Damnation Page 3

  He turned his head and, opening his eyes again, saw a totally charred, twisted figure in the beam of the police torch. Al-Bader. It’s probably going to be some time before he can be identified with complete certainty, Winter thought. After all, he wasn’t here.

  Beside the helicopter stood a fireman sporting a helmet, but otherwise in civilian clothes, and a lad with long, blond hair. The herdsman. Winter offered them his hand without saying anything and the two of them nodded a greeting.

  ‘The woman’s over there,’ Oberholzer said. ‘But don’t touch her. She’s evidence.’ He pointed to a shady patch by a bush, about five metres away from the wreckage. At first glance it could have been mistaken for a dark rock. Suppressing the urge to break the policeman’s neck over his clumsy choice of words, Winter merely said, ‘Thank you.’

  Anne had been flung sideways out of the helicopter.

  As he cautiously made his way over to her, Winter stumbled against the fire extinguisher. She’d tried to put out the blaze and save Al-Bader. Winter stopped and drew the musty air of the Höllentobel deep into his lungs. He’d seen a few corpses in his time. But Anne was different.

  She was lying face down, her trouser suit badly burned. The trousers worse than the jacket. Her clothes were ripped. Winter could see Anne’s white blouse beneath her jacket, while in places her soft skin shone. Her legs were unnaturally contorted and her backbone bent. The impact of the collision must have shattered her spine. At least she hadn’t suffered.

  Winter ran his splayed fingers through his hair, screwed up his eyes and lifted his head towards the dark night sky. Why? Why Anne? For Christ’s sake! The tornado inside him escalated into a hurricane. Defenceless, Winter was at the mercy of the tempest of anger, pain, grief and desperate guilt. A hard lump swelled in his chest. His organs went into spasm, forcing him to lower his head. His eyes were damp.

  Crouching down, Winter finally plucked up courage to look at her face.

  Anne’s head was pointing towards the mountain stream. Her soot-covered face was resting on a rock, as though it were a feather pillow. Her hair flowed. Her eyes were closed and she looked wonderfully peaceful.

  Here it was again – the calm in the eye of the storm. Just Anne and him. He was struck by a great sense of clarity. He would always love her, even though she was dead. Tom Winter stretched out his hand and stroked her hair softly; he swept a strand from her cheek.

  Then he closed his eyes and, in some deep recess of his mind, saw Anne laughing. Standing in early summer on the unfinished terrace and jokingly making suggestions about the planting. Tuscany or the south of France. The most important thing was that it should smell of summertime in the country. He would never forget that levity of hers, that laughter. Her eyes sparkling with joie de vivre.

  Opening his eyes again, he saw his hand caressing Anne’s cheek. He stopped, withdrew his fingers and clenched his fist. Winter raised his chin and shook his head very slightly. Noticing the decorative bow from the box of chocolates by Anne’s left hand, he put it in his pocket. As a souvenir.

  Winter got up and stood there with his head bowed.

  The policeman came over with his radio, tearing Winter from his gloomy meditations. ‘Who is the woman?’

  Winter swallowed hard. ‘Anne Arnold. She lives in Bern and used to be a policewoman.’ He hoped that the authorities would make a special effort for one of their own.

  ‘Do you know the other passengers?’

  ‘Difficult to tell given the state they’re in.’ Winter was playing for time. Oberholzer’s attention was diverted again by his crackling radio and Winter decided he’d seen enough here. He climbed back down to the road. The young Alpine cowherd, leaning on the bridge railings, was just lighting a roll-up.

  ‘Did you see the helicopter crash?’

  ‘Yes, I was having a smoke outside my hut.’ He raised his cigarette. ‘All of a sudden I heard a helicopter. That’s nothing unusual here. They’re always flying about the area, transporting something or other. But I thought it was a little late. The sun had just gone down. When the helicopter came over the ridge there I saw that it was on fire and spiralling.’ The cowherd made a circular movement. ‘It span round and round and then vanished into the Höllentobel. Then there was a bang. It all happened very quickly.’

  ‘Did it explode?’

