by M. G. Harris
But Marie-Carmen was already running towards the elevator. She had to warn to Jackson.
Kleine Scheidegg
The train to Grindelwald arrived two-and-a-half minutes before it was scheduled to leave. Jackson stepped aboard. He checked back towards the platform. He had managed to slip away from Priyanka Desai while she showered, but she couldn’t be more than a few minutes behind him. The next train wasn’t for another half hour. By then he’d be aboard the train and ascending the slopes to the ski resort of Kleine Scheidegg.
Jackson was already freezing cold. His hands and face were getting the worst of it, but his feet weren’t doing much better. Ten inches of snow had fallen overnight. For all their efficiency, even the Swiss took a few hours to clear pavements and roads. Jackson had almost slipped, just walking to the taxi. He’d waded through thick snow on the train platform. Inside his new brogues, his feet were turning to ice.
By day, Grindelwald’s situation appeared even more spectacular. The north face of the Eiger towered over the village, blanking out a huge portion of the skyline, an impossibly sheer wall of pink-grey granite and glacial folds of blue ice. The village was blanketed in the fuzzy edges of white powder. As Jackson boarded he cast an envious glance at the early morning snow-seekers. They clambered aboard, heavy boots clattering against metal, skis and snowboards racked up in neat containers by the doors. Tourists grabbed the window seats where they’d get the best views, all the way to the end of the track, inside the Eiger itself and to the Jungfraujoch research station on top of one of the peaks.
The train pulled away, rose along a track which bordered a piste lined with white-capped fir trees and alpine cottages. Some trees were so deeply buried that you could only see the tips poking out through the snow. A toboggan track was being prepared by a grooming machine. The Eiger loomed to the left, its peak giving way to the neighboring, craggy peaks of the Mönch and Jungfrau. To the left were views of rolling slopes, distant mountains and cable cars that swooped across the valley. Jackson had spent many winters in the Rocky Mountains. He loved them, but he had to admit that this was a winter wonderland on a different scale.
Kleine Scheidegg came into view. Skiers were stepping off the train and directly onto a ski run. Guest houses and hotels nestled next to the mountain rides which climbed even higher. Beside the train track, skiers and snowboarders were already carving their way down to Grindelwald, about five miles away.
Deep inside the pockets of his suede jacket, Jackson clenched a fist around his cell phone. He checked, but there were no missed calls. Next to the train station, tables at Restaurant Bahnhof were already filling with people enjoying coffee, croissants, cigarettes. Jackson circled the periphery a couple of times, searching for anyone who was sitting alone.
For some reason he imagined Hans Runig as a large man. When he examined the kind of men that were seated there, he realized that Swiss guys, at least those who took to the mountains before nine in the morning, were more likely to be lean, weather-beaten and athletic.
Why had Hans Runig asked to meet up here?
Not knowing what Runig looked like gave Jackson an eerie sense of dislocation. The man could be watching Jackson this very minute and he wouldn’t know it. The mental image he’d built up was something like a Sydney Greenstreet character, a human, Swiss version of Jabba the Hut. Yet now, as Jackson forced his mind to blank out the ridiculous images he’d conjured, he could only think of a spider; a fat garden spider sitting in the middle of a web, sensing the tremors from every thread that connected him to his prey. And then, pouncing.
He shuddered slightly and concentrated on imagining a new persona for Hans Runig. Slim and tall, face tanned and weathered from the slopes in winter, from cycling in the summer. A modern executive who might be as comfortable in lycra racing gear as in a Zegna suit and Patek Philippe time-piece. Jackson scanned the restaurant and neighboring piste for anyone of that description. There were several, but none returned his gaze.
Not a single table was occupied by a lone diner. Jackson waited a few more minutes, checked his watch. Eight thirty-eight. Surely the Swiss were punctual? He wandered over to the counter and ordered a double espresso. Priya would certainly be on the next train, if she’d guessed his movements from Grindelwald. He could only hope that she wouldn’t work out his final destination. Jackson didn’t sit down, but continued to hover around the tables, watching. At eight forty-five he checked his cell phone for messages. There was a long, very strange email from Marie-Carmen, sent some time last night while he’d been asleep. The title, provocatively, was ‘Worried About Iraq’. He scrolled through it quickly, then back to the first paragraph.
