The Hunt

Swan plunged down the steep side of the mountain, the wind thundering in his ears. He was in total control of his downward pitch, his course so steep it was almost like leaping off a cliff. He ignored the danger of the drop run just as he ignored the beauty of the Alps surrounding him and the pain of the effort in calf, thigh and shoulder. He was totally concentrated, his eyes focused one hundred feet in front of him, scanning back and forth to check for boulders, small trees or other obstructions hidden by the deep snow. If he perceived any threat he altered his course as little as necessary to avoid it, never sacrificing speed as his skis skimmed the snow beneath him. He was racing against the stopwatch in his mind.

A mile away, near the base of the mountain, a tall, muscular man in white snow camouflage stood shin-deep in the snow, sweeping the side of Hummel Peak with his binoculars. He was nearly six-five and in excellent physical shape, deeply tanned from hours on the slopes. He was bald as a mountaintop with a long, triangular face and pale, analytical eyes. His only insignia was the silver SS eagle on his cap. Suddenly he stopped and backtracked an inch or two. The skier was a mere speck streaking down the side of the mountain.

“There he is,” he said. “About halfway down. Good God, he must be doing seventy miles an hour.”

Vierhaus watched the speck as it plunged down the steep, clean side of the tall Dolomite peak, then raised his binoculars. Through the glasses, he watched the black-clad sportsman as he sped down the slope without veering, snow showering in his wake.

“I hope he does not injure himself,” Vierhaus said.

“That will not happen,” the tall SS officer said. “Swan will never injure himself. Swan will never have an accident. He would not permit it.”

“You don’t like him, do you, Ludwig?” Vierhaus said.

“There is not much to like or dislike, actually,” Ludwig answered. “He is very much a loner, never joins us for a beer at night. He’s civil to his teachers and the other students but that is as far as he goes. He is totally dedicated to perfection.”

Ludwig lowered his glasses for a moment.

“On the other hand, he is quite the actor. He actually outwitted the entire staff three or four times by disguising himself.”

“Is that so?” Vierhaus said.

Ludwig raised the glasses again.

“He can even be quite charming when he is not himself,” Ludwig added.

Confident, unswerving, the skier reached the bottom of the steep slope and disappeared into the trees at the base.

“I must say, you have picked the perfect spot for this training facility. Why did you pick the Dolomites?”

“Mostly for the snow. The mountains are capped year- round. And it is isolated. Nobody blunders onto this camp. The people in Millstadt think we are a border station. Italy is only twenty or thirty kilometers from here.”

“It seems a pleasant village.”

“Very friendly and totally isolated.”

“Tell me more about Swan,” Vierhaus said.

“Best student I ever had,” the tall SS trainer said. “A very smart man. You tell him a thing once and he has learned it. He has already mastered everything my five instructors and I have taught him.”

“You think he is ready to leave?”

Ludwig pondered the question for a moment. Vierhaus had recruited the colonel from the SD, the intelligence department of the SS, where he was considered too tall to be an effective field agent. It was an unfortunate loss to the SD for Ludwig was one of the shrewdest men Vierhaus had ever met. He was an honor graduate from the university in Berlin and an excellent judge of character. Vierhaus had put him in charge of training— or eliminating—the agents Vierhaus recruited and Ludwig had devised a program which was both physically and mentally exhausting, designed to break the toughest of men.

“Perhaps,” Ludwig said finally. “Perhaps a little longer. Just to make sure he’s perfect. After all, we originally planned the course for one year. It has only been seven months.”

“There is no rush,” Vierhaus said. “Any task, understand Ludwig, any task! He must be at ease in any task. How about attitude?”

“Cold as an iceberg. Nothing bothers him. He survived three weeks alone in the mountains and we set him loose with nothing but his weapons. I honestly believe he gained weight out there.”

“Weapons?”

“A remarkable marksman and he wields a knife like a circus performer. The Okinawan, Ashita, says Swan is the best jujitsu student he has ever had. The man has hands of iron.”

