Chapter Thirteen

The bus parks in the main square of the small village of Kragossen. Getting off, Jake is struck by the chill purity of the air, fresh off the Styrian Alps that surround the village. Sun is out turning the peaks white. Jake’s professorial mode takes over for a moment, recalling the origin of the name Alps, from the Latin, albus, or white. Pure.

“Damned mountains,” Vosenko mutters as they hump their packs on. “Reni loved them. Nothing better than a weekend hiking, sleeping rough in mountain huts. Makes me cold looking at them.”

Which destroys any attempt on Jake’s part for Alpine romanticizing.

Like Vosenko, he was cajoled by his field agent, Reni, to make the occasional return to her birthplace. Though happily he’d avoided the overnights in mountain huts. The Gasthof zur Post is still there, he sees, smack in the heart of the village square.

Entering, Jake quickly recognizes that this inn, like all else in Austria, has been upgraded since he was last here. Gone are the nicotine-stained walls and ceilings at the inn, the racks of elk and chamois horns on the walls, the rough-hewn tables and chairs. All replaced with modern upscale Austrian rustic.

The Wirt, or owner of the inn, however, is little changed, still in lederhosen. But a quick tally of the years since last here, Jake figures no way. This must be the son of the original owner. Same pugnacious, upturned nose and stocky frame that fills his knee-length lederhosen.

“Tag, mein Herr,” the Wirt says.

“Tag,” Jake says. “Wir suchen jemand,” he says showing him the old picture of Huber and then asking if he remembers seeing the man.

The Wirt visibly stiffens, lets out a blast of wind between tightened lips. “Remember?” he says in English, and then laughs. “We try to forget him. A strange one, nothing like his mother. This one cuts his eyes at you, will not give even a Grüss Gott.”

“Does he live around here?”

“Not in the village, Gott sei dank. Up the old Russian Road a couple kilometers or so. A cabin I would not house my dogs in.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

The man shakes his head. “I attempt not to.”

Jake thanks the Wirt. Daniel Huber’s reputation most definitely follows him.

The Russian Road. Jake remembers the story of that, constructed by Russian POWs during World War I, who carved a narrow road up and around the Perlgipfel.

Out in the square again, Vosenko clucks his tongue. “Perhaps it is time to pay Herr Huber a visit.”

Huber is in his element. Splayed out flat on a rocky ledge over the Russian Road, his sniper rifle mounted to the small tripod in front for stability.

He saw Jacobs and Vosenko go into the Gasthof zur Post, knows that bastard who owns the place would be happy to tell the strangers where to find the troublemaker Huber. Someday Huber will have to deal with him, too. Be a pleasure.

But for now, the stupid Wirt was doing his work for Huber, sending the pair of killers to meet their own deaths.

He looks through the scope, twists it into focus. He can see every rock and pebble in the road. He could easily kill a squirrel at this distance.

Vosenko knows the way. Has trekked the Russian Road with Reni, even remembers the run-down cabin that her family owned. Long empty when they visited the area. The Wirt was right—that place was not fit for a dog. And he doesn’t imagine Huber has fixed it up since then. Not the sort to be a handyman. Better at destruction than creation.

Early afternoon and the sun warm on their backs as they make their way up the steep, hard-packed road. Still no asphalt on it, Vosenko reflects. Not been oiled in a century, never will be. He kicks up a rock as they plod along.

Impassable by vehicle during the winter months; the few inhabitants along its length have to ski into town for provisions.

It feels good to be moving again, though, Vosenko thinks. Too much being cooped up since leaving Ireland. He’s not accustomed to it, needs to be active. But not too active. His hand automatically goes to the left front pocket of his shirt. The small pill bottle is there. His insurance.

“Not much cover on this road,” Jake says after they’ve climbed about a kilometer.

And it hits Vosenko. Stupidity. “We got to get off the road,” he says. “The man’s a sniper.”

“What I was thinking. But I guess there’s no other way. We should keep to the side of the road, though.”

“No. Wrong. I apologize, Jake. There is another way. I have not been thinking. The sort of thing that gets you shot at.”

“Killed, more like it. So where?”

But Vosenko is already pushing through the low scrub brush at roadside and into the forest.

“Yeah, so I guess in that direction,” Jake says, scurrying to catch up with Vosenko.

They make their way cross-country for a time, alpine rose bushes pulling at their trousers, overhanging birch and mountain fir branches catching the packs. Not a word from Vosenko. Jake just tracks on behind.

Soon they come to a narrow footpath that heads uphill again, parallel to the road but with the benefit of plenty of vegetation cover at roadside.

Vosenko stops. “Better?”

Jake nods. “But we’ve both got to get our shit together.”

“Agreed. The basic plan is still functional, however,” Vosenko says.

His basic plan, Jake thinks. But I haven’t come up with anything better. Stake out the cabin, wait for Huber to return. Wait for Huber to make a mistake. Let his guard down. And they take him.

Still, they are on guard now, pull their pistols out of the packs, stuff them in the back waist of their pants.

“Onward and upward,” Jake says brightly. But he doesn’t feel great about this op. The same queasy feeling he had sending Reni off to meet Vosenko all those years ago.

Huber keeps his eyes focused on the road, keeps his head down. Invisible. Part of the landscape in his camo gear. No sign of the two.

