The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

by Vic Robbie

  The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

  Vic Robbie

  Contents

  Other books by Vic Robbie

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Also by Vic Robbie

  Enjoy the book?

  Join me on a journey

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books by Vic Robbie

  Ben Peters World War II thriller series

  * * *

  IN PURSUIT OF PLATINUM

  * * *

  PARADISE GOLD

  Prologue

  Argentina, January 23rd, 1998

  What he saw did not exist. He was certain of that, but when he moved around a massive boulder high in the Andes there it was. Must be a trick of the light. Sunshine slanting off rock could create many weird shapes. Or had his mind surrendered to the altitude? He took off his gloves and massaged his eyes and face causing the morning moisture to run into his matted beard. He risked another look, willing it to be gone, and tried to control his ragged breathing in the thin air.

  As fingers of ice crept up his spine, Godfried Meulenbel considered calling his brother but decided against it. Gustaaf and the guides would accuse him of seeing ghosts. They might claim the reason for his sighting to be AMS, acute mountain sickness, and he would never live it down. He knew he wasn’t hallucinating. Neither was he fatigued, and he could still walk in a straight line.

  It was only twenty feet away. Quite clear now. He wanted to touch it to confirm his find. As he scrambled closer, he reminded himself to concentrate on his footing. Some way behind, his brother shouted. There was an edge to his voice, but nothing could be as important.

  Was it real or would it disappear and he would feel an idiot and wonder if his mountaineering days were over? He reached out to touch it. His hand hovered, but he couldn’t lower it as if an invisible force were blocking him. AMS does strange things to your mind at this altitude. Angered by his cowardice, he turned away and projected his breakfast down the mountainside. Unsure what to do, he felt guilty as though he had disturbed a grave. And his innards twisted as if wrung like wet clothes. His brother was laughing and joking with the guides as he retraced his steps to the boulder, but all he felt was fear.

  The Meulenbel brothers had come from The Netherlands to climb Mount Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western and Southern hemispheres, and as preparation were tackling the not inconsiderable Tupungato, which straddles the borders of Chile and Argentina. They had spent more than six days on the mountain, and on this morning they and their local guides were traversing the bottom of a glacier on the north-eastern slope of Tupungato. The previous night they had bivouacked on dry ground at around fifteen thousand feet and after a breakfast of ham and eggs headed for the summit. The trek had been arduous to this point, wading through rivers and streams and crossing snow fields. Now the conditions were perfect with temperatures of twenty degrees, and in the clear light, they saw Aconcagua to the north and the city of Mendoza down on the plain. The detachment from reality was like observing a distant planet that could never be reached.

  Ahead of them lay a seven-hour climb and, at the start, the snow and ice and a steep climb through loose stones and dirt added to the difficulty. As usual, he took the lead and his brother hung back, taking as many photographs as possible. Photography was a profitable sideline in their business, the proceeds helping fund their expeditions. Gustaaf was the better climber, but he always deferred to him as he did on almost everything else in life. He believed there was no greater experience than climbing. Even when surrounded by colleagues, he could be alone on a mountain, and the challenge of conquering a peak was as addictive as a drug.

  ‘Gustaaf, Gustaaf,’ he called. The excitement in his voice usually meant he had discovered something he wanted to share. This time his tone was harsher, almost fearful. Fellow climbers regarded him as unflappable. A vital attribute when you were dangling from a rope with a drop of thousands of feet beneath you. He never appeared to be fazed until now.

  ‘On my way,’ his brother shouted, scrambling towards the toe end of the glacier and gesturing for the guides to follow.

  ‘Quick,’ he insisted.

  ‘What is it?’ Gustaaf wondered what was troubling him.

  As his brother approached, he turned, his face lined with worry. ‘Steel yourself,’ he warned. ‘It’s not pretty.’

  Gustaaf followed him around the boulder and looked in the direction of his gesture. At first, he saw only scattered rocks. But when he focused, he could see what Godfried was pointing at with a shaking hand.

  The decaying corpse sat at the controls of what had once been a plane – the head tilted to one side, and its large teeth gleaming in a rictus grin. Wrapped around its rib cage remnants of a white shirt, with a black epaulette displaying four gold bars, flapped in the brisk wind. It wasn’t whole. The skull and torso were intact, but the limbs were missing. And three bony fingers still clutched the controls as if charting a course through eternity.

  ‘What?’ Gustaaf slumped on a rock as his legs gave way. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Must be a plane crash,’ he said, regaining a modicum of composure. The guides nodded their agreement.

  ‘When?’

  He worked his beard and fired a question in Spanish at the guides, but all they offered were apologetic shrugs.

  ‘Are there others?’ Gustaaf asked and glanced around.

