Cade

Eight

The lounge of the Bellavista Hotel was deserted at this time of 20.00 hours. The few visitors who had come up to Villars with the optimistic hope of early sport were in the dining-room. A big log fire crackled in the grate. The parchment-shaded lights cast a red glow on the highly polished parquet floor. The room was homely and pleasant.

Cade sat in a lounge chair in a corner, away from the fire, his eyes closed. He wanted a drink, but he fought off the urge. He had gradually become intrigued by Braddock’s assignment, and he knew if he started drinking, he wouldn’t get pictures. He now wanted to prove to himself that he was still capable of getting pictures.

The door pushed open and Baumann with Ben Sherman on his heels, came in. They joined Cade and sat down.

Cade opened his eyes and stared at Sherman.

“Where did you spring from?”

“Don’t talk about it,” Sherman said with an exaggerated shudder. “I nearly killed myself trying to follow that bitch from Paris. I’m still in a state of shock.”

“I’ve heard all that,” Baumann said impatiently. “You knew what you were in for. Give it a rest.” He leaned forward and tapped Cade on his knee. “I have been asking around. Anita has gone to ground in the Château owned by General Fritz van Ludwig. Remember him? He surrendered his army to the Russians in 1943 at Stalingrad. He has been living in retirement in this Château for the past twenty years. What do you make of that?”

Cade shrugged.

“Nothing... what do you?”

Sherman said, “I remember him. When the Russians made him a prisoner, he broadcast anti-Hitler propaganda from Moscow. Anita is Russian by birth, isn’t she?”

“That’s right,” Baumann said. “The idea was she came to Switzerland to meet a lover, not an eighty-year-old German General.”

“That should disappoint Braddock, shouldn’t it?” Cade said.

The two men looked at him.

“This intrigues me,” Baumann said. “You and I are going to take a look at that Château tonight.”

“Is that such a hot idea?” Sherman asked. “You’ll leave footprints all over the place. Do you want to alert Anita we are on to her?”

“It won’t matter if it goes on snowing this hard,” Baumann pointed out. “Any prints we make will be covered by the morning. Look, Ben, suppose you go and relieve Grau? He’s been out there for the past two hours.”

“Why should I care?” Sherman said. He got up and went over to the fire, holding out his hands to the comforting warmth.

“Get going!” Baumann snapped. “He’ll relieve you at midnight.”

“How nice,” Sherman said, but he left the lounge.

Baumann lit a cigarette.

“S.B. has a fantastic instinct for news. This could turn out to be a lot more interesting than a love affair. An aged German General with Russian sympathies and one of our top movie stars. Could be quite a story. You and I are going to get it, Cade.” As Cade said nothing, Baumann stood up. “Let’s eat. We have a cold night ahead of us.”

After dinner, the two men went to their rooms. Baumann had booked three bedrooms all leading into one another with a sitting-room at the far end. He had ski clothes for Cade and both men changed. Then equipped with ski-ing boots and gloves, they left by the service door of the hotel and drove down to where Sherman, cold and miserable, was sitting in his Simca.

There was now a high wind and the snow made visibility difficult. It was also freezing.

“We’ll take a look around,” Baumann said as Sherman lowered his car window.

“Rather you than me,” Sherman said sourly. “God! It’s cold!”

Cade and Baumann reached the high wrought iron gates after a few minutes of difficult walking. They paused outside the gates. Beyond them, they could make out the dim outlines of a small lodge. A light showed in one of the lower windows.

“We don’t go in that way,” Baumann said. “Come on... follow me.”

He continued on down the road by the high flint and concrete wall of the estate. After walking some thirty metres, he stopped.

“We’ll go over the wall.”

He stepped down into the ditch, the snow covering his boots, and set his back against the wall.

“Come on. I’ll give you a lift up.”

Cade put his foot in Baumann’s clasped hands and Baumann heaved him up. Cade’s fingers reached the top of the wall, got a grip and he swung his leg over. He sat astride the wall and looked down at Baumann.

Baumann tried to reach Cade’s outstretched hand, but he was too short and he cursed.

“Okay. I’ll wait here. You take a look. Be careful. See if you can get a look at the Château.”

“How do you expect me to get back over the wall on my own?” Cade asked mildly. He was careful not to let Baumann see how intrigued he was and how he welcomed this adventure.

“I’ll get a rope. Ben has one in his car. I should have thought of that. You wait here. I won’t be long,” and Baumann vanished into the darkness.

Snow pelted down on Cade as he crouched on the wall. He decided not to wait for Baumann. He scraped a high pile of snow off the wall where he was sitting, marking his place of entry, then he swung his leg over and dropped down into the deep snow. Although the snow broke his fall, the drop came as a jar. His feet stinging, his legs a little shaky he set off through the trees, moving cautiously and silently.

