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Bond watched Marquis running, or, rather, trudging through the snow toward the rock face. The bastard had done it. He had betrayed his country and the security of the western world. Bond couldn’t let him get away with it. Not Roland Marquis. Not the only son of a bitch at Eton who believed he beat Bond at wrestling. All this time Marquis had been in denial that in reality, Bond had gotten the better of him back then. Everyone watching had known that Bond had been the victor. The bloody instructor gave the match to Marquis and the bastard never let Bond forget it.

“Stay here,” Bond said to Hope. He struggled to his feet.

“You can’t go after him, you’re hurt!” she cried.

“Stay here!” Bond said firmly, then set off after Marquis.

Neither man was wearing a backpack. Bond had his weapon and an ice ax, but no oxygen canisters. Chasing Marquis at this altitude was complete madness, but he was determined to catch the bastard. Bond hoped that Marquis was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t eaten. Perhaps he would be more fatigued than Bond and that would slow him down.

Even so, Bond was under extreme physical stress. He was already breathing so rapidly that he was afraid he might hyperventilate. The wound in his arm didn’t help.

Marquis scaled the wall like a lizard. It was uncanny the way the man could climb. Bond conceded to himself that his rival was indeed the superior mountaineer, but it was time to push himself further than his body could go.

Bond found handholds in the rock wall and attempted to follow along Marquis’s route. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion again. He was gasping for air, and every move he made was torture.

Thirty minutes later Marquis was over the wall. Bond was not far behind, but he was ascending at a snails pace. When he got to the top, he collapsed onto his back as his lungs screamed for oxygen. He felt dizzy and disoriented. If he stood up, he would surely fall.

If only he had brought an oxygen canister! He had been about to put one on his back when Marquis had hit him with the ax. He should have heeded Hope’s admonitions to stay put. This was madness indeed!

The sky was darkening above him. He felt cold, wet drops on his face, reminding him to cover his skin with the muffler. The wind was picking up again and the snow began to fall in earnest.

His lungs were on fire. Could he make it back down the wall without falling?

Wait! How could he have forgotten? He reached into the side pocket of his parka, praying that Major Boothroyd’s little tube was there. Bond grabbed it and brought it to his mouth.

The emergency air breather was a godsend. The oxygen was cold and dry, but it sent bursts of energy into Bond’s veins. He took several deep breaths, willing the clouds of confusion from his mind. He would have to conserve the air, though, and use it only when necessary- After a few minutes he put it away, got to his feet, and continued the chase.

They were climbing a snow gully of mixed rock and ice that cut through a rock wall to reach the West Ridge, which was a hundred meters from the summit. Marquis was climbing without oxygen at all, something that many professional mountaineers dared to do. Bond had never attempted an 8,000-meter peak without oxygen, but he had known men who had. They were usually like Marquis, cocky and egotistical, believing that they were invincible against the might of the mountain. Perhaps this time, Bond thought, the gods would not look favorably on Marquis. Perhaps his arrogance would be his downfall.

As he climbed higher, Bond lost sight of Marquis. He stopped and looked around frantically, wondering what had happened to the man. Had the falling snow somehow obscured his escape?

Suddenly Marquis leaped from a ledge, jumping on Bond and knocking him to the rock. He raised the ice ax and attempted to smash it into Bond’s head. Bond grabbed Marquis’s arm and held it tightly, forcing it back in a life-or-death arm wrestle. Marquis, too, was wheezing loudly, fighting for air. Bond shoved with all his might, rolling the man off him. Without giving him time to counter, Bond jumped on his opponent and hit him twice in the face. The thin air inhibited the blows’ effectiveness, for the degree of force behind the punches was nowhere near what Bond perceived it to be.

Marquis slammed the side of the ice ax against Bond’s head, stunning him. Bond fell over and was momentarily helpless. His vision blurred and he began to gasp for breath again. He expected the point of the ice ax to come crashing down into his chest, but it never did.

He forced himself to shake away the stars and stand up. His vision returned, but his head was pounding. Marquis had run. He was climbing farther up the mountain—toward the summit. Bond took a few more breaths from the emergency breather, then continued the ascent.

The snow fell faster as the wind blew harder.

Marquis, doing his best to move in rhythm, felt like hell. He was totally exhausted from the climbing he had already done that day. He was hungry and thirsty, and his headache had increased by the minute It was so excruciating that he wanted to scream. He was certain that h« had developed High Altitude Cerebral Edema. The symptoms were quite evident. If he didn’t descend soon, he might have a stroke.

He had to get over the top, he thought. His only hope was to go up and over the summit and descend Kangchenjunga into Sikkim. He could easily lose himself there if he could get away from Bond. That’s what he would do, then!

Roland Marquis might have recognized the symptoms of HACE, but he didn’t realize how delusional he was. He had completely forgotten that he was without supplies, a tent, a sleeping bag, or any other necessities for spending a night on the mountain, much less surviving a monsoon and attempting to descend to the bottom. He didn’t think about the fact that it would take three or four days, or more, to get to the Sikkim-side Base Camp. He was convinced that he was going to reach the top of Kangch and escape.

He made it to the West Ridge. All he had to do now was scramble a hundred meters to the summit, then he would be across the border and over. Marquis thought he was running, but in reality he was taking two steps every ten seconds. To him, everything around him was a blur. He had to concentrate on the goal . . . the top of the third highest mountain in the world.

Why did it seem like he was on a treadmill? It felt as if he were not moving any nearer to the summit. He had to push harder. Run, dammit! he told himself.

I will conquer this mountain! he screamed in his head.

“To hell with you, Kangchenjunga!” he yelled, but he was so breathless that it came out as a whisper.

The Nepalese believe that the gods see and hear everything, and what happened next might have been attributed to this faith. Through the heavy snow Marquis thought he could see the markers, prayer flags, and spikes that other climbers had left on the summit. It was within reach! He crawled forward on hands and knees, and then suddenly went blind. It was an unexpected, horrible sensation. This was followed by a searing pain moving through his skull. He thought his head was going to explode.

Marquis screamed and fell to his knees.

Hope had warned them about retinal hemorrhage. It had struck him hard in both eyes. Simultaneously, he experienced severe symptoms of HACE. He writhed on the ground and beat his head, trying to knock the pain away. It was no use.

He continued to crawl forward, feeling his way to the summit.

Breathe . . . breathe . . . !

His lungs couldn’t take it. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Just a little farther . . .

He reached out his hand and felt a flagpole. He had made it— 8,598 meters! Marquis collapsed and lay still, trying to breathe the thin, precious air.