  ‘There must be.’

  ‘I’ll take photos,’ Gustaaf said, relieved to have something to do. ‘Might help the investigators.’

  They separated and within a hundred yards he found the remains of what he reckoned to be another two bodies. He knelt to inspect them yet still couldn’t touch their bones, and he jumped up and gagged as he felt sick again. In amongst the rocks, bags, personal effects, books, equipment, the detritus of an accident, lay everywhere as if thrown by the hand of a giant.

  ‘It must have crashed around here,’ his brother said and pointed at a tangle of metal wreckage. He scrambled over and ran a hand across the surface, pushing away dirt. ‘There’s something here,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A brass plaque.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Gustaaf peered at it. ‘Rolls Royce. Looks like part of an engine.’

  As a boy, he had devoured any information about planes he could get his hands on, and he came over and studied the wreckage with some knowledge. ‘I’m no expert, but…’ He looked puzzled. ‘Maybe part of a Merlin engine. Perhaps an Avro Lancastrian.’ He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘But they s
topped production in the fifties.’

  ‘Well, that body can’t be fifty years old.’

  He gave his brother a strange look and walked over to the guides and talked to them for several minutes. Alarmed and uncomfortable, the guides glanced at the wreckage, their faces full of distrust, and one moaned and muttered in a dialect he couldn’t decipher. He returned, bewilderment creeping across his face. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘There have been no reports of a plane crashing here recently.’ He put his hat back on and pulled it over his ears as if that might shut out the voices in his head. ‘In fact, they say that to their knowledge there have been no reports in their lifetime of any accidents here.’

  ‘That’s impossible. What’s this?’

  He interrupted him with a raised a hand. ‘There’s an old story of an Avro Lancastrian on route from Buenos Aires to Santiago in Chile that was lost back in the forties.’

  ‘That might explain it.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He looked again at the brass plaque and then towards the corpse. ‘It received a lot of publicity at the time because they never found the wreckage and its occupants despite intensive land and air searches.’

  ‘You mean this plane disappeared and now reappears fifty years later?’

  He nodded and saw the look of unease on his brother’s face.

  ‘It makes little sense,’ Gustaaf said. ‘I’ve heard of ghost ships, but a ghost aeroplane?’

  Deep in thought, he wasn’t listening.

  ‘Would it have been carrying passengers?’

  ‘Probably, if it’s a Lancastrian,’ he replied. ‘It has spooked our guides. They are superstitious fellows. They believe we have disturbed ghosts and are insisting we get off the mountain now.’

  Gustaaf didn’t disagree.

  After photographing their discovery and determining its position, they took another route down with the guides exhorting them to hurry. On the way, they came across part of a propeller and a wheel with its tyre still inflated and what looked like a piece of leather that Gustaaf moved with his foot. He resumed his descent but doubled back and picked it up. Recoiling, he dropped it and turned away.

  ‘What is it?’ Godfried called and scrambled over to him.

  ‘That.’ His brother pushed it with his boot.

  He squinted. An ankle boot containing the remains of a foot lay in the scree. No sooner had they made the find than the nervous guides shouted them over, having discovered what appeared to be the remains of another body.

  Gustaaf slumped on a rock, his eyes deep sunken as if they had retreated from the horror. ‘Have you got that brandy?’

  He had taken it for a celebratory toast once they reached the summit. It would have to wait another day. He handed the flask over to his brother, who took an almighty swig before giving it back. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No.’ He kicked loose stones. ‘I just want to get off this damned mountain.

  Buenos Aires, March 30, 1998

  Three men sat behind a sturdy table on a dais in a room of a government building off Plaza de Mayo. They were different, but all attempted to hide their nervousness. It was hot, the kind of heat where thinking makes you sweat. Humid also, not helped by the open windows that let in a warm breeze that would soon bring rain and the constant drone of traffic on the Avenue Hipólito Yrigoyen. There was no air-conditioning; the fans only pushing the heat around the crowded room. Through the windows, Casada Rosada, Argentina’s White House, dominated the area.

  Although the plane’s disappearance and mysterious reappearance fifty-one years later had been reported worldwide, officials had underestimated the media’s interest. And the room couldn’t accommodate all of those wanting to attend the press conference.

  On the left, a man in a military uniform with a large black moustache tried not to engage the audience before him, instead staring towards the back of the room. The card on the table identified him as Colonel Moreno, of the Argentine Army. In the centre sat a younger man in a sharp blue suit. Clean cut with his brown hair parted on the side, he gazed out at everyone, and every so often an uncertain grin flickered across his face. He carried his confidence like an ill-fitting wig that was obvious to all and at any moment might slip off. Francisco Vega represented the Ministry of Aviation. The third man’s eyes sparkled behind rimless spectacles. And he had a smile for anyone who glanced his way. His suit rumpled and tie loosened, Dr Leandro Carizzo, of the Universidad de Buenos Aires, looked forward to engaging his audience.