He had no idea how long he walked. It was some time. The wind howled around him and the snow turned him into a white, ghost-like figure. Finally, he was free of the trees, and he came upon a large flat snow-covered surface which he guessed would be the lawn, surrounding the Château.

It was then that he saw the house: a big, rambling building with turrets: a typical Swiss Château, three storeys high with narrow windows, some of which were showing lights.

A feeling of danger made him pause. He drew back and stood by a snow-covered fir tree and looked towards the Château. He stood motionless, watching, unaware of the coating of snow that built over him. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he was thankful he had made no attempt to cross the coverless space ahead of him. He saw a movement near the Château, and peering into the driving snow, he saw a figure of a man walking with bent head around the outside. Then he saw other figures standing against the walls, sentinels, spaced widely apart, facing him and sinister enough to make him step further back into the shelter of the forest.

He remained watching for some twenty minutes until the cold began to creep up his legs and chill his body. Then, satisfied he had seen enough, he headed back to the wall.

He had difficulty in finding the mark he had left on top of the wall. In a few more minutes, the snow would have obliterated his landfall.

He called softly, “Baumann?”

“Right here,” Baumann replied from the other side and a rope snaked over the wall, the end dropping at Cade’s feet.

It took him several minutes to haul himself up and he was so out of condition, he had to rest on top while his breath rasped at the back of his throat and his heart slammed against his ribs. Finally, in control of himself, he dropped down beside Baumann.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Baumann said angrily. “I told you to wait.”

“So you did,” Cade said. “Let’s get out of here.”

They walked in silence to the Jaguar, then shaking off the snow that covered their clothes, they got into the welcome warmth of the car.

“What’s cooking?” Baumann asked as he began to drive back to the hotel.

“Something,” Cade returned. “We’ll talk about it when we get back to our room.”

A few minutes later, Baumann pulled up outside the hotel and the two men entered the warm, brightly lit lobby. The manager of the hotel, Willi Tanz, a pudgy, smiling Swiss and a good friend of Baumann’s came from behind the reception desk.

“Horst you haven’t completed the usual police cards for your friend and Mr. Sherman. Would you do that for me?”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Baumann said. “Give them to me. I’ll take them up with me.”

Tanz gave him the two cards, then nodding, Baumann led the way to the lift. Up in their sitting-room, Baumann began to strip off his ski-ing clothes.

“Well? Come on, Cade, don’t be so damn mysterious.”

Cade had taken off his windcheater and now, sitting before the fire, he began to take off his boots.

“There are about a dozen armed men patrolling the grounds of the Château,” he said. “At least two have automatic rifles.”

Baumann gaped at him.

“Are you sure?”

“I watched them for a good twenty minutes. I am sure.”

“Well, what do you know?” Baumann kicked off his boots. He pushed his stockinged feet towards the fire. “But why?”

Cade shrugged.

“How’s the barometer?”

Baumann got to his feet, went over to the telephone and asked the desk about the weather, listened, grunted and hung up.

“It’s rising. Should be fine tomorrow.”

“There’s a big Arolla pine tree at the edge of the forest,” Cade said. “It faces the Château. It’s my only hope to get pictures. There’s a terrace on the second floor. If it is sunny tomorrow, Anita might possibly come out on the terrace. I can’t see any other way I can get pictures. I’ll need a 600 mm Tele Rokkor lens. Where can I get one?”

“What about these armed men?”

“Never mind about them. Concentrate on the lens.”

Baumann thought for a moment, then looked at his wrist watch. The time was a few minutes after midnight.

“I can get you one tomorrow some time.”

“I want to be up that tree with my equipment before daylight.”

Baumann frowned, then crossed to the telephone, dialled a number, waited, then spoke in a low voice. Cade didn’t bother to listen. He moved close to the fire, his mind busy with the technical difficulties that faced him of getting good pictures of the terrace. With the Rokkor lens, he decided he could get good close-up photographs always providing the sun was warm enough to tempt Anita out onto the terrace.

“I’ll send Grau,” Baumann said as he hung up. “I have a friend who owns a photographic shop in Montreux. He has the lens. Grau will have it here in less than three hours.”

He went into Grau’s bedroom and got him out of bed. Grau cursed when he was told he had to go right away to Montreux, but after a brief delay while he struggled into his clothes, he went off.

Cade had brought his camera equipment from his bedroom into the sitting-room. He began loading film into his Minolta.

