Colin Forbes - The Heights of Zervos

'Do not shoot! Please!'

Grapos' voice. Macomber lowered his Luger, stood up and saw the Greek leaning against the rock face with his rifle hoisted harmlessly over his shoulder. 'What's wrong?' he asked sharply.

'He is dead. Come, you must see.'

'Who's dead?'

But the Greek had turned back and was scrambling up again through the snow, using one hand to lever his limping foot more rapidly up past the rock. Macomber swore at his ambiguousness and went up after him. When he arrived at the top, receiving the full blast of the wind in his face, Grapos was staring down at a flattened projection just below which spurred out over the road, and Macomber found he could see down past the spur into the half-track where Ford still sat on the rear bench while Prentice stood in the road gazing up at them with his machine-pistol at the ready.

The uniformed figure on the spur lay sprawled over a machine gun. His attitude was that of a soldier watching the road from the north, the road they had just driven down in the half-track, but despite the presence of the two men above him he remained in his life-like posture until Grapos reached down and prodded him with his rifle tip. The uniformed figure went over sideways and ended up on his back with his face staring at the sky, a face with a rigid look and an unnatural bluish tinge. The poor devil had frozen to death at his post. Macomber gazed down at the Alpenkorps uniform, the stiffened Alpenkorps cap which still clutched the head, the weapon which still stood mounted in position, the barrel encased in ice and frozen snow so that it had the appearance of a glass gun. The Germans were already on Zervos, had already penetrated the monastery.

Sunday, Zero Hour

The attack on the monastery was planned, agreed in detail, and each man knew the part he had to play. The plan was Macomber's, a plan which relied on audacity, on an eruptive breakthrough into the heart of the sanctuary, and it was based on the unproven assumption that only a small number of Germans had taken over the place in preparation for the arrival of Burckhardt's army. It was also based on Grapos' intimate knowledge of the interior of the monastery, knowledge which Prentice had transferred to his notebook as a series of ground-plans which showed the layout. It was the basic assumption which still worried Prentice as he closed the book and tucked it inside his pocket.

'If there are more men up there than we think, we haven't a hope,' he warned.

'I agree,' Macomber replied briskly, 'but it's logical. They must have arrived as civilians – the only safe way they could travel before war was declared – and in that case a large party would arouse suspicion. They only faced the monks, so a few of them could do the job.' He checked his watch. 'And we've spent twenty-one minutes working this out, so we'd better get moving before Burckhardt lands on our tail. God knows there's enough to do in the time…'

He had kept the engine ticking over during their discussion; now he released the brake and the half-track began moving down towards the lake. Behind him the others were seated on the floor of the vehicle, their backs against its sides and their heads crouched forward, so from a distance it appeared that only Macomber, still wearing his Alpenkorps cap, occupied the vehicle. As they rumbled downhill at a steady pace the caterpillars whipped up the soft snow and cast it into the ditches on either side, and within a few minutes they had driven past the point where the road entered the massive snowdrift, had crossed a stretch of uneven ground and were pulling up at the eastern end of the lake to give Macomber a chance to study the ice. He would have liked to conduct a reconnaissance, to attempt walking out over the ice, but time was short. He had little faith in the Germans being held up for long by that boulder on the mountain ledge: with their manpower and the equipment they carried they would soon shift it higher up the ravine, and since he had negotiated the formidable road the weather had improved. German luck again. The wind, bitter and penetrating, whined eerily across the frozen sheet and he could see snow powder blowing over the dulled surface, but was Grapos right – right in his conviction that the prolonged winter had solidified the ice to a depth which would support the enormous weight of a half-track? He turned in his seat as though looking back up the road and saw Prentice's anxious face staring up at him. 'You think we might make it?' the lieutenant inquired.

'Only one way to find out.'

'I have told you,' Grapos repeated hoarsely. 'In winter the monks take their ox-wagons over the lake when the road is blocked.'

'As late in the year as this?' Macomber asked critically.

The Greek hesitated and Ford, disliking the hesitation, looked at him quickly. Grapos cleared his throat before speaking again, but his voice was confident. 'It is not usual – but five years since we also have the bad winter and then they take the wagons across in April. That was also the time of the great landslide – the avalanche. Much snow had fallen all through the winter and when the spring comes the mountain comes alive…'

Macomber lit his last but one cigar, then interrupted the Greek's flow of words. 'Let's hope it's as thick as it was five years ago, then. And now I'd appreciate it if the League of Nations debate could be adjourned – this is going to take a little concentration.' He released the brake, exerted a little foot pressure and they were moving out over the ice.

He kept his speed down to a crawl, to less than ten miles an hour as the tracks rumbled hollowly over the ice sheet and their treads ground into the surface with a brittle sound which tingled his nerves. It was almost spring, the time of the year when the ice would imperceptibly begin to thin, to lose that extra inch of solidity which might make all the difference to whether they crossed safely or plunged through shattered ice into the depths below. And the depths were something which didn't repay thinking about. During their discussion the Scot had asked Grapos about the depth of the lake and his answer had not exactly raised anyone's morale. 'Fifty metres. More deep in places,' had been the answer. Fifty metres. More than one hundred and fifty feet of sub-zero water below the frozen floor they were crossing. The right-hand track wobbled gently as it mounted an area of unevenness in the ice and then there was an unpleasant crushing sound as the track squashed the tiny ridge. Inside the vehicle Prentice, with his back against the right-hand side, felt the slight incline, followed by the trembling fall. His heart leapt, his hands locked round his machine-pistol and his eyes met Ford's. The staff-sergeant had an opaque look but Prentice saw the flicker of fear as Ford observed the brief contraction of the lieutenant's eyebrows. Then the half-track was rumbling forward smoothly again while Prentice flexed his fingers and let out his breath, breath expelled like a small puff of steam in the chilled temperature inside the vehicle.

The ordeal was probably more mind-wracking for the men concealed on the floor than for Macomber, because hidden away inside the half-track they couldn't see where they were going or how far they had come; and they experienced everything by feel alone, leaving their imaginations free to conjure up the most frightful possibilities. At least Macomber had a task to accomplish, a vehicle to steer; but for him the pressure built up in other ways. He had intended keeping close to the shore, driving past the immense snowdrift as he followed the line of the invisible road, but shortly after moving onto the lake he had taken an irrevocable decision, plagued by the desperate shortage of time. So he had changed his mind and was now heading on a course which would take them along the diameter of the circle – straight over the centre of the lake.