“It’s late for that,” Quayle said. The true climbing season ended in the Autumn. Light alpine climbing was a summer pastime, when the weather was more predictable.
“This year they climb ice,” the man replied, his gesture saying that he thought anyone who did such a thing was not all there in the head.
“Who’s in the big chalet?” Quayle asked.
The man flicked open a note book, rather like a country policeman. “A politician type from Paris, and an industrialist and his party. I think the industrialist owns the place, but I won’t know for a few days. Girard is apparently respectful of these two.”
Quayle thought for a second or two. Girard could be the front Man. The negotiator. What he wanted was to be able to run the names through the computers and see what was dredged up, but with the network they seemed to have in place they might well know they were being searched before it was even completed.
“Same people all the time?”
“No. The residents change. Usually all from Paris, but sometimes others. He said he doesn’t talk to them. Just sees them about.”
The location was ideal, Quayle thought. Remote and yet, with a constantly changing population, they could hide themselves up here in the valley and disappear into the hordes of visitors, winter or summer. Guests could come and go, meetings could be held, plans laid behind the veneer of the alpine resort’s attractions.
Quayle turned to Eicheman. “This is what I want to do. Let’s try and get a look inside the complex. I have a feeling this is the European headquarters of this thing. Nachwatch, Minutemen, whatever they call themselves in France. Fung Wa would have been dealing with the big boys and not just some cell. If that’s the case, then getting in will be tough and we risk not having enough time to see it done. It would be better to separate our targets. That may be easiest while they’re climbing.”
“The security is tight inside the complex. Why not outside too?” Eicheman asked sensibly.
“It may be, but this is home ground for them. People get over confident and sloppy this close to home. They might just take a few heavies and rely on the fact that, this late in the season, they’ll be the only party about.”
Eicheman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I hate the mountains. Let’s do it at ground level anyway.”
Quayle smiled but shook his head. “Let’s have a look tonight. Plan A is the complex. Alexi can have a look with one of his people. If it’s a no go, then we see where they’re climbing and look at Plan B.”
“Ah,” the other BND man said, “I think I have something there. One of my sources is in the Bureau de Guide. These people don’t use the Bureau, you understand, but one of them was in there only yesterday asking about…” He pulled his notebook out. “...the Refuge de Leschaux.”
Quayle looked up. “You’re sure? Refuge de Leschaux?”
The man nodded.
“You know it?” Eicheman asked.
“I know it,” Quayle said. You proud, unforgiving, merciless bitch. You nearly killed me once before. This may be your chance again. “It’s the starting point for a number of climbs. A hut. But if these guys are serious and looking for ice and a challenging climb…” He pictured the steep flaky walls and chutes, the falling stones that could kill. “Grand Jorasses. They’ll try and climb the Grand Jorasses.” He thought further. “That’s the ice they want. It might just be cold enough to freeze the stones on the chute. But dangerous, very dangerous…”
“It is bad?” Eicheman asked, already hating this mountain more than the rest.
“The interesting bits of the north face, off the Walker Spur that is, were only really cracked in ‘76. Not as big or as demanding as the north face of the Eiger. It’s all loose stone and ice. Bonnington called it an elegant climb. And it is. On a good day, it’s a sheer delight. But on the bad days she is formidable. She has killed good men.” Quayle walked to the window and looked at the sky. The weather killed and injured as many as stonefall or a missed handhold. It might just be cold enough for them to try Macintyre and Colton’s ‘76 winter route.
“I have a couple of calls to make,” he finally said. “But let’s get together with Alexi for an hour first. Then I’ll be away for a few days.”
The first call he made was to Pierre Lacoste, the guide who had taught him to ski and climb. Pierre was one of the old school, of piton and hammer, and he and Quayle had argued many an evening over the merits of the new techniques, the wedges and cramming devices. Pierre, his black curly hair framing almost black Gaelic eyes over a proud hooked nose, would jab his finger to make his point, incessantly smoking crumpled Gauloise from his back pocket. He felt as if the Alps had lost something in fast light ascents and saw it as the end of an era.
Pierre was nearing sixty now and had officially retired, but was delighted to get Quayle’s call. They had last seen each other four years before and done a fast ascent of one of the Augilles on a Saturday, Quayle using the new clean style. Even he, Pierre Lacoste, guide and mountain man, had to admit that it worked well.
On the evening Quayle called, Pierre had guests – his daughter and her children were staying, so he couldn’t begin preparations straight away. But, in the morning, he would bundle them off to the town and begin. A noisy game had developed between the girls and, with Quayle’s request on his mind, he walked to the open windows and looked up at the darkening sky. The weather had been unpredictable recently. It had snowed this early in the valley before but he had never known it quite
