Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  Outside the cabin, Sybilla tied both of their bergens onto the sled along with three skis. The sled was attached to her waist by a rope.

  “Three skis?” queried Tiny, looking puzzled. “Do you expect me to ski into Chile on one leg? That would be quite some feat.”

  Sybilla gave him a condescending look. “Two are for me so I can escape from your grumbling and constant questioning, and the other one is our emergency brake. You’ll see, all in good time.”

  “Okay, tough guy,” said Sybilla, trying her best to look confident, “it’s less than four hundred yards to the top of that ridge, and we’re in Chile. That’s one lap of a football field. Are we going to make it?

  “Hell, yes!” growled Tiny, his face grim and hard.

  The first hundred yards were fairly level with just a slight incline, but thereafter the slope increased and the going became arduous—and in Tiny’s case, painful. Near the top, the wind had scoured the rocks of snow and they had to contend with bare rock and ice.

  On the ridge, Sybilla made to stop, but Tiny urged her on. “If we stop here, I might not get going again,” he shouted above the whistling of the icy cold wind. “Look, there’s a ledge about twenty foot down, we can shelter there out of the wind.”

  Slowly, very slowly, they descended the slope towards the ledge. Sybilla had to contend with the sled, which was now trying to pull her down the reverse slope, and at the same time keep her wits about her, as together they took perilous step after perilous step over the ice and rocks.

  When they reached the ledge, she helped Tiny into a cleft with his back against the rock face. He looked all in. After securing the sled, Sybilla dropped back full length onto the layer of snow on the ground, breathing deeply.

  “You did great, partner,” said Tiny quietly, admiration clear in his voice.

  Sybilla propped herself onto her elbows. “Well done yourself! You must be impervious to pain.”

  The deep lines on his face and the puffy slits of his eyelids attested to the fact that he was not. “If only,” he groaned.

  They rested for a full quarter of an hour before Sybilla rose to her feet and surveyed the scene. It was a bright day with no snow, so visibility was good. To the south rose the towering mass of Mount Tronador, an extinct volcano, rising a clear thousand foot above the next highest peak. Directly beneath their position she could see the entire slope of the mountainside leading down to a broad, glistening white strip which she recognised immediately as a glacier. It all looked pretty daunting.

  “What’s the glacier?” she asked. She decided she needed to keep Tiny alert. He looked in bad shape. If he became unconscious, she would never get him down the mountain.

  “That’s Casa Pangue,” responded Tiny, “impressive, yes?”

  “Hmm, okay I suppose. Not a patch on Jostedalsbreen in Norway, of course.”

  “Of course,” responded Tiny sarcastically.

  “We’re in Chile, right?” Sybilla asked suddenly.

  “Yeah, by about twenty foot. We need to move on.”

  “Okay, let’s do it!” said Sybilla decisively. “We’re right on the snow line, so from here on I can use the sled.”

  She cleared the sled of bergens and skis and helped Tiny to get on, arranging him so that he was half lying on his right side, but with his right arm free, and with his good, left leg overhanging the front of the sled. Onto his left boot she clipped the single ski whilst she attached the other pair onto her own boots. After tying a bowline in the rope, she poked her right arm and her head through the loop so the weight of the sled would be taken on her back and down through her legs. Having paid out a short length of the rope, she secured it to the rear of the sled, carefully coiling the remainder and fixing it on with a length of twine. Tying Tiny’s bergen onto her own, she pulled them both onto her back. It looked so comical that Tiny couldn’t suppress a laugh.

  “Ballast!” said Sybilla laughing. “I’m going to need all the weight I can get if I’m going to control the sled on this slope.”

  After handing Tiny a ski pole for use with his right hand, Sybilla explained her strategy. “Your ski is the emergency brake. If I say ‘brake’, dig it sideways into the snow. The ski pole will help, and will also help with the steering. There are no passengers on this trip, big guy!”

  Sybilla surveyed the landscape in front of her as she mentally prepared herself. “Okay, Tiny, which way?”

