Bernhard’s camera was heavy and awkward, clunking painfully about my chest and feeling twice as phoney as it was. The rifle bolt and one round of ammunition were stowed in a nylon bum-bag, strapped round my waist, and the barrel nestled inside one of the ski poles - red dot on the handle, in case I couldn’t tell the difference between a pole that weighed six ounces and one that weighed near enough four pounds. I’d thrown the other three rounds of ammunition out of the bathroom window, reasoning that one round had better be enough because if it wasn’t, I was going to be in even bigger trouble - and I just didn’t think I could face bigger trouble right at that moment. I wasted a minute cleaning my fingernails with the end of the trigger, then carefully folded the tiny sliver of metal in a paper napkin and stuffed it into my pocket.
I stood up, took a deep breath, and clumped past la famille to the lavatory.
The condemned man threw up a hearty breakfast.
Latifahad her sunglasses propped up on top of her head, which meant stand by, which meant nothing. No sunglasses, and the Van Der Hoewes were staying indoors to play tiddlywinks. Sunglasses over the eyes meant they were headed for the slopes.
On top of the head meant they might, you might, I might, anything might.
I stumped across the foot of the nursery slopes, heading for the funicular railway station. Hugo was already there, dressed in orange and turquoise, and he too had his sunglasses perched on top of his head.
The first thing he did was look at me.
In spite of all our lectures, all our training, all our grim nods of agreement at Francisco’s coaching tips - in spite of all of that, Hugo was looking straight at me. I knew immediately that he would keep looking at me until our eyes met, so I stared back at him, hoping to get it over with.
His eyes were shining. There’s no other word for it. Shining with fun and excitement and let’s go, like a child on Christmas morning.
He reached a gloved hand to his ear and adjusted the Walkman headphones. An average ski-bum, you would have tutted to yourself if you’d seen him; it’s not enough to be gliding through the most beautiful scenery on God’s earth, he has to go and put Guns ‘N’ Roses over the top of it. I’d probably have got annoyed by those headphones myself, if I hadn’t known that they were actually connected to a short wave receiver at his hip, and that Bernhard was broadcasting his own particular shipping forecast from the other end.
It had been agreed that I would carry no radio. The reasoning went that in the event of my capture - Latifa had actually reached across and squeezed my arm when Francisco said this - nobody would have any immediate reason to think of accomplices.
So all I had was Hugo and his shining eyes.
At the top of the Schilthorn mountain, at an altitude of a little over three thousand metres, stands, or sits, the Piz Gloria restaurant; an astonishing confection of glass and steel where, for the price of a pretty decent sports car, you can sit, and drink coffee, and take in a view of no less than six countries on a clear day.
If you’re anything like me, it might take you most of that clear day to work out which six countries they might be, but if you have any time left over, you’re liable to spend it wondering how on earth the Murrains got the building up there and how many of them must have diedinthe course of its assembly. When you’ve seen a construction like that, and reflected on how long it takes the average British builder to send you an estimate for a kitchen extension, you end up quite admiring the Swiss.
The restaurant’s other claim to fame is that it once served as a location in a James Bond film; its stage name of Piz Gloria has clung to the place ever since, along with the operator’s right to sell 007 memorabilia to anyone who hasn’t been bankrupted by the cup of coffee.
In short, it was a place that any visitor to Mьrren just had to visit if they got the chance, and the Van Der Hoewes had decided, over a supper of boeufen crфutethe previous evening, that they definitely had the chance.
Hugo and I dismounted at the top cable-car station and split up. I went inside, and gasped and pointed and shook my head at how really neat all this mountain stuff was, while Hugo hung around outside, smoking and fiddling with his bindings. He was trying to cultivate the look of the serious skier, who wanted steep hills and fine powder, and anyway, don’t talk to me because the bass solo on this track is just awesome. I was happy to play the gawping idiot.
I wrote some more postcards - all of them to a man called Colin, for some reason - and every now and then glanced down atAustria, orItaly, orFrance, or some other place with snow in it, until the waiters started to get peeved. I was just beginning to wonder whether The Sword Of justice budget could stretch to a second cup, when a movement of bright colour caught my eye. I looked up and saw that Hugo was waving from the gantry outside.
Everyone else in the restaurant noticed him too. Probably thousands of people inAustria,Italy andFrance noticed him. All in all, it was a hopeless piece of amateurism, and if Francisco had been there he would have slapped Hugo hard, the way he’d had to do many times during training. But Francisco wasn’t there, and Hugo was making a multicoloured arse of himself, and a gibbering wreck of me, for no good reason. The only saving grace was that none of the many curious onlookers would have been able to tell exactly who or what he was waving at.
Because he was wearing sunglasses over his eyes.
I took the first part of the run at a gentle pace, for two reasons: firstly, because I wanted my breathing to be as even as possible when the time came for the shot; secondly, and more importantly, because I didn’t want - with a passion, I didn’t want - to break my leg and have to be stretchered off the mountain with a lot of rifle parts concealed about my person.
So I side-slipped and edged, making the turns as big and slow as possible, gently traversing the blackest part of the run until I came to the tree-line. The severity of the slope was something of a worry. Any fool could have seen that Dirk and Rhona were, frankly, not good enough to manage it without a great deal of falling over, and possibly even some not-getting-up-again. If I’d been Dirk, or a friend of Dirk, or even just an interested skier-by, I’d have said forget it. Take the cable-car back down again and find something gentler.
But Francisco was confident about Dirk. He felt he knew his man. Francisco’s analysis said that Dirk was careful with money - which, I suppose, is one of the qualities you look for in a Minister of Finance - and if Dirk and Rhona decided to scratch, they’d have to pay a hefty penalty for the cable-car ride back down.
Francisco was prepared to bet my life that Dirk would ski it. Just to make sure, he’d popped Latifa into the bar of The Edelweiss the night before, while Dirk was spilling a couple of brandies down the inside of his throat, and made her bill and coo at the bravery of any man prepared to tackle the Schilthorn. Dirk had looked a little worried at first, but Latifa’s batting eyelashes and heaving bosom had finally pulled him round, and he’d promised to buy her a drink the following evening if he made it down in one piece.
Latifacrossed her fingers behind her back, and promised to be there on the dot of nine.
Hugo had marked the spot, and he stood there now, smoking, and grinning, and generally having a hell of a time. I skied past him and came to rest ten yards further into the trees, just to remind myself, and Hugo, that I still knew how to make decisions. I turned and looked back up at the mountain, checking the position, the angles, the cover - then jerked my head at Hugo.