Chapter Fifteen

No sun this morning to wake him, a gray and angry looking day. Jake stretches the kinks out of his body. Bunk as hard as the one at Vienna’s jail, the Liesl.

Vosenko’s bunk is empty.

Checks his watch, only six a.m. Time for a little convocation before they set out.

In the main room, Jake sees Vosenko at the big table, map spread out in front of him. Bugger’s napping, head down on his crossed forearms on the table.

“You need to fill me in on our route,” Jake says as he approaches the long table. “We get separated, I’m fucking lost up here.”

No response.

Vosenko, the sound sleeper. Flaked out on his watch. They could be dead in their bunks.

“Hey, Yuri. Time to rise, sunshine.”

Not a stir.

Fucker’s having me on again, Jake figures.

“Come on.” He shakes Vosenko’s shoulder. Body moves but not a twitch of the eyes.

“This is not fucking funny, Yuri. Just wake up and stop the games.”

But it doesn’t seem a joke any longer. He puts forefinger and middle finger to Vosenko’s carotid, jerks his hand away as if burned. No pulse, stone-cold body.

A tremor passes through. “Jesus, Yuri. Don’t fucking die on me, man. Just wake up.”

And then he notices Yuri’s pill container on the floor, a splash of white pills around his feet.

“For fuck, fuck, fuck.” He slams his hand on the table, bruises his knuckles. The pain almost feels good.

He slumps on the bench next to Vosenko, tears at his eyes. “Dead,” he says aloud. He rocks back and forth on the bench, then shakes his head as if this is a dream he can snap out of. Puts an arm around his friend. And understands for the first time that is how he feels about Yuri. A friend.

Mind does a jerk around. From grief to survival. Touches the carotid once more, this time leaves his fingers there for a long moment. The beat of life gone. Extinguished.

So, what to do now? No staying here for a fucking funeral. Huber will be on his way. Vosenko said it himself. He’ll be following, assured they are heading for Mariazell.

He looks at the map in front of Vosenko. It’s marked in pencil. The route to follow. As if Vosenko sensed he was going to die. Pencil still lying on the map. Tracing along the 801/805 trail up to the exposed limestone ridges of the Hochschwab peak.

And again the lurch of heart, an aching now. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Over and over again. A kind of litany.

Slams the table again, knuckles first, to bring the pain. To stop the grief for now. No time for grief. Think, asshole.

Carry out Yuri’s plan? But what the fuck was the plan? Lay their own trap for Huber, but where? The route is on the map, but where was the planned trap? How to do it? Their advantage—numbers—gone. Mano-a-mano now, and Jake sure as shit does not want to take Huber on in a fire fight.

So, the alternative. Subterfuge. Use what Huber doesn’t have: brains.

His left arm is still holding Vosenko’s body to him. Releases him. Shakes his arm out where the blood has stopped.

Yuri’s a dead man, Jake tells himself. Gone. No amount of mourning will bring him back.

Leave him here, he tells himself. Like he’s sleeping. Lead Huber here to investigate. He’s got to see Vosenko dead and his partner gone. Long gone.

Gets up from the table and goes to one of the large front windows. It looks out on the path that brought them here last night. Close enough to see a disturbance. To bring Huber here and see Vosenko dead, the map in front of him. Direction clear. A trail to follow. One stupid ex-CIA man to deal with. Child’s play.

He gathers his belongings in his pack. Checks Vosenko’s for what he might use. Takes his gun, protein bars, a wad of money, a clutch of folded papers. Leaves the faked passports. Can’t use them with Vosenko’s photo on them. There’s the field manual Yuri was reading on the train. In Russian. Leaves that, too.

Says a final good-bye to Vosenko and then out the back window the same way they entered last night.

Edges around the building to get a glimpse of the path. Clear. He moves to the front of the hut, takes his Glock by the barrel and smashes the window there with the butt. A big enough jagged hole to be visible from the path. Make Huber check it out. Figure they’re morons for breaking in from the very visible front of the building. Keep him thinking they’re idiots.

And get him to see the changed circumstances.

Then he heads north off of the paths, behind a granite outcrop a couple hundred meters from the Almhütte. Covers himself with low brush so he can keep watch on the path unseen. Flat out on his stomach, the chill of the early morning ground grips him, but he does not move. Stands guard. A sentinel. Watching over Yuri.

Huber is a man with a purpose. He knows today he will overtake the two. End the hunt. Early morning gray skies have burned off. Sun in his eyes now as he climbs eastward after his night in the small alpine hut.