  ‘I don’t know; there was a bang. Why do you think it crashed?’

  ‘I don’t know either. The FASI board won’t produce a report for at least six months.’

  The cowherd took a drag on his roll-up.

  Winter was on the way back to his car when he heard a helicopter. The air-rescue service had taken its time. Saving lives was more urgent than recovering corpses. The inclines of the Höllentobel restricted his vision. Straining his neck, he followed the noise of the aircraft, which was flying in a low arc above the mountain. The noise was coming from a small helicopter.

  Winter didn’t see the chopper until it appeared over the ridge. It was white. The Swiss air-rescue service helicopters were red.

  The drone was deafening and the plants were blown in all directions. Winter squinted and saw two masked figures.

  The chopper hovered about fifteen metres above the crash site and then tilted forwards slightly to get a good view of the wreckage. There was a flash, then the helicopter turned around and flew from the ravine towards the valley. Winter made a mental note of the registration number. He heard the chopper ascend in the distance and head northwards.

  The apparition had lasted no longer than thirty seconds.

  JULY 25 – 00:28

  A grief-stricken Winter drove back over the alp, down through the forest and across the bridge to the other side of the valley. In Kargmatt he turned off and headed for the Gemsstock mountain. An hour or so later he parked at the end of a long, treeless valley, at the foot of a huge basin. Many of the angular boulders had been prised away from the rock face by ice in the cracks.

  He took out his rucksack and climbed the path marked in red and white up to the Gatterli mountain hut. Winter knew this path at least. The lonely ascent in the cool, clear night blew away the grey clouds in his head.

  Two hours later he was at the narrow strip outside the hut, set with flagstones. This terrace had been finished years ago. Against the sky the stone hut cut a triangular silhouette and snuggled up, crouched against the wind-protected recess high in the rocky slope. Up here, surrounded by the massifs, you felt small.

  He approached the hut silently. The door and windows, barred by thick wooden shutters, looked untouched. No sign of any unwanted visitors. He opened the door, ducked his head and entered.

  Winter paused and took in the atmosphere inside. It smelled of cold fire. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the pale, night light over the last few hours, he couldn’t see in the dark corners of the hut – but his inner radar didn’t register any unusual vibes.

  Nothing suspicious.

  Reassured, he opened the shutters, turned on the gas in the kitchenette and lit the ceiling lamp with a match. The room filled with warm light. He put on some water for coffee and found some condensed milk and sugar.

  When the sun announced its arrival, Winter sat with his coffee outside the hut to observe the change in the light. As he waited for Al-Bader’s unknown business partner he reflected on things. He was good at waiting. Security often meant waiting. Impatience could be fatal.

  A good couple of hours later he saw a helicopter, small and white. It circled above the hut a few times before carefully tottering onto the improvised landing pad. This wasn’t a pilot familiar with the local conditions. Winter could make out four dark shapes: a pilot and three passengers.

  The rotors came to a stop and the three passengers got out, each wearing the same thick, red puffer jacket. Bought specially for a detour to the mountains. Thin legs in dark suits and black shoes stuck out beneath.

  The men walked along the narrow path to the hut. Black hair, gaunt faces, tanned skin.

 
Winter stood on the terrace, his hands in his windcheater, and smiled as the three men arrived. An older one in the middle was carrying a briefcase, flanked by two younger men. A guest and two bodyguards. They scrutinized each other.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Winter said in English. ‘Welcome to the Swiss Alps. My name is Winter. I am your host. And who do I have the pleasure of..?’

  ‘Good morning. Ali Husseini. It’s a privilege to be here.’ Oxford English with an Arabic accent. The man with the briefcase shook Winter’s hand. Slender fingers, soft grip.

  ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Very smooth.’

  ‘Please do come in,’ Winter said, gesturing towards the mountain hut. He turned around and stooped. Husseini and one of the bodyguards followed. They didn’t have to duck as they entered the hut. Inside they looked around quizzically and then at each other.

  ‘When’s Al-Bader coming?’

