“You’re using the same courier systems that we use at the bank?” Mike asked.
Dr. Tom nodded. “Your father, Pete Ferrari, Roger Malone, Pierre Roth, and Henri Demaureux worked out the details a long time ago. They have been kind enough to allow me to piggyback on their system. I would have thought you knew. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to leave. It’s getting late and I have a long drive. Just promise me one thing.” He looked at each of them in turn.
“What’s that?” Jacques asked.
“Be very careful.”
He hugged them all good-bye and left. They watched his taillights disappear as he drove away down the empty road.
As they reentered the house, Tony said, “Mike, Cecelia, I think the two of you should stay here with me at the ranch. Jacques said it earlier: it’s a good place to hide. Even if someone might find you, I have access to some very unusual and effective sources of protection. We should be quite safe. Besides, I could always use a couple of extra hands around here.”
“Believe me, I don’t need a second invitation,” Cecelia said. “After that last episode, it will be some time before I feel safe staying at my apartment in San Francisco. Tony, if your invitation is sincere, I accept—on one condition.” She looked at Tony and Mike with intensity. “I want to do my part in this plan.”
Chapter 24
CLAUDINE’S ESCAPE
Thoroughly shaken by what Jacques had told her, Claudine took a few minutes to collect her thoughts. For some time, she had been thinking about what she would do if it became necessary for her to suddenly disappear. She had decided that she couldn’t take anything too personal or anything from the office. She looked reluctantly at a framed photo of her father. Make it look as if you are returning.
She remembered what her father had told her—that if these people caught up to them, they wouldn’t be left alive. Her heart ached. She knew she wouldn’t have a chance to tell him good-bye.
She decided that her best chance was to drive directly to Chamonix and take whatever belongings she had left at the chalet. She walked out of her office and went to her car.
From the chalet, I can ski southward from the summit of Mont Blanc, 235 miles to Pugent-Theniers; that’s only 55 miles from the Riviera. Once I get there, I should be able to disappear into the world of southern France. My friends there will take me in.
As she pulled into the street, her mind was only partially focused on her driving. She was mentally skiing down the same tract that she and the other members of the Swiss national team had undertaken each year as part of their endurance training.
The first day’s run to Courmeyer will be the easiest… nothing very demanding. I can use the smooth, open terrain to become accustomed to my skis and the weight of my pack. But what if the Germans are already there, waiting for me? How will I be able to identify them?
She felt the panic setting in and forced it out of her mind. I need to focus on familiar things, things I know. What will I need to take? It should be a four- or five-day journey, but I should be prepared to run into problems along the way.
She knew she would be able to take just one pair of skis. After considering the varying terrain, she decided on a pair of medium-length, medium-soft skis for the short, quick turns she would make skiing close to the fall line, but which she could also use when she wanted to sit back and let the skis do the work.
She thought about where she might stay along the route. Ski resorts would be easy places to blend in, but they didn’t connect with the route very well. It was either cross-country skiing or the local trains, but the train stations would be the first place the Germans would be looking for her. I’ll have to climb over some of the terrain, so I can’t forget to take a set of climbing skins.
As she pictured herself skiing—for her life, this time, instead of for bronze, silver, or gold—doubt began to creep in. How long will it be before they find my car in the garage and figure out that I’m skiing southward? How much of a head start will I have? And the most important question of all—can I really do this?
Claudine’s mind was reeling from all that she had to consider when she stopped for gas and to call her friend, Denise Cumberledge. Denise had been a member of the English women’s ski team, and she and Claudine had competed against each other on numerous occasions, all the time becoming close friends. Over the years, Claudine had been a frequent guest at La Garoupe, a hundred-acre estate with five stately homes, owned by Lady Cumberledge and operated by her daughter. A perfect hiding place, the estate lay on the French coast, halfway between Nice and Cannes, adjacent to Cap d’Antibes.
Famous as the summer home of the duke and duchess of Windsor, La Garoupe was the vacation choice for some of the world’s wealthiest and most famous people. Claudine, however, hoped to use it for purposes other than escaping the paparazzi.
She dialed her friend’s number and waited to hear her voice. “Denise, this is Claudine. I’m in real trouble and I need your help. Could you give me a call back at this number from a public telephone?”
She hung up after Denise promised to call right back, then started to pace around the phone box. I’m sure that she’ll go to the public phone just outside the gates of the estate, near the Plage du Garoupe, Claudine thought. That should take about ten minutes.
Despite her correct calculation, Claudine jumped when the phone rang exactly ten minutes later.
“Denise? Thank goodness! I don’t have much time to talk. I need a place to hide,” she explained in a rush.
“What’s happened?” Denise asked.
“Let’s just say that I have some information that is greatly desired by some very powerful German industrialists, so they’ve hired special agents to find me. I can’t tell you any more right now, but I’m planning to ski down the same route to Puget-Theniers that we used for training. I was hoping La Garoupe could use one more French maid.”
