Kraft was still vaulting ahead but he was coming to a flat spot in the run. He would have to cross a hundred feet or so of glacier at the end of the run to get to the final slope. He watched Kraft slow his downward run as he approached the dangerous path across the ice river. He ‘ii have to stop for a moment and study the roll of the ice, Swan thought. He’s not stupid enough to run it blind.
Swan reached into his jacket and took out a Luger. He aimed it back up the mountain toward the snow that clung to the peak of the mountain and fired a shot, then a second, then a third.
Below him, Kraft twisted sideways, leaning into the mountain, felt his skis slapping the rough snow at the edge of the glacier. He stopped a few feet from the edge of the deadfall. The valley sprawled a thousand feet below him. He was out of breath and his goggles were cloudy. He dropped them around his neck and studied the roll of the glacier.
Then he heard a shot. And another. And a third. He looked up the mountain. What the hell was Swan doing?
The huge drift on the peak of the Hummel groaned in the wind, shuddered as the sound waves of the shots swept up to it. The cracks widened and popped like skyrockets. Weakened, the great drift of snow suddenly broke loose. A wave of snow, ten feet deep and fifty yards wide, suddenly fell away and thundered down the mountain.
Swan shoved himself off the shelf with his poles and dropped down on the broad slope. Leaning as far forward as he could, knees bent, he pitched down the slope, ahead of the wall of the snow, veering away from the glacier and hugging the very edge of the eastern deadfall.
Kraft looked up at the thundering wave of snow that rumbled down toward him. Trapped, he made his move, his skis rattling over the crusted glacier bed as he skied downward and sideways, ever closer to the drop-off. He was almost across when the skis whipped out from under him. He fell, grasping desperately for a ridge, a fissure, anything to stop his slide toward the edge of the cliff. His fingers dug into the ice. The sharp edges peeled away his gloves and sliced into his fingers before they dug into a crack in the ice and stopped his slide.
He looked up in terror as the freight train of snow above descended on him with fury, swept into him, filled his mouth and blinded him a moment before it swept him over the side. Lost in the great fountain of snow, he plunged a thousand feet to the floor of the valley.
Swan never looked back. He could hear the terrifying roar of the avalanche behind him but he kept skiing faster and faster, eyes ever alert for obstacles as he swept out onto the last slope, rocketing toward the base of the mountain. He was dangerously close to losing control as he sped down faster and faster, using every muscle to keep from falling. He didn’t think about the avalanche behind him. He just kept going. .
Swan pulled his goggles down around his neck and shook the snow from his blond mane. Squinting in the bright sunlight, his eyes afire with excitement, he said, “By God, did you see that? I was only a few feet in front of that snow slide.” He looked back up the mountainside. “Where’s Kraft?” he asked.
“He didn’t make it,” Ludwig said without emotion. “The avalanche caught him. He went over the west face.”
“Bloody shame,” Swan said. “Good man, Kraft. But he should never have tried the west run.”
“Why do you say that?” Vierhaus asked.
“Much too unpredictable,” Swan answered. “In this hot sun that summer snow is unstable. A strong wind could have kicked it off. And the run itself was too risky. A serious error in judgment. Your instructions were to retrieve the flag, not get killed.”
“Is that why you chose the east face?” Ludwig asked.
“Yes. It was dangerous enough, but not suicidal. The mission was to get to the top and then come down as quickly as possible, to beat Kraft but not kill myself doing it. Martyrs don’t win wars, gentlemen, they are merely pretty faces in history books. Kraft made a fatal error in judgment. My job was to capitalize on his mistakes, not worry about him.”
“I thought I heard pistol shots just before the slide started,” Ludwig said.
“Really?” said Swan. “Probably the drift cracking up. It sounded like an explosion.”
He unbuttoned his jacket. “My mission was to take the flag at the finish line, Colonel,” he said, taking the standard from under his jacket and folding it neatly. lie handed it to Ludwig.
“My compliments, sir.”
“Any further questions about Swan’s qualifications?” Ludwig asked.
“No,” Vierhaus said. “No questions. But I want you to give him this.” He handed Ludwig a slender, solid gold Dunhill cigarette lighter about three inches long. It had smooth sides and a small, hand-carved wolf’s head, the mascot of the SS, on top.
Ludwig rubbed his thumb up the side of the lighter. It was almost sensual to the touch.
“It is a graduation present,” Vierhaus said. “Tell him to keep it always. As a reminder of who he is.”
“So. You think he is ready now?”
“Oh yes,” Vierhaus said with a smile. “I think he is ready.”
BOOK TWO
“The fates lead the willing. and drag the unwilling.”
Seneca
She sat on a tall stool on the corner of the tiny stage with only a pastel spot on her, a piano, tenor sax and bass providing subtle background for a voice that hardly needed it. She had no arrangements, every song was improvised. The lights darkened in the small club, the announcer introduced her, there was a piano trill and the soft light faded in as she started singing.
“I’m not much to look at,
Nothin’ to see,
Just glad I’m living,
And happy to be,
I got a man
Crazy for me
He’s funny that way.”
She sang in English and her accent added to the allure. Within a few notes she owned the room
Keegan sat at the same table for hours every night. He sent two dozen roses every day, no card, assuming that sooner or later she would connect the flowers with the crazy American who came every night and sat through every performance—but she ignored him. Finally he attempted to arrange a meeting only to be told by the manager that she did not like Americans. Keegan had never before been spurned by a woman so resolutely, and he was so totally discouraged by her lack of response that he stopped going to the club.
The approaching winter became the winter of his discontent. It was a mild winter and Keegan spent most of it in the south of France in a small town called Grenois. He had decided to winter one of his racehorses there, to get her ready for the summer season at Longchamp. The mare had shown promise on the American tracks as a two-year-old, now Keegan wanted to see what she would do on the European circuit. Keegan’s trainer was Alouise Jacquette, Al Jack for short, from Larose in the Delta country of Louisiana. The Delta was known for quarterhorse racing, so named because the horses are flagged off and run wide-open down a quarter-mile straight track. After ten years, Al Jack graduated to thoroughbred racing where he became known as a keen judge of championship horses and a superb trainer. He was six feet two inches tall and had the posture of a West Point cadet. He dressed in a suit, vest, tie and Panama hat at all times, even when he was in the training ring with the horses. Al Jack was a man who believed that racing was a gentleman’s game and he dressed accordingly.