This killing will be a pleasure. On the path ahead of him he sees a wrapper left behind. Picking it up, he reads the label of a protein bar. He feels anger build in him, this desecration of the mountains he loves. Trash left behind by amateurs to nature.

Those two do not belong in the mountains. He angrily attempts to stuff the wrapper into his pocket, but fails to do so, losing his balance on the rocky path, catching his foot on an exposed root, and falling hard on his backpack. He hears a sickening metal-on-metal crack and looking into the pack, he sees he has broken the scope on his sniper rifle.

He wants to scream at his idiocy, but then controls himself. Not the end of the world, he tells himself. So, long-distance targets will be more difficult with no reticle crosshairs of the scope to help line up his target. But he can still use the flip-up ladder aperture sight and the post front sight. He’s got a steady hand, can kill without the hi-tech scope. He’s done so before. The boys in Chad.

But no chance for practice rounds now; shots fired would only alert the enemy. He has his pistol, his knife. He wants this killing to be up close and very personal now anyway. Those two are no match for him.

He puts the damaged rifle out of his mind as he forges on ahead, leaving the wrapper still on the ground behind him.

Another quarter hour and he can see the roofline of the Almhütte, where those two probably spent the night. He catches sight of what appears to be a broken window, heads down the trail off the main path to check it out.

Amateurs, for sure, he thinks. Leaving a telltale sign of their breaking and entry. Not even bothering to make entry from the rear.

Maybe such amateurs that they are still asleep in their bunks. As he makes his way cautiously down the trail to the hut, a hawk flies overhead.

Jake watches him approach. Has his Glock at the ready.

Take him here, he thinks. Put an end to it. Feels the churn of adrenalin and holds the Glock in both hands now triangulated out from his reclining body. Hands high up on the pistol grip so the recoil would come back into the hand and allow for good repeat shots. Finger on the trigger, slow pressure. Takes a deep breath.

And suddenly a hawk flies overhead, Huber’s eyes tracking away from the hut, overhead, in a crouch now. And the moment passes for Jake. He’s not the best marksman, and Huber is far enough away from the hut that it would take more of a degree of shooting skill than he’s capable of. And a missed shot would mean Huber with his rifle versus him with the Glock. Not good odds.

So, he tamps down the adrenalin rush, waits and watches, hoping that his bet pays off. That seeing Vosenko’s dead body and the map on table, Huber will figure that the partner is still making his way to Mariazell.

That’s the plan. That’s the bet. And Jake’s got his life staked on it.

He watches as Huber finally reaches the hut, edges carefully to the window, dares a sideways glance inside and then his body jerks, staring through the window as if in disbelief. Lifts his gun as if to shoot, then thinks better of it. Taps it against the glass and sees how still Vosenko is. Knocks out more of the broken glass and climbs into the hut.

Jake loses sight of him now, but soon hears an animal howl from inside. Like he’s suffering, in anguish that his kill has been taken away from him.

A minute or two later Huber’s climbing back out the window. Probably checked the hut to make sure Vosenko is on his own, Jake figures. Make sure no one’s in hiding there.

Out of the hut, Huber goes at a half-trot back to the main path and then turns left, to the east. Toward Mariazell.

Jake exhales as if holding his breath underwater.

Bet won.

He gives it five more minutes, then heads out to the main path, but turns right.

Back to Kragossen. If the military takes me, fine, he thinks. Better than Huber hunting me down.

So, heading southwest now, trying to keep the image of Vosenko out of his mind. Leaving him there to rot. But once he gets to Kragossen, he’ll alert the mountain patrol, get the body back down. Have some kind of decent burial. Man deserves it.

Sun warm on his back as he moves along the narrow path as quickly as possible. Gradual descent and his body feels relief not having to climb. Keeps his eyes on the path, checks his speed. No tumbles now. No injuries.

Regrets, though. That he didn’t have the stones to take that clear shot of Huber back at the hut. That he didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the bastard crumple in a storm of lead. His thirst for vengeance unsettles him. Been years since he’s felt the visceral urge to kill.

Then he sees the wrapper they left in the path the day before. ‘Cookie crumbs’ Vosenko called it. Leading Huber along. And it had worked.

But now the sight of it offends him, litter in the mountains. And he takes his eyes off the path as he moves to the wrapper, catches his left foot in a root sticking out of the path and stumbles, but the foot is stuck in the root and falling, he lets out a groan as the ankle twists severely. On his chest now, face in the ground.

“Son of a bitch,” he moans. Not what I needed. He rolls onto his side, struggles out of the pack, and then sits up, bending forward. Left ankle throbbing. He’s afraid to take a look at it. Gets to his knees and then tries to stand. A jolt of pain grips him, and he sinks back down.