  Vega had hosted other press conferences, but this was unusual because of the interest of the international Press. The usual scrum of reporters from the local newspapers and elsewhere in the country jostled for the best seats. A few radio stations and a television crew stood to the side. On the front row sat four journalists who would promulgate his statements and answers around the world. He studied each of them, attempting to predict how they would operate. The Times of London’s representative was small and round as though he had eaten too often on expenses. Beside him, a tall, lean man with a beak of a nose represented The New York Times. A blonde woman from Germany’s Der Spiegel, who despite the heat appeared ice cool, sat next to him with a bored expression on her face, which she fanned with a magazine. Alongside, an older woman with wiry grey hair glared at the trio, giving the impression she expected to be disappointed and had been often. Animosity emanated from her perhaps because her editor at Reuters in Paris had diverted her from a vacation to Machu Picchu in Peru to cover this story.

  He pursed his lips to prevent them flaring into a nervous chuckle. It was like facing the three wise monkeys plus a gorilla. On the hour, he decided to start as latecomers wouldn’t be able to squeeze in. He tapped the microphone before him and cleared his throat.

  ‘Buenos dias.’ He smiled in the Reuters reporter’s direction. ‘Good morning.’ Receiving an acid look in response, he recoiled. ‘If you could be patient, I shall conduct this press conference in both Spanish and English as there are some illustrious visitors here.’ He swept a hand along the front row to a rumble of dissent from the local press.

  Someone at the back muttered in Spanish. ‘Get on with it.’ And he appeared to shrink.

  ‘The purpose of today is to provide you with the findings of our special investigation team headed by Dr Carizzo and the search team led by Colonel Moreno to Mount Tupungato.’ He glanced at each in turn. ‘An Avro Lancastrian aircraft left Morón Airport in Buenos Aires for Los Cerrillos Airport in Santiago, Chile, on the thirteenth of July 1947, and disappeared. Two months ago the Meulenbel brothers discovered the wreckage of the plane on a glacier on Mount Tupungato.’

  When the man from The Times lit a cigar and blew smoke in his direction, he cleared his throat again.

  ‘We are now in a position to correct the lurid conjecture in the media surrounding this unfortunate accident. The Avro Lancastrian, which often flew this route, was being hired out for charter flights. A party of six or seven – there is some confusion about exact numbers – booked this plane, and there were four very experienced crew members aboard. Please note this flight had been given special clearance by the authorities…’

  ‘Who were the passengers?’ The New York Times correspondent interrupted.

  Vega stumbled out of his stride. ‘The four crew – the captain, co-pilot, radio operator and flight engineer – have been identified. We will release their names when we receive permission from their relatives.’

  ‘The passengers?’

  ‘We do not have those names.’ He was flustered, realising he should divert this line of questioning.

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged his shoulders with a nervous twitch.

  ‘Why?’ The New York Times journalist persisted, but Vega avoided engaging his enquiring stare.

  ‘They must have been important to get official clearance?’ The man’s smile grew the more he scented a story.

  ‘If I may, I will come back to that in due
course.’

  His interrogator sighed and folded his arms and waited for his moment.

  Vega continued, reading from a sheet of paper on the table in front of him.

  ‘The flight should have taken four hours. At 5.40pm they radioed Santiago to report they were five minutes from landing, yet the wreckage was many kilometres off course.’

  The Reuters woman interjected. ’We know they didn’t make it. What we want to know is what happened to it?’

  He struggled to hide his annoyance at her interruption to his script.

  She persisted.‘There are suggestions that a bomb blew it up, or it was abducted by a UFO.’ She laughed, but it sounded like the rattle of a snake.

  He put up both hands, palms towards his audience. ‘That’s all speculation. Please…’ He paused again and, getting no more interruptions, continued. ‘Conditions were good at take-off. Above the Andes when it reached an altitude of more than 24,000 feet it encountered heavy snowfall. And high winds and thick clouds could have blocked visibility of the ground. Dr Carizzo, would you care to elaborate?’

  The crash investigator was keen to get involved. He smiled at everyone as his gaze swept around the room before concentrating on the front row. ‘As you’ve heard, they found the aircraft’s wreckage twenty-eight nautical miles off course. We believe the plane entered the jet stream zone and encountered headwinds of more than a hundred miles an hour. That would have decreased its ground speed. And a combination of snow, wind and lack of visibility caused it to fly into a vertical snow field at the top of the glacier.’