Overkill Page 4

  It got worse.

  The wind was up, whipping snow off the mountain, particularly gusty at these higher altitudes.

  The big tram was now wildly swinging back and forth. Benches ripped, tearing away from the thin aluminum flooring. All was tumult and screams for help. The bodies of the adult passengers who’d been seated at the front, now the top, hurtled downward onto the children’s bleeding heads and broken bodies.

  Hawke was one of the few lucky ones. Since he’d been seated all the way forward, he didn’t have far to fall. And nothing and no one rained down on top of him from above. When he fell, he did have the misfortune of slamming his head into one of the steel benches, rendering him instantly unconscious and bleeding from a deep laceration on the forehead.

  When he regained consciousness moments later, he awoke to hell. Or worse. Everyone aboard was crying, praying, or trying to keep their sanity. This was it. This was what they all feared, but what they’d been able to subdue: an image of themselves plummeting thousands of feet to their deaths, hurtling downward while sealed inside an aluminum tube . . .

  Until this very moment, when the rocky earth would rush up to meet them . . .

  The muffled but still heartrending screams of the terrified children filtered up through the pile of bodies from somewhere far below him. The tortured cries of parents calling out the names of their children, not knowing if they were dead or alive. Or how badly they might be hurt. He called out for his own son: “Alexei! It’s Daddy! Can you hear me? Alexei?”

  He heard his voice joining the pain-racked chorus. Hearing no reply from the boy despite his repeated shouts, he called Tristan Walker’s name repeatedly. Nothing. Could Tristan have been killed? “Tristan! Can you hear me? Tristan? Is my son all right?” he shouted.

  “He’s injured, sir!” came the faint reply. “I’m doing the best I can! He needs help . . . he needs—”

  “Good god, man! Is he conscious? Is he breathing?”

  “Breathing, sir. But unconscious and—”

  On the closest slopes below, horror gripped the skiers clustered to watch the unfolding drama. The wind was whipping the gondola, like a pennant on a stick, back and forth, and with each new gust, a cry of terror wafted up into the frigid mountain air. The worst part for those skiers below observing the imperiled passengers inside was imagining the poor panic-stricken children.

  And then the whoomp-whoomp sound of rotor blades beating the air could be heard. Hearts lifted and people cheered at the sight of a bright red helicopter racing across intensely blue skies toward the upended gondola. Was a rescue even possible? The crowd on the mountain stood and waited, transfixed, as the chopper drew near.

  Hawke must have passed out again, longer this time, because when he opened his eyes once more, it was to the sound of wild cheering. What had happened? He lifted his head to get a look out the windows.

  His own heart lifted mightily within his chest. He saw a miracle in the making.

  A helicopter. A beautiful red and white helicopter! Glory be to god on high! It was hovering just outside the upended tramcar. Red and white were the colors of the Swiss Red Cross. The pilots were clearly getting their bearings, deciding what would be the best way to approach the intended rescue. To begin the extremely dicey, perilous process of evacuating the wounded and panic-stricken passengers without triggering a disaster.

  The chopper nosed down. After a momentary hesitation, it angled slowly toward what was now the bottom of the tramcar. Where the children were closest to the exit, Hawke thought, his heart suddenly gladdened. Yes. And Alexei and Tristan had been sitting right next to the sliding doors, near some of the strapping young ski instructors allowed to sit with their charges.

  Surely his son had come through unscathed . . .

  After the initial joy came a long period of agony in which the Swiss Red Cross rescuers (risking their own lives) searched for a way to pry the damaged pneumatic doors apart. Once this was done, they would then scramble on board and quickly transfer the children to the hovering helo . . . Hawke bent his head to prayer once more, felt himself drifting away . . .

  Suddenly a Red Cross corpsman spoke loudly through a megaphone.

  The Red Cross man was now inside the car!

  “We are now commencing a Red Cross rescue operation. Everyone, please remain where you are and remain calm. Do not move unless you are told to. Sudden shifts of weight are extremely dangerous! In order to begin transferring all of the children to the helicopter, we will begin with the most seriously wounded boys and girls. A triage. Doctors and trauma nurses are already standing by at the Klinik Gut hospital helipad in St. Moritz, about a ten-minute flight away, and—”

  “My daughter just stopped breathing!” a woman cried out. “You must help me! Please, I beg you!”

  “Please be patient with us, madam. We need to evacuate everyone as quickly and carefully as possible. Our situation is precarious, so there’s no time to waste. But there are trauma medics aboard the choppers and there is plenty of room available in the helicopter. We believe we can transport all of the children in one flight. Be patient. For the adults, numerous Swiss army rescue choppers are airborne now and already headed this way. We will get everyone out. The forward cable appears to be holding steady. Be patient. Pray for us. Pray for all of us.”

  But in the panic, patience was in very short supply, as opposed to tearful prayers, which were abundant. Hawke cupped his fingers and swiped away the blood pooled around his left eye socket. Then he removed his Alpine climbing shoes and pulled off one of his knee-high socks, tying the sock like a bandanna around his head to stanch the bleeding from his wound.