“I’ll need enough sandwiches to last me for twelve hours, coffee, a half-bottle of brandy, some thin cord, three metres of knotted rope, a good hunting knife and a set of climbing irons,” he said. “That tree isn’t going to be easy to climb, but once I’m up, I’m not likely to be seen.”

Baumann nodded. For the first time since he had met Cade, he looked animated.

“I’ll fix all that for you. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to bed. Call me at six o’clock. That’ll be time enough.”

“Do you want me with you?”

“Once I’m up the tree, I’ll be better on my own, but I might have to get out fast. How can we keep in touch?”

“I have a two way radio you can take with you. It’ll be heavy, but it is the safest way for us to keep in touch. How’s that?”

“Fine. You’ll have to come over the wall with me. If it stops snowing, you’ll have to wipe out our prints and you can help carry the gear, then you can leave me.”

A little after 06.00 hours the following morning, Cade and Baumann left the hotel. Grau had got the Rokkor lens and Baumann had collected the various things Cade had asked for: these he had packed into a rucksack which Cade carried. It was now no longer snowing, and the moon, riding high, cast a brilliant light over the white landscape. It was frosty and well below freezing, the road surface was dangerously slippery.

They stopped beside Sherman’s Simca, still parked off the road. Baumann told him about the armed men guarding the Château.

“What’s the idea?” Sherman asked, looking startled.

“That’s what we are going to find out,” Baumann said. “You are to wait this side of the wall. When I return, it’s your job to throw me the rope. So keep awake.”

Baumann led the way to the wall, hoisted Cade up and then Sherman hoisted Baumann up beside Cade. Sherman tied the rucksack, Cade’s camera equipment and the short wave receiver to the end of the rope and Baumann hauled them up. The two men slid over the wall and cautiously moved off through the dark forest. They walked one behind the other, Baumann careful to step into Cade’s deep footprints.

Finally, Cade said softly, “We’re not far off. Watch out.”

Baumann grunted. They could see through the trees the snow-covered lawn ahead of them, dazzlingly white in the moonlight.

Cade continued more slowly until he reached the tall Arolla pine tree he had noticed during the night.

“See them?” he whispered and pointed across the lawn.

Baumann’s breath hissed in sharply as he saw the sentinels. They were spaced some ten metres apart: dark, motionless figures, holding rifles and looking towards the forest.

Cade stepped back into the shadows. He sat in the snow and began to fix the climbing irons to his boots. His fingers were so cold he had difficulty in securing the straps.

Baumann said, “What the hell do you think they’re guarding?” He was still staring across the lawn at the motionless men.

“You make a guess,” Cade said and stood up. He uncoiled the knotted rope, tossed one end over the nearest bough, then catching hold of the loop, he dug his climbing irons into the trunk of the tree and slowly, laboriously hauled himself up. He reached the lower branches, then paused. “Okay. Let’s have the equipment, then you get off,” he said, astride a branch and leaning forward. “Make sure you get rid of our prints.”

Baumann attached the various things they had brought with them to the end of the rope and watched while Cade hauled them up into the tree. Then with a wave of his hand and a muttered “Good luck,” he moved off into the darkness, pausing at every step to wipe out their prints with a fir branch he had cut off.

Cade waited until Baumann was out of sight, then he began climbing. He moved cautiously to avoid knocking off the thick snow that covered the branches of the tree. Finally, nearly at the top of the tree, he was level with the big terrace under which the massive entrance to the Château was built.

He set up his light tripod, tying the legs to the fir branches, then he secured his rucksack to another branch and settled down to wait. After a cold, dull half hour, he switched on the short wave receiver and called Baumann.

“Listening in,” Baumann’s voice said immediately.

“Keep that way,” Cade said into the microphone. “I’m all set and waiting,” then he switched off.

With nothing to do for at least four hours, he relaxed back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

By 11.00 hours the sun was so warm that Cade discarded his windcheater. He had eaten some of his sandwiches and had drunk two cups of coffee, laced with brandy. He had now screwed his camera to the tripod and clipped the long Rokkor lens which, when he peered through the eye-piece, brought the terrace nearly on top of him. He could easily make out the cracks in the terrace wall and see the water dripping off the gutter as the snow began to melt.

Since the first light of dawn, he had been able to see the sentinels clearly. He counted nine of them: big, burly, heavily-built men, clad in black raincoats, rubber boots and plastic, black hoods.

Examining them through the 600 mm lens, he decided he had never seen such a tough bunch of men. He had been right about them carrying automatic rifles. When the sun came up, six of them went into the Château, the other three continued to patrol and Cade got the impression that they were very alert and watchful.

