“What happened down there?” yelled Igor over the sound of the helicopter blades.
Kalakia heard him but did not respond. He sat stiff in his seat, staring into space with a scowl on his face. His mind was already plotting, asking every question, studying every possibility. Who else was involved with Stirner? The entire Council? Some of them? One thing Kalakia knew with certainty; Stirner’s trip to hell was already booked.
25
Frederich got moving straight away. There was no point standing around brooding in the cold. He considered his two options; head south in the direction of Italy, or march north until he reached a town or highway in the lowlands and then hitch a ride back to Zürich. Tracing the routes during the daily marches, he had favoured the southern option. Going north meant he would be funnelled toward the nearby lake which would lead to a gruelling climb over the nearby mountain with its unpredictable cliff faces. If he made it over, he could descend to the lowlands and find a nearby town. If. He lacked the equipment for that kind of journey. He chose the path of lesser risk and opted to go south.
He crossed through the trees and onto the plain. His ribs ached with every step. He lowered his head and tried to forget about the pain. His stint with The League was over. He was back where he began, and this time he was in the middle of nowhere. What now? What was he supposed to do? He had no desire to return to Berlin a failure. He already knew where that road led. He could travel toward Sicily, he figured. It would at least be warmer there. He could find a spot near the beach. A coffee or a red wine and a dip in the Mediterranean seemed like a good idea. He imagined the blue skies and new opportunities which awaited him, then shook his head. It was too soon for daydreaming. He had not even begun descending the mountain.
The sky was overcast and grey, and snowfall had formed a fresh layer over the ice. He was still hot and sweaty from his fight with Scheffler, and he unzipped his jacket and welcomed the cold as it seeped through. He made it over the plain and then began descending the mountain with careful steps as chunks of snow collapsed under his feet. The wind howled over the surface and raced past him uphill. He zipped up his jacket halfway again and stuck his head in.
While he descended with careful steps he found he had trouble breathing. He stopped and paid attention. His skin was tingling, and not from the cold. He responded immediately to the signals and made for a small patch of trees to use as cover. From his position, he looked up the mountain to check if anyone was following him. He only saw snow falling in slow motion. What is it, Frederich? He checked left then right. He was not going to see anything from where he was. He waited a full minute then sprung out of the protection of the trees and went left. As he worked his way across the mountain, he looked down on the ground and saw footmarks in the snow. He counted at least ten fresh sets, all headed uphill. He immediately remembered the silhouette in the night from when he was on guard duty with Piotr. He hesitated briefly then shrugged and turned back down the mountain again. Not his problem. Let Scheffler worry about it, he figured. Then he stopped. The recruits would be leaving for the march at any minute. Scheffler would have two armed guards — maximum. If there was an ambush, it would be a massacre. He felt a strong tug in his chest. Piotr was with them. He turned around, pulled the straps of his bag tight over his chest and began jogging up the mountain in the same direction as the footmarks.
When he reached the edge of the plain he crouched close to the ground and looked out. The hairs on his head stood up. Eight men were swarming the trees, dressed in matching white snowsuits and carrying cream coloured rifles. Professionals. Two were missing. He turned his attention to the other side of the plain to a collection of large rocks and found two snipers perched over the boulders with their rifles pointed toward the trees, ready to pick off any survivors who slipped through the net. He dropped his bag on the ground and sprinted across the bottom edge of the plain where he would not be seen. He wished he had his pistol, but it was sitting in the drawer back in Berlin. No use thinking about it. He would have to improvise. In any case, the less noise he made the better. He would have surprise on his side when he entered the forest. But first he had to deal with the snipers.
He worked his way around the back and approached the rocks using the slope of the mountain for cover. The snipers were positioned about sixty feet from each other. He looked down and found a rock the size of a melon. He picked it up. It was a high-risk manoeuvre. If the other shooter turned his head, Frederich was dead. He had no choice. With careful steps he approached the shooter nearest to him, careful to avoid treading on any small rocks. The howl of the wind filled the open plain, and the two gunmen remained motionless. Frederich slithered closer, one cautious step at a time. When he was three feet away he lifted the rock over his head. He choked off his breathing and took another step. The shooter cleared his throat while remaining focussed on the
