Powder Burn (Burn with Sam Blackett #1) (6 page)

“So, which way?” demanded Jortse.

Tashi pulled the tiny, luminous compass out of the heel of his boot, saying as he did so,
“South, there’s a line of hills to cross. After that we should hit a river if we’ve gone far enough along this road.”

“
And which way is south?”

“
That way.” Tashi looked up from the compass and pointed just to the left of the tepid yellow glow emerging from a single window of the building.

“
Great,” said Jortse.

“
We could go around.”

“
No, it won’t be long before the moon is out. There are a few clouds, but not enough to hide us. We have to get out of the valley and get some height, find somewhere to hole up.”

“
I think there are quite a few buildings,” said Tashi. Jortse didn’t reply. There were distant noises – the rumble of a generator, a door banging. But Tashi could make out a fold in the land, a hint of darker shadow. It led away to the south. “I think we could follow that little gulley,” he added, “it’s going the right way, and if we’re going to move closer, it’s safer than moving in the open.”

“
That’s what I was thinking,” said Jortse, and started forward.

The shallow trench allowed them to move quickly, gaining a couple of hundred yards to the south before the land started to flatten around them. Jortse squirmed into the dirt, and Tashi caught up to him.

“Looks clear ahead,” said Jortse.

Tashi strained his eyes into the darkness, but could see nothing apart from a broken line to the south, cutting a path through the stars well above the rest of the horizon. It could be cloud, or it could be the hills they were aiming for
– he said as much.

“
We have to keep moving, we’re going to get the moon in a minute,” replied Jortse. “Let’s go.” And with that he was running forward in a deep crouch. Tashi had no choice but to follow – bent double, arms jammed against his gear to stop it rattling. Then there was a muffled grunt and Jortse slid into the dust. Tashi dropped beside him, and the pair held their breath. Seconds ticked past and there was no response, no sound or movement.

“
What?” whispered Tashi, eventually.

“
Wire fence.”

“
We must go round it, away from the light in that building.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jortse replied with an affirmative. They rose to their feet and crept forward, more carefully this time. They had gone only twenty feet when Jortse pulled up again.
“It’s a corner. It’s forcing us completely the wrong way,” he said.

Tashi felt for the strands and gave them a gentle push. It was a long run of wire.

“Here comes the moon. Look, we’re running out of time,” said Jortse, his breath hot on Tashi’s ear. “I say we go under the wire, head straight for those hills. We could be stumbling round this maze for hours in the dark. We’ve got to get clear of here before dawn.”

“
I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right,” said Tashi. But Jortse already had the bottom strand of wire lifted with his bedroll. He pushed his bag underneath it, and then crawled forward. From the other side he tugged insistently at Tashi’s sleeve, the wire still propped up. Reluctantly, Tashi followed. Jortse led at the same quick crouch across a hundred feet of open ground. Then he slowed. Tashi could feel it too, ahead of them, a building. The rustle and creak – which sounded like bedsprings – came out of the darkness, from the left and very close, much closer than anything else they had heard. Tashi felt a suppressing hand on his shoulder and bit his lip. The noise and movement quickly stopped, and after an age of silence he felt Jortse rise to his feet. In a few short paces they were up against rough concrete, sidling along a wall. They paused at the corner, breathing fast now in the cold, still air. Then a dog’s bark shattered the quiet, loud and close. Tashi’s heart lurched. There was a rattle, animal and chain, more barking: something was restraining the creature. A light clicked on, and suddenly everything became clear.

Tashi sucked in a shocked breath. He felt Jortse grip his arm fiercely. The light was on the far side of a row of buildings ahead of them. It cast illumination beyond that, onto row after row of ugly concrete blockhouses. They had been lost against the blackness of the distant hills. But now they could see the camp for what it was: trucks, personnel carriers, even an artillery piece. They had stumbled into the middle of a military base. Tashi rolled his head back against the wall, gripped his fists into balls and tried to control the paralyzing wave of fear that was rolling through him. Then there was a yell, a thump and a whine in short order
– the dog had been whipped into silence and the light was off.

“
I saw the fence on the far side of four rows of buildings,” whispered Jortse in his ear.

Four rows,
thought Tashi,
and how far do they stretch in either direction?
How many men do they contain?
It seemed to him that everything they had planned would end right here.

“
We’ll go down one building before we cross, to get away from the dog,” continued Jortse. “Wait for a minute after I go, if you hear anything, stay put until it’s quiet.”