Give it a second or two, he tells himself. Deep breaths now, stop the panic. Slowly, slowly. Closes his eyes, face in the sun, dancing light in his eyes through closed lids.

After a few moments, he tries again, on his knees first, then using a boulder at the side of the path to help push up. Shooting pain again, but not so bad this time. Or is it only because he’s expecting it? Tries a hobbling step.

No fucking way. Almost topples. Still upright, weight on his right foot, he surveys the landscape both sides of the path. And there it is. A couple hundred meters to his right is a stand of larch trees, needles just greening again after the winter. He spies a couple younger ones with branches lower to the ground. He’s not going to be able to walk there. So, he digs in his pack, pulls out the utility knife he’s carrying, stuffs it in his front pocket and then gets down on hands and knees and starts to make his slow and painful way toward that stand of trees.

He’s not twenty meters off the path when he realizes he’s an idiot. He left his pack smack in the middle of the trail. Impossible to miss. What if Huber changes his mind? Tumbles to the planned misdirection. Backtracks. What if?

And shit, but there is no time now for these mental games. Yeah, he should have fucking hidden the pack behind some rocks at least. But he didn’t. So screw it. If Huber turns around, he’s seriously fucked whatever he did or didn’t do with the damn pack.

He pushes on, an ungainly former biped now on all fours. Hands scraping on the coarse ground cover, freezing as he passes a patch of snow hidden in the shadows from the warmth of the sun. Not sure how long it takes him. Time meaningless now, other than that he fucking well needs to try to get to civilization before the sun sets. Not spend another night in one of the huts, because by that time Huber will know that he’s not heading for Mariazell. No way he could make time to stay ahead of Huber all that way.

This bit of reckoning pushes Jake on, makes him move like a slightly more agile four-footed creature, finally reaching the edges of the larch stand. He lifts his head, looking for a likely tree, strong limbs close to the ground. Takes him several minutes and then he realizes the tree he is looking for is the one he’s underneath right now.

Clever, Jacobs, he tells himself. A metaphor there, looking in the distance for what he has at home.

He grips the trunk to help get to his feet and stands full now, weight on the right foot, hopping into position by a likely looking limb. Pulls out the utility knife, breaks his right thumbnail trying to open the saw blade, then finally pries it open with his left. He takes the limb off at its join with the trunk, cutting a wide margin so its butt can serve as a cushion for the armpit. He’s sweating by the time he finally drops the limb, then pulls its other end to him, sight measures it for the right length, and then saws off the excess. Breathing hard now, but when he shoves the wide end under his left arm, he smiles. A fit. Makes a few tentative steps close to the tree in case he needs to catch his balance. Pain as he walks, but he can manage now. Upright.

But it takes a good ten minutes to navigate his way back to the trail. Humps on his pack, and then resumes his journey to Kragossen.

Grows weary soon enough of uttering “Fuck me” with every step. Waste of energy. Just move. Keep moving. Get to Kragossen before Huber realizes he’s been suckered.

Huber’s sweating and breathing hard as he reaches the top of the peak. All downhill from here into Mariazell.

And he’s got a clear view of the path below.

Empty. He puts field glasses to his eyes to make sure. Sees a marmot scurry across the path.

And that’s all.

“Scheisse!” he screams. Anger builds in him, teeth grinding, heat at his temples.

He played me. Realization hits Huber like a gut punch.

Shakes his head in disbelief. Jacobs didn’t keep pushing on for Mariazell. Maybe if Vosenko were still alive, yes. Then Mariazell makes sense.

But on his own, a man like Jacobs doesn’t have enough mountain skills.

Huber slaps his forehead. Got no mountain skills, yet all this time I’ve been acting as if the ex-CIA agent does.

And all this time, Jacobs has been taking his city-man ass back to Kragossen. That route he can handle. He knows the way there. Knows the path.

Was he in hiding when I went into the Almhütten? he wonders. Watching and laughing as I scrambled to follow him east?

Should have known when he saw the map on the table next to Vosenko’s body. Left on purpose to show the route plainly tracked in pencil.

But fucking Jacobs would need that map if he really was headed for Mariazell.

You bastard, he thinks. Played. Made to look the fool.

But never again.

With that, he hurries back down the peak, heads west for Kragossesn.

Take him before he reaches the village, Huber tells himself. Use the knife. Make it slow.

Ten minutes and Jake’s already knackered. Miserable home-made crutch digging into his armpit. He has to put weight on the bad ankle with every step. And there’s a gazillion steps back to Kragossen.