  “Look half right, do you see the start of a wooded valley?” asked Tiny, pointing towards it with his ski pole.

  Sybilla turned in the direction indicated. “I see it.”

  “There’s a safety hut further down that valley. If the message I sent yesterday morning got through, there should be someone waiting for us.”

  Sybilla looked at him askance. “As long as it’s not one of Herwig’s cronies.”

  Tiny glanced behind at Sybilla. “We’re less than a mile from the cabin, but it’ll seem a long way for me and it’ll seem even longer for you. You sure you can make it?”

  “Tiny, I’m a Viking.”

  “Seriously, Billa, one option is you leave me here and go to the cabin for help. There should be one of ours there, then the two of you come back for me?”

  Sybilla pondered for only a moment.

  “One. How long will that take? Two. It would mean I would have to make the journey three times. Three. You would be left here on an exposed ledge within a few feet of the Argentinian border. God knows who or how many of Weber’s crew may be out looking for us. It wouldn’t take the brains of an archbishop to figure out which way we went. Four. What if your guy hasn’t shown up at the cabin?”

  She paused, then added smiling, “Five. It wouldn’t be as much fun as the two of us doing this together!”

  Tiny laughed. “Billa, you’re mad! Are all Vikings mad?”

  “Every single last one of them.” With that, she gave the sled a push and sent it a couple of feet down the slope. The jerk as she took the strain nearly pulled her off her feet, but she had prepared herself and she was now almost parallel to the ground, her bulky bergen combination actually touching the snow, her skis across the slope and dug in sideways.

  Sybilla experimented with stepping down the slope. She found that taking her lead leg about six inches down the slope, then crunching her ski back into the snow as a brake before following up with the rear leg, proved to be the safest and most effective way to descend. Very soon she was able to set up a rhythm, but it was hard work, particularly for her legs and back. After a hundred feet or so, she had to call for the ‘brake’. Tiny obliged, but she dared not rest for too long; she didn’t want to exhaust him. It was about two hundred feet to the start of the valley, but as well as descending, she had to traverse to line up with the head of the valley. Tiny helped with this, using his one ski and ski pole to keep the sled pointing in the right direction.

  A hundred feet further on, Sybilla reached the point at which she had planned to have her next rest break, but as she passed it, she gritted her teeth and decided to keep going. She was desperately tired, but if they reached the trees she would have somewhere to secure the sled and take a longer break.

  The distance to the trees was now only a hundred feet or so, but it seemed never ending. After what felt like an eternity, she was able to butt the front of the sled up against the base of one of the trees and secure the rope to another.

  Sybilla fell onto her hands and knees, her chest heaving as she gasped in an attempt to draw as much of the thin air into her lungs as she could. The muscles in her legs were full of lactic acid and felt like jelly, and her whole body trembled uncontrollably. After a while she flopped onto her back, still breathing deeply.

  “Tiny,” she managed to say between gasps, “if I was a horse in this condition, they would shoot me.”

  Tiny shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Billa.” He spoke very quietly. “I’m genuinely in awe.”

  “Anyway,” he said after a pause, “the going will be easier now.
You can use the machines to help!”

  Nature Provides

  Sybilla shot bolt upright. “Machines? What machines?”

  “The ones all around you. Look about.”

  Shuffling towards him on her knees, Sybilla placed a hand on Tiny’s brow. “Tiny, don’t crash out on me now. I need you conscious and alert.”

  “I’m okay, Billa, I’m talking about the trees. Every tree here is a windlass with a brake. Just wrap the rope twice around the tree and it will take the strain. The bark will act as a brake.”

  Sybilla stared at him open-mouthed and then slowly looked around, breaking into a smile. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Tiny, you are a genius. Mind you,” she said, rising to her feet, “I never did agree with the others who said you were a halfwit.”

  “Oh thanks, Billa, that’s really sweet, you’re such a comfort!”

  They enacted Tiny’s plan, which worked to perfection, allowing them to descend the slope in fifty- to eighty-foot intervals, securing the sled each time the rope nearly reached its end, dismantling the belay point and starting further down the slope.