“Will he kill if the time comes?”

“In the blink of an eye. He would kill his own mother if it were expedient.”

“Interesting. And you think he will follow orders, this loner?”

“He will do whatever is necessary to complete his mission. Quite simply, he has turned himself into a machine.”

“And those things you cannot teach a man?”

“He is sly, wily, quick, dangerous. An adroit liar. And like I said, quite an actor. He is just paranoid enough to be properly cautious. And as you can see, not only an expert skier, but absolutely fearless. Quite a find, Herr Professor.”

“And the other one? Kraft?”

“He has his specialties. A quiet killer that one, but not as versatile as Swan. He is almost as good in some areas.”

“How canny is he, Ludwig?”

“Canny? Not in a class with Swan. Let me give you an example. We had an exercise—to blow up a warehouse which was very heavily guarded. Three of the men were caught trying to invade the building but as far as we could tell, Swan never went near the place. Then he came to me and told me to get the guards out of the place, it was going to blow up. Two hours later, boom! It was gone. Pulverized!”

“How did he do it?”

“A rat bomb.”

“Really?” Vierhaus said with surprise.

“You are familiar with the rat bomb?”

“I have heard of it,” Vierhaus said alter a moment.

“He crawled up the sewer line under the place and set the trap. He used Limburger cheese to make sure the rat would smell it. It worked like a charm.”

“Do any of the other trainees show Swan’s promise?”

Swan shot out of the thicket of pines at the foot of the mountain, leaning forward on bent knees to keep up his speed, moving soundlessly toward them.

“Nein. They are good, but not like this one coming here. I tell you, Professor, he is frighteningly efficient.”

“Does he scare you, Ludwig?” Vierhaus asked casually.

Colonel Ludwig smiled and shook his head. “Nobody scares me, Professor, I am beyond that. No, I marvel at him. He was only here a week and I realized he could bypass desensitization training. My God, he could teach it! He is the perfect SD officer. What the Führer dreams of, this man is.”

“Would you like to go up against him?”

Ludwig stared quizzically at Vierhaus for a moment or two before he nodded slowly. ‘Ja. An interesting challenge. He has an uncanny ability to focus on a single objective, to make instant decisions based on knowledge, instinct based logic, and react immediately. Most men I know in this business operate on gut instinct. Logic rarely enters into it.”

“Does he learn from his mistakes?”

“Swan does not make mistakes.”

“What are his weaknesses, Ludwig?’’

“His only weakness that I can determine is impatience. When he learns something he means to test himself immediately.”

“Hmm. That could be a serious problem. This man may be undercover for years before he is activated.”

“Then you will have to find other ways to keep him occupied. He has a taste for danger.”

Vierhaus began to chuckle.

“Is something funny?” Ludwig asked.

“I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be ironic if we have over trained him.”

“It isn’t possible to be overtrained, Herr Professor,” Ludwig said. “Kraft and the other three in training are excellent prospects but it would take two, three years for them to be in Swan’s class and by that time God knows how good he would be.”

“I congratulate you, Colonel,” Vierhaus said, shaking the tall man’s hand. “You are doing remarkable work here. So what is next?”

“A competition.”

“A competition?”

“Yes. I am going to pit Swan against Kraft on a very difficult climb and race.”

“Why?” -

Ludwig shrugged. “Just to see who comes in first. To see how they react in a challenge situation, under actual stress. There are some things even training can’t imitate. It should be quite revealing.”

“But dangerous, Colonel, if your training is as good as I suspect, they could be too keen on winning. They might take unnecessary chances.”

“I agree,” Ludwig said with a smile. “But that is part of it, Professor, to test their judgment. It is not just winning, it is a test of their skill and their judgment. It will certainly be interesting, don’t you think?”

“A bit diabolical.”

“Oh yes.”

“Do they know about this contest yet?”