Jackson, this idea of going to Iraq worries me. You receive secrets, messages over the Internet, telephone calls, a jet to Switzerland, now it’s Iraq. It’s like you’re a chess piece, being moved around the board.
The phone began to vibrate in his hand. When he answered it a male voice spoke; youthful, urgent, aggressive, with a hint of an accent that Jackson couldn’t place. “Mr. Bennett? You were told to come alone.”
“Is this Hans Runig?”
The speaker ignored Jackson’s question. “You’ve brought one of DiCanio’s people. Get rid of her or we will.”
The caller disconnected. Jackson turned around slowly, trying to catch sight of anyone who might be making the call. Through the windows of the café he glimpsed Priya stepping off the train. She was dressed in a one-piece, black-and-silver ski outfit and carried a pair of parabolic skis. He just about had the presence of mind to duck behind a pillar as she peered into Restaurant Bahnhof.
The caller was right. He’d been followed. If they’d also seen Priya, chances were that Runig – or his employee – were visible from Jackson’s own position. He secured his cell phone in an inside, zip pocket and strode across the café, shielding himself from Priya’s view.
When he caught up with her, she didn’t seem remotely surprised to see him.
“How can I guard you if you run away?” she began, a little smugly. He grabbed her by the elbow. She froze, stared at him with flat, black eyes. “Get your hand off me. I mean it.”
He withdrew his hand. “You need to leave.”
“Melissa told me . . .”
“You’ve been seen! OK? Now get out of here.”
Priya hesitated, watching Jackson glance anxiously over her shoulder.
“All right, yah? I’ll go. But you have to come with me.”
He shook his head.
“I’m serious, Jackson. You can’t meet with these people. You don’t have any idea who you’re dealing with.”
He leaned forward. “They’ll kill you.”
Priya’s eyes widened, very slightly, but she didn’t seem afraid.
“We need to go.”
There was a distinct, but soft, popping sound. Priya groaned slightly. He looked down to see one silver patch on her shoulder beginning to stain with blood. This time he grabbed her, almost violently, dragged her across the platform until they were partly sheltered by a rack of skis and snowboards.
She was breathing in sharp, halting breaths. Jackson unzipped the top of her outfit. He pulled back enough to reveal the wound. She’d been shot in the shoulder. The bullet had gone right through and a ragged exit wound was now bleeding profusely.
Jackson gasped, speechless with shock.
“It’s OK, it hurts but I’m all right . . .”
He could do nothing but stare at the blooming red stain.
“In my jacket pocket. There’s a first aid kit, some bandages there.” She collected her breath for a moment. “I’ll ski back down to Grindelwald. They won’t be able to catch me, not if I’m on the move.”
He nodded. Tentatively, he put his hand inside her jacket. His fingers first came up against the pistol in a shoulder holster. Then he located the first aid kit, in a tin slightly larger than a cigarette packet.
“Can you do it here?”
He surveyed the area. They were tucked well i
nto a nook at the end of the rail station, shielded on one side by ski equipment that had been left by the top of the nearest ski run by skiers at the restaurant; on the other by one of the platform’s pillars. He unrolled the bandage. With Priya’s help, he tucked it under her damaged shoulder, then wrapped it round and round until the fabric ran out. He tied a tight knot at the front. The blood was already starting to spot the top layers of the dressing.
“You really think you can ski back?”
“Yes. But you need to come too.”
“You’re in no shape to be my bodyguard now.”
“Jackson. I can’t leave you here with those people.”
“I don’t have any skis.”
She nodded at the abandoned ski equipment. “Take something. Look inside the café for boots – sometimes people take them off.”
He watched her for a moment, torn. Could he trust Runig not to harm either of them, now? The bullet had made so little noise. He had to assume that somewhere in the blinding white slopes that overlooked the station, a sniper was positioned, probably using a high-powered rifle equipped with a silencer. Nothing else could have hit Priya without alerting a single other person on the platform to the gunfire.