  Deliberately ignoring the question, Winter went to the hob, and asked over his shoulder, ‘Can I offer you some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. We were up early this morning.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to take a seat?’

  Husseini put his case onto the table and sat with his back to the wall.

  The bodyguard leaned against the doorframe.

  Winter lit the gas again under the cast-iron kettle. He placed three metal cups and some sugar on the table then returned to the hob. Behind his back he could hear the two men speaking. The guttural sounds and rasping of the throat sounded Arabic.

  Winter took the coffee powder, a plate and a packet of biscuits from a rack in the kitchenette. He opened the packet and shook the biscuits out onto the plate.

  Husseini took off his puffer jacket.

  The water boiled and the kettle whistled.

  The briefcase was opened. The soot-blackened kettle was steaming hot, so Winter put on a thick, padded oven glove, which made him remember his grandmother when she’d baked cakes. He picked up the kettle and turned around.

  Husseini was holding a pistol.

  As was the man at the door.

  Winter stood there between them, wearing the oven glove, remembering the calluses on his hands and making a cool analysis of the situation. It was not optimal. Both men were calmly holding their pistols.

  Husseini had casually leaned his right forearm on the table and was aiming at Winter’s chest. The bodyguard was standing with his feet apart, gripping the gun with both hands and aiming at the head. If they were intent on killing Winter they could have already done so.

  Winter remained in the middle of the room.

  ‘Where is Al-Bader?’ Husseini asked for a second time, his voice now harsh and strident.

  Talking is good. So long as we’re talking I’ll stay alive. ‘In the Höllentobel – Hell’s Ravine.’

  When his guests raised their eyebrows, Winter jutted out his chin towards the window on the right. The Höllentobel was in that direction, more or less.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Husseini asked impatiently.

  ‘In the Höllentobel,’ Winter repeated. To emphasise the orientation, he lifted the kettle and pointed it northwards. ‘Al-Bader is dead.’

  Husseini stared at him in disbelief. Winter brought the kettle with the boiling water crashing down onto the table, where it toppled over. The hot water soaked Husseini’s grey suit, scalding his stomach and nether regions. He dropped his weapon in shock. He tried to brush off the boiling water, but without success.

  Overpowering the bodyguard was simple. Spinning around, Winter used his left hand to knock the arm with the gun upwards, then he grabbed the sleeve. Good, he was out of the firing line. Putting his right hand on the man’s stomach, he rammed his right foot into his genitals. Winter fell onto his back and with his left leg gave a powerful kick from the floor. A Sumi Gaeshi judo throw.

  The attacker went flying over Winter towards Husseini. When the bodyguard’s head cracked against the wall it sounded as if a shot had been fired.

  The door opened and the third man in a puffer jacket stormed in, pistol first. Winter knocked the gun out of his hand with a chair, grabbed the second bodyguard and gave him a karate chop to his larynx, causing him to stagger into the table. As he’d been outside in the sun he was practically blind. Now the pain and the change in light combined to dilate the bodyguard’s pupils.

  These men hadn’t been playing fair, and Winter didn’t like having guns aimed at him. He threw off the oven glove, picked up one of the pistols and gave it a good look. The weapon was loaded. Winter aimed it at the groaning men by the table.

  ‘Is this how you repay hospitality in your country?’ Winter sat astride a chair, waiting for his guests to pull themselves together. ‘Yes, I admit the hut and the catering are a little on the modest side. But it’s a damn fine view.’

  He threw Husseini a cloth from the kitchen recess, so he could dry himself. One of the bodyguards was bleeding from the head; the other was rubbing his neck.

  ‘From now on, no false moves,’ Winter ordered. ‘Hands on the table.’ The men obeyed. ‘Right then, Mr Husseini. I have a few questions for you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Answers. Otherwise you’ll all end up in one of the crevasses outside,’

  ‘We’re just ordinary businessmen.’

  ‘Waving pistols around?’

  ‘They’re…security. We had an appointment to meet Al-Bader. He called us to arrange a meeting in Switzerland.’ Husseini made an awkward movement in the confined space of the mountain hut. ‘When we didn’t find him here, I assumed you’d harmed him.’

