Packer waited until the full force of the avalanche had passed and saw, far above, the great slabs of naked mountainside — a patchwork of black rock and dead brown grass — like a cake with the icing scraped off. Then he put on his skis and began the four-mile run down the Schwartzalp to Klosters. He had just time to see, across the three ridges of snow, the helicopter settle beside the T-bar where a group of men had crowded round the bodies like ants round two scraps of meat.
A quarter of an hour later he reached the edge of the town; it was jammed with traffic which had been pushed on to the side of the road to make way for the ambulances, police cars and rescue teams. It took him another ten minutes on foot, carrying his skis, to reach the station where he had left the Fiat; and another five to edge the car up through the crowded streets to the Vereina Hotel.
The lobby, lounge and bar were packed and full of static tension — people standing, waiting, shouting questions without getting answers. Packer left his skis at the door, and on his way through to the bar heard voices claiming that ten people had been killed — thirty — fifty — Wolfgang was cut off — half the village had been buried — had been wiped out altogether. A large German with an orange moustache was announcing, with grave relish, that a Swiss police officer had just informed him that at least 200 were dead.
Packer found Sarah sitting by herself on the far stool of the bar. She was still wearing her dark glasses and headscarf, and was staring at the bottles behind the counter, both hands round a glass of thick brown liquid that looked like soup.
She saw him in the mirror, and did not even turn as he slipped on to the stool beside hers. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she jerked her head sideways so that his lips brushed her ear.
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Apart from bringing the whole mountain down?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, even through telescopic sights I could see that his head ended at his lower teeth —’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Please! Do you have to go into such horrible detail? You know that sort of thing makes me sick.’
‘You had something to do with it,’ he reminded her. She said nothing, but gulped her drink.
Packer paused. ‘Ryderbeit’s dead too,’ he said slowly.
‘What?’
‘The avalanche. He was right underneath it.’
‘Did you see him die?’
‘It was too far away. But nobody could have got out of that. He was a good skier — wonderful balance and plenty of guts — but to outrun an avalanche you have to be in the Olympic class. And bloody lucky.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid skiing on Kilimanjaro and in the Lebanon just isn’t the same thing. And his luck gave out too.’ He shrugged. ‘Poor Sammy.’
Sarah made no comment. Packer leaned on the bar, his forehead on his hands. He felt sick with exhaustion. Out of the din of voices he heard the big German yelling, in ugly English, ‘There was shootings on the mountain! Some bloody Swiss army fool bringing down an avalanche on the Weissfluh — then wham! — both sides of the mountain come down!’
‘It was probably those damn choppers,’ an American voice called. ‘They’ve been flying far too low — protecting that goddamn emperor up in the big chalet. Something like this was bound to happen.’
‘I tell you, this whole bloody business is the fault of that damned emperor fellow,’ the German declared loudly.
Sarah finished her drink and asked for another. Packer lifted his head and peered at her. Her expression behind the dark glasses was stiff and pale.
‘And you?’ he said. ‘It went all right?’
‘Easy as pie,’ she answered; but there was a nervous edge to her voice.
‘No hitches?’ he said gently.
‘Oh, just some creep who came up and searched my bag, then tried to pick me up.’
‘Did he find the radio?’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘The fool thought it was a transistor. I sent the message while he was watching.’
‘Christ,’ Packer breathed; then smiled. ‘You’re a brave girl, Sarah.’
‘Thank you.’
The barman put down another glass of brown liquid in front of her. Packer nodded at it. ‘What’s that?’
‘A “bull shot”. Vodka and consommé. Don’t you remember, I used to drink it in the Ritz at lunchtime? When we first met, while I was going through my wild phase.’
He looked at her wearily. ‘It seems a long time ago. Come to think of it, I suppose it was. You used to say you were in love with me.’
She laughed. ‘Only after I’d had a few drinks.’ She lifted the glass and took a swallow worthy of Sammy Ryderbeit. Then she sat very still, staring straight ahead.
Packer said at last, ‘We ought to go. The road down to Landquart will be full of ambulances and relief teams, and it’s going to be a slow drive. We must try to make it before they start setting up roadblocks.’
‘Owen — I’m not going.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m not going with you.’
He blinked and licked his lips. ‘What the hell are you saying?’
‘I’m staying here.’
‘To do what?’ he asked, gaping at her,
‘I’m going to that party in St