The opposite side of the platform, where the ski run began, had to be a safer option than where they were now. Jackson eyed the two snowboards that had been left in the nearby rack. One of them looked about the right size and had strap bindings. He was more confident on a board, and he’d have his hands free to use Priya’s weapon. He stared into Priya’s eyes one more time. Was she strong enough for the five mile ride down to Grindelwald? The next train would be safer, although it would mean going back onto the platform. Right now, there wasn’t a train in sight.
“You really want to do this?”
“We don’t know how many of them there are. We don’t know where they are. The safest thing is to get out of here, fast.”
He nodded, stood up. “Wait. I’m going to find some boots.”
It didn’t take long. The restaurant restrooms had a dripping tray for boots outside and a ‘No Boots’ rule. Jackson found a pair of size 11 boots. With a cautious glance at the door of the men’s room, he lifted them. It took him a few seconds to swap them for his brogues, which he tucked under his jacket with the toe-ends pushed into the back pockets of his jeans.
Outside, Priya was still cowering in the sheltered spot they’d found. Jackson seized the snowboard and then stood before her, shielding Priya’s body with his as they moved the five yards along to where the snow began. She dropped both skis to the ground, snapped her boots into the bindings and was away within seconds. Jackson followed her, pushing off with his trailing foot. They slid past the T-bar drag-lift and began on the first slope. He leaned over and fastened his second binding, mid slide. Priya was about twenty yards below, carving gracefully down the slope.
Jackson felt the buzz of the cell phone against his chest. His hips swayed, his balance shifted, adjusting to the stolen board. He stared directly ahead. A familiar surge of vertiginous pleasure hit him as he gazed down the mountain. Curving edges of snow glittered in the blue light of the morning. The ground beneath him fell away for hundreds of yards. In the distance, the next train from Grindelwald was chugging upwards. The village itself nestled in the valley, wood smoke curling from the roofs of a cluster of chalets.
Still ahead, Priya now held one pole under her good shoulder. In her right hand was a gun. She skied with confidence; rapid, elegant movements that disguised her speed. Jackson sliced across the freshly prepared ski run. He switched stance, from regular to goofy and then back, taking the opportunity to look behind him. Priya and he seemed to have cleared any danger. He saw nothing but casual skiers and boarders on the snow.
Then he heard it. The low growl of an engine; the shift to a higher gear. Jackson switched to a goofy stance, glanced up the mountain just in time to see a snowmobile break into view. It broke across from another ski run, sprayed an arc of fresh powder as it cut through. His heart pounded inside his chest, he forgot about the cold wind that was biting into his fingers. He pointed the board nose-first, directly down the slope. An icy blast of wind stung his face as his speed rocketed. In the next second he was screaming past Priya: “Faster!”
The snowmobile rider pulled on the throttle. The engine roared, accelerating towards Jackson and Priya. The ski run narrowed, the edges curved upwards into a pipe. He rode up the edge and flipped onto the ledge. He stopped short, just in time to see Priya hop into the air and switch to skiing backwards. He watched her shooting at the snowmobile rider. The rider braked hard, then ducked behind his steering wheel. Jackson noticed the rider had a rifle strapped across his back. But at this speed the weapon was unusable. Priya had rattled three or four shots off in the handful of seconds during which she’d skied backwards. Wide-eyed, he watched as she sped towards the hard, frozen edge of the piste. Just in time, Priya swayed away, flipped forwards and then schussed straight down the mountain.
Jackson doubted that she’d managed to inflict any damage. The rider was fairly well protected anyway, with that full motorcycle helmet. Then the snowmobile spun around.