“They never know anything in advance, Professor. Surprise is part of the training.”

“I wonder if Swan suspects that Kraft is being trained as his backup.”

“God knows what he suspects—or thinks.”

Swan swept across the remaining half mile and cut sharply to a stop a foot in front of Vierhaus and Ludwig. His breath was even and unlabored as it curled from his lips. Ice caked the rims of his goggles and the collar of his jacket. He shoved the goggles up on his forehead and nodded. Vierhaus realized that he was seeing Swan, undisguised, for the first time. His straw-colored hair was long and uncut and he wore a full beard. His eyes were turquoise blue and as intense as a hawk’s. He wore no hat. Small knots of melting ice glistened from his long locks and his facial hair.

Quite a handsome devil, Vierhaus thought to himself.

“Herr Professor, good to see you again. It has been a while.”

“And you, Colonel Swan,” Vierhaus answered, shaking his hand. “That was quite an impressive display.”

‘Ja. About a second and a half under my last speed, I should say.”

Ludwig looked at his stopwatch. “Actually 1.2 seconds,” he said and laughed. “If you go any faster, Swan, we’ll have to supply you with wings.”

“I thought perhaps we might have dinner tonight at my hotel, just the two of us,” Vierhaus suggested.

“I really must decline, Willie,” Swan replied. “The next day or two could be difficult ones and I must be in top form.”

“Oh? Why so?” Ludwig asked innocently.

“Time for the match between Kraft and me, isn’t it?” Swan answered. “I cannot afford distractions.” And laughing, he headed for the base cabin.

“How did he know that?” Vierhaus asked. “I thought it was to be a surprise.”

‘ja,” Ludwig answered with obvious annoyance. “So did

The cabin at the base of the mountain ‘was small, with two bedrooms, a kitchen and the large living room which was the planning and lecture center. One entire wall was covered with a six-foot-square detailed map of the local area.

Kraft was smaller than Swan but huskier, with a bull neck and bulging arms that swelled his cotton sweatshirt. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was trimmed close to the scalp. He sat at rigid attention, in sharp contrast to Swan who was slouched back in his chair. Kraft had given up a promising career as an Olympic skier to join the Six Foxes. He was a former honor student, fluent in English, French and Italian.

Swan ignored his adversary. Instead he stared with narrowed eyes at Ludwig, listening to every word his tutor said.

“This is the exercise,” Ludwig was saying. “You will climb the side of the Hummel, here.” He used a pointer to show where the exercise was to begin and its eventual course. “You will go up the west face, which is about thirty-five hundred feet, then cross here to the back side and ski down the reverse face. The objective is to retrieve this flag before your opponent.”

He held up a small red Nazi banner with a black swastika in its center.

“Will we be scored on anything other than speed?” Kraft asked.

“The object is to retrieve the flag,” Ludwig repeated. “You will have fifteen minutes to study the chart. That’s all. Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler, “the two men said in unison, raising their arms in the Nazi salute. Ludwig and Vierhaus left the cabin. Swan and Kraft studied the chart in silence, Kraft scribbling notes to himself while Swan stood close to the map and stared at it without expression. This exercise is a chess game, he said to himself. A very dangerous chess game. The back slope was a glacier formed by melting snow in the warm August afternoons and then refrozen at night.

There were two courses down the slope. The one on the west side of the glacier was faster but far more dangerous with a deadfall of at least a thousand feet along half its length. The eastern trail had sporadic deadfalls and a natural shelf halfway down to break the run. The two trails merged halfway down the slope. After that it was a drop run all the way down—a piece of cake. The crucial decision would be whether to risk the run down the western wall or cross to the east side.

Ludwig’s instructions were simple—retrieve the flag. That was the operation, so the test was one of skill, intelligence and speed, not heroics.

He concentrated on the map. Since they were climbing up the west face, he would have to cross over the glacier to get to the east run, a dangerous task in itself. One slip and he would plunge 1,500 feet down the glacier to certain death.