“ Claudine, you know that German officers stay here,” Denise said in a whisper. “On the other hand, I suppose, disguised as a maid, you should be quite safe. I can’t recall any of them ever questioning members of my staff, and I’m sure that one more attractive French maid will be most welcome.”
“What about the staff?” Claudine asked. “Do you think some of them will recognize me?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them,” Denise answered. “None of those who might remember you would ever say anything. In fact, most of them are members of the French Underground. They are so involved with the resistance that protecting you would be an honor. ”
“Okay,” Claudine said. “I’m going to start for Puget-Theniers today. I think it will take me about three days, perhaps four. Could you possibly pick me up there?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll be in the back of that old church at the far end of town. I won’t have any way of calling you, so please just check for me there on the third night.”
“Of course,” Denise said. “No worries about anything on this end. Just be safe on the slopes… and ski like you’re trying to catch me.”
“Oh, really? Which race was that?”
Claudine heard Denise’s laugh and smiled as she hung up the phone. As she pulled out of the gas station, she began to refocus her mind on the rest of the things she would need—clothes, food, liquid, and shelter for four days. Can’t take too much, can’t take too little. I need to be careful about the clothes. This time of year, the weather is changeable—cold blizzards, warm sun, and everything in between. Multiple thin layers, that’s it, and a couple changes of underwear.
She felt better focusing on the more mundane aspects of her journey. She decided she should carry at least one day’s water supply. Two canteens in the rucksack, one for each of the two side pockets.
About the time she completed her mental list, she found herself pulling into the driveway of the chalet.
Once inside, she quickly assembled all that she needed and packed her rucksack. She placed it on the bathroom scale and saw that it weigh
ed just a little less than ten kilos. That’ll be a bit of a strain on my back.
Straightening up, she looked directly into the bathroom mirror. She placed a hand firmly on both sides of the sink and stared hard at her reflection. Quickly, she reached into the nearest drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. With one last look in the mirror, she thought about Jacques stroking her hair as they lay on the sofa near the fireplace. She hesitated for a second, then pulled down on her locks and cut them into a short, blunt style. She rummaged through the rest of the drawers until she found some dye, left there by one of the servants. She grabbed it and rushed toward the shower. When she emerged and looked in the mirror once again, she had become a brunette.
She was ready to go.
Walking the short distance from the chalet to the base station of the overhead cable telepherique, she stood in line anonymously with the other skiers, purchased her ticket, and entered the tram that would carry her just below the fourteen-thousand-foot summit of Mont Blanc.
A bit later, Claudine stood on the summit, looking southward toward Italy and France, thinking about her journey. If these guys want me, they are going to have to catch me!
She hoisted her rucksack onto her shoulders, inserted her hands through the loops of her poles, took a deep breath, and pushed off.
Ski conservatively, make smooth, connected turns, compensate for the weight of your pack, and conserve your energy.
Skiing smoothly at about twenty miles per hour, she made her way down the top third of the mountain. As she developed a feel for her skis, she started to search around for an old fire trail that led through a heavily forested area to a long, twisting run and, eventually, across the Italian frontier to the village of Courmeyer.
Where are those two broken trees that mark the entrance to the fire trail?
Worried about missing the marker and having to climb back up the hill with her rucksack, Claudine slowed her pace and followed the right side of the run until she found the markers.
Leaving the broad expanse of the open run, she entered the narrow trail that wound through thick forest. Below the surface of the snow lay broken trees and limbs, silently waiting to capture the errant skier who dared to veer even slightly from the path.
Any mistake skiing down here could be disastrous… and they could certainly catch up to me if I had a broken leg.
At that thought, Claudine threw a quick glance behind her. She remembered a place just ahead that would give her a view of her back trail. She stopped there and waited, the clouds of her breath puffing before her, slowing as she collected her wind.
After waiting ten minutes and seeing no one appear, she continued, feeling somewhat foolish and paranoid. After all, I don’t even know for certain that anyone’s after me. She took the trail gingerly and, a few minutes later, emerged from the trees onto a long, gradual descent that would deliver her to her first night’s destination miles away.
I remember this part of the run. All I have to do is sit back, keep my tips up, let my skis run, and lean from side to side when I need to turn. Piece of cake.
Mile after mile, she slowly descended the mountain, finally arriving at a small, deserted train station about thirty kilometers from Courmeyer.
She was the only person waiting for the train. So far so good.
______
Back in Chamonix, the Samson agents discovered her car in the middle of the afternoon, just hours after her departure.
After conducting a thorough search of the village, the two agents began showing her picture to shop owners and restaurant staff. It soon became apparent, however, that Claudine was no longer in Chamonix.
They returned to the chalet, picked the lock on the front door, and began searching the Demaureux house for clues. In the basement, one of the agents noticed a space between the other skis neatly arranged along a wall.
“One set is missing,” he said. “She must have gone skiing.”
“Let’s just wait for her to get back.”
When she failed to return by nightfall, they realized that she must have been using the skis to escape.
