The Last Witness

brainer you are.’

Roman’s smile rose slowly, remembering Venegas. ‘That’s where you got it wrong, college boy. I ain’t going to shoot you.’ Roman wallowed in the quizzical surprise on Georges’ face for a moment before lowering the gun to Georges’ feet. ‘Sometimes I’m a little more subtle than you might appreciate. Or for that matter Jean-Paul’

He fired and the ice cracked a foot to Georges’ side, but the block didn’t sever. And as the echo of the shot died, they suddenly heard the whirl of the helicopter.

Roman looked over his shoulder, momentarily distracted. But it was hovering over the house — one shot more and the block would break off. He fired again, but Georges had anticipated and leapt a yard to one side as the ice block severed and sailed free.

Roman aimed again at the ice, then suddenly his eyes shifted uncertainly. The engine tone of the helicopter had changed. It was moving towards them, baring down fast.

Roman raised the gun towards Georges. Brief apologetic smile. ‘Sometimes subtleties have to be thrown to the wind.’

In the helicopter, Michel had put a sniper called Gilles on alert by the open side door as soon as they started moving towards the two figures. Within a short distance, Michel could make out that the far figure was Georges, but with the other wearing night goggles he couldn’t make him out clearly. But they could see the gun, and they were close enough by then for the sound of the second shot to reach them.

‘Oh God! Are we too late?’ Michel shouted. ‘Try a shot! Try a shot!’

‘He’s shooting at the ice for some reason.’ Gilles tried to steady the rifle against the movement of the helicopter, get the figure centre in his night-sight. ‘But we’re still too distant.’

Then, as Gilles saw the gun raise, he realized there was little choice. The figure moved wildly in his cross- hairs with the vibrations: it would be pot luck. But if he didn’t try, it would be too late anyway!

Gilles squeezed off the shot, saw the figure jolt from his sights; not sure if it had fallen away or it was the kick of the rifle.

‘You’ve got him!’ Michel announced excitedly, seeing the figure sprawl a second before Gilles could pick it up again in his sights.

But as Gilles trailed the cross-hairs back across the figure, he could see that he’d only clipped him, a shoulder wound: the hand was rising again with the gun. Though this time they were closer, the shot cleaner. He pumped two bullets in quick succession through the back.

Clenched fist ‘Yes!’ from Michel, but the elation was short-lived.

A high-powered.308 calibre, the bullets had gone straight through the body, shattering the ice beneath. A large ice-block had broken free, the body sliding into the water as it tilted. But at the far end of the block was Georges. He tottered unsteadily for a second before falling on his side, and Michel watched in horror as he slid in too with the tilt of the ice-block.

‘Get us down. Fast!’ he screamed.

‘We can’t land on the ice. It won’t take us,’ the pilot shouted back. He pointed with his thumb. ‘Someone will have to go down on the winch.’

Michel assessed for only a second before moving forward. ‘Okay.’

Gilles leaned back from the open side door as a colleague hooked in Michel and they started to wind him down.

The winch rope swayed and spun wildly with the wind from the rotors, and Michel’s view of Georges below came and went. A third of the way down he caught a glimpse of Georges thrashing around in the dark water, trying to grab on to a solid ice-edge. He was still there halfway down, but as Michel straightened from a half spin close to the ground, Georges had completely disappeared. His stomach sank. No. No! He hadn’t come all this way for it to end like this.

He frantically waved to the helicopter to bring him down closer. There was still a good five yards between the end of the rope and the ground. As more winch rope was fed out, its swing became even wider. Michel had to be careful where he landed in case he hit the broken ice and fell in as well.

And in the last few feet, just before he finally made contact with a jolt, he was sure he saw the brief bob of a head and part of an arm appear above the water.

He quickly unhooked, ran breathlessly towards it. But by the time he got to the edge of the broken ice, Georges had gone again. He scanned frantically for movement, bubbles. Anything. But there was nothing but still black water.

‘No. No!’ he screamed, falling to his knees. Knowing in that moment that if Georges died, he’d never be able to forgive himself for what he’d done. He started hurriedly brushing away the snow to see through the ice. Still only blackness: too dark to see through! He waved to the helicopter to bring the search-light in closer.

Colleagues would pat him on the back, console him that he’d done his best. But all the time he’d know the dark truth; know that if it wasn’t for his obsession, this would never have happened. He might as well have pushed Georges under with his own hands!

He clawed desperately at the snow, his hands red-raw and numb. ‘Can’t end like this… can’t — ’ And suddenly he thought he saw something, a couple of feet to his right. He clawed away more snow, shrinking back slightly in shock as it finally became clear: Georges’ face only inches beneath the ice, ghostly in the search-light beam.

Michel let out a gasp of relief. Though he wondered whether he was already too late: Georges had probably been under almost two minutes. He banged on the ice, but it didn’t break. He tried again, but still it didn’t budge.

‘Oh, Jesus, no… No!’ Salt tears stung his eyes as he realized he couldn’t get to Georges. Getting so close but still not able to save him! Having to watch from only inches away as Georges drowned before his eyes: maybe that was his punishment!

And he noticed something else then: Georges’ body was shifting beneath the ice with a slight current. He tried another smash with his fist with no luck, then he had to clear more snow to see Georges clearly again.

Three more strikes in rapid succession, Michel grunting and screaming with each, putting all his strength into it. And with the last with still no ice-break, Michel felt the last of his strength go with it, was about to roll over onto his back and give up, give one last cry of frustration and — then suddenly he remembered the sniper’s bullets.

Michel took out his gun, measuring. He’d have to be careful with Georges’ body shifting with the current. A few inches out and he’d hit him. But no time to clear away more snow!

He fired once, twice, just ahead of where he thought Georges would be. A crack appeared, and he fired a third shot to break the block free.

He scrambled down, reaching into the icy water. Nothing, nothing! He was frantic. Try another shot or clear some snow to see where Georges was? He started to clear with his other hand — a glimpse of something, though not very clear, and a second later Georges’ body connected. He grappled on and yanked up hard, pulling Georges’ head and shoulders above the water. A quick breath, and then he yanked again, putting all his weight into it until he had most of Georges’ body solidly on the ice.

His breath vapour billowed hard in the freezing air as he leant over to resuscitate Georges — but at that moment he could see the ice-block they were on cracking with the weight. He had to desperately grapple and slide the body again, this time almost a full two yards — before collapsing in a heap at Georges’ side, exhausted, as only a foot away the ice-block gave way.

He was almost too out of breath to give mouth-to-mouth, he had to furiously pull in every breath he gave out, muttering repeatedly ‘Don’t die on me now… Don’t die on me!’ as he intermittently lifted off and pressed against Georges’ stomach.

And as the first coughs and splutters finally came from Georges’ mouth, Michel rolled onto his back and let out a great whooping victory cry towards the night sky and the swaying beam of the helicopter above.

EPILOGUE