Around 10.00 hours, the french windows leading onto the terrace opened and an elderly man wearing a woollen cap pulled down over his ears and a shabby overcoat came out. He carried a long handled broom. He began to sweep the terrace clear of snow. Having completed his task, he set out four lounging chairs and carried out a wooden slatted table.

This activity encouraged Cade. He spent a little time focusing his camera on one of the chairs, making sure he would get needle-sharp photographs, then he replaced the lens cap and lit a cigarette.

During the wait between 10.00 hours and 11.00 hours he had a sudden scare. In the silence, he heard men’s voices directly below him talking in German. He stiffened and looked down, but the thickly interwoven branches of the tree made it impossible for him to see what was going on at ground level. It was irritating that he couldn’t see what was happening, but at the same time, reassuring to know that if these men looked up they couldn’t discover him. Finally, he heard the crunch of snow as the two unseen men moved away.

It wasn’t until the sun was directly overhead, and it had become really warm, that there, was any further activity. Suddenly the french windows opened and Anita Strelik came out onto the terrace. Watching her through the telescopic lens, Cade immediately recognised her. She was tall, blonde with an Ekberg bosom, flat Asian features and a lazy, tigerish walk that always excited her fans. She was wearing close fitting scarlet pants, a white sweater and her short blonde curls glittered in the sunshine.

Cade slightly altered the focusing ring of his camera, bringing her face into sharp focus. Through the powerful telephoto lens, he could see dark smudges under her eyes and sharply etched lines of weariness either side of her nose down to her full lips.

He leaned back, resting his hands on his knees and watched her. She sat in one of the lounging chairs, opened her bag and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. As she lit the cigarette, a man came out onto the terrace and joined her. He wore black skiing trousers and a black turtle-neck sweater: a man of middle height, his iron grey hair close cropped, his shoulders square, his bearing upright and military.

Cade peered at the man as he walked over to Anita who raised her hand, smiling at him. The man bent and kissed her fingers and Cade instinctively pressed the cable release. The focal plane shutter snapped across. The first photograph was taken.

He continued to stare at the man. Where had he seen him before? In the course of his work as a photographer, Cade had seen many famous personalities, and with growing excitement, he knew this man was famous, although for the moment he couldn’t place him. He peered through the eye-piece of the camera, shifting the Rokkor lens slightly as the man sat down by Anita’s side, then he stiffened, looked again at the hard, sun-tanned face that filled the focusing screen. His mind flashed back to two years ago when he had visited East Berlin and had taken a series of photographs for the Daily Telegraph’s Week-end Supplement. He remembered waiting for three cold, boring hours for the expected arrival of General Erich Hardenburg, Head of the East German Secret Police, and how, when the General eventually arrived, he had glared at Cade and refused to be photographed.

And here he was: the most dangerous and the most ruthless German since Himmler, whose cold, snake-like eyes seemed to be staring directly into Cade’s as Cade peered through the telephoto lens, a sudden chill crawling up his spine.

Hardenburg! Here with Anita Strelik! This couldn’t make more sensational news than if Garbo at the height of her fame had had a tryst with Himmler himself. So Braddock with his instinct for sensational news had guessed right!

This accounted for the armed men in the grounds of the Château: they would be members of Hardenburg’s Secret Police. Cade, suddenly apprehensive, looked at the patrolling men, aware that this could be his most dangerous assignment. He knew that if he were seen, none of these armed men would hesitate to shoot him. There would be no questions asked. A finger would tighten on a trigger, and that would be that.

He forced his mind back to the terrace. The elderly man who had swept the terrace came out, carrying a loaded tray and a silver coffee pot which he put on the table. He then went away.

Anita and Hardenburg were talking animatedly. Hardenburg got up to pour coffee while Cade continued to take photographs. He was satisfied in the brilliant sunshine he was getting the photographs he wanted.

Then the french windows opened wide and two men came out onto the terrace. One of them, a tall, gaunt-looking man of forty or so, wearing the same ski-ing outfit as Hardenburg was pushing a wheel chair in which a much older, fatter man sat.

Cade immediately recognised the gaunt man as Herman Lieven, Hardenburg’s right-hand man, who, two years ago, had been so rude to Cade when he told him the General was not to be photographed.

But it was the old man who held Cade’s rooted attention. He stared through the long focus lens, not believing his eyes, but knowing that there could not be another man who looked like Boris Duslowski. The fat, coarse face, although aged, still had the same arrogant, sneering character. The completely bald head, the pointed ears, the snarling bitter mouth made this man Duslowski, one time Stalin’s Chief of Police, terror of the Jews who had ranked in world opinion with the same feeling of revulsion and horror as the Beast of Belsen.