  He began carefully picking and choosing his route downward when his turn to go finally came. He knew those in the forward cabin would be among the last to escape. But he moved ever so slowly along with the other terrified adults as the children were evacuated.

  Surely Alexei was already aboard the rescue chopper. Headed for the Klinik Gut. And trauma doctors were standing by at the helipad . . . not five minutes away, the man had said.

  God help my son.

  Chapter Six

  Provence

  There came then a miracle, or at least so the president of Russia thought.

  That very night, events started shifting in his favor. The traveler was passing through a deep valley beneath a starlit sky. The rocks and trees and twisting river all bathed in moonlight blue. He’d been following the slowly flowing river for hours. Keeping to the thickets of trees on its twisting banks . . .

  And that’s when he suddenly saw flashes of light through the forest ahead. And the scent of smoke was on the air. Yes! The pungent sweet smell of woodsmoke came drifting through the trees. And miracle of miracles, it was coming from a chimney.

  And there it was, his miracle, his salvation.

  The log cabin stood in the center of a small clearing. It was completely enveloped by deep wood. It was small, with an overhang for a narrow porch facing the river through the trees. On either side of the crude front door were large windows flanked by dark green shutters. And a crooked chimney made of river stones stood on the right side.

  He pulled the Makarov 9mm from deep inside his overcoat. He’d never needed it before, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary now. He shook off the backpack that held his two valises, leaving them at the base of a large tree, and crept closer to the cabin. He paused for a prudent moment, listening for sounds from within. Nothing save the faint melodies of Rigoletto, full of static, as if coming from an old LP record. Carefully and silently, he mounted the five weathered wooden steps up to the covered porch. And then, using all the stealth he could muster, he approached the window to the right of the door.

  Inside, he saw a room lit only by fire.

  There was a big blaze going in the stone hearth, sparks flying about, rising upward inside the chimney.

  As to furniture, there was little he could see. In the rear to the left was a small iron bed. Beneath the window where he no
w stood was a round wooden table laid with pewter plates, goblets, and a bowl containing some kind of bubbling stew. There were only two chairs. The sink and cupboards were at the right rear.

  There was an attic of some kind too, because he saw a rope dangling from the ceiling, the kind used to pull down a folding stairway ladder.

  In the center of the cabin floor, facing the crackling hearth, was a large old leather wingback chair. Putin could tell that there was a man sitting in it because of the thin plume of pipe smoke rising toward the ceiling.

  He kept one hand on the Makarov in his right pocket, grabbed the door handle with his left. He knew before he pushed that it would not be locked. It swung inward quietly, with nary a squeal.

  “Hello?” Putin said, stepping inside, his index finger slipping inside the trigger guard on the Makarov. The man stood, his back still turned to the door, head down, gazing into the fire.

  Putin, thinking it best to use what little schoolboy French he could muster, said “Excusez-moi, monsieur. Aidez-moi?”

  Help me.

  He hated the sound of his Russian-tinged French accent; his German was perfect—all those years with the KGB in East Berlin. But surely he knew just enough French to get through this encounter.

  Without warning, the man whirled around.

  When he turned, it was with a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun cradled in his arms, aimed at Putin’s head. His voice was the plain-spoken French of the countryside.

  “My name is Étienne Dumas. How may I be of service?” the squat little French woodsman said. He had an open face, shoulder-length white hair, and a great white beard that put the Russian president’s to shame.

  Backlit by the flickering flames of the fire, the man looked like one small ball balanced on top of a great big round ball supported by two pencil-thin sticks.

  He wasn’t an ogre, Putin, thought. No. His lack of physical beauty was incidental to the innocence shining in those wide blue eyes, gleaming in the firelight.

  Putin smiled and said, “Le fusil de chasse, c’est ne pa nécessaire, mon ami. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about, monsieur,” the woodsman said, lowering his sawed-off shotgun to bear on Putin’s mid-section. “It’s you. Now. Take your right hand out of your pocket. Put the pistol you’re carrying in that pocket on the table. Slowly, everything very slowly.”

  “Pas de problème, monsieur,” Putin said. Calmly he put the gun on the table. This man, though very well armed, just did not seem like someone who might be acquainted with the arts of judo.

  “Why are you arrived in my house?” the little Frenchman said, a quizzical cast to his blue eyes.

  Putin had rehearsed his speech standing outside at the door.

  “I’m in trouble, monsieur. On the run. Some people are chasing me who want to kill me. I’ve been out in the woods for a long time. I’ve nowhere left to run.”

  “You are a criminal?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’m a policeman. Well, former policeman. In Germany—Berlin. These people, they want to kill me. For my money. It’s outside. I can show it to you. It’s a great deal of money, sir.”

  “You don’t look so rich, monsieur. Beg your pardon. And you don’t speak German like a German.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. You speak German like a Russian. And you look like a drowned rat, if I may be so honest.”

  “Ah, it’s true. I am Russian. I’m a sick and cold and hungry Russian. But I used to be rich, believe me. Come, let me show you what’s left of my once great wealth.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Out there in the wood. Buried.”

  “You leave your fortune all alone out there in the wood? No wonder you’re so poor.”

  “You may be surprised.”

