By Royal Command (28 page)

The back of his head looked flattened, and there was dried blood matted in his hair and hanging down in gluey strips from his scalp.

Hidden from above by the overhang of the castle wall, he must have been climbing up here and slipped, hitting his head in the process.

It was clear that Dr Friend knew nothing about him, or he would surely have had him removed.

When you were trying so hard to keep up appearances it wouldn’t do to have a dead body hanging from your castle wall.

James studied the man, trying to hold back his revulsion. There was something about his clothing that seemed familiar. And then he spotted the polished leather of a shoulder-holster, still carrying its Enfield number 2 mark 1.

It was the Englishman from the train.

James thought back to all that time ago walking with Merriot under the elm trees on Upper Club. What had Merriot said?

‘
It was not entirely coincidence that I took you boys to Kitzbühel. I was there on business
…’

At the time neither of them had known that Operation Snow-Blind and increased German activities in the Tyrol were connected. Merriot would still not know. The only sense that James could make of all this was that the SIS had been trying to find out what was going on at Schloss Donnerspitze and the man hanging outside his window was a British agent.

Whatever the case, this poor soul had a gun strapped to his side.

If James could get hold of that gun it would make him a very happy boy indeed.

29

For King and Country

James slipped a hand between the bars of the iron cage and reached out for the ice-axe. Standing on the bed, he had to force his whole body up, folded awkwardly into the cage, his neck against the top, his head looking down. He groped around until at last his fingertips touched the cold metal of the blade. He pressed himself up harder, trying to force his shoulder through the narrow opening. He gave the axe a gentle nudge and it began to swing away from him; as it swung back he caught hold of it and gave a tug. It slipped off the root and he took a firm hold of it as the rope snaked down. He had to hold on tight – the rope was surprisingly heavy and the weight of it jarred his shoulder as it fell below the window. He didn’t let go, though, and in a moment he had pulled the axe and the rope in through the bars. Now he calculated the distance to the dead body. If he could swing the axe across and hook it on to the corpse he might be able to pull it close enough to grab the gun.

He grinned.

There was always a way.

He measured a length of rope and knotted it securely to the cage, then he slipped the axe back out and let the cord run through his fingers until it was dangling down below him. He began to swing it back and forth like a pendulum. Once he had built up enough momentum he gave a heave and hoicked it up towards the man. It thudded uselessly into his chest and fell away.

James swung again. This time the axe smashed into the man’s face with a horrible crunch.

James felt awful, as if he were desecrating a corpse.

Don’t think about that. The man’s dead. He’s beyond feeling anything. Besides, if he were a British agent come to investigate Dr Friend then he’d be glad to help any way he could.

Even dead.

‘For King and country,’ James said through gritted teeth, and made a minute adjustment to the length of rope.

He swung again. The axe looped up, dropped down and snagged on the man’s belt where it held firm.

Good.

James shifted his position at the window so that he could get both arms outside the cage, and then he took hold of the rope and pulled, dragging the body across the wall towards him. It came closer, closer; light glinted tantalisingly off the gun nestled in its holster.

Hell!

The axe came loose and raked over the man’s belly, popping his shirt buttons, before falling off and clattering against the wall.

The body swung away from him.

Never mind
. He’d done it once; he could do it again.

‘What are you doing out there?’ It was Roan’s voice, from the other window.

‘Don’t look.’

‘I can’t, the window’s in the way.’

‘I’ve found something that might help us. Listen at the door. If you hear anyone coming, try and warn me.’

‘All right.’

James’s arms were aching. It was very awkward holding the axe through the bars and his shoulders were on fire. He never for one moment thought of giving up, though. With a grunt he swung the axe towards the corpse.

It took him five tries before he finally got it hooked into the man’s belt again. He sighed with relief and brought his arms back inside so that he could loosen his muscles and knead away some of the pain.

When he was ready he got back up on to the bed and took a hold of the rope once more. And once more he pulled. The axe was staying put this time, but as the body swung towards him, the pendulum effect caused it to rise higher up the wall. He had to move the rope across to the far side of the cage, hand over hand, and haul it from there. Eventually the angle became too tight and he could move the body no closer. He reckoned that he should just be able to reach the holster now, though, and he secured the rope.

He stuck his left arm out and grabbed hold of the man’s shirt. His flesh felt warm and soft. James knew that the warmth wasn’t coming from the man’s body heat; it was caused by the bacteria that were eating away at his insides and breeding inside him.

He walked his fingers over the heavy material of the shirt towards the shoulder-holster on the other side.

He tried pulling the body closer still, but as he tugged he felt something give way.

The axe must have torn the man’s skin, because the next thing James knew he was showered with foul liquid and the man’s guts spilled out from under his shirt and flopped over his chest.

James was glad of the handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, as it stopped him from swallowing or inhaling anything. He fought desperately not to be sick, and told himself that whatever happened he must not let go. If the man’s body fell apart the gun might be lost. But there were coils of intestines over his forearm now and his hand was buried in it all. The cesspit reek of death and decay was powerful enough to knock him out and for a few moments he felt dangerously faint.

He held his breath and fought the dizziness, trying not to look. His eyes were drawn to the body, though. There was nothing he could do about it. Slimy, glistening, bluish-grey in the moonlight, the man’s guts almost seemed to be alive. James finally managed to tear his eyes away, and his fingers wormed through the tangled mass until he felt the smooth leather of the holster, and there, yes… the gun.

He felt for the grip and closed his fingers around it, then eased it out of the holster.

Don’t drop it now.

Inch by inch it came out, as warm, sticky liquid dripped down James’s sleeve. He fought not to think about the rubbery coils his hand was buried in. The bile was rising in his throat and his heart was hammering hard against his ribs.

But he had it.

