"But dangerous, Colonel, if your training is as good as I suspect, they could be too keen on winning. They might take unnecessary chances."
"I agree," Ludwig said with a smile. "But that is part of it, Professor, to test their judgment. It is not just winning, it is a test of their skill and their judgment. It will certainly be interesting, don't you think?"
"A bit diabolical."
"Oh yes."
"Do they know about this contest yet?"
"They never know anything in advance, Professor. Surprise is part of the training."
"I wonder if Swan suspects that Kraft is being trained as his backup."
"God knows what he suspects—or thinks."
Swan swept across the remaining half mile and cut sharply to a stop a foot in front of Vierhaus and Ludwig. His breath was even and unlabored as it curled from his lips. Ice caked the rims of his goggles and the collar of his jacket. He shoved the goggles up on his forehead and nodded. Vierhaus realized that he was seeing Swan, undisguised, for the first time. His straw-colored hair was long and uncut and he wore a full beard. His eyes were turquoise blue and as intense as a hawk's. He wore no hat. Small knots of melting ice glistened from his long locks and his facial hair.
Quite a handsome devil, Vierhaus thought to himself.
"Herr Professor, good to see you again. It has been a while."
"And you, Colonel Swan," Vierhaus answered, shaking his hand. "That was quite an impressive display."
"Ja. About a second and a half under my last speed, I should say."
Ludwig looked at his stopwatch. "Actually 1.2 seconds," he said and laughed. "If you go any faster, Swan, we'll have to supply you with wings."
"I thought perhaps we might have dinner tonight at my hotel, just the two of us," Vierhaus suggested.
"I really must decline, Willie," Swan replied. "The next day or two could be difficult ones and I must be in top form."
"Oh? Why so?" Ludwig asked innocently.
"Time for the match between Kraft and me, isn't it?" Swan answered. "I cannot afford distractions." And laughing, he headed for the base cabin.
"How did he know that?" Vierhaus asked. "I thought it was to be a surprise."
"Ja, " Ludwig answered with obvious annoyance. "So did I."
The cabin at the base of the mountain was small, with two bedrooms, a kitchen and the large living room which was the planning and lecture center. One entire wall was covered with a six-foot-square detailed map of the local area.
Kraft was smaller than Swan but huskier, with a bull neck and bulging arms that swelled his cotton sweatshirt. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was trimmed close to the scalp. He sat at rigid attention, in sharp contrast to Swan who was slouched back in his chair. Kraft had given up a promising career as an Olympic skiier to join the Six Foxes. He was a former honor student, fluent in English, French and Italian.
Swan ignored his adversary. Instead he stared with narrowed eyes at Ludwig, listening to every word his tutor said.
"This is the exercise," Ludwig was saying. "You will climb the side of the Hummel, here." He used a pointer to show where the exercise was to begin and its eventual course. "You will go up the west face, which is about thirty-five-hundred feet, then cross here to the back side and ski down the reverse face. The objective is to retrieve this flag before your opponent."
He held up a small red Nazi banner with a black swastika in its center.
"Will we be scored on anything other than speed?" Kraft asked.
"The object is to retrieve the flag," Ludwig repeated. "You will have fifteen minutes to study the chart. That's all. Heil Hitler."
"Heil Hitler, " the two men said in unison, raising their arms in the Nazi salute. Ludwig and Vierhaus left the cabin. Swan and Kraft studied the chart in silence, Kraft scribbling notes to himself while Swan stood close to the map and stared at it without expression. This exercise is a chess game, he said to himself. A very dangerous chess game. The back slope was a glacier formed by melting snow in the warm August afternoons and then refrozen at night.
There were two courses down the slope. The one on the west side of the glacier was faster but far more dangerous with a deadfall of at least a thousand feet along half its length. The eastern trail had sporadic deadfalls and a natural shelf halfway down to break the run. The two trails merged halfway down the slope. After that it was a drop run all the way down—a piece of cake. The crucial decision would be whether to risk the run down the western wall or cross to the east side.
Ludwig's instructions were simple—retrieve the flag. That was the operation, so the test was one of skill, intelligence and speed, not heroics.
He concentrated on the map. Since they were climbing up the west face, he would have to cross over the glacier to get to the east run, a dangerous task in itself. One slip and he would plunge 1,500 feet down the glacier to certain death.
Ludwig had devised a devilish contest.
"Well, Swan, good luck. May the best man win," Kraft said, offering his hand.
"The best man is going to win," Swan said without looking at him. Ignoring Kraft's outstretched hand, he turned abruptly and left the cabin.
By noon Swan had reached the crest on the back side of the Hummel. By his calculations, he was two or three minutes ahead of Kraft. He wasted thirty seconds, staring out across the valley, focusing his mind on the map. The peak of the Hummel broke away to the east while the west run, the more dangerous of the two, started only fifty or so yards away around the ledge of the mountain. Skiing across the glacier on the back side was more than risky, it was foolish. And there was another factor, the wind. It howled madly around him, twisting the snow into whirlwinds. But by skiing around the front of the crest he could cross to the other side on good powder. Two hundred yards across, he figured, and Kraft was closing on him.