But they’ll come. Patience. And when they do… He would love to catch them in focus through the scope, feel the excitement of squeezing off a round, the almost sexual exultation of seeing the mist of blood spray from the head.

His breath comes faster as he imagines this. But no. That is not to be. Instead, as Carlo has planned, I let them get to the cabin. Let there be deniability.

They’ve been walking more than half an hour. Sweat rolls down Jake’s back, gnats worry his face. He swats at them without success. So much for the smell of snow in the air this morning.

They can see the cabin now, a low wooden structure with windows not much larger than an arrow slit. Front door about five feet tall. Jake imagines a low ceiling inside that would make you stoop while walking; the dark, musty feel of it. A rusty stove pipe juts out of the back of the roof.

A place to go mad during the short days and long nights of winter.

Thoughts interrupted by the whine of a vehicle pulling up the mountain road. He shoots a look at Vosenko, who motions him off the path and into the low brush. As they crouch down, they have a partial view of the road just as a khaki green Steyr-Puch Pinzgauer military truck with two soldiers inside passes by.

They watch in the distance as the vehicle turns onto a track off the road and stops at the cabin. One of the soldiers gets out, draws his pistol, and approaches the cabin and calls out.

They can just make out his voice. “Herr Huber! Kommen Sie mit erhobenen Hände heraus!”

Jake makes the instant translation: Come out, hands raised.

Confirming it, Vosenko pantomimes raised hands. Jake nods. Maybe the fucking Austrians are going to do the dirty work for them.

Have the police finally traced Huber following the killing of Andreas Lechner at the Intercontinental? Or did Moody’s request for information on Daniel Huber raise red flags? Whichever, praise the lord, Jake thinks.

The soldier is still standing by the cabin, glances to the driver in the truck, who motions him to the door. The soldier shrugs, goes to the door and knocks.

It’s the last thing he’ll ever do, as the cabin suddenly explodes in a massive fire ball. The explosion rocks Jake at this distance from the cabin. He’s tucked into a ball, the smell of ammonia wafts toward him. ANFO bomb, he registers, looking up now at the smoking ruins of the cabin. Training from the Farm kicking in, his six-weeks field work. He’s shaking; something no amount of training gets rid of.

The other soldier in the Steyr-Puch does not even bother getting out to look for body scraps. He reverses the vehicle and speeds down the mountain road, radioing as he drives.

“Booby trap,” Vosenko mutters.

“No shit,” Jake says. “But who was it meant for?”

At his hidden position, Huber has watched all this through his scope. The damn fools, he thinks. They’ve ruined it. The bomb was meant for Jacobs and the KGB man. And now the military will also be after me.

How the hell do the commandos even know of my cabin? What brought them here?

It has to have something to do with Jacobs and Vosenko delaying their journey to here. Could it be that pitiful bell hop at the Intercontinental? Did that put the military on to me?

Anger at his own stupidity, at the senseless killing of the hotel worker, grips him. Not part of the plan. So, Huber now decides to just do it the simple way and to hell with Carlo’s deniability. Take them both out with his sniper rifle.

But where the hell are they?

And then he tumbles to it. Vosenko. He’s familiar with this region; he hiked it with my mother. So, he knows the path from the village that follows along the Russian Road.

Now Huber changes position, quickly making his way down to a final bend in that path just before the village. They’ll be running shit-scared down and off the mountain after that explosion. Looking for help.

He sets up his shooting zone, a clear field of fire. They are not going to leave the mountain alive.

They’re making good time down the path, moving at a slow jog that makes their packs bounce on their backs. Jake keeps his eye on the trail, checking for roots that could send him sprawling. But it finally clicks in his head, and he pulls up, breathing heavy.

Vosenko looks irritated. “No time for a rest.”

Hands on knees, sucking air. “Not taking a rest,” he manages to get out. Upright now. “We’re going in the wrong direction.”

“Nonsense,” Vosenko says. “The village is this way.”

“That’s not what I mean. We don’t want to go to the village. Look, the soldier in the Steyr-Puch truck has made his way back to the village and his superiors probably know about the explosion by now. But how do they know who set the booby trap? They know we’re on the trail of Huber. Maybe they think we set the trap, trying to kill Huber.”

Vosenko doesn’t like it, but hears him out.

“Remember the warning about no more cowboys and Indians on their turf?” Jake says. “The powers that be in Austria are not going to be amused by this explosion and the death of an Austrian soldier. They might just dislike us more than they do Huber. They might shoot first and ask questions later.”

Vosenko nods. “A possibility.” He sighs. “And now that I think about it, it is even more likely that our friend Huber is waiting for us somewhere near the end of the road, as well. End all this with his sniper rifle.” A pause, then, “Looks like we’re on our own from here on out.”

Not the words Jake was hoping to hear.

It takes Huber a full hour to realize they are not coming. But now more army trucks have appeared on the scene, a forensics team at the cabin, most likely. A scheiße mess. Only two directions, down and up. So, the bastards must be making for the summit.

And he has an idea where he might find them.

They are on my playground now. He heads back up the path, making for the Hochschwab Alps. He’s got a cache up there in the Lindauer Alm, an open grassland at the thousand-meter level where some of the locals feed their small herds during the summer months. His mountain-guide cache of gear and extra food.

This should be fun, he thinks.