Ludwig had devised a devilish contest.

“Well, Swan, good luck. May the best man win,” Kraft said, offering his hand.

“The best man is going to win,” Swan said without looking at him. Ignoring Kraft’s outstretched hand, he turned abruptly and left the cabin.

* * *

By noon Swan had reached the crest on the back side of the Hummel. By his calculations, he was two or three minutes ahead of Kraft. He wasted thirty seconds, staring out across the valley, focusing his mind on the map. The peak of the Hummel broke away to the east while the west run, the more dangerous of the two, started only fifty or so yards away around the ledge of the mountain. Skiing across the glacier on the back side was more than risky, it was foolish. And there was another factor, the wind. It howled madly around him, twisting the snow into whirlwinds. But by skiing around the front of the crest he could cross to the other side on good powder. Two hundred yards across, he figured, and Kraft was closing on him.

Retrieve the flag. Ludwig’s only instructions.

He jumped off and skied around the front side of the peak, headed across to the other side, leaning forward on his skis with his back to the harsh wind, letting it carry him across. He would force Kraft to take the dangerous west run. He sped across the crest, cut sharply as he reached the east side and whipped around the peak to the back side, stopping a few feet from a precipitous deadfall.

He was standing on a small ledge just above the trail down the side of the glacier. He studied the trail for a moment, watching the wind sweep the snow out across the frozen river. Good powder, he thought. Below him the glacier spread almost the entire width of the mountain’s face: gleaming, melting ice sliced with narrow, deep fissures formed by rivers of melting ice and snow.

Swan looked up toward the peak of the Hummel, thirty yards or so above him. A wide and dangerous overhang of snow clustered near the crest of the mountain. Rivers of melting snow poured from its jagged rim to form the deep cuts in the glacial face of the mountain. Here and there deep cracks appeared in the broad snow overhang.

An avalanche waiting to happen, thought Swan.

He looked to the west. The natural path coursed down through the trees, a steep run, almost vertical in places. Directly below Swan, his trail was hampered by boulders and stunted trees. It was a slower run but safer. From the rim of his eye he saw Kraft emerge on the far side of the glacier. Kraft had achieved the peak, too, and only seconds behind him. But now Kraft had an open avenue to the faster, more dangerous run. Would he take it? Or lose valuable time chasing Swan to the easier side of the slope?

He will operate on pure instinct, thought Swan. Kraft had made his decision before reaching the crest, basing it on the maps. Now he was cornered. He could not afford to cross the melting river of ice that separated them. He has to make the western run. And as he watched, Kraft hopped in the air, swung his skis around and started down the western face. A fatal decision.

Swan jumped into the air, shoved himself over the ledge with his poles and started straight down the east run. Below him was a straight course halfway down the steep slope, then a ridge of boulders formed a natural shelf that spread east to west halfway across the mountain’s face. He plunged toward the shelf, keenly aware that Kraft was already seconds ahead of him on the opposite side of the glacier. To his right, steep cliffs raced past. He watched for patches of ice that might throw him over as he vaulted down the narrow trail. Far to his left he could see Kraft, seconds ahead of him, fighting the wind as he raced along the dangerous west trail. Swan reached the shelf and leveled off, twisting to a stop.

Kraft was still vaulting ahead but he was coming to a flat spot in the run. He would have to cross a hundred feet or so of glacier at the end of the run to get to the final slope. He watched Kraft slow his downward run as he approached the dangerous path across the ice river. He ‘ii have to stop for a moment and study the roll of the ice, Swan thought. He’s not stupid enough to run it blind.

Swan reached into his jacket and took out a Luger. He aimed it back up the mountain toward the snow that clung to the peak of the mountain and fired a shot, then a second, then a third.

Below him, Kraft twisted sideways, leaning into the mountain, felt his skis slapping the rough snow at the edge of the glacier. He stopped a few feet from the edge of the deadfall. The valley sprawled a thousand feet below him. He was out of breath and his goggles were cloudy. He dropped them around his neck and studied the roll of the glacier.