  At the end of the second leg, Tiny decided with Sybilla’s help to change his position so he was facing down the sled and hence down the slope. In this position he was able to provide steerage using his good arm and ski pole, thus avoiding trees and speeding up the descent. He had abandoned his single ski, which was simply getting in the way now.

  After six legs they stopped for a rest and a brew.

  “How far now, Tiny?”

  “Difficult to be certain. Last time I visited I was walking, travelling de-luxe like this gives a different perspective. I’d say about two hundred yards—should see it soon. It’s in a clearing.”

  “In that case, let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can have a proper rest and check your leg,” said Sybilla rising and discarding the dregs of her coffee.

  After five further legs, they spotted the cabin not more than thirty yards away. A man was impatiently stalking backwards and forwards, in front of it.

  “Recognise him?” asked Sybilla in a hushed voice.

  “Looks like Jarib Morales, but I can’t be sure, he’s well muffled up,” Tiny whispered. “Still have Weber’s Luger?”

  “Here, in my jacket pocket.”

  Take it out and cock it, but keep it hidden,” Tiny said, still keeping his voice low. “I have my magnum in my jacket. We’ll try to bring him to us, that way if he’s ‘unfriendly’ we’ll out-gun him and have the drop on him. Hail him, Billa.”

  Stepping out from behind the tree she had been using for cover, Sybilla waved her arms. “Jarib! Here Jarib, it’s Tiny and Billa, up here!”

  She watched as the man stopped in his tracks, staring up towards her. He hesitated for a while then started towards them, clambering up the slope as fast as he could. When he was within fifteen yards, Tiny visibly relaxed.

  “It’s Jarib,” he breathed.

  When Jarib spotted Tiny on the sled bandaged and bloody, he became almost hysterical, beating his head with his hands and babbling incoherently in Chilean Spanish.

  “Relax, Jarib, relax,” admonished Tiny. “I’ve got a couple of holes in me, courtesy of one of our Nazi friends over the ridge, but Nurse Thorstaadt here says I’ll live.”

  It was now Sybilla’s turn to receive attention from the Chilean as he stood in front of her gazing into her eyes, his face creased with concern and his hands together as if in prayer, but speaking far too fast for Sybilla to understand fully. The gist of it seemed to be that he was thanking her for looking after Tiny and imploring her to continue to do so.

  “It’s fine, Jarib, it’s fine,” said Sybilla, placing her hands on his shoulders in reassurance.

  Jarib stood no more than five and a half feet and was slight, but his face was hard and careworn. A sense of toughness belied his small stature, and there was more than a hint of Amerindian about him. After he had calmed down somewhat, Tiny attempted introductions.

  “Billa, as you’ve probably guessed, this fine man is Jarib Morales, a locally recruited CIA employee who once saved my life. That said, I also once saved his life, so I suppose that makes us even, but it doesn’t work quite like that, eh Jarib?”

  “Eh, no, Tiny!” said the little man, breaking into a form of English. “Never forget. We stay big friends always.”

  “Jarib, we need to get Tiny to the hut, pronto! Okay?” said Sybilla.

  “Si, okay, no problem.” Jarib retied the rope so that the middle section was attached to the rear of the sled at two corners, leaving two free ends for Sybilla and himself. The slope was much shallower now, and required little effort on the part of Sybilla and Jarib to steer the sled to the hut. Together they manhandled Tiny onto the lower bunk bed inside.

  The hut was a replica of the one by the lake, including a first aid box which Sybilla immediately raided. She was relieved to find two first field dressings which she applied to Tiny’s leg wound after discarding the old ones. The wound had bled slightly on their journey from the previous cabin but appeared to be stable at present.

  Jarib then broke out rations from his pack. He had brought bread, cold meat and a type of sausage that proved rather peppery, but both Sybilla and Tiny devoured it gratefully.

  As they sat drinking hot coffee, Sybilla looked at her watch. It was just before three. “Do we stay here overnight, Jarib?”