Cade’s instinct for headline news and his past training as a news hunter immediately told him he was witnessing a historical event. This meeting of such ruthless men with the astonishing addition of one of the most famous international movie stars was an unique event of world-shaking proportions. Here was an enemy of the present Russian régime consorting with the man who controlled East Berlin and supposedly an ally of the Russian government.

In spite of his excitement and surprise, Cade continued to take photographs.

Hardenburg and Duslowski were now at the table. Lieven had returned to the Château. He came out again carrying a portfolio of papers which he laid on the table.

Anita got up and stood behind Hardenburg, her hand resting familiarly on his shoulder. Hardenburg took papers from the portfolio: one of them was a map. This he spread out on the table. The efficiency of the Rokker lens enabled Cade to see some of the details of the map which was of West Berlin. He suddenly realised he had finished one cartridge of film. He rewound the film and reloaded the camera.

The two men were talking earnestly together. Hardenburg was pointing out features on the map. Cade went on pressing the cable release, knowing his camera was making history, that the pictures he was obtaining were beyond price: far too important and explosive to sell to Whisper. These pictures had to go direct to the Secretary of State. No one should see them until he had seen them. Cade had sufficient political education to realise such pictures could give America a tremendous bargaining power with the Russians.

The men were still talking, still examining the various papers that Hardenburg had taken from the Portfolio when Cade had finished his second cartridge of film. He now had seventy-two explosive pictures, and that was enough. His one thought was to get away, get back to the hotel and get the pictures to the American Consul at Geneva.

He found he was shaking as he wound off the film. He put the second cartridge in his pocket, then took a long drink from the brandy bottle. As he put the cap back, the bottle slipped out of his frozen fingers and dropped through the fir branches into the snow below.

He remained motionless, his heart racing, cold chills crawling up his spine. If one of the guards passed and spotted the bottle!

He switched on the short wave receiver.

“Baumann? Are you listening in?”

“This is Sherman,” Sherman replied. “How’s it going?”

“I have all the photos I need,” Cade said. “I want out. What’s the situation?”

“You can’t leave before dark. I drove past an hour ago. There are two men at the gates, watching the length of the wall. You’ll have to wait until it’s dark.”

“It’s important. I have dynamite here.”

“No can do. You’ll have to wait.”

“Okay,” Cade said resigned and switched off. He looked towards the terrace.

Hardenburg was wheeling Duslowski back into the Château. Anita, carrying the portfolio, followed him. The french windows closed and the terrace became deserted.

Cade began to dismantle his camera which he carefully packed into the rucksack. He untied the tripod and packed that away. While he worked, his mind was busy.

He had no idea how the American Consul would handle his pictures and he didn’t care, but he was certain he had a responsibility to get the pictures to the Consul and he was determined to do so.

He relaxed back against the trunk of the tree and waited for darkness.

A little after 17.15 hours, snow began to fall, and it turned very cold. Darkness crept over the forest, shutting out the Château except for three or four lighted windows.

During the long, cold wait Cade had watched the guards as they walked around the Château, pausing to talk to one another, then moving on, alert and watchful.

Now, satisfied it was dark enough, Cade switched on the short wave receiver.

“Baumann?”

“Listening in,” Baumann said. “Okay. We’re coming. Think you can find your way back to the place we came over?”

“I’ll try. In this darkness it all looks the same.”

“You’ve got something?”

“The biggest ever,” Cade said. “Give me a flash from your headlights when you arrive. That’ll guide me.”

“What do you mean... the biggest ever?” Baumann demanded.

“You’re wasting time. Get me out of here,” Cade said and switched off.

He began lowering his equipment down by rope. It didn’t prove easy as the branches of the tree grew closely together, but finally, after some nerve irritating jerking and moving of the rope, the equipment finally reached the snow.

Cade began his cautious descent. He felt shaky and short of breath. Once or twice, he had to pause to rest, but at last, he dropped into the snow. He picked up his equipment and stood motionless, listening. He heard no sound except the moaning of the wind and the movement of the trees. He had only a vague idea where the wall was over which he had climbed. He began a cautious approach towards where he thought it would be.

His equipment was heavy and he wished Baumann was with him to carry the short wave receiver. Then suddenly his foot caught in something and he fell flat on his face. For a moment he choked in panic as his mouth and nose sank into the cold snow, then he struggled up on hands and knees.

He became aware of a soft light all around him. He looked back, his hair bristling, fear clutching at his heart. For a long moment the Château seemed bathed in light, then everything went dark again, blinding him. Somewhere in the distance he heard a shrill bell ringing.

He knew then that he had set off a trip wire of an alarm. He got frantically to his feet, more frightened than he had ever been before. His one thought now was to get to the wall before the guards began to search the forest.

