-launcher on his back.’
‘Let’s hope it’s a bergen then,’ Scouse said, screwing his eyes up as he peered into the distance.
Harper had immediately looked for cover but there was none to be had and in any case, there was every reason to believe that the figure would already have spotted them too.
‘What do we do?’ Scouse said.
‘We just keep walking,’ Harper said, resting his hand on the butt of the Colt in his waistband. ‘If it’s trouble, we’ll just have to deal with it.’
He kept a wary eye on the figure as the distance between them narrowed, but then began to relax as the upper part of the outline resolved itself into the square, boxy shape of a bergen and he saw that the figure looked European and was grey haired, bearded, and wearing hiking shorts. ‘If he’s a sicario,’ Harper said, ‘he’s not like any I’ve come across before.’ He held up a hand in greeting as the man approached, but kept his other hand on the butt of the Colt, just in case.
‘Buenos dias,’ the stranger said, in a thick German accent.
‘Guten morgen,’ Harper said with a grin.
The German smiled. ‘Danke schon, or should I say Thank you and good morning? I was just beginning to wonder if I would walk the rest of the trail and never see another soul and now here you are.’
‘So you’ve not passed anyone else?’ Harper said.
‘Not going your way, no. There were two men just off the trail a few kilometres back but they didn’t look all that friendly, so I didn’t detour to say hello.’
‘Bolivians?’ Harper said, trying to sound disinterested.
The German shrugged. ‘They looked like it, Latinos certainly. I presume they were hunters because they had rifles, though what they’d be hunting up here I have no idea. Perhaps there are some wolves or wild guanaco in the mountains, though I haven’t seen a sign of any.’ He waved a goodbye and continued down the trail.
‘Sorry mate, but we’re going to have to do a bit more climbing,’ Harper said to Scouse as the German walked away. ‘We’ll have to move up to the ridge and work our way around them before we drop down again.’
‘Better that than dying, I suppose,’ Scouse said, though his tone of voice suggested there wasn’t much in it.
‘We don’t know if they’re lying up in ambush or moving towards us, so the first thing to do is get well clear of the trail.’ He scanned the mountainside, searching for the line of the most gradual ascent he could find and then led the way up, pausing frequently to scan the trail and the plateau below him, and to check on Scouse, who was once more labouring up the mountainside in his wake.
Moving in small stages, with long pauses both to watch for dange
r ahead and to allow Scouse some recovery time, it took another two hours to reach the ridgeline, by which time the sun was already well past its zenith. They moved west again, along the line of the ridge, but as they did so, Harper was acutely aware of the steadily narrowing gap between the ridge they were following and the floor of the plateau. They were close to the western edge of the mountains now, and the dizzy heights of the great peaks behind them were receding, beginning to give way to the foothills, with the flatlands of the Altiplano just visible in the distance ahead.
He had still not spotted any sign of the sicarios that the German hiker had seen, but he didn’t relax his vigilance for a second. If they were in camouflage gear - or at the least, drab clothing - and were remaining motionless, he could pass within fifty yards of them without necessarily being able to see them. In such circumstances, only movement, a wrong colour or shape, or some intangible, instinctive sense of a thing out of place would give them away.
As he was pondering this, Scouse had moved on, slightly ahead of him and when he glanced up, Harper saw that Scouse’s outline was now breaking the skyline. Trying to raise his voice enough for him to hear, but not so loud that it would carry far down the mountain, he called out, ‘Scouse, for fuck’s sake get your head down. I could see you from miles away. You might as well paint a target on your chest.’
Scouse turned towards him, a smart-arse reply beginning to form on his lips, but the next moment he was hurled backwards, his arms out-thrown as he fell. A heartbeat later, Harper heard the diminishing echo of the gunshot that had hit him rolling around the bowl of the mountains.
Breakout: A Heart-Pounding Lex Harper Thriller Page 21
