They strolled casually down to the quayside so as not to draw attention to themselves. Tiny gunned the engines of the twin outboards as he sped away from Bariloche without a backward glance. If he had looked behind, he might have noticed a small craft pulling away and following at a distance in their wake.
“So, what happened?” asked Sybilla above the growl of the engines.
“Do you remember meeting a guy called Fridolin Guth in Buenos Aires?”
“Yes,” confirmed Sybilla, “he was the only one I feared out of the whole group. He had been Gestapo Chief in France at the time I was undercover with Hauptmann Meyer. He must have known about ‘The Vikings’, as we were known.”
Tiny nodded. “You were right to fear him. Seems he had suspicions about you when you were in France and started an investigation there, but the Allied invasion intervened. After he met you the other night, it jogged his memory and he continued his investigation. He came to the conclusion that you were a plant then and therefore, in all likelihood, a plant now.”
Snow had started to fall. Tiny had to keep the speed down because of the reduced visibility, consequently their journey took longer than expected and it was twilight when they reached the hotel at Puerto Blest.
“Do we go straight on up the pass?” asked Sybilla.
“No, it’ll be dark soon and with the snow falling, we won’t be able to see a hand in front of us. We’ll stay over at the hotel for the night. Hopefully, we won’t be missed until tomorrow.”
Over dinner Tiny explained what had happened. “Seems that when Guth concluded his investigation he phoned Weber—that was first thing this morning—ordering him to eliminate you. Weber came to me in a terrible state, crying and shaking. He told me he couldn’t do it. Begged me to do it.” Tiny shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly. “Seems I have a bit of a reputation, fostered no doubt by the CIA. I assured him I would take care of things and warned him to do nothing and say nothing to anyone until I contacted him and confirmed that you were dead. I desperately needed to buy time to allow us to get away. I certainly didn’t want Weber creating mayhem in Bariloche.”
“But Tiny, it means you can’t go back now,” said Sybilla anxiously.
Tiny shook his head. “That is of no matter, my job here is done. I’ve found everything worth finding about Richter and his little charade—that was my mission—and I’ve also sent back a few titbits about many of the Nazis who visit here. All of that is a bonus. So, it’s time to go.”
Tiny adopted a comic, wistful look. “Of course, I had planned to go on vacation to Buenos Aires then out on a luxury airliner through diplomatic channels to the US of A.” He tried to look sad but failed, and instead smiled broadly. “But hell, this is as good a way as any, the exciting, adventurous route, not to say the bloody cold route!”
They both laughed, then Sybilla, becoming serious, said, “I really appreciate what you’re doing. You’ve blown your cover to get me out. You could have told Weber to go away and do his own dirty work and left me to my own devices.”
Tiny looked askance at her from the corners of his eyes. “Would you have left me to my own devices?”
Sybilla smiled and shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t. Thanks, Tiny.”
“Thank me when we’re both sat on a plane out of Santiago and heading for the States. As things stand, we have a fairly major task in front of us. Speaking of which, we need to make an early start.”
Just before five the next morning, they strapped their skis onto their bergens and began the long uphill hike to the ski slopes. The snow had stopped, but in the dark, the route was difficult to negotiate, and it wasn’t until the sun was making a half-hearted effort to climb over the eastern mountains that they reached the slopes.
Having rested for only a short spell, they continued up the same valley towards the distant ridgeline. Tiny had an inner toughness and fitness not always found in men of his muscularity. Sybilla, despite the hard going during the dark, found it relatively straightforward and was well within her comfort zone. They reached the ridge in under an hour from their last stop, and Tiny pointed down the eastern slope. Sybilla could see the frozen lake shimmering and glistening in the morning sunshine. On the southern shore of the lake, she could see the safety cabin Tiny had told her about. That would be their next checkpoint, and a chance to eat some of the rolls and cold meat the hotel proprietor had kindly left for them, neatly wrapped, on the reception desk.
The first hundred yards or so of the descent was tricky in the extreme—rocky, icy and devoid of snow—but, after what could have been a treacherous scramble down, they eventually reached the snowline. It was with some relief that they clipped on their skis. Even so, the slope on this part of the basin was steep, and they were forced to take it slowly and carefully. Now would not be a good time to have a skiing accident. However, as they moved closer to the bottom of the basin, the slope became much shallower and they were able to ski with greater freedom.
They shot around the northern shore of the lake and travelled down the eastern side. They were within a hundred yards of the cabin when Tiny suddenly slewed to a halt and held