  Winter was filthy and sweaty from the Höllentobel and the climb. In this get-up he wouldn’t inspire much confidence. More gently he asked, ‘What sort of business do you have with Al-Bader?’

  ‘A variety of things. Orafin is one of the largest firms in Egypt.’

  Winter had never heard of Orafin. He raised the pistol. ‘Be more precise. Please!’

  ‘Various technologies.’

  Winter slammed the butt of the pistol against the table.

  The three men recoiled.

  ‘We wanted to persuade Al-Bader,’ Husseini sputtered, ‘to help us build a nuclear power station for Cairo. He’s got the money and we’ve got the contacts. The Egyptian government is in the process of changing the law. This will allow private investors to get involved in the energy sector too. Nuclear power stations are good business in our country.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’ Winter pointed the gun at the briefcase, which Husseini nervously pushed across the table. Winter examined its contents with his left hand while keeping an eye on his guests. In the lid he found Husseini’s business cards with the Orafin logo. One side in Arabic, the other in English.

  Winter put a card in his pocket.

  Three plane tickets. Cairo – Milan Malpensa – Cairo. A leather-bound diary, stuffed with notes. With his thumb Winter turned to July 25th. Meeting with Al-Bader. LOI. Letter of intent. As well as a variety of contracts in English. Nuclear power station. Financing. Guarantees.

  ‘Those are draft contracts for the letter of intent,’ Husseini explained. We were going to discuss them here with Al-Bader.’

  Winter saw some handwritten notes in some of the contracts. Others had gaps which presumably were to be filled in during the negotiations. He tossed the contracts back into the case.

  ‘Who else is planning to invest?’

  ‘Britain, France, Russia, India. Lots of people want a piece of the cake. Egypt is interested in new technologies. We still need energy after the Arab Spring. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Mubarak, Mursi or Sisi. The president needs energy if he’s going to keep his promises.’

  Winter gave a thin smile. He had no desire to enter into a political discussion with a diluted dose of the truth. Although the cards had been shuffled after the spring awakening, the networks between the Egyptian generals and the business world hadn’t suddenly disappeared. Money looks fo
r and always finds its way. And he’d long given up being shocked by the business practices of the bank’s clients.

  Husseini had now composed himself. ‘You said Al-Bader was dead?’

  ‘Yes, his helicopter came down last night.’

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Al-Bader is from the modernising wing of the Saudi royal family and he has many enemies. The fundamentalist wing frowns upon his business activities.’

  ‘How much was Al-Bader going to invest?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty million US dollars.’

  After a few further questions Winter sent the Egyptians back to the waiting helicopter. The three men in puffer jackets stumbled away, climbed aboard and flew back to warmer climes.

  Winter cleared up, closed the shutters and made his descent. He drove to Kloten Airport in Zürich, which had been renamed ‘Unique’. As Winter approached the gloomy airport car park he wondered what was so unique about it.

  He ignored his tiredness. He had a meeting with Ben: not only a friend, but also a specialist in counter-terrorism.

  JULY 25 – 13:21

  You couldn’t miss Ben. Winter guessed that ‘Grizzly’ weighed more than 150 kilos. He had personally felt the full force of Ben’s mass in close-combat training with police special forces. As a result of the many days sat in front of a computer with unhealthy food, lots of coffee and sugary drinks, the head of security had only got bulkier over the past few years.

  The nickname ‘Grizzly’ didn’t just come from Ben’s laid-back nature, size and strength. Ben could also go at speed when hunting, like a real grizzly. He hunted terrorists and was always on the search for the needle in a haystack, for the one extremist amongst the millions of air passengers.

  Winter also knew another reason for Ben’s nickname, a more obscure one. Bears hibernate in winter. They dig themselves a burrow or creep into a cave, for months remaining invisible to the outside world. Other animals wander nearby without noticing them. Together with his IT team, Ben had developed a method based precisely on these principles. He would lie down to sleep virtually in critical places and look for conspicuous patterns in the electronic stream of flowing data.