Operation Napoleon

took a photo of Miller that I still have somewhere.’

Jon rose from his chair and walked over to a large dresser. The top half was a cabinet containing glasses and plates, the lower half heavy, carved drawers. Bending down, Jon pulled out the bottom drawer and rooted around until he found what he was looking for. He handed them an old photograph.

‘He used to turn up here from time to time, saying he was on his summer vacation, and would go up to the glacier. We let him stay with us. He’d be here for up to a week or two. Came every three to five years to search for that plane, though it must be more than thirty years since his last visit. We were told he’d died. He wrote to us for years,’ Jon added, handing them some yellowed letters. ‘These are thank-you letters to me and my brother that he used to write after he’d been to stay. An exceptionally nice chap, Miller.’

The letters were addressed to Jon in an elegant hand and the sender had taken care to spell his patronymic and the name of the farm correctly. They were postmarked Washington; the stamps featured Abraham Lincoln.

‘What was his Christian name?’ Kristin asked, examining the photo.

‘Robert,’ Jon replied. ‘Robert Miller. He told us to call him Bob. Isn’t that what most Americans are called?’

‘Did he ever find anything?’

‘Not a thing, poor man.’

‘He wanted to find his brother?’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his brother?’

‘Not another word. And we didn’t ask any questions. He asked us not to take any more pictures of him. This is the only one we have.’

The photograph had been taken outside the brothers’ stables one summer’s day. Miller stood holding the bridle of a black horse, face turned to the camera; a thin figure in checked shirt and jeans. He had raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun but his features were clearly visible: a prominent nose and mouth above a receding chin, a high brow and thinning hair.

‘That horse was only half broken and it came close to killing Miller,’ Jon said, pointing to the animal. ‘Bolted across the yard with him the moment he got in the saddle, heading straight for the electric cable that used to run between the buildings. Fortunately Miller noticed the wire in time and managed to throw himself off.’

Jon was silent for a while, as if considering whether to say more or stop there. They raised their eyes to him enquiringly. He shifted from one foot to the other in his woollen socks, before eventually inviting them to follow him.

‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘Come with me. I can show you something that proves that plane was German.’

They waited while he pulled on a thick down jacket, boots, a woollen hat and gloves. Their own coats were in the car and he told them to fetch them while he waited at the door, then led them out into the blinding whiteness. Soon the house was invisible and they could see no more than a yard ahead in the snow-filled night. Kristin walked behind Jon, carefully placing her feet in his tracks. She could only just make out his shape in front of her and when he stopped abruptly, she stumbled into him and felt Steve collide with her from behind. Jon had reached a door which he heaved open, sending it slamming back into the wall. He fumbled in the darkness and turned on a light, revealing that they were inside a cowshed that was now used as a stable. It took all Steve’s strength to close the door behind them against the force of the wind.

There were six horses in the stable, giving off a heat that made it warm inside. They stood in their wooden stalls, watching the unexpected visitors with quizzical expressions, steam rising from their nostrils, their winter coats almost comically thick and woolly. Kristin, who had always loved horses although she had never ridden, paused to pat a chestnut mare. Jon led them along the passage that ran behind the animals, parallel to the dung channel. Kristin was surprised by the old man’s vigour and nimble movements. The three innermost stalls were empty and in one stood a large chest with a key in the lock, which Jon now turned, before lifting the lid.

‘It must have been about twenty years ago,’ he said with a grunt. The lid was surprisingly heavy. ‘He may not have been the only one to survive the crash. He veered just too far to the east, or he would have stumbled on the farm.’

‘Who would?’ Kristin asked.

‘The German,’ Jon said, lifting a tattered German uniform jacket out of the chest and holding it up for them to see.

Chapter 22

VATNAJOKULL GLACIER,

SATURDAY 30 JANUARY, EVENING

Count von Mantauffel has gone in search of help. He took two bars of chocolate and we tried to wrap him up as warmly as we could. He’s the toughest member of our party and is desperate to get off the ice. We thought if he headed south-east he might be able to find his way down, but there’s not much hope; he knows it and we know it. The cold will be the death of him.

The cold will be the death of us all.

Ratoff was sitting in his tent, reading the diary he had found under the co-pilot’s seat by the dim light of the gas heater. The gale ripped and tore at the tent, its screaming so loud that conversation was impossible. Two of the soldiers’ tents had already been carried away and were probably halfway across the Atlantic by now. Blinded by wind and snow, there was nothing more they could do until the storm had exhausted itself.

The pilot had been carrying papers that identified him as one William Miller. Instantly, Ratoff knew where he had seen that face before: Colonel Miller was the former chief of the organisation; the pilot must have been his brother. Ratoff had already been struck by the strangeness of seeing the bodies emerge from the ice well preserved and undecayed after so many years. The pilot looked as if he had merely been asleep for half a century. Now he could picture Colonel Miller precisely as a young man. The thought intrigued him.

The diary was written in pencil, its entries sporadic. They were not separated by date or time, as if the author had lost all sense of the passing days, and some were very short, hardly more than a sentence jotted down, a disjointed thought or a message from the pilot to those who eventually found the plane. Ratoff could not tell how much time the diary spanned but by his calculations it would not have taken the men long to freeze to death. He flicked through the pages, dipping into them here and there, trying to work out the sequence of events. From time to time the pilot addressed a particular reader – presumably his brother – as if he had intended him to find the diary.

It’s dark round the clock here. Cold and dark. We put Dietrich outside on the ice. He died in agony, I’m afraid. We won’t be putting any more outside for the moment. The plane almost filled with snow. Such an incredible wind. But nothing could stop von Mantauffel. He said he had no intention of dying here; I’m afraid he’s right that no one will be coming to rescue us. But I’m glad he’s gone. He was a disturbing presence, playing the victor in spite of having lost the war. The others are more polite. We’re all dying – that makes men polite. I can’t see how we can be saved. I just can’t see it.

Ratoff turned the pages.

… to gain altitude but it was hopeless. The wings were heavily iced up and there was serious turbulence, alternating updrafts and downdrafts. It was nightmarish flying weather: gale-force winds, snowfall and pitch darkness. Out of nowhere, we felt the plane hit the ice. Completely out of the blue; I still can’t grasp how it happened. The left wing probably struck first, but after that it was just noisy chaos. We bounced and the propellers caught in the ice, the wings sheared off in a shower of sparks and the fuselage ploughed on but it didn’t break up.. .

Ratoff read on. His tent flapped violently, the gaslight dancing over the pages of the diary.