He stood looking down at her and Meyer, his face contorted with horror, backed away quietly, then turned and rushed upstairs. When he reached Arnie's room, the boy was still asleep. He closed the door, bolted it, then dragged a heavy chest of drawers across as an additional barrier.
He went into the dressing room, lifted the carpet in the corner and removed a loose floorboard. Inside, wrapped in a piece of blanket, was his old sawn-off shotgun from the poaching days of his youth and a box of cartridges, hidden since before the war. He loaded both barrels and went back into the bedroom. He placed a chair in the centre of the room facing the door, sat down with the gun across his knees and waited.
It had been a long time, but some things you never forgot. Gaillard moved out of the trees and started into a flat plateau perhaps two hundred yards across, more trees on the other side. He was using the sliding forward stride much favoured by Scandinavians; a technique he had picked up in his youth and which ate up the miles at a surprising rate.
If you were fit, of course, always that, though at the moment, he felt better than he had for years. Free, yes, but more than that — the knowledge that they'd come to the end of something. That freedom was just around the corner for everyone.
But this was no time for such considerations. He needed a destination and didn't have one. On the other hand, it seemed reasonable to assume that the help he was seeking was more than likely to be found on the main roads, which meant climbing higher, traversing the eastern shoulder of the mountain and then descending.
Something made him glance back, some sixth sense. The Finns were half-way across the plateau, moving in single file, Gestrin leading. He was not afraid, but filled with a fierce delight and started into the trees, moving at a fast, loping rate. He was already a hundred feet up the side of the mountain when the Finns reached the edge of the trees and Gestrin called them to a halt.
'All right,' he said, 'the party's over. He's good, this one. Too good to play with. From now on, it's every man for himself, and remember — we want him alive.'
He started up the slope and they moved after him.
Ritter and Sorsa stood beside one of the two remaining half-tracks, drinking coffee and examining the ground plan of Schloss Arlberg which the German had brought from the inn.
'Once we're in they'll fall back to the north tower,' Ritter said. 'Nowhere else to go.'
'And what's that going to be like?'
'According to Strasser, a heavy, oaken door opening in two sections. That shouldn't take long. Inside, a hall then a broad stairway that diminishes in size, becoming a spiral at the higher levels. The dining hall, then a maze of passages and rooms right on up to the top.'
'If they take it room by room it could be nasty.'
'Not if we keep after them right from the word go. No hesitation, no let-up.'
The Finns were ready and waiting in the half-tracks, half a dozen with the Panzerfausts.
Ritter moved closer to examine the ugly-looking anti-tank projectiles. 'Are they good with these things?'
'We've had our successes. On target, one of these can open a T34 like a can of meat.'
'How many have we got?'
'Ten.'
'Then we can't afford to take chances. I'm putting Hoffer in charge. Make that clear to your men. He's the finest gunner I know.'
At that moment Hoffer called from the field car. 'Herr Strasser on the radio for you, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
Ritter leaned into the car. There was no static and Strasser's voice sounded clear and distinct. 'You've not started the assault?'
'Any minute now. Why?'
Strasser told him. When he was finished, Ritter said, 'So we don't have too much time, that's what you're trying to say? You needn't have bothered, Reichsleiter. We've been a little short on that commodity from the beginning. Over and out.'
He replaced the phone and turned to Sorsa. 'Trouble?' the Finn asked.
'Gaillard's managed to escape. He's taken to the mountain on skis. Strasser's sent Gestrin and his boys after him.'
'No problem,' Sorsa said. 'The best in the business. They'll lay him by the heels soon enough.'
'I wouldn't count on it. He was an Olympic gold medallist at Chamonix in 1924. If he runs across a British or American column before Gestrin and his men get to him…'
Sorsa looked grave. 'I see what you mean. So what do we do?'
'Get this little affair over with as quickly as possible. We move out now.'
He started towards one of the half-tracks and Sorsa caught his arm. 'A moment, Sturmbannfuhrer. The first half-track through that tunnel is likely to have a hard time. I'd like to be in it.'
'I command here,' Ritter said. 'I thought I made that clear.'
'But these are my boys,' Sorsa persisted. 'We've been together a long time.'
Ritter stared at him, a slight frown on his face, and then nodded. 'I take the point. Very well, for this occasion only, you lead and I follow. Now let's get moving.'
He turned and scrambled up into the second half-track.
15
Claudine Chevalier was sitting at the piano in the dining hall playing 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair' by Debussy. It was one of her favourite pieces, mainly because the composer himself had tutored her in how to play it when she was twelve years of age.
There was a knock at the door and Finebaum entered. His M1 was slung from his left shoulder, a Schmeisser from his right, and there were three stick grenades in his belt.
She kept on playing. 'Trouble, Mr Finebaum?'
'Well, I'll tell you, ma'am. General Canning, he thought it would be a good idea to have someone look out for you personally. You know what I mean?'
'You?' she said.
'I'm afraid so, ma'am. Mind if I smoke?'
'Not at all — and I couldn't be in better hands. What do we do?'
'I'll take you up to the top of the tower when the time comes — out of the way of things.'
'But not now?'
'No need. They haven't even knocked at the gate yet. Say, my old lady used to play piano. Nothing like that though. I learned the clarinet when she got one cheap, from my Uncle Paul. He was a pawnbroker in Brooklyn.'
'Did you enjoy it?'
'Well, I ain't Benny Goodman but I made front row with Glenn Miller.'
'But that's wonderful. Do you like this piece that I'm playing now?'
'No, ma'am. It makes my stomach feel cold. It worries me, I don't know why, and that ain't good because I've got enough to worry about.'
'Ah, I see. Perhaps you would prefer something like this?'
She started to play 'Night and Day'. Finebaum moved round the piano to look down at the keys. 'Hey — that's great. That's really something. I mean, where did you ever learn to play like that?'
'Oh, one gets around, Mr Finebaum. Isn't that the phrase?'
'I guess so.'
A roar of engines shattered the morning stillness.
'Oh, my God,' she whispered and stopped playing.
As Finebaum ran to the window there was a sudden booming explosion and the rattle of machine-gun fire.
Gaillard, high in the woods now, on the upper slopes of the mountain, heard the echoes of that first outbreak of firing and paused to listen. His lungs were aching as he struggled for breath, leaning heavily on his sticks, and his legs were trembling slightly.
He was too old, of course. Too many years under his belt, and the truth was he simply wasn't fit enough. When it came right down to it, the only thing he really had going for him was technique and the skill born of his natural genius and years of experience.