Jealousy. Fear. Vengeance. Carter wondered which litany Kobelev would be willing to recite.
But then, he thought, all of that speculation was moot. By then Kobelev and his handmaiden Ganin would be dead if Carter had his way.
In the resort town, quiet now because it was between the summer season and the winter skiing season, Carter parked his car a block from the big hotel and with bag in hand went the rest of the way on foot.
He was checked in by an obsequious clerk. “Welcome to the Alpina, Herr Carter,” the man gushed. “If there is anything at all we can do to make your stay more pleasant...”
“Are there any messages for me?” Carter asked irritably.
“No, sir.”
“I wish to be awakened with breakfast at six o’clock sharp. Afterward I will be going to the Zugspitze. I wish to see it first thing in the morning.”
“But, Herr Carter, the weather forecast for tomorrow is for continued rain and perhaps snow. You will not be able to see much...”
Carter just glared at the little man, who backed down.
“Ja, mein Herr. Six o’clock.”
Upstairs in his room, Carter positioned himself on a straight-backed chair between the large double windows and the door, his Luger in hand, the safety off, a round in the firing chamber. It would be simpler if Ganin were to come through the door then and there.
But his message downstairs was clear. In the morning Carter would be atop the tallest mountain in Germany. There would be very few people there at that hour of the morning. It would be a perfect place. Carter’s killing ground.
It was exactly six in the morning when room service arrived with a Continental breakfast of coffee, rolls, butter, and preserves, and the morning newspapers from Munich as well as a local paper from Garmisch-Partenkirchen.
Carter tipped the man, then settled down to his coffee.
The papers made only small mention of the Soviet compound explosion, which was not really surprising to Carter. The German government would be trying to suppress the story as much as possible. It was only natural considering the always strained relationship between the two countries.
On the back pages, however, there was the report of still two more deaths in avalanches near Innsbruck. Kobelev would continue killing people there until Carter came to him. It didn’t matter to the madman how many innocent people were killed in the process. But he was going to get to Carter.
After breakfast, Carter took a shower, got dressed, and left the hotel. The overcast had deepened, and the temperature had plunged overnight. It was probably snowing in the mountains, Carter figured, a harsh contrast to the Caribbean of the previous week.
All through the night Carter’s thoughts had alternated between Lydia and Sigourney. One was beyond his help, and it was possible the other was already dead as well.
In both instances he felt responsible. He felt that by making the mistake of allowing himself to get that one crucial step behind Kobelev, he had caused the end of at least one innocent life.
Mindful now that a bullet could be coming at any moment from any direction, Carter made his way from the hotel to where he had parked his rental car. Only a few early risers were up and about.
He got the engine started and let the car warm up for a couple of minutes before he eased out of the parking lot and slowly headed out of town, southwest toward the Zugspitze.
The highway wound its way up into the cloud-shrouded mountains toward the Austrian border just a mile away. The Zugspitze was right on the border. The enclosed cable car that ran to the restaurant and observation platform atop the mountain was at the end of a broad access road.
At the height of the summer season, this was normally a very busy spot. Germans as well as foreigners flocked here by the thousands on clear days when the views from the top were spectacular.
Carter turned off the highway and drove slowly down the access road to the parking lot beside the tourist shop and cable car boarding building.
A battered Volkswagen van was parked behind the tourist shop, and just beyond it a VW beetle was pulled up beneath the broad overhang of the roof.
Those belonged to the staff, Carter assumed. The only other vehicle in the large parking lot was a sleek, gunmetal gray Porsche 911, with Austrian plates. Probably a rental car.
Slowly he circled the Porsche, making reasonably sure that no one was inside before he parked beside it, his car pointed out toward the exit.
Leaving the keys in the ignition, he withdrew Wilhelmina, got out of his car, and slowly approached the Porsche. He stopped a couple of feet away, and glanced up toward the mountain. The cables rose at a sharp angle and disappeared into the mist within a hundred feet or so.
No one was in the Porsche. Inside, on the steering column, the registration slip showed that the car was from Innsbruck and belonged to Inter-Rent, an Austrian car rental agency.
Again Carter glanced up toward the mist-shrouded peak. The car was driven here by Arkadi Ganin. He knew it. He could feel the man’s presence very strongly.
He holstered his Luger and withdrew his stiletto. Working very fast, he punctured all four tires on the sportscar, the Porsche settling to the pavement.
Back in his own car, he started it and slowly drove over to the tourist shop, where he parked it behind the van so that it was just barely visible from the parking lot.
He walked around to the front of the building, went up the steep concrete stairs below the cable car exit, and went inside. The room was very tall and narrow. Access to the cable car platform was through a tall canvas and plastic curtain. A huge section of that side of the building was open, the gigantic motors and cable pullies at the rear.
On the opposite side of the main room was a tourist counter and the ticket desk.
An old woman sat at the desk. She was writing something in a ledger. Beside her, piled on the counter, were various slips and receipts.
She looked up. “Guten Morgen,” she said, her Bavarian accent thick.
“Guten Morgen, gnädige Frau,” Carter said. “Is the cable car operating this morning?”
“Yes, of course. If I am here, then the car is working. You wish to go up... with the other strange one?”
“Someone else has gone up this morning?”
The old woman nodded. “A strange man.”
“In what way was he strange?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. But let me tell you, I think he is a Russian, even though his German was very good.”
Carter smiled. “And me?”
“You’re an American, of course...” she started, and then she cut herself off and looked up toward the mountain. “Oh,” she said.
Carter handed her money for the ride, and the old woman took it and handed him his ticket. “The restaurant will not open today. Not until Monday.”
“Danke,” Carter said. He went across to the heavy plastic curtain, pushed aside the flap, and climbed aboard the bright red cable car. The cabin was quite big and could probably hold a dozen or more people.
As soon as he had the door closed and latched, the car jerked on its cables and lifted free of the boarding platform. Carter glanced back toward the counter. The old woman had gone back to her ledger book, and then he was outside the building, being lifted up into the clouds.
On a clear day the ride up to the top of the Zugspitze was breathtaking. That morning the visibility was zero. Within a hundred feet of the cable house, the car was enveloped in a thick cloud, making it impossible to see anything but the gray, swirling mist.