It was getting dark and the lifts had closed. Near the base lift, there was a large, well-lit sign that showed all the trails. Unfamiliar with the area, the agents had trouble at first deciphering the complicated network. After a while, they began to make out how someone could start in Chamonix and ski into southern France or, by a different route, Italy. They were amazed that the southbound route continued almost all the way to the Riviera.
“She surely wouldn’t be trying to escape into Italy,” one agent said. “So she must be trying to get to the Riviera.”
“We have to catch her before she gets there.”
Studying the map more closely, he said, “It looks as if she has to pass through four villages before she reaches the Riviera. If she gets that far, there’ll be a thousand places she can hide. It’s imperative to stop her before she gets to Puget-Theniers.”
“Let’s head back to the chalet and place a call,” the other man said, turning back. “It’s best to put a team in each of those villages, and employ extra agents to ski the trails she will be using. If we don’t get her out in the open, we’ll find her in one of the towns as she passes through.”
______
Very early the next morning, Claudine awakened in her soft, down bed at the pension in Courmeyer. With the benefit of a good dinner, a hot shower, and a full night’s sleep, she felt recharged and ready to go, despite the long and difficult day ahead.
Getting to the top of Gran Paradiso isn’t going to be easy, and the run down to Lanslebourg is long and technical. But since when have I ever taken the easy way?
Claudine was one of the first skiers in line. She rode up three connecting chairlifts, then skied down a way and took two more lifts to a mountain chalet resting just below the peak of Gran Paradiso. Not pausing for the traditional hot lemonade, she put her skis over her shoulder and started hiking up the sunlit side of the steep peak, toward the summit.
On reaching the thirteen-thousand-foot peak, she thrust her skis securely into the snow, took off her backpack, and sat down in the bright sunlight to have a small lunch and take in the 360-degree view of France, Italy, and Switzerland. Up here, a person could forget about all her worries… almost.
She lingered for a full minute more, then roused herself. Claudine knew that the deep, sun-crusted powder and the steep pitch of the southern-oriented slopes required skiing down the fall line, making quick, short turns. Even under normal circumstances, it would be a real test of my skiing ability and stamina. With the added weight of a heavy pack, it is going to be much more difficult.
But, the minute she had completed the first few turns, the exhilaration of the powdery snow, the warm sunshine, and the steep mountain took over and more than compensated for the weight on her back. Down she went, one turn after another. Her legs were beginning to burn; her lungs were screaming for oxygen, yet she kept telling herself, Keep going, girl. You’re doing great.
When she couldn’t make another turn, she finally swung to a stop and realized that she had just skied down the entire upper portion of the mountain without so much as a pause.Now, there’s something you were never able to do, even when you weren’t carrying a ten-kilo pack. Not bad for a thirty-five-year-old woman!
She turned back to admire her achievement and saw two men just starting down the steep upper slope.
After watching them for a few moments, Claudine was certain that they were not accomplished skiers. In one sense, that was good: lacking her skill, they wouldn’t be able to negotiate the quick-linked turns of deep powder, skiing along the fall line. In another way, it was bad: novices ordinarily wouldn’t take this route.
Are they after me? If they are, they’ll never come close. But they aren’t the problem—it’s the men who might be waiting for me in Lanslebourg that I need to worry about.
Claudine turned back around and forced herself to concentrate on what lay in front of her. She kne
w she would need to use long-radius turns to cover the sun-baked snow on the lower, gentler portion of the mountain. If Jacques were here, he’d think I was copying his style. The thought surprised her, coming out of nowhere as it did, and she realized that she was slightly smiling. Okay, fine. If you ever want to see him again, go!
Claudine skied in the direction of a small village to the south, which she was certain must be Lanslebourg. On the lower slopes, practically out of sight of her pursuers, she chose a combination of runs that would deposit her at the far end of town, opposite the end where skiers from Courmeyer would normally arrive.
Upon reaching the south end of the small village, she took off her skis, put them over her shoulder, and began walking slowly, along with other skiers, toward the center of town. She kept her eyes moving, watching for anything or anyone who seemed out of place. She noticed a pension that she and her father had stayed in last year, and the thought of a hot shower suddenly made her feel very tired.
She started for the lodging, then stopped, taking a step back. Two men were standing in front of the entrance.
She slowed her steps and glanced over in their direction. The snow was packed down around where they was standing, one of them smoking a cigarette.
Judging from the ring of cigarette butts on the snow, they must have been standing there for some time. They are obviously waiting for someone. Could that person be me?
Suddenly, her dreams of a hot shower disappeared and a knot of fear formed in her stomach. Walking into the alley diagonally across the street from the pension, she watched the two men and waited to see if any more showed up. Thirty minutes later, the two skiers from the slope appeared from the opposite end of town and walked toward the other men.
Claudine could feel desperation chilling her body. There are four agents who must have a pretty good idea of where I’m going. Where can I hide in this small town?
The sky was clouding up, a cold south wind was beginning to blow, and temperatures were dropping—a storm was on the way. That meant the lifts would be shutting down within the hour. Claudine considered her options.
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 16