Less than fifty yards away from Jackson, the engine screamed as it began to claw its way up the slope. He stared, gasping. He could never outrun the snowmobile. All he could hope was to go where the rider couldn’t. He stepped hard on his leading edge, straight at the wooded border of the ski run. The trees grew close together, close enough to require intense concentration and skill. He could hear the snowmobile crashing about somewhere behind. With speedy, nimble movements Jackson managed to stay ahead. The trees thinned; ahead he glimpsed another piste. As he exited the woods, Jackson bent low, grabbed the leading edge of his board and lifted it just as the ground ran out. He soared through the air for a full two seconds, skimmed past two skiers and slammed onto the narrow ski run. The momentum carried him straight to the edge of the run and up a steep slope. Jackson took the slope with a drop down his back-side wall, steadied his tempo with a lengthy float, gripping the board between the bindings. When he landed he caught sight of the snowmobile, stalled at the lip of the piste. Faced with an impossibly tight perpendicular turn, the rider had simply stopped. Jackson faced straight down the mountain again. He rode hard, all the way to the base.
As he reached Grindelwald, Jackson cast about in search of Priya. His pulse began to slow. Jackson noticed that once again, the cell phone was vibrating.
Melissa DiCanio’s number.
“Jackson . . . ?” The word hung in the air, tense with anxiety.
“I’m OK.”
There was an audible gasp of relief. “We’re right outside the ticket office. Priya’s already here. Be quick!”
Isn’t The World Going To End In 2012?
Jackson stepped into his brogues and leaned the ‘borrowed’ snowboard and boots against the wall of the refreshment chalet. Hopefully they’d be returned. If not, Jackson reflected that their owner could probably easily afford to replace them. This resort was on the pricey side – even the train ticket up to the ski lifts.
Inside the car, Priya had crumpled, lay huddled in one corner of the rear. Jackson was sure he could detect a faint but steady tremble throughout her body. DiCanio was in the front passenger seat, talking into her iPhone. Her driver was the same as last night’s.
He drove away, smooth and efficient. When DiCanio interrupted her phone call to bark, “Faster!” at him, he didn’t flinch.
He touched Priya’s arm with a finger. She turned slightly, just enough to face him. Her face was drained, white with exhaustion. He remembered the last he’d seen of the young woman, pelting headlong down the steep, narrow run. It had to have taken sheer guts and resolve to keep going like that, with a bullet hole torn through her shoulder.
He tuned in to DiCanio’s conversation. “Get the jet ready,” she was saying. “We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”
Jackson was suddenly nervous. He hadn’t expected action s
o rapidly to follow a decision.
“A jet . . . right now?”
She put the iPhone down. “We have to get you out of here.”
Jackson opened his mouth to speak but inside his jacket his cell phone began to vibrate.
DiCanio said, “Take the call.”
He put the cell phone to his ear.
It was the same, youthful voice. “Mr. Bennett. You’re making a mistake.”
“Look, Runig, if this is really you, don’t you think that chasing me down a mountain is getting a little tired?”
The voice interrupted, sharply. “Don’t be a fool! You cannot trust Professor DiCanio. Do you even know what their drug does?”
He hesitated. “Tripoxan?”
“Don’t waste time, Bennett! I’m talking about hypnoticin. It’s a mind-altering substance. DiCanio has been using it on you. You cannot trust yourself around that woman.”
The caller rang off. In silence, Jackson put his cell phone away.
DiCanio was regarding him with a humorless, knowing grin. “Hans Runig?”
“Seems younger than I thought.”
“Probably wasn’t him at all.”
“How old is he?”
She seemed to hold her breath, for about a second. Her eyes closed as she did so; controlled exasperation. “I don’t know, Jackson. I’ve never met him. He refuses to meet me directly. He’ll be in the audience at a seminar I give, then he’ll call me afterwards.”
“He has your phone number?”
DiCanio didn’t answer but her eyes glazed for a moment, flat and dangerous. Jackson thought about what he’d just heard from Runig or his spokesman. They knew about hypnoticin. Did DiCanio realize how much her organization was leaking? He wondered if maybe her work with her secret, supposedly altruistic society, was absorbing too much of her time. It looked as though things weren’t going so well at Chaldexx. Maybe she should be using the hypnoticin to better control her staff’s loose tongues. Then again, the drug’s effect was possibly too short-lived.
