Inside the alpine shelter, nestled in the warmth of his duvet sleeping bag, Thierry Dulac looked at his watch: 6:25 a.m. He noticed the rain had finally stopped its relentless pounding on the Hind Hut’s aluminum roof. Beside him Karen was still fast asleep, snoring peacefully. Dulac rose from the uncomfortable wood cot, stretched his tall, thin frame, and dressed quickly. They would have to start their ascent soon if they were to summit and get back down before dark. He rummaged in his backpack for the small Icom VHF radio and went to the hut’s door, opening it discreetly. Outside, the air was damp, windless. A thin gauze of mist hung precariously over the valley below, its veil beginning to evaporate under the heat of the morning light. Behind the hut, Mount Assiniboine’s daunting pyramid rose imperially, its outline etched into the mauve sky. ‘The Matterhorn of the Rockies’, boasted the lodge’s brochure. And just as dangerous, Dulac thought. He inhaled deeply, savoring the purity of the thin atmosphere, then glanced at the thermometer on the side of the hut. It read -3°C. Perfect for summiting.
Dulac turned on his VHF radio and pressed the small WX button, the weather channel. The electronic voice droned in a monotone, interspersed with static: ‘This is the 6 a.m…. forecast for the greater … which includes Mount Magog, Mount Assiniboine, The Marshall and … A hazardous weather warning is in effect from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. today. A strong cold front is moving … Winds of … to 60 km an hour, with gusts to 80. Expect heavy snowfall, up to 25 cm in higher elevations. Repeat, a hazardous … warning is….’
Damn. A spring blizzard. Just our luck. He stood looking at the mountain, its peak clear, inviting. A cool chill ran up his spine at the thought of how quickly mountain weather could change, how deadly it could become. The memory of Mount Mercedario started to resurface. He willed himself not to dwell on it, pushing it back into the recesses of his subconscious. After a moment Dulac, despondent, returned to the warmth of the prefabricated hut, went to the cot, and gently shook Karen’s shoulder.
‘Karen, wake up.’
‘What time is it?’ she said drowsily.
‘It’s get-off-the-mountain time.’
‘What?’ Karen sat up abruptly, pushing aside wisps of hair from her face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The weather just went south. There’s a blizzard coming in. We’ve got to get back down.’
‘But last night’s forecast was fantastic.’
‘This morning’s is downright ugly.’
‘Shit! Just once I’d like to get a hold of one of those meteorologists and….’
‘There’s plenty of time if we leave now. It’s five hours to the lodge. We’ll be down and off Gmoser’s Highway before the storm hits.’
‘And then what?’
‘We wait it out at the lodge and try again later. We still have a full week.’
‘But we’re so close to summiting. Why not wait here?’
‘And risk being trapped? No thanks. That storm could last a day, maybe a week. I … I….’ Mercedario flashed before Dulac’s eyes. His younger brother Eric….
‘What is it, Thierry?’
‘Nothing. It’s just a…. Nothing. We must go.’
After a breakfast of tepid, glue-like oatmeal downed with cups of rancid coffee, they finished packing their gear. While Dulac adjusted the scope of their walking poles for the descent, Karen tidied up the inside of the hut. Moments later, they started their downward trek to Assiniboine Lodge, the clanging of their poles against the path’s stones marking their brisk, steady pace.
An hour later, the path had widened. On either side, the dull green lichen had given way to buds of yellow cinquefoils and pods of white avens, piercing through a luxuriant bed of purple saxifrage. Dulac was admiring nature’s rich bounty when something far ahead on the horizon caught his attention. He stopped short. Karen, following a few steps behind, smacked into his backpack.
‘Hey, careful,’ she said, annoyance in her voice.
‘Look.’ Dulac pointed to the speck in the distance.
The speck grew quickly, until Dulac could see the distinct bubble and skids of a helicopter and hear the rhythmic whirring of its blades. The helicopter approached, slowed, then began to hover, a hundred yards away. Dulac recognized the red Canadian maple leaf insignia on the helicopter’s yellow tail, surmounted by large red letters: SAR. Search and Rescue. That’s odd. Why…? Suddenly, Dulac’s satellite phone started ringing in his backpack. He threw the pack off his shoulders and grabbed the phone.
‘Dulac.’
‘This is Search and Rescue chopper Bravo Juliet Uniform. Are you Inspector Thurley Doolake?’
‘Thierry Dulac, yes?’
‘We’re coming down.’
‘Why? We’re fine.’ Dulac threw an inquisitive glance at Karen and hunched his shoulders in bafflement.
The pilot didn’t answer and the helicopter landed, coming to rest slightly off-kilter to the right of the path. The chopper’s blades were still rotating slowly when a helmeted man jumped from the open side-door and made his way towards the couple.
‘We have orders to pick you up, you and Ms Dawson,’ said the man, lifting his helmet’s visor.
Dulac looked quizzically at Karen, then back to the man, busy rubbing his left eye. ‘From whom?’
‘From our base colonel in Edmonton. It’s urgent.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Don’t know. I just execute. Something to do with a secretary general or something?’
‘You mean the General Secretary of Interpol?’
‘That’s it.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dulac, fuming that Harris had interrupted his first vacation in three years. He punched Harris’ number into the sat phone. After three rings, the all too familiar voice came on.
‘Harris.’
‘Dulac. We’re being told to get into an SAR ’copter, supposedly on your orders?’
‘Don’t talk. Your phone is corrupt. They’ve hacked our lines. See you back here in a few hours.’
‘But why…?’
‘Just get on the damn chopper.’
The line went dead.