He dropped the short wave receiver, but clung on to the rucksack as he blundered forward into the darkness, banging against tree trunks, his panic increasing.

Then suddenly he saw the beam of a flashlight switch on and immediately switch off some fifteen metres to his right.

Cade came to a standstill, trying to control his hard breathing. He listened, peering towards where he had seen the light.

He heard a rustle of shrubs, then a movement alarmingly close to him. He let the rucksack slip to the snow. His heart was beating so violently, he had trouble in breathing. Instinctively, he crouched, then suddenly the beam of the flashlight hit him.

He was half aware of a man’s grunt of startled surprise, then without thinking, Cade dived forward, his hands seeking the man’s legs. His shoulder hit the guard’s thigh, and together, the two men crashed down into the snow.

Frantic with panic, Cade butted, punched and clawed at the invisible face. For several seconds he was on top of the fight as the guard had been taken completely by surprise, but Cade’s efforts were not enough to reduce the guard to submission. Once over his surprise, the guard exerted his superior strength. His body was trained and he quickly slid away from Cade’s clumsy hold. He flung Cade off and then rearing up, crashed down on Cade as he was trying to get to hands and knees.

Cold, steel-like fingers quested and found Cade’s throat. He felt fingers close on his windpipe, and for a horrible moment, he thought he was about to die. He remembered the hunting knife he carried in his belt. Even as consciousness began to slip away from him, he found the knife, drew it and stabbed upwards with all his remaining strength. He felt a jar run up his arm as the knife cut through the guard’s clothing and sank into his body. The steel-like fingers released their grip. Sobbing for breath, Cade rolled clear, got to his feet and peered down at the dark figure in the snow.

He became aware of voices not far off. At the same time he saw a light flicker on, outlining the wall that was not more than ten metres from where he was standing.

He turned and blundered towards the wall, still gripping the knife, his heart pounding, his breath rasping in his throat.

“Cade?”

He recognised Baumann’s voice.

“Yes!” His voice was a croak.

Something hit him sharply on the shoulder. It was the end of the knotted rope that Baumann had tossed over the wall. He could hear men crashing through the forest and looking back, cold sweat masking his face, he could see flickering beams from a dozen flashlights.

He caught hold of the rope, dropping the hunting knife, and bracing his feet against the wall, he climbed to the top. He got astride the wall, then dropped over, falling into the snow close by where Baumann was standing.

“Let’s go!” Cade panted as he struggled to his feet. “They’re after me!”

Baumann was quick-witted enough to recognise the frantic note in Cade’s voice. He grabbed hold of him, hoisted him to his feet and half dragged, half pushed him to the parked Jaguar.

It wasn’t until the car was moving with Cade, panting and exhausted by his side that Baumann said, “What the hell’s going on?”

Cade tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He was remembering with horror the feel of the hunting knife as it had cut into the guard’s clothes and into his body. He could have killed him! he thought.

“Cade!”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Cade managed to say. “Drive!”

Ten minutes later, skidding on the ice-bound road at a reckless speed. Baumann pulled up outside the hotel.

“I have to have a drink!” Cade said. “For Christ’s sake... get me a drink!”

Baumann got out of the car, went around to Cade’s seat, opened the door and hauled him out.

“Don’t take me through the hotel, you fool,” Cade panted. “I’m all over blood!”

“Just what the hell has happened?” Baumann demanded, his voice rising.

“Get me upstairs!”

Baumann cursed, then grabbing hold of Cade, he led him to the back of the hotel. They took the service lift up to the second floor. Baumann, still clutching hold of Cade, walked quickly along the corridor and into their sitting-room where Sherman was pacing up and down, and Grau, a bored expression on his face, sat in a chair, chewing gum.

As they entered the room, both Grau and Sherman gaped at Cade, then Grau sprung to his feet.

“He’s bleeding!” he exclaimed.

Cade tore off his windcheater, stained with the guard’s blood.

“Give me a drink, damn you!” he said furiously to Baumann. “Don’t gape at me... get me a drink!”

Baumann, unnerved, poured drinks.

“Are you hurt?” he asked Cade as he gave him a stiff whisky.

Cade drank, sighed, finished the drink, then pushing by Baumann poured another drink.

“I’m all right. I had a fight with one of the guards... I had to knife him.”

There was a sudden silence as the three men stared at Cade.

“You knifed him?” Baumann’s voice rose. “You... Good God! You didn’t kill him?”

Cade looked at the blood on his fingers. Shuddering, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers clean.

“I don’t know. He would have killed me if I hadn’t had the knife.” He was now recovering. The blessed calming effect of the alcohol seeping through him minimised his panic “We have to get these photos to the American Consul, Baumann! They are dynamite! Come on... we have to get to Geneva fast!”