  And so the little Frenchman followed Putin out into the chill of the still night, his sawed-off shotgun still pointed at a man who had been one of the last great emperors of the earth.

  Chapter Seven

  St. Moritz

  Hawke had heard the word heartache used many times before, but he had never experienced it physically. His heart hurt. Buried in the center of his chest was a hollowed-out place from which emanated a pain so hot and so bright that it threatened to overpower him. He was sweating profusely and still felt dizzy. His brain was telling him to be calm, that surely Alexei had survived and that he would see his son soon.

  But his heart told another story. A story of fear and impending loss of a magnitude that could destroy him. It was only by fervent prayer, putting himself in god’s hands, that he could stem the onrushing tide of despair.

  He was among the last to leave the crippled tramcar and board the rescue helos. As he finally stepped aboard the Swiss army Super Puma, he felt tremendous relief and grief at the same time. Along the starboard side of the aircraft’s wide fuselage lay the most grievously wounded, bodies partially covered with bloody sheets. And some covered completely.

  The looks on the faces of the passengers said it all: many of them were clearly in shock. They were huddled on the steel floor and swathed in army green blankets. All these parents had right now was hope.

  A corpsman closed the helo doors. The pilots backed off, dipped the nose, and swung to the north, headed for the little village of Tiefenthaler. The big trauma center there was already processing the most seriously wounded adult victims from the first chopper.

  A medic directed him to take a seat on the deck, his back right against the bulkhead, and offered him a blanket, kindly draping it around his shoulders.

  Hawke looked around, getting his bearings. The interior was nearly windowless, and very dim despite the flickering fixtures mounted up on the overhead. There were bodies stretched out along the far side, two deep against the portside bulkhead. Many were wounded, some grievously, moaning with pain. And some, those with the sheets pulled up over their heads, were dead.

  Where was Tristan?

  He gazed up at the blood-spattered young medic, a fresh-faced boy who couldn’t be more than twenty. He knelt down beside Hawke and began to cleanse the deep wound to his scalp, stitch it, and dress the wound with gauze and bandages.

  “It’s deep, sir. But clean,” he said, very businesslike. “I don’t think you’ve got a concussion. You’ll live.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Hawke said, a very poor attempt at gallows humor that fell flat—as well it should have. “Anything you can do for my heart?”

  With a sympathetic glance, the young corpsman said, “Sorry, sir. Try not to worry.”

  “All the children are safe at the hospital?” he whispered. “Yes?”

  “Yes, sir. They are in good hands now, don’t worry, sir.”

  “Was it bad?”

  The youth looked away.

  “Tell me,” Hawke said. “My son was at the rear and—”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot say. I just don’t have any information.”

  “But surely you—there are injuries? Among the children, I mean to say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Deaths?”

  The young man looked down at him with pity. “I really can’t say, sir. But I’m sure a great many survived without a scratch. Try not to worry, sir. As soon as you are released from the clinic at Tiefenthaler, you can make your way to Klinik Gut. Transportation has been prearranged for the parents. There you will find your son. In good health, I’ll bet.”

  The kindly young man rose up and moved on to the next injured victim.

  An elderly woman began moaning loudly. Her head swathed in bandages and clearly disconsolate, she was seated right next to him. She was whispering a name as she rocked back and forth on her haunches.

  He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re all right now. We’re all right. Safe.”

  She shook violently, shaking her head back and forth.

  “Please, try not to worry,” Hawke said. “You’re going to make it.”

  “Ingo!” she suddenly cried
out, extending her right hand and pointing at a sheet-covered victim on the floor not ten feet away. “My darling husband . . . he . . . he’s not breathing!”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Hawke withdrew inside himself for the balance of the flight. Desperate for anything to soothe his misery, he let the throbbing of the helicopter’s powerful engines and the sound of the rotors beating against the wind lull him into a state of mild hypnosis. It was a trick former Royal Navy fighter pilots had learned long ago whilst being medevacked with grievous injuries across great distances inside Royal Navy rescue choppers.

  Someone was calling his name . . .

  He had no idea how much time had elapsed since he’d closed his eyes. A minute? Ten? Had he been dreaming? He opened his eyes and looked around at the familiar scene.

  A voice. A strained, gravelly voice, but still a voice he knew. Intruding into his space. Someone repeating the same thing again and again . . . croaking as if barely able to speak.

  “Commander Hawke . . . Lord . . . Hawke . . .” It was just loud enough to be heard above the din of the rotors inside the aircraft. Hawke craned his neck left, then right, searching for the source.

  Tristan.

  “Where are you, for god’s sake, Tristan?”

  “Portside bulkhead. Opposite and aft of your position, sir. I can’t move.”

  “Hold on, don’t try. Don’t speak. I’ll come to you,” Hawke said.

  He got to his feet and made his way to the rear of the gloomy bay, stooping to peer into the faces of the victims seated along the portside bulkhead. A pair of pain-ridden blue eyes looked up at him, pleading for recognition.

  Hawke dropped to one knee beside the man. The Scotland Yard man’s lacerated and bandaged face was barely visible above the edge of the sheet that covered his body. He was sitting, shivering with the cold, with his back against the bulkhead, his long legs stretched out in front of him.