Retrieve the flag. Ludwig's only instructions.
He jumped off and skied around the front side of the peak, headed across to the other side, leaning forward on his skis with his back to the harsh wind, letting it carry him across. He would force Kraft to take the dangerous west run. He sped across the crest, cut sharply as he reached the east side and whipped around the peak to the back side, stopping a few feet from a precipitous deadfall.
He was standing on a small ledge just above the trail down the side of the glacier. He studied the trail for a moment, watching the wind sweep the snow out across the frozen river. Good powder, he thought. Below him the glacier spread almost the entire width of the mountain's face: gleaming, melting ice sliced with narrow, deep fissures formed by rivers of melting ice and snow.
Swan looked up toward the peak of the Hummel, thirty yards or so above him. A wide and dangerous overhang of snow clustered near the crest of the mountain. Rivers of melting snow poured from its jagged rim to form the deep cuts in the glacial face of the mountain. Here and there deep cracks appeared in the broad snow overhang.
An avalanche waiting to happen, thought Swan.
He looked to the west. The natural path coursed down through the trees, a steep run, almost vertical in places. Directly below Swan, his trail was hampered by boulders and stunted trees. It was a slower run but safer. From the rim of his eye he saw Kraft emerge on the far side of the glacier. Kraft had achieved the peak, too, and only seconds behind him. But now Kraft had an open avenue to the faster, more dangerous run. Would he take it? Or lose valuable time chasing Swan to the easier side of the slope?
He will operate on pure instinct, thought Swan. Kraft had made his decision before reaching the crest, basing it on the maps. Now he was cornered. He could not afford to cross the melting river of ice that separated them. He had to make the western run. And as he watched, Kraft hopped in the air, swung his skis around and started down the western face. A fatal decision.
Swan jumped into the air, shoved himself over the ledge with his poles and started straight down the east run. Below him was a straight course halfway down the steep slope, then a ridge of boulders
formed a natural shelf that spread east to west halfway across the mountain's face. He plunged toward the shelf, keenly aware that Kraft was already seconds ahead of him on the opposite side of the glacier. To his right, steep cliffs raced past. He watched for patches of ice that might throw him over as he vaulted down the narrow trail. Far to his left he could see Kraft, seconds ahead of him, fighting the wind as he raced along the dangerous west trail. Swan reached the shelf and leveled off, twisting to a stop.
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'll 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 dropoff. 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. He 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 wolfs 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
EIGHTEEN
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 quarter-horse 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.
"When they speak of mixed blood," he would tell you proudly, "they speak of Al Jack. I am one-quarter Cherokee Indian, two-quarters Cajun and one-quarter Negro, and the only one who knows more about horses than Al Jack is God himself."
When he was working, Al Jack had little to say. He would express approval or d
isapproval by the tone of his chuckles. Al Jack was a man who chuckled all the time. If he told you the world was about to end he would chuckle while he gave you the bad news. After a while Keegan learned to tell which were good news chuckles and which were bad news chuckles. There was also a disaster chuckle but Keegan had only heard it once, when Al Jack discovered they did not have crawfish in France. Luckily, he soon discovered that snails were a reasonable substitute and became addicted to escargots. So they were up at dawn every day, working out the horses until late afternoon when they would walk to the village and stuff themselves on escargots, washing it down with Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
"Got us a winner, mon ami," Al Jack would say in his Cajun patois. "This lady goin' take the purse every time she go outa that gate."
"If she doesn't, it's off to the glue factory with her," Keegan would answer and they would laugh and order more snails.
"You know my dream, Kee? My dream is that I save up enough money to buy her first foal when she retires."
"You got it, Al. Call it a bonus. When she starts losing her speed, we'll breed her."
"That's a damn generous thing t'do, Kee, but I do believe I'd feel better paying for the pony."
"We'll talk about it later."
It was a pleasant enough time, the days filled with hard work, horse talk and good food, but he could not get the singer out of his mind. He never talked about her but she had his heart in her hand and was never far from his thoughts. He and Bert spent the Christmas holiday in Spain trout fishing, then Rudman was off to Ethiopia for a month to report on the country many believed would be Mussolini's first conquest, his dispatches appearing almost daily on the front page of the Trib. From there it was on to Spain for two months to report on the civil war everyone felt was imminent. Rudman's style continued to become more formal, more subjective, tougher. With each dispatch he seemed to be more masterful at interpreting the volatile politics of Europe for his readers. His fixation on Hitler, the Nazi movement and the advent of fascism in Germany, Italy and Spain earned him a growing reputation as one of Europe's most respected correspondents. Keegan spent a month skiing in the Swiss Alps after Rudman left, spent a few weeks in Berlin, avoiding the Kit Kat and doing the usual party rounds, frequently bumping into the little hunchback, Vierhaus, Hitler's personal gossip, who was always pleasant to the point of obsequiousness. Then Keegan returned to France.