Setting off down the trail at a brisk pace, being sure to stay just in front of two male climbers, Alex walked for about quarter of a mile before stopping, then bending over in the middle of the path to tie a bootlace. The two climbers nudged each other and stared appreciatively at the long, slender legs and shapely backside blocking their way. Smiling and excusing themselves as they squeezed past, the two men carried on down the path towards the glacier, chatting happily as they disappeared around a corner.
After checking there was no one else in sight, Alex quickly removed the sunglasses, wig, fleece jacket and padded bra, stuffed them into the rucksack, then slipped into a pair of blue tracksuit bottoms and set off back up the path towards the rack-railway terminus.
Hardly anyone noticed the pleasant looking young man with short brown hair, wearing a white polo shirt and baggy blue trousers, as he rode the rack-railway back down to Chamonix, crossed the iron bridge to the SNCF mainline station then boarded the train for Paris.
It wasn’t until an hour or so later, that the warm sun streaming into the refuge hut brought Alice out of a deep sleep. She felt snug and comfortable under the pile of blankets, and for a few moments thought she was at home in her own bed.
Then she tried to move, which was a mistake. Pain washed over her and she suddenly remembered, with fresh horror, what had happened the night before. The burning rage she’d felt towards Ross, the rage that had driven her through the snow and across the ice, the rage that had saved her life, flared again.
She lay perfectly still for a few moments looking around, trying to take in her new environment. Slowly she moved each part of her body, testing it for function and pain. She was incredibly stiff and found every movement agony, but eventually managed to prop herself up on one elbow so that she could look out through the open door.
Just outside the hut she could see a tall, deeply tanned man wearing a white T-shirt and red climbing trousers. His braces hung loosely at his sides and he was drinking from a steaming tin mug. He kept looking up at the sky, cocking his head from side to side as if listening for a distant sound. Apparently feeling her eyes on him, he glanced over his shoulder into the hut, and seeing she was awake, quickly came inside and knelt on the floor next to the bunk.
‘So you are awake!’ he said in good English with a mild French accent. ‘How are you feeling?’
She studied his handsome features, the three-day-old stubble, the tousled dark hair, the worry lines on his forehead and the look of anxiety on his face. She tried to smile, but her chapped and split lips were too painful. Finally she just settled for saying hoarsely, ‘Not too bad. Thank you for helping me,’ as she lay back down flat on the bed, wincing with pain.
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, brushing the hair from her face and gently feeling the temperature of her forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘You had me worried for a while last night. I thought I would never get you warm.’
She was overwhelmed by his kindness, and felt her anger ebbing away. Not knowing really what to say, she asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Philippe Dulac. What is yours?’
‘Alice Webley.’ Then she asked, ‘What is this place?’
Looking around him he replied, ‘This wooden palace is the Refuge de la Charpoua, high on the Glacier de la Charpoua, about seven kilometers from the town of Chamonix. It is one of many refuge huts placed throughout the mountains for climbers to use. But you do not look like a climber. Tell me, how did you manage to get this high up without any equipment?’
Alice shifted her gaze away from him and said, ‘I’d rather not say.’
Philippe looked rather taken aback by her reticence, but said cheerfully, ‘Well, do not worry, we will have you safe in a hospital as soon as the rescue helicopter arrives.’
Panic flared in Alice. She looked straight at him again and asked urgently, ‘Have you called them yet?’ She desperately wanted time to think things through before going back.
‘Cell phones do not work in most of these deep valleys, and the smaller huts do not have radios, but the helicopter patrols the area several times every day. When I hear them coming, I will signal to them. Do not worry.’
Alice relaxed a little, then asked, ‘How badly am I hurt?’
‘Nothing too serious, mainly bruises and some cuts on your hands and legs. I think you must have fallen.’
‘I fell all right,’ she said coolly. Then, after thinking for a few moments she added, ‘Look, I don’t think it’s worth bothering the helicopter rescue people. Couldn’t I just stay here for a little while, then walk down?’
‘Without crampons? You would never make it!’
‘Don’t you have any spare ones I could use?’ she asked.
‘There are a few spare pieces of climbing equipment here for people to use in an emergency,’ he admitted.
‘Fine then, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘But you are hurt,’ he protested. ‘I do not understand why you want to walk all that way when you could be flown to the hospital in just a few minutes!’
‘Call it pride if you want to. I got up this mountain, and I want to get back down it under my own steam.’
‘You are a very obstinate woman, Madame Webley,’ he smiled, ‘but I like your spirit. If you are going to stay here, it is on two conditions. One, that you let me look after you, and two, that if you are not fit to walk by tomorrow, you let me signal to the helicopter.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with relief. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Now, If I’m going to get you well enough to walk off this glacier, you are going to have to eat. I will make you some hot soup.’
Down on the yacht off Monaco, Ross had just surfaced following a very late night. After recovering from the scare David Wiseman had thrown him, he’d spent the next few hours drinking and playing cards. When he’d finally gone to bed around dawn, he’d drifted into a restless sleep. The image of Alice tumbling away from him into the darkness kept being intermingled with visions of Wiseman asking, ‘Where is she buried… where is she buried?’
By ten, he’d given up trying to sleep. He showered, shaved and made his way onto deck, looking, he hoped, very much better than he felt in his affluent yachtsman outfit; white deck shoes, cream Chinos, yellow polo shirt, navy blazer, and white peaked cap. He found Bonatti and a few of the resident guests sitting in deckchairs on the afterdeck under an awning, some eating their breakfast, others drinking theirs. Bonatti spotted him and called out, ‘Good morning, Ross! Come and sit here next to me, my friend.’
Ross exchanged pleasantries with some of the other guests, then took his place next to Bonatti and ordered coffee from a steward. He couldn’t face solid food. When the coffee arrived, he turned to his host and asked, ‘Ricky, do you remember that chap, Wiseman, you introduced me to last night?’
‘The little New Yorker with the glasses?’
‘That’s the fellow,’ Ross said. ‘ What do you know about him?’
‘Not much, he came with Henry White, the US Ambassador. He told me he was related to your wife, asked to be introduced to you. Is there something else I should know?’
Ross suspected some of his friend’s dealings, especially in the United States, wouldn’t stand up to the briefest scrutiny from the FBI. He’d decided during the early hours to use that knowledge to his advantage. ‘Nothing important,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Oh, he did mention that he works for the FBI… as a financial investigator.’
Bonatti was visibly shocked, and asked urgently, ‘Did he ask you anything about me?‘
‘No. Well, not directly,’ Ross replied. ‘But he did say he was investigating someone down here for money laundering and tax evasion, and I got the distinct impression he was rather more interested in you than he pretended to be.’