Then he heard a shot. And another. And a third. He looked up the mountain. What the hell was Swan doing?

The huge drift on the peak of the Hummel groaned in the wind, shuddered as the sound waves of the shots swept up to it. The cracks widened and popped like skyrockets. Weakened, the great drift of snow suddenly broke loose. A wave of snow, ten feet deep and fifty yards wide, suddenly fell away and thundered down the mountain.

Swan shoved himself off the shelf with his poles and dropped down on the broad slope. Leaning as far forward as he could, knees bent, he pitched down the slope, ahead of the wall of the snow, veering away from the glacier and hugging the very edge of the eastern deadfall.

Kraft looked up at the thundering wave of snow that rumbled down toward him. Trapped, he made his move, his skis rattling over the crusted glacier bed as he skied downward and sideways, ever closer to the drop-off. He was almost across when the skis whipped out from under him. He fell, grasping desperately for a ridge, a fissure, anything to stop his slide toward the edge of the cliff. His fingers dug into the ice. The sharp edges peeled away his gloves and sliced into his fingers before they dug into a crack in the ice and stopped his slide.

He looked up in terror as the freight train of snow above descended on him with fury, swept into him, filled his mouth and blinded him a moment before it swept him over the side. Lost in the great fountain of snow, he plunged a thousand feet to the floor of the valley.

Swan never looked back. He could hear the terrifying roar of the avalanche behind him but he kept skiing faster and faster, eyes ever alert for obstacles as he swept out onto the last slope, rocketing toward the base of the mountain. He was dangerously close to losing control as he sped down faster and faster, using every muscle to keep from falling. He didn’t think about the avalanche behind him. He just kept going. .

Swan pulled his goggles down around his neck and shook the snow from his blond mane. Squinting in the bright sunlight, his eyes afire with excitement, he said, “By God, did you see that? I was only a few feet in front of that snow slide.” He looked back up the mountainside. “Where’s Kraft?” he asked.

“He didn’t make it,” Ludwig said without emotion. “The avalanche caught him. He went over the west face.”

“Bloody shame,” Swan said. “Good man, Kraft. But he should never have tried the west run.”

“Why do you say that?” Vierhaus asked.

“Much too unpredictable,” Swan answered. “In this hot sun that summer snow is unstable. A strong wind could have kicked it off. And the run itself was too risky. A serious error in judgment. Your instructions were to retrieve the flag, not get killed.”

“Is that why you chose the east face?” Ludwig asked.

“Yes. It was dangerous enough, but not suicidal. The mission was to get to the top and then come down as quickly as possible, to beat Kraft but not kill myself doing it. Martyrs don’t win wars, gentlemen, they are merely pretty faces in history books. Kraft made a fatal error in judgment. My job was to capitalize on his mistakes, not worry about him.”

“I thought I heard pistol shots just before the slide started,” Ludwig said.

“Really?” said Swan. “Probably the drift cracking up. It sounded like an explosion.”

He unbuttoned his jacket. “My mission was to take the flag at the finish line, Colonel,” he said, taking the standard from under his jacket and folding it neatly. lie handed it to Ludwig.

“My compliments, sir.”

“Any further questions about Swan’s qualifications?” Ludwig asked.

“No,” Vierhaus said. “No questions. But I want you to give him this.” He handed Ludwig a slender, solid gold Dunhill cigarette lighter about three inches long. It had smooth sides and a small, hand-carved wolf’s head, the mascot of the SS, on top.

Ludwig rubbed his thumb up the side of the lighter. It was almost sensual to the touch.

“It is a graduation present,” Vierhaus said. “Tell him to keep it always. As a reminder of who he is.”

“So. You think he is ready now?”

“Oh yes,” Vierhaus said with a smile. “I think he is ready.”