“What do you mean... dynamite?” Baumann shouted. “Don’t you realise, you fool, I don’t know what the hell’s been happening? What is all this?”

Cade blinked, then pulled himself together.

“Sorry. This is big. The biggest There’s been a meeting between General Erich Hardenburg and Boris Duslowski. They were on the terrace, examining maps together and I have photos of them.”

Baumann stared at Cade as if he thought he had gone mad.

“Duslowski? Are you crazy? Duslowski killed himself ten years ago! What are you yammering about?”

“That’s what I thought but he’s alive. Why do you imagine they have all those armed guards? They’re Hardenburg’s men!”

“Duslowski?” Baumann continued to stare at Cade. “You’re drunk! He’s dead! What are you talking about?”

“He’s alive! He and Hardenburg!” Cade said, banging his fist on the table. “I have pictures to prove it!”

“If this is true...!” Baumann stared at Cade’s white face and saw by the expression in his eyes it was true. “Give me the films! I’ll fly them to S.B. right away!”

Cade shook his head.

“No, you won’t He’s not having them. These pictures are far too important to give to Braddock. They are going direct to the American Consul at Geneva!”

Baumann’s face hardened.

“You’re under contract to S.B. What pictures you take are his property. Give them to me!”

“The Consul gets them, Baumann, and no one else!”

Baumann’s face darkened with rage.

“This is what comes of working with a drunk!” he exploded. He turned to Sherman. “Do you go along with him, Ben?”

“You bet I don’t,” Sherman said. “S.B. gets the photographs! It’s up to him what he does with them!”

“That’s it,” Baumann said and held out his hand. “Let’s have the films, Cade. It’s three to one... we’ll get rough if we have to!”

“Will you?”

Cade backed away. He wished he had more guts. He wished he wasn’t a drunk. He was frightened of Baumann, but something behind his fear stiffened his morale, making him determined not to give the films to this stocky Swiss.

He snatched up a glass ash-tray: a despairing gesture of the weak against the strong.

“You start something and this goes through the window,” he said.

Baumann sneered at him.

“What’s a broken window between friends?” he said. “Come on, Cade, you can’t be all that drunk. Give me those films!”

Sherman and Grau began to move towards Cade, then they paused and stiffened as a loud knock sounded on the door.

Sudden alarm in his eyes, Baumann said, “Who is it?”

A voice snapped: “Police! Open please!”

Suddenly white-faced, Baumann turned on Cade.

“Give me those films, you drunken fool!”

As Cade continued to back away, the door leading into his bedroom opened and a tall, powerfully built man, wearing the grey uniform of the Swiss Police strode into the room.

“Remain as you are!” he barked, his hand on the butt of the gun at his hip.

A short, stocky man in a black raincoat and wearing a blade slouch hat moved in behind the policeman. He walked across the room, turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Two other men who Cade recognised as Hardenburg’s guards came in, their hands in their raincoat pockets, their faces stony as they took up position around the room.

Baumann faced the Swiss policeman.

“What does this mean?” he blustered. “What do you want?”

“Your passports please” the policeman said. “you haven’t registered in this hotel... that is an offence.”

Baumann drew in a long breath of relief.

“I’m sorry. We have been busy. We forgot. Here is my passport. My friends have theirs.”

Watching, Cade wasn’t fooled by this by-play. If the policeman had come on his own, he would have accepted the situation, but with Hardenburg’s men in the room, he knew it would only be a matter of minutes before they were all arrested and searched.

Both Sherman and Grau took out their passports and handed them to the policeman.

“Mine’s in my bedroom,” Cade said casually. “I’ll get it.” He began walking slowly towards his bedroom, his body stiff with fear, his heart thumping.

“Hey, you! Wait!” the policeman snapped.

His body cringing, Cade continued into his room. He heard footsteps behind him. He caught hold of the door and slammed it shut in the face of the advancing guards. He turned the key as a shoulder slammed against the door which creaked, but held. He jumped across the room, flung open the door that led into the corridor, hesitated, then stepped back behind the door, pulling it against him, wedging himself between the door and the wall.

He heard the door from the sitting-room burst open.

“He’s getting away!” he heard a man shout. “Quick!”

He then heard two men dart into the corridor and start running towards the elevator. He remained where he was, his heart hammering.

From the sitting-room, he heard the policeman say, “You are under arrest.”

He listened to Baumann’s excited protests, then came the sounds of a scuffle. He heard Sherman curse.

Then: “All right... all right.” This from Baumann. “We’ll come... cut it out!”