The pistol was firmly in his hand. He pulled it free of the stinking mess and flopped back on to the bed.

Gagging and choking, he dropped the gun to the floor and staggered to the wash-stand. He tore off his shirt and furiously wiped the filth from his arms and chest and face.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He had to keep doing something to prevent the horror from taking over his mind.

He wiped the gun clean and then mopped up the mess from around the window before pushing his ruined shirt through the bars and letting it drop down the mountain. He was still wearing his vest, but it was cold in the room and he shivered.

He grabbed the window and jammed it back into the frame, trying to shut out the ghastly thing that was outside.

Finally he sat in the corner with his back to the wall, his chest rising and falling, his eyes screwed tight shut, and slowly, ever so slowly, his body stilled and he became calm.

By concentrating on what he had achieved and what he was going to do next, he forced the terrible images out of his mind.

Finally he lifted the gun and looked at it.

He turned it in his hands and smiled.

Round one to him.

BOOM
…

James opened his eyes. It was dawn. The von Schlick cannon had fired its first blast of the day.

He glanced at his watch. Five o’clock.

He had cleaned the Mido Multifort with his handkerchief. It was waterproof, and he was happy to see that it was also proof against vile bodily fluids. The mechanism was beautifully accurate. As long as he wound it every night and morning, it kept perfect time.

And he was relying on that to get him out of his cell.

He had made a plan in the night, in between moments of fitful sleep. He had decided that he wasn’t going to wait for Dr Friend and his cohorts to come for him; he was going to take the fight to them. He was getting out and they weren’t going to stop him.

The stench had grown no better in the night, and he could hear birds outside noisily fighting over the fresh food he had served up for them.

His stomach gave a lurch and his mouth filled with saliva.

Best not to think about that.

He sat up, slipped the pistol out from beneath his pillow and emptied the bullets on to the bed. He tested the firing mechanism, pulling the trigger four times. It all worked smoothly. Carefully he reloaded it. It was heavy in his hand. He would have to make sure he held it securely when the time came because he would only have the chance to make one shot.

Satisfied, he hid the gun back beneath his pillow and lay down, gathering his strength but not quite sleeping, for the best part of forty minutes. Then at ten to six he stirred and rolled off the bed. He unstrapped his watch, pulled out the pin and set the hands to exactly six o’clock.

And then he waited.

Listening hard for the next cannon blast. Counting the seconds in his head so that he would be prepared.

BOOM…

As soon as he heard it he pressed the pin and the second hand started to sweep around the watch-face.

He just had to hope that whoever was firing the cannon would have an equally accurate timepiece.

Now James paced the room, warming up his muscles, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness. Every now and then he stopped and stretched before dropping to the floor and doing twenty press-ups. He had to be ready and he had to be fit. He needed adrenalin pumping through his body.

Deep inside he felt the familiar tingling of excitement. No more worrying, no more straining to use his poor tired brain to work things out. Now all he could do was act. He had a clear purpose.
To escape from the Schloss.
That was all that mattered.

At five to seven he picked up his watch, fastened it to his left wrist so that the face was on the inside and got himself ready.

He took the Enfield in his right hand and stood about three feet from the door, aiming squarely at the centre of the lock. He steadied his gun hand with his left hand, the watch-face at his wrist clearly visible.

The seconds ticked by, the minutes…

It was four minutes to seven… Three.

He eased back the hammer and felt it click into place.

One minute to go. He followed the second hand as it worked its way relentlessly around the dial.

Thirty seconds, twenty…

He gently squeezed the trigger, slowly piling on more and more pressure…

Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven…

He held his breath.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

Now!

As the second hand clicked into the 12 o’clock position he applied the last ounce of pressure.

The pistol exploded in the small room at the exact same moment as the cannon fired on the battlements.

Thank God for German efficiency.

There was a smell of cordite in the air and smoke drifted towards a crack in the window.

James waited, the gun now aimed at the centre of the door. The bang had seemed deafeningly loud. Was it possible that the cannon had completely obscured it?

Well. If anyone opened that door they were going to get a bullet in the chest.

No one came.

Apart from the birds outside, it was quiet.

He relaxed, letting out his breath, and lowered the pistol.

Now he got to work with his knife. He jammed the blade into the shattered remains of the door lock and twisted it until the door snapped open. Then, keeping his gun in front of him, he stepped into the corridor.

Empty.

There must be a guard of some sort nearby, though, who would have the keys to the other cells.

James didn’t remember passing anywhere on the way here that had looked like a guardroom, so he went left down the corridor, which sloped downward slightly and round a corner.

There was a short passageway to the right here with a heavy steel door at the end. There was a small window in the door.

James crept forward and peered through the window. The two armed guards from last night sat there at a wide desk, with their backs to the door, drinking coffee and smoking. One was reading a book. In front of them was what looked like a telephone switchboard.

They had removed their jackets and were in their shirt-sleeves, their braces criss-crossed over their backs. Without their guns they had lost their menace and looked like a couple of harmless middle-aged men.

James backed away from the window and saw that a cluster of wires ran along the wall. He took out his knife and carefully cut through them.

He took a deep breath.

He raised his gun.

He opened the door.

‘
Bewegen Sie sich nicht!
’

His bark alerted the two men, ordering them not to move.

They put their hands up of their own accord, too sleepy and too startled by his appearance to do anything.

‘
Wo sind die Schlüssel?
’ said James, his eyes flicking around the room for the keys.

One of the men nodded at a large steel ring that hung on a hook near the door. James sidestepped towards it, his gun never leaving the guards, and he picked it up. As he did so the man nearest to him made a grab for his rifle, which was leaning against the wall. James’s hand whipped out and the butt of the pistol cracked into the man’s jaw. He fell back with a groan.