The crowd below, in its ignorance, cheered.
When the ladder reversed direction away from the tower, the crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief. Only to cry out again when they saw that the ladder was swinging once more toward the tower. And this time, it was moving very, very quickly indeed.
“See what I mean about my guys?” Mariucci said. “New York City doesn’t forgive and it doesn’t forget.”
Ambrose couldn’t muster a reply. He was simply transfixed by the sight of the Chinaman’s death struggle at the top of the tower. He couldn’t go any higher. And he knew what was waiting for him at the bottom.
Chapter Forty
Bavaria
“I FORGOT SOMETHING,” STOKE SAID, TRYING TO CATCH HIS breath. They’d been climbing in deep snow for nearly an hour. The sun was barely up. The boughs of the high-altitude pines were heavy with new snow already starting to melt. Last night’s freakish storm had eased up to flurries, and you could see bright blue sky behind the clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day. But that didn’t help Stoke’s mood much. It was still bitingly cold and heavy slogging. He looked at Jet and tried to fake a smile.
“I’m sorry, Jet, we got to go back down to the damn hotel.”
“What did you just say?”
“We have to go back down.”
“I cannot believe this,” Jet said, ripping her goggles off and flinging them into the snow.
“I can’t believe you!” Stoke said. “Here I save your ass and—”
“You saved me? I’m the one who took out Viktor when—”
“No, I meant the other time when—you know—back on Schatzi’s yacht. That cage thing.”
“Jesus, Stoke.”
Jet was not a happy camper. Slogging through heavy snow up a steep mountainside in the dark and cold didn’t appeal to some women. But it had to be done. They’d left in a hurry. Stoke had pointed out that before their deaths either Viktor or Irma could have put in a call to von Draxis. It could have easily happened while Jet was giving Stoke the tour of Schloss Reichenbach. There was obviously no way to know. But you had to assume it was a possibility. So it had made sense for them to vacate immediately before they were trapped in the gasthaus by the snowstorm.
Jet agreed. The good news was the storm was probably keeping all aircraft grounded. Von Draxis wouldn’t be able to put a chopper in the air. But, Jet told Stokely, there was a strong likelihood von Draxis would already have men with their descriptions posted at the local train and bus stations. Yeah, Stoke said, they would have to go back the way they came. On foot. Over the mountains to Salzburg. There, they could rest and then catch the first Schnellzug smoking to Berlin.
Snow was rare this time of year. But, at this elevation, it was not at all unheard of. So, before bidding fond adieu to the late Viktor and Irma, he and Jet had turned the house upside-down. They’d rummaged through all the drawers and closets and found enough snow gear and parkas to get them back to Salzburg. But, at the last minute, Jet had handed Stoke two long skinny sticks with leather straps on them and told him to put them on. Stoke looked at her like she was crazy.
In that way, Jet had learned that Stokely didn’t know how to ski cross-country. So, now, they were making the trek using snowshoes. It wasn’t his fault, she’d told him, that it had snowed. Or that he didn’t know how to ski, or any of that. No, no, none of it was his fault, but she sure as hell acted like it was. All of it. All the way.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jet now said, calmer, brushing wet snow from her eyes and stamping her feet. “You forgot something?”
“I wish I was kidding. I hate these damn shoes. How’s anybody supposed to walk around with tennis racquets strapped to his feet? It’s not natural.”
“All right, Stokely. What did you forget?”
“Oh, the damn guest register, that’s all.”
“The guest register! Shit! I can’t believe it!”
“I know, I know. Like leaving a signed confession at a murder scene. Really stupid.”
“Not you, me! How could I have forgotten that?”
“You don’t blame me?”
“Hell no. It’s on me. Serious lapse of professional concentration on my part. I was so worried about the storm closing in that—you’re right. We have to go back. Let’s get going. I apologize.”
“All right, then,” Stoke said. Smiling, he began following the fresh path she’d made in the snow, happier than hell to be out of the doghouse. Also, he had to admit her being the lead dog made the view much better and the going much easier. He was beginning to understand why Alex Hawke, despite his misgivings about the woman, had told Stoke to take good care of her.
After half an hour of picking their way carefully back down the mountain, they came through the pines to a rocky ridge. The site overlooked a bowl-shaped valley, dazzling white with snow. To the left lay a jewel of a lake, a deep, sparkling blue. Beyond the valley was the treeline where the serious trees grew. Great big towering conifers, draped in snow, soaring sixty or seventy feet into the sky. The blue sky and water, the green trees, the white snow. It was so pretty, like a fairy tale, Stoke could hardly stand it.
“Let’s hold up a sec, catch our breath,” Stoke said, looking around at the view. A minute ago, he thought he’d heard something. Like a faint buzz. He held his breath and listened. Now, it was gone.
“Good idea,” Jet said.
“Hey, what’s that?”
“What?”
“Back there behind us. Just coming over the mountains. Little black dot in the sky. See it?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. Let’s get across this valley as fast as we can. Once we reach the treeline we’ll be all right. C’mon. Hurry!”
Stoke took off, running as fast as he was able in the damn snowshoes. Stoke was fast—in another life he’d been professionally employed as a running back—but Jet kept up with him.
“What is it?” she said, crunching the snow right behind him.
“A helicopter,” Stoke said. “Maybe just a coincidence, but we can’t afford to take that chance.”
“Right.”
“Hey, am I holding you up?” He’d heard her coming up fast behind him.
“A little.”
“Go on ahead then, girl. I’ll catch up with you at the guest-house. If that’s who I think it is up there behind us, we can’t afford to have them find the bodies and our names in the guestbook. They’ll get on the chopper radio and we can forget about ever making it to Berlin. Go!”
She raced ahead. Stoke couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder at the little black dot that kept getting bigger and bigger in the sky. He could hear it clearly now, too. Kind of a high droning noise. He’d been trying to convince himself that maybe he was lucky. Maybe it was just a Bavarian Mountain Rescue helo, out for a spin. Looking for lost campers. But Stoke had a saying about these kinds of feelings: “Luck is for losers.”
He took the snowshoes off, Velcroed them to his backpack, and started plowing through the snow in just his boots. He thought it seemed a little faster. But he was still way behind Jet. She was already into the woods. Girl ran like a deer, even in snowshoes. Anyway, he could still make it to the treeline before the chopper got close enough to see him. Leastways, he thought he could. He ran even harder.
Out of breath, he dove headlong into the woods and lay panting on the ground. The buzz got louder. He got to his knees, remaining crouched between two evergreens in the scrub to watch the oncoming helicopter. It had clearly descended to a lower altitude. He kept hoping for a course change. That would make their lives a whole lot simpler. But it wasn’t happening. The chopper was on a direct heading for the gasthaus.