Quayle opened his eyes for the hundredth time and peeled back the layers of clothing to look at his watch. It was still dark, but he knew that to his right the sun was rising. Because the north face dropped into a glacial basin, there would be no light below for some time yet. Once they began the climb, they would be at least five hours before getting to him. He rolled to look over the edge for the last time in the relative safety of darkness, and thought briefly about what he would need to do today. All his instincts and training in the mountains, all the background and legend, the ethos and mystique, came back to one thing. Life. On a mountain, as anywhere, life was sacred. But on a mountain it seemed more precious than ever. Men risked and sometimes gave their lives for others on mountains. He had selected this place because, up here, they would be most exposed and distanced from their retinue by altitude and technique. And here, where life was more sacred than ever, he would confront them.
He flicked his lighter and held it up to the cigarette, drawing back deeply. It was light now. They would be at the base of the big wall now, and he had to resist the urge to look over and count. It made no real difference. He would just need to isolate one of the three – Girard, the industrialist or the politician – and he would have what he needed. If the others came to his aid then he would have to deal with that situation as it arose.
Kirov’s men had settled in just before the dawn. One sat dug in to one side of the Glacier de Pierre Joseph, a small steep flow that was little more than a vast ice fall, ending at the wide flat bottom of the main Leschaux. The new snow was deep at the base of the glacier and, along the base of the spur, the ground was steeply sloping, ideal for what they intended.
He watched the refuge with binoculars from behind a hummock of ice and snow he had built up himself. Beneath him were two cables, one set at four feet and one at seven – where he could rest well below the surface and possible sight. He had set two other screws into the wall and rigged his thigh harness so that he could hang there indefinitely. With water, chocolate and high energy cubes of sugar and honey, he would need no resupply. His job was to alert the remaining members the moment any of the support group left the refuge. They were spread in a line along two huge crevasses, three hundred meters further out, positioned either side of two snow bridges that were the obvious choice for a crossing.
Kirov sat down in his harness and eased the straps around his thighs. They had been in position for two hours now and they were as ready as they would ever be. He looked up at the scudding clouds. Come on, he thought. Let’s get it over with.
Quayle was thinking the same thing. Perfectly camouflaged against the grey brown rock, he leant over the edge of his ledge and focused the glasses down the ice wall. Beneath him, four figures moved steadily upward, deep in the shadows of the Walker spur. First, the leader moved, then settled down to await his partner, the other two following the route on the same holds. At one stage, Quayle thought he saw the leader of the second pair point and shout – but the gesture was lost in the wind.
It was after noon when Quayle first heard the lead climber’s axe heads biting and his crampons scrape. He had cleared up his bivouac, re-packed his gear and set up two other secure points further along the ridge line. He was ready. Now that he had three of the prime movers in the conspiracy separated, it was time to go to work. He sneaked a look over the edge. His position was, he knew, the only half decent flat section in the entire area. They would head for here, planning their ascent to finish here, drink some tea and rest before moving east along the ridge for the long abbess down to the Hirondelle. Even so, this late they would want to keep the rest as brief as possible.
He checked his lines one last time and then, using a small mirror, checked the position of the lead climber. A hard face, tired, dark hair, late thirties – this had to be Girard. He was scarcely ten metres below him. He heard him pause, take a breath, swing his boot against the ice , then move upward again. He moved the mirror slightly to look across the face and downward to the place where he had placed the screw last night. There was rope trailing back to that point. They had used it. Five metres. He would be looking upward any second, looking for the final stretch of ice, where the rock came through. He would need hand holds – possibly a wedge