  “No! Need to get Tiny to doctor, plenty quick. I know doctor who don’t ask questions. Only short distance to logger camp, my pickup there.”

  Jarib’s short distance turned out to be about a mile, but with the shallower slope of the valley as it made its way towards the glacier, the going was relatively easy. Sybilla spoke to the little man in Spanish, as her ability in the language appeared to be somewhat better than his limited command of English. He explained that the chief at the logger camp was a personal friend, therefore when he came to the area to climb—apparently his passion—he always parked there.

  They arrived at the camp just as the sun was thinking about making its way down behind the mountain. Seeing that they had a casualty, Eduardo, the logging boss, ran over to help them. Jarib explained that the man had had an accident while climbing but would be okay and then, with Eduardo’s help, they were easily able to load Tiny into the back of the pickup while Sybilla fussed over him and covered him with their sleeping bags.

  After a couple of hundred yards of rough track, they emerged onto a main road which followed the course of the glacier to the town of Peulla, where the glacier calved into Lake Todos los Santos.

  The doctor emerged from Jarib’s spare bedroom and made his way into the small kitchen where he washed the blood from his hands before entering the lounge where Jarib and Sybilla sat, anxiety etched on their concerned faces.

  “These are clearly gunshot wounds,” he began, his face betraying nothing. “Normally I would report such incidents, however”—this with a meaningful glance at Jarib—“under the circumstances, I will enter in my notes that I attended to a climber who had fallen and suffered a number of lacerations and a fractured clavicle.”

  He allowed this to register before continuing. “There appears to be no lasting damage—both bullets passed through. As far as his leg is concerned, it is a nasty wound that has required several stitches, however the bone is intact. The clavicle has been pierced by a bullet that has left a hole, and although the clavicle is not shattered, there will, in all likelihood, be a number of hairline fractures radiating from it. Both the hole and the hairline fractures will heal of their own accord if allowed to do so. That means rest!

  “That said,” he added with a rather sour look on his face, “I would be grateful if the patient could be removed from Peulla as soon as possible before someone else decides to investigate this ‘accident’.”

  “A private ambulance will arrive from Concepcion tomorrow morning,” confirmed Jarib.

  “Good!” said the doctor rising and lo
oking from Jarib to Sybilla. “Complete rest.”

  As the aircraft from Santiago to Houston reached its cruising height, Sybilla unstrapped her safety belt and leaned over to help Tiny with his. His seat back had been lowered as far as possible and the seat behind left empty purposely to accommodate this.

  Tiny had been admitted to a private sanatorium in Concepcion where he had been x-rayed and his wounds had received further attention. The doctors there confirmed the diagnosis of the doctor at Peulla and, after a few days’ convalescence, he had been transferred by privately rented ambulance to an exclusive sanatorium in Santiago. Sybilla had refused the offer of early repatriation, preferring instead to wait until Tiny was well enough to travel so she could leave with him.

  “You once said I had to wait until we were on a plane out of Santiago before I thanked you. Well, partner, here we are, so thanks!” said Sybilla.

  “I believe it was a British general after the Battle of Waterloo who said, ‘it was a damn close-run thing’,” Tiny replied, then after a pause continued, “Have you contacted London?”

  “Yes. Thanks for introducing me to your people in Santiago and for allowing me to use your facilities.”

  “They are now aware that Eva Braun is alive and that Hitler has an heir?”

  “Yes.” Sybilla frowned.

  “And?”

  Sybilla hesitated, clearly not at ease. “He will have to be … eliminated.”

  Tiny shook his head and spoke quietly. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Nor could I,” Sybilla whispered, “but I think I know a man who can.”

  Part V

  The Net Closes

  Baptism in Blood

  Tramp! Tramp! TRAMP! TRAMP!

  The sound of jackboots crashing onto concrete echoed around the walls of Wewelsburg Castle as twelve stalwarts, veterans of the Second World War, resplendent in their black SS uniforms, goose-stepped their way in perfect synchronicity along a corridor leading to the North Tower.