Feeling sorry for himself suddenly feels good. Like the world’s dealt him a bad hand and he’s not even ponied up to a gambling table.

Piss and moan, he thinks. Another locution learned from working stiffs during college summers working road construction.

He puts the pissing and moaning on hold and just presses on. Keep the distance between him and Huber if and when the bastard figures he’s been played. Sings a little ditty now, courtesy of that same road crew. “It’s so good to get up in the mornin’, take a piss and go back to bed.” To the tune of an Irish ballad without the agony of lost love or the bloody IRA.

Just keep moving, he orders himself. Jake the peg-legged spook. One foot plus crutch in front of the other. Wincing every other step now. Sweat trailing down his back. Every few minutes he stops, turns around and gives the trail behind him an eyeball.

Still clear.

Huber’s got his Zeiss 8x42 binoculars to his eyes again, scans the trail in front of him. But vision is cut off with a sharp turn in the trail. He’s doing double time now. Reminds him of his days in the Jagdkommando, how he could outpace most of the other recruits. Leave them behind where they belonged. Could carry on like that for hours. His pack is bumping up and down as he moves along the path, making a thumping and scratching sound. In ten minutes, he reaches the sharp bend, puts binoculars to his eyes once more and then lets out a deep growl.

“Got you,” he says aloud.

In the distance he makes out the shape of a man slowly walking with a humping movement down the trail. Sees a makeshift sort of crutch. Injured, he tells himself. Stupid bastard must have taken a tumble. Easy pickings now. His double time now gets faster.

Jake doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. Every step a bit of torture. Afternoon drawing in, breeze up that strikes chill on his sweat-stained back. Searches for inspiration, and his hungry mind hits on Tania. And what they can build together. Not too late for that kind of happiness. And he takes the lifeline of this thought, pushes on, determination in his eyes, in his guts.

Huber’s gaining on him now. Not much longer and he’ll overtake Jacobs. And then this mop up operation will be over.

Puts the binoculars down, but sees some other motion ahead, something strange. Zeiss to his eyes once again.

“No. No, it can’t be.”

But it is. He can clearly see the green uniforms of the Austrian Army on the group of seven soldiers making their way up the path toward Jacobs.

So close now, he thinks. Can’t let him get away. He sets his pack down, reaching in it for the components of the sniper rifle, and quickly puts stock to barrel. Flips up the rear sight and searches for fucking Jacobs, his finger at the trigger, ready to pull off rounds at a clear shot and then take his chances with the troops trying to catch him in his mountains. Squints through the laddered sight and watches helplessly as Jacobs, hands in the air, is completely surrounded by the troops.

Huber shakes his head, anger burning in his chest. Finally, he turns and heads back toward Mariazell. Time to re-group.

“You’ll never know how happy I am to see you folks,” Jake says as the lead soldier, an officer, approaches. Guy says nothing, so Jake switches to German as the other soldiers gather round him.

“Schön, Sie zu sehen.”

The officer nods at him, then knocks Jake to the ground with a left hook he never saw coming. He stands spread-legged over Jake. “Not as happy as we are,” he says in perfect English.

Jake makes no resistance as a pair of burly privates lift him to his feet and set him down none too gently on the bad foot.

“Injured,” Jake says through a grimace, pointing at his swelling ankle. “Verletzt.”

“Yes, yes,” the officer says, irritated now. “And what do you expect us to do about that? Huh? Are we doctors now?”

Jake gives up on the German. “It’s hard for me to move fast. Not a great crutch.” He nudges the branch with his foot.

“Adequate or not, it must suffice.”

Jake stops himself from rolling his eyes at the fancy-shmancy English meant to impress. Bends to pick up the branch and almost falls over. The blow to his face pounds with blood.

“May I inquire why you struck me?” Fight linguistic fire with fire, he figures.

The officer squints at this. “I? Stuck you? I doubt it. You simply fell. An injured ankle, evidently.” He looks at his soldiers and they make polite laughter.

“For what it’s worth,” Jake says, “the guy you want is headed to Mariazell. Daniel Huber. The one who killed the bellhop at the Intercontinental.” Shit, he thinks. Can’t even remember the kid’s name. “The guy who set the booby trap for your men.”

The officer fixes Jake with a hard look, an appraising look. An ‘I-can-buy-and-sell-you’ look.

“And you’ll also find the body of my friend, Yuri Vosenko, back there in the Almhütte. Died of natural causes, an inoperable brain tumor.”

“Fine. We’ll add breaking and entering to your other charges, Herr Jacobs.”