After the meeting the team broke up for “free time,” which Bond considered a joke, as there was absolutely nothing to do. He had brought two paperback books to read—an old thriller by John le Carre and a new nonfiction book about criminal profiling, written by a former FBI agent. Several of the men had brought playing cards and portable chess and checkers sets, and Paul Baack even had a television that picked up a few channels by satellite.
Base Camp life was long and dull in Bond’s opinion, and he found himself becoming restless and agitated by the third day. Marquis didn’t pick him to go on the first climb, but he did select Otto Schrenk. Bond thought he would use the opportunity to take a look inside Schrenk’s tent.
He got Chandra to stand watch as he slipped inside. Typically, Schrenk had insisted on pitching his own tent and bunking alone.
There were the usual accoutrements necessary for survival—a hanging Bibler stove, climbing gear, sleeping bag, clothing—but nothing that remotely resembled anything like a sniper rifle. The only weapon he found was an antique but beautifully preserved dress dagger that the Nazis wore as an item of uniform. They were special to each branch of the service, and this one was naval. It was not hidden but was lying in plain sight with a pile of other tools. A Union weapon perhaps?
Bond crept out of the tent and shook his head at Chandra. Perhaps they could find a way to search everyone’s tent before the actual ascent began.
Two days later Bond was attempting to nap in his tent after lunch. Gunshots woke him, so he leaped out of the sleeping bag and slipped on his boots. He ran outside, where it had begun to snow.
The shots were coming from behind the mess. Three or four people were standing around, watching something. Bond pushed through and saw that Roland Marquis had set up targets of bottles and tin cans and was practicing his aim with a Browning Hi-Power handgun. The Sherpas were quite agitated with this behavior, and Bond understood why. The gunfire would displease the gods.
“Roland, what the hell are you doing?” Bond snapped.
“What does it look like, Bond? I’m keeping my trigger finger up to snuff.”
“You’re upsetting the Sherpas. Stop it, now.”
Marquis turned and looked at Bond. “I don’t give a damn what the Sherpas think. I’m the leader here, and if I feel like target practice, by God, I’m going to do it. Care to join me?”
“Hell, no. Put the gun away.”
Marquis shrugged and laid the pistol on a rock. He picked up an ice ax that was at his side. “All right, how about a little game of ice ax throwing? Come on, Bond, aren’t you bored, too? We’ll throw ice axes at the targets. The Sherpas won’t mind that.”
Bond shook his head. He didn’t want to get into this kind of brawl with Marquis. More team members had heard the noise and had by then ventured to the area. Hope Kendall was among them.
“Come on, Bond, it’s all in fun. Don’t tell me that our Foreign Office rep is afraid of being beaten?” Marquis said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
“You’re acting like a schoolboy, Roland.”
Without warning, Marquis flicked the ice ax at Bond. It struck the ground an inch away from his right foot. The tool perfectly embedded in the snow with the handle sticking straight up.
Whether it was the effects of the high altitude, the relentless boredom, or his lack of sleep, he didn’t know; but this angered Bond to such an extent that he reached down and removed the ice ax, saying, “All right, Roland. Let’s do it.”
“Now you’re talking, Bond!” Marquis laughed aloud and looked around for another ice ax. He got one from Carl Glass and then said, “Carl, go and set up those bottles and cans again, would you? What shall our stakes be? I’m sure you didn’t bring much money with you, so we can’t have a replay of our Stoke Poges match.”
“This was your idea, Roland, you name it.”
Marquis grinned and looked around at the crowd. He spotted the doctor looking at him with wide eyes.
“Very well. The winner gets to sleep with Dr. Kendall tonight.”
“What?” she blurted out. “What the hell are you—”
Bond held up his hand. “Come on, Roland, that was out of line, and you know it.”
Marquis gave her a little bow. “I’m sorry, my dear. Just a little joke.”
“Screw you, Roland,” she said, then walked away.
Marquis shook his head and said, “Tsk-tsk, the fairer sex. I suppose they can’t be saints and sluts at the same time.”
It took all of Bond’s willpower to keep from slugging him. He knew, though, that it wouldn’t be good for morale to do so in front of the team. The man was behaving as badly as Bond had ever seen him.
“Well, never mind. We won’t play for anything except the satisfaction of being the best. Is that all right?” Marquis asked. “Fine.”
“Shall I start?”
Bond gave a slight, mocking bow. “By all means.”
Marquis sneered at him, then turned to face the targets. There were five bottles and five cans set on various objects—portable tables, rocks, canvas bags. . . .
Marquis raised the ice ax and tossed it. It knocked the first bottle cleanly off its base.
He smiled and said, “Your turn, Bond.”
Bond took a position, tossed the ice ax from hand to hand to get a feel for its weight, then flicked it forward. The second bottle shattered.
“Oh, nice one, Bond! Do we get extra points for breaking the target? I think not.”
Carl Glass retrieved the ice axes and handed them back to the players. The other members of the team were enthralled by the display of antagonism between the two men. Even Hope returned out of curiosity.
Marquis took a stance, raised the ice ax, and threw it. The tool whizzed past the third bottle, missing it by two inches.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he said.
Bond took his place, raised his own ax, then tossed it. He knocked the third bottle into the snow.
The axes were retrieved again, and Marquis took his place for a third try. He flung the ice ax and missed the fourth bottle by a hair.
“Goddammit!” he shouted. He was losing his temper. In fact, Bond thought, he was acting quite irrationally. Could he have AMS?
Bond knocked down the fourth bottle, which only angered Marquis more. Luckily for him, Marquis succeeded in demolishing the fifth bottle.
By the time they were into the tin cans, Bond was ahead by one hit There were only two targets left. Bond had hit every object he had thrown at except for one, which had allowed Marquis to catch up a little.
Marquis took aim, threw the ax, and knocked off the can. One to go
Bond stood his ground, aimed, and threw. The pick missed the can. There was an audible gasp from the spectators.
“Oh, bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said, cocky as hell. He took the retrieved ice ax and aimed carefully. He raised his arm slowly, then threw the ice ax hard. Instead of hitting the can, it struck the rock it was sitting on. The force of the blow, however, was enough to dislodge the can, causing it to fall into the snow
“Ha! It’s a draw!” Marquis shouted.
“I don’t think so, Roland,” Bond said. “You didn’t hit the can. You hit the rock.”
“The bloody thing got knocked off, though.”
This time Carl Glass intervened. “Well, since I’m the unofficial referee here, I have to side with Mr. Bond on that one, Roland. You didn’t hit the can.”
“Who the hell asked you?” he shouted at Glass.