Jack Higgins - The Valhalla Exchange

He could feel the plaited rope stir beneath his hands, and behind him in the gloom Paul Gaillard said, ‘Is he there?’

‘No, not yet.’ A moment later the rope slackened, there was a sudden flash of light below, then darkness again. ‘That’s it,’ Birr said. ‘Now me, if I can get through this damned window. Hamilton certainly can pick them.’

He stood on a stool, turned to support himself on Gaillard’s shoulders and eased his legs into space. He stayed there for a moment, hands on the rope. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind, Paul?’

‘My dear Justin, I wouldn’t get halfway down before my arms gave out.’

‘All right,’ Birr said. ‘You know what to do. When I get down, or perhaps I should say if I do, we’ll give you a flash. You haul the rope up, stick it in that cubbyhole under the floorboards then get to hell out of it.’

‘You may rely on me.’

‘I know. Give my regards to the ladies.’

‘ Bon chance , my friend.’

Birr let himself slide and was suddenly alone in the darkness, swaying slightly in the wind, his hands slipping from knot to knot. Home-made rope and eighty feet to the garden. I must be mad .

It was raining slightly, not a single star to be seen anywhere and already his arms were beginning to ache. He let himself slide faster, his feet banging against the wall, scratching his knuckles, at one point twirling round madly in circles. Quite suddenly, the rope parted.

My God, that’s it! he thought, clamping his jaws together in the moment of death to stop himself from crying out, then hit the ground after falling no more than ten feet and rolled over in wet grass, winded.

There was a hand at his elbow, helping him to his feet. ‘You all right?’ Canning said.

‘I think so.’ Birr flexed his arms. ‘A damn close thing, Hamilton, but then it usually is when you’re around.’

‘We aim to please.’ Canning flashed his torch upwards briefly. ‘Okay, let’s get moving. The entrance to the sewer I told you about is in the lily pond on the lower terrace.’

They moved down through the darkness cautiously, negotiated a flight of steps and skirted the fountain at the bottom. The ornamental lily pond was on the other side of a short stretch of lawn. There was a wall at the rear of it, water gushing from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head, rattling into the pool below. Birr had seen it often enough on exercise. ‘Okay, here we go.’

Canning sat down and lowered himself into the water, kneedeep. He waded forward, Birr followed him and found the American crouched beside the lion’s head in the darkness.

‘You can feel the grille here, half under the water,’ Canning whispered. ‘If we can get that off we’re straight into the main drainage system. One tunnel after the other all the way down to the river.’

‘And if not?’ Birr inquired.

‘Short rations again and a stone cell, but that, as they say, is problematical. Right now we’ve got about ten minutes before Schneider and that damned Alsatian of his come by on garden patrol.’

He produced a short length of steel bar from his pocket, inserted it in one side of the bronze grille and levered. There was an audible crack, the metal, corroded by the years, snapping instantly. He pulled hard and the entire grille came away in his hands.

‘You see how it is, Justin. All you have to do is live right. After you.’

Birr crouched down on his hands and knees in the water and switching on his torch crawled through into a narrow brick tunnel. Canning moved in behind him, pulling the grille back into place.

‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for Boy Scouts, Hamilton?’ Birr whispered over his shoulder.

‘Shut up and get moving,’ Canning told him. ‘If we can reach the river and find a boat by midnight, we’ll have six or seven hours to play with before they find we’re gone.’

Birr moved on, crawling on hands and knees through a couple of feet of water, the torch in his teeth. He emerged after a few yards into a tunnel that was a good five feet in diameter so that he could actually walk if he crouched a little.

The water was only about a foot deep here, for the tunnel sloped downwards steeply, and the smell was not unpleasant, like old leaves and autumn on the river in a punt.

‘Keep going,’ Canning said. ‘From what I found out from that gardener, we emerge into the main sewer pretty quickly. From there, it’s a straight run down to the Inn.’

‘I can smell it already,’ Birr told him.

A few minutes later the tunnel did indeed empty into the main sewer in a miniature waterfall. Birr flashed his torch at the brown foam-flecked waters which rushed by several feet below.

‘My God, just smell it, Hamilton. This really is beyond a joke.’

‘Oh, get in there, for Christ’s sake.’ Canning gave him a shove and Birr dropped down, losing his balance and disappeared beneath the surface. He was on his feet in an instant and stood there cursing, still clutching his torch. ‘It’s liquid shit, Hamilton. Liquid shit.’

‘You can have a wash when we get to the river,’ Canning said and he lowered himself down to join him. ‘Now let’s make time.’

He started down the tunnel, torch extended before him, and Birr followed for perhaps sixty or seventy yards and then the tunnel petered out in a blank wall.

‘That’s it then,’ Birr said. ‘And a bloody good job too as far as I’m concerned. We’ll have to go back.’

‘Not on your sweet life. The water’s got to go somewhere.’ Canning slipped his torch into his pocket, took a deep breath and crouched. He surfaced at once. ‘As I thought. The tunnel continues on a lower level. I’m going through.’

Birr said, ‘And what if it’s twenty or thirty yards long, you idiot – or longer? You’ll not have time to turn and come back. You’ll drown.’

‘So I’ll take that chance, Justin.’ Canning was tying one end of the rope about his waist now. ‘I want out – you understand? I’ve no intention of sitting on my ass up there in the castle waiting for the Reichsführer’s hired assassins to come and finish me off.’ He held out the other end of the rope. ‘Fasten that round your waist if you want to come too. If I get through, I’ll give it a pull.’

‘And if not?’

‘Winter roses on my grave. Scarlet ones like those Claire cultivated in the conservatory.’ He grinned once, took a deep breath and disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Justin Birr waited. The electric torch gave only a minimal light, barely sufficient to pick out the slime on the ancient stone walls or the occasional rat that swam past in the dark water. The stench was frightful – really most unpleasant – and by now the cold had cut through to his very bones, or so it seemed.

He was aware of a sudden tug and hesitated, wondering for the moment whether it was simply imagination. There was another tug, more insistent this time. ‘All right, damn you,’ he said and extinguished the torch and put it in his breast pocket. His hands felt under the water for the edge of the arched roof. He took a deep breath and went down.

His feet banged against the stonework, but he kicked desperately, aware of the rope tugging at his waist, and then, just when he was convinced he couldn’t keep going any longer, he saw a faint light ahead and surfaced, gasping for breath.

Canning, crouching out of the water on the side of a larger tunnel, reached down to pull him up. ‘Easy does it.’

‘Really, Hamilton, this particular small jaunt of yours is getting out of hand. I smell like a lavatory gone wrong and I’m frozen into the bargain.’

Canning ignored him. ‘Listen – I can hear the river. Can’t be far now.’