Colin Forbes: The Heights of Zervos

He had ascended perhaps two hundred feet, confined between the narrowing walls of the canyon which climbed vertically above them, when he saw a trail of cloud creeping over the road ahead, blotting out what lay beyond. Switching on his headlights, he reduced speed as they slipped inside the vaporous mist; ice-cold drizzle chilled his face and there was a sudden drop hi temperature as he crawled round a bend and went up a steep incline. The headlights penetrated the cloud just sufficiently for him to see what was happening, to see where the road turned yet another bend as it spiralled up towards the summit of the bluff, and now water was starting to run down the snow-packed road and the snow itself was melting to slush.

He drove on up through the drifting cloud, feeling his clothes grow heavier as the damp clung to him, feeling the tracks slither once and then recover stability as they ground patiently upwards while he grew cold and miserable and sodden and it seemed as though the elements were flinging one final ordeal in his path almost within sight of their objective. Behind him the others had taken up position. Grapos stood at the rear of the vehicle, the Alpenkorps rope looped over his shoulder, while Prentice and Ford huddled on a bench close to him, their weapons gripped between their hands as they watched the Greek who stood facing the way they were going. Macomber turned another bend, saw the road levelling out, switched off his headlights, and heard the hammering of Grapos' rifle butt. The signal to halt.

He braked, left the engine running, and the tang of salt air was strong in his nostrils as the cloud began to thin and pale sunlight percolated through the haze. Grapos dropped off at the rear between the tracks and was followed by Prentice and Ford who went after him and vanished in the cloud. Behind the wheel, Macomber was wiping moisture off his watch-face while he timed five minutes exactly. The mistiness, which would have masked his onslaught until the last moment, was receding rapidly as the cloud left the peninsula and floated out over the gulf. He grimaced, saw ahead the final rise in the road which hid him from the monastery, checked his watch again. At four minutes and thirty seconds the cloud had dispersed completely, but again that would have been too damned convenient. Now for the break-in, the final effort – with everything staked on one vicious surprise attack.

With the cloud gone he was bathed in the cold bright sunlight of winter and he could see the Aegean to his right, but rising ground shielded the destroyer from view; he could see the stark triangle of Mount Zervos, a peak of whiteness where the light caught the snow crystals, but the monastery was still invisible; and he could see the deep, trench-like gulley along which Grapos had led the other two men, but they had disappeared. He checked his watch: ten seconds to go. Reaching inside his pocket he dragged out the Luger from the sodden folds and laid it on the seat beside him. Five seconds left. His hand clutched the brake, waited, released it. He was off.

He accelerated rapidly, mounted the rise, crested it. The road ran straight to the monastery which rose up less than two hundred yards away. He took in the impression in a flash. The towers and the wail linking them were lower on this side. The greenish shell of a dome, which he remembered was the church, showed beyond the wall-top. The ancient gatehouse, a tumbledown wooden structure which appeared to lean back against the stone for support, was in the centre of the wall. Three or four storeys up wooden box-like structures were attached to the stonework, protruding from the wall like giant dovecotes, each structure faced with tall shutters which led out to a small balcony. The ground between the crest and the monastery was bare and level with huge boulders strewn close to the left-hand section of the monastery. Mid-way to the gatehouse he swerved off the road, crossing open ground in a sweeping half-circle, which brought him back on the road again with the half-track's rear presented to the monastery. So far he had seen no sign of life and the place had a derelict look. He changed gear, began reversing towards the closed gate which barred his way, twisting round in his seat as he kept one eye on the road, another on the gateway rushing towards him as he built up speed and the monastery canie closer and closer.

He saw out of the corner of his eye movement on the roofed-in, railed walk which spanned the first floor of the gatehouse, the movement of a field-grey figure steadying himself as he took aim, and he knew something had gone fatally wrong. The Alpenkorps cap was not enough to make the German pause, or had he spotted one of the others at the last moment – Macomber had no idea which – but he knew that within seconds the German would open fire, that he must ignore the threat of almost certain death, that the rifle would be discharged at point-blank range if the man had the sense to wait only a few seconds longer when he couldn't possibly miss, firing down from his elevated position at a target moving rapidly closer under his gunsight.

During the final rush up to the closed gates Macomber became aware of everything around him – the snow-covered ground where rocks poked up through the whiteness, the shabbiness of the small balconies where decrepit paint exposed the mellow woodwork, the open-necked collar of the Alpenkorps soldier on the gatehouse who was steadying himself against the wall as he aimed his rifle, the rotting umbers of the large double gates, the mildewed-looking dome of the church vanishing from view as the wall rose up and screened it, the high-powered throb of the engine, the metallic grind of the whirling tracks…

He heard the report of the rifle above these sounds, a sharp crack, the first shot fired in the coming encounter – the shot fired by Grapos from behind a large boulder. The German on the balcony was stood immediately over the roadway and he staggered forward as the bullet penetrated, reached out a hand to steady himself on the frail balcony rail, sagged forward with his full weight, which was too much for the support, and he fell through it at the moment the half-track smashed through the gates, tearing both loose from the upper hinges so they toppled inwards and the vehicle stormed over them and continued reversing under the archway and into the vast courtyard beyond. Macomber blinked with relief, heard something thud down behind him, glanced back swiftly and saw the dead German folded over the second bench. The half-track roared on inside a stone-paved square which was larger than he remembered it, a square with a plane tree in the centre, the church to the right, an ancient stone well beyond the tree – a square large enough to accommodate a small army, overlooked on all sides by windows and arcaded walks which ran round the inner walls at each floor level. The vehicle was charging towards the tree when he reduced speed, changed gear, went forward and began thundering round the square, turning the wheel erratically as though the half-track had gone berserk. His Alpenkorps cap was prominently on view, as was the German soldier behind him, a soldier impossible to identify from his crumpled position. Macomber completed one circuit, heard the sound of shots, described a wild S-bend tour round the church and reappeared suddenly from the other side as he headed into the square again and accelerated afresh. For anyone inside the monastery the speeding half-track had become a hypnotic focal point – a focal point to divert their attention for vital seconds from what might be happening elsewhere.

When Grapos jumped from the stationary half-track as the cloud dispersed from the bluff he plunged straight into the gulley leading away from the road and towards the monastery, a ravine seven feet deep which hid the hurrying men from any possible observation from the monastery walls. He ran forward in a crouch, his rifle between his hands, the rope looped from his shoulder. He was heading for one of the towers which protruded out from the wall, so that the side farthest from the gatehouse formed a right-angled corner which couldn't be seen from that direction. Behind him came Prentice with Ford close at his heels. The staff-sergeant's shoulder still throbbed with a dull ache but he could use the lower part of his arm and, more important still, he could use his machine-pistol if he held it awkwardly.