Crouching against the wall, Cade listened to the tramp of feet as the policeman and the two other men with Baumann, Grau and Sherman moved past his open door and on down the corridor.

He waited until he heard the whine of the elevator, then he moved out from behind the door. He snatched up the wool-lined motoring coat he had worn on the way up to Villars, struggled into it, then ran to the french windows. He opened them and stepped out onto the snow-covered balcony. He closed the windows behind him.

Looking down onto the courtyard of the hotel, he saw three parked cars and two Swiss Policemen standing by them. Immediately below him was another balcony. Without hesitation, he swung himself over the balustrade and dropped onto the balcony below. The fall shook him, but he was far too frightened to care. The french windows leading into the room were dark. He tried the latch: it gave and he moved into the darkened room. He paused to listen, then hearing nothing, he pulled the drapes across the windows and groped his way across the room, found the light switch and turned it on.

His blood froze when he saw a girl in the bed close to him. She was beginning to sit up as he threw himself on her, his hand clamping down on her mouth, the weight of his body crushing her.

He was aware of two terrified blue eyes as he lay flat on her. She tried to struggle, but she was helpless under his weight.

Cade said in a hysterical whisper, “Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. I want your help!”

The big, terrified eyes searched his face, then seeing he was much more frightened than she was, the girl began to relax. Slowly, he released his grip over her mouth.

“What is it?” she asked, her steady, calm voice did much to blanket Cade’s own panic. She spoke English but from her accent, he guessed she was either Swiss or French.

“I’m sorry.” He sat upright, taking his weight off her body. “I didn’t know you were here. You won’t scream, will you?”

“You’re crushing me.”

He realised he was sitting on her legs and he hurriedly stood up.

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t keep saying that! Oh! You frightened the life out of me!”

“Nothing like the way you scared me,” Cade said with feeling. “You wouldn’t have a drink up here?”

She was studying him.

“You can’t be Val Cade, can you?” She sat up, holding the sheet against her breasts. “I believe you are.”

He now became aware of her. She was around twenty-five years of age, dark, and she made him think of Elizabeth Taylor. Not quite so beautiful, but beautiful enough.

“Yes, I’m Cade. How did you know?”

“How do I know? My dear man! I am probably your most dotty fan! You aren’t here to rape me, are you?”

Cade suddenly felt as if he was going to faint. He looked around wildly, then seeing an armchair, he dropped into it. Cold sweat glistened on his face. The horror of the thrusting knife, the blood that had stained his hands still haunted him.

“No... I...” he managed to say, then he put his hands to his face, fighting off the faintness that threatened him.

He was vaguely aware that she had got out of bed and he heard a tap running, then a glass was thrust into his hand.

“Drink this!” Her voice was sharp and cut into his fading consciousness.

The bite of whisky revived him. He drank greedily, then let the glass slip out of his fingers. It dropped with a little thump on the floor.

“Could you please tell me what is happening?” the girl asked.

He looked at her, amazed at her calm.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” She had thrown on a flame-coloured wrap and was now sitting on the side of the bed. “My name is Ginette Dupris. I am a French national. I work for a Travel Agent in Montreux. I am on vacation, and I am crazy about your photographs. Is that the kind of thing you want to know?”

“Have you a car?”

“It’s in the garage below... a Volkswagen.”

“I have to get to Geneva. May I take your car?”

“You mean... now?”

“Yes.”

“But what would I do without a car? If you must go to Geneva, I’ll drive you there myself.”

“I don’t want you to get involved in this,” Cade said. “It’s safer for you to know nothing about it. It is of international importance. I would rather go on my own. You could get into trouble.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Is it something to do with some photographs you have taken?”

“That’s it.”

“Then I’ll help you. I insist. I won’t be a moment” She snatched up clothes from a chair and disappeared into the bathroom.

Still unnerved, Cade poured more whisky into his glass. Then he got up, drank, turned off the light and crossed to the window. He opened the windows and moved silently out onto the balcony.

Immediately below him, he could see a group of men, four of them in Swiss police uniform: the other two were Hardenburg’s men. He stepped hurriedly back out of sight, but remained still, listening.

One of the policemen was speaking into the microphone.

“He could have got away, but we are searching at the hotel,” he was saying. “Block the road above and below the town. He can’t get far. Watch it... he’s dangerous.”

Cade stepped back into the room and closed the windows. He might have guessed it wasn’t going to be all that easy. He stood still, trying to make up his mind what to do when Ginette, wearing a grey and scarlet wool dress, came from the bathroom.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ll just get my back...”

“They are setting up road blocks,” Cade said. “We can’t go by road now.”

“They? Who do you mean?”

“The police,” Cade said.

At that moment there came a sharp rap on the door.