There was another side to the business. Malloy’s side. And it was even more lucrative. To the investor…and to Malloy. It was that side Rafa had foolishly threatened to expose. The Spaniard had no idea of the hornet’s nest he was disturbing.
Malloy put Rafa out of his mind and concentrated on the climb. He caught up to Brunner and, over the next hour, led several pitches, a “pitch” being one length of rope, or approximately one hundred fifty feet. The wind had picked up, snow and rime skidding across the face, making visibility difficult. Squinting, he could just make out the summit, another five hundred feet.Thank God.He didn’t think he could make it any farther. He looked down, signaling to Brunner that they were almost there.
It was then he saw the flash of red below them. A solo climber, no visible ropes, and moving fast. Malloy took off his gloves and dug in his pocket for a protein bar, one last shot of energy. When he looked back, the solo climber was nearly level with Rolf Brunner. The kids these days. It was all about speed, setting records. They took no time to enjoy themselves, to revel in nature and appreciate their surroundings.
He felt a tug on the rope. A second, sharper still. And then, hidden in the howling wind, a scream.
That kind of scream.
Malloy pulled the glasses from his face and looked down. Rolf Brunner was no longer there. The rope whipped wildly back and forth. It had been cut. And in Rolf’s place, the climber in red.
Malloy was tired and confused. Precious seconds passed before he was able to grasp the fact that, yes, it was the climber in red who had cut Brunner’s rope and pushed him off the face. And then, with terror, to register that the climber was following directly in his own path.
Malloy looked up. Five hundred feet. Less even. He struggled to put on his gloves, then freed his axes and began to climb. He didn’t bother with the rope or screws. There was no time. The climber was gaining rapidly, moving more quickly than Malloy had ever seen.
Axe. Kick. Step. Axe. Kick. Step.
His muscles screamed. His lungs burned.Why?he asked himself, knowing full well who had sent the climber. Malloy had not only betrayed Rafa. Far worse, he had betrayed the firm. His larceny had jeopardized everything.
Malloy could go no farther. Panting, he dug his crampons into the wall and cleared one of his axes, turning to meet the climber. The man drew closer. He wore no hat and, frighteningly, no gloves. Blond hair as thick as a whisk broom. Broad shoulders. Complexion the color of milk coffee. A last step. He came even, blue eyes as flat as ice, a hard face. Malloy swung his axe. The climber avoided it easily. Despite his terrific pace, his breath was even. Malloy swung again, his left foot losing its purchase. The climber caught his axe and wrenched it from his hand, tossing it into the void.
“Why?” shouted Malloy, crying now. “Dammit. I’m loyal.”
“Sorry, brother. Just the way it is.”
The climber showed no emotion. Not anger. Not exertion. Nothing. He grabbed Malloy’s parka in one hand and yanked him off the face. For a moment, he seemed to hold Malloy, all of him, as if he were as light as a doll, then he opened his fingers and Malloy fell.
Kruger did not watch the body fall. There was only one possible outcome and he was not a cruel man. A professional, one might say, though he knew of no others he might measure himself against.
He gazed up. Two hundred feet to the top. Malloy had almost made it. Not that the outcome would have been any different. Kruger was not a man who permitted another to get the better of him.
Immediately, he commenced his descent. He realized that he could no longer feel his fingers, or his hands, for that matter. He didn’t care. Where he was going, it was much warmer.
He’d always wanted to visit Thailand.
Chapter 12
London
The next day, Simon arrived at the entrance to Scotland Yard as retired commander Ben Sterling passed through the security gates.
“Riske, that you?” he called, by way of introduction. “Looks like you had a rough night.”
Sterling was sixty-something, a ruddy-faced bantamweight with steely gray hair, china-blue eyes, and a handshake that would crush a walnut. Hence his nickname, “Iron Ben.”
“Tough week,” said Simon. “But I’ll get by. Good to see you.”
“So,” said Sterling when he’d relinquished his grip. “Headed east, eh? Got any space in your suitcase for an old man?”
“Not sure if I can fit you into my suitcase, but there’s probably room in the overhead bin. Dickie Blackmon’s flying me out first class.”
“Of course he is, our Sir Dickie. Good to see you, too. What’s it been? A year?”
“Two. The ivory smuggling case at Heathrow.”
The case had involved a team of Chinese immigrants illegally importing ivory from Tanzania under false bills of lading. Simon didn’t know what had angered him more. The fact that the men had been doing it for fifteen years or that they’d managed to smuggle over ten thousand pounds of the banned material before being caught. The court delivered a sentence of five years in prison and a hundred-thousand-pound fine.
“They’ll be in jail a while longer yet,” said Sterling, setting off at a brisk pace. “Cold comfort.”