Tashi watched as Jortse eased a glance round the corner of the building
– a little moonlight was filtering occasionally through the clouds now – then stepped away. He listened to the faint footsteps fade completely. He started to count at a third of the speed of his pounding heart. At sixty, all was still quiet. He didn’t want to move, but he certainly didn’t want to stay there on his own either. He pushed off the wall and crept into the darkness. He felt each step gingerly for rocks or gravel that might squirm or scrunch, eyes probing the gloom, ears humming with the silence. It felt an eternity, but finally he was back with Jortse, crouched beside another concrete wall.

Their luck held. Jortse led them past one more, another and then the fourth and final row without incident. Just the wire to go, beyond it was open countryside and safety. The faint motion of his friend’s breathing was beside him. And then there was another sound
... footsteps, coming towards them, louder, just round the next corner. The noise stopped. There was the scratch of a cheap zip, the trickle of liquid on dust, a sigh, a sniff, then a spit. He felt Jortse move, the imperceptible pass of metal as he drew the sword. Tashi reached out, but his friend was gone and he could only press himself back against the wall, waiting, expecting the worst. The noise stopped, a brief pause, footsteps and then the soldier turned the corner in a glint of moonlight, still zipping up his fly.

He could only have known his fate for the slenderest of moments. The sword lunged from the shadows without a sound, the tip landing at the base of the throat, just below the Adam’s apple. It hesitated there for a fraction of a second, long enough for the man to realize what was about to happen
– but not long enough for him to do any more about it than a faint inhalation of breath. At which, Jortse leaned on the blade and cut off any possible cry before it even got to the larynx. The steel severed the windpipe and then drove through the spinal cord. Jortse’s feet were already set for the rotation; he jerked the sword back out and, as the body started to fold, he unwound. The sword took the man’s head off with the single swish, barely disturbing the trajectory of his fall. Jortse jumped forward, caught the rifle on its sling over the man’s shoulder and used it to lower the body silently to the ground. The head landed separately, bouncing once, and rolling briefly before it came to a halt.

Tashi grabbed at his mouth as it filled with vomit and, turning into the base of the wall, managed to get it almost soundlessly into the dirt. There were tugs at his coat. He ignored them, nostrils full of puke and the fresh smell of blood gagging at the back of his throat.

“Get a grip.” The words were spoken right in his ear.

He pushed against Jortse’s grasp.
“Leave me,” a faint croak.

“
Come on!”

“
What have you done?”

“
I had to do it,” whispered Jortse.

He tried to shake his head, but his whole body moved in denial.
“No ...” Jortse’s grip eased a little. The moments passed and Tashi managed to clear his nose, throat and then his head. He swayed to his feet; this time Jortse just steadied him. He had one coherent thought. “We must get his valuables, make it ... make it look like a robbery.”

“
I’m not a mugger – no, let this be a warning to those bastards,” muttered Jortse. “Maybe the rebellion starts right here!”

“
There’ll be reprisals, some of our people will die, many others will suffer, and you cannot defend them yet,” mumbled Tashi. There was a moment’s silence. Then a rustle as Jortse sheathed the sword. He bent over his victim, went through the pockets and straightened.

“
Let’s go,” he said.

Jortse led them to the corner and peered round. He turned back to Tashi.
“There’s a patrol.”

Tashi pressed himself hard against the wall, blew more acrid snot silently into the sleeve of his coat. He tried not to think about the headless body just feet away
– what it meant. He pulled his bedroll to him and clenched it hard. Then Jortse’s tug told him it was time to move. Blindly following, Tashi stumbled out across the open ground, not looking to one side or the other. They came to the wire. Jortse pushed the bottom strand up, and pulled him through. Tashi rolled in the dust, coarse against his cheek. And then he was up and running, through scrub, rocks. Jortse led a weaving dance until finally the land rose under their feet and they began to climb the hills to safety.

“
OK, this is it – we’re going to stay here tonight.”

“
Huh?” Sam was stretching her back when Lens had directed his announcement at her – watched by Pete and Vegas – and the surprise prompted the interrogative grunt which then prompted a coughing fit. The cough was courtesy of the altitude – this was a new high point. It was only midday, but she was very happy to hear that they were stopping. From warmth and easy walking to cutting steps in snow slopes and thin air – finally they were in the mountains. She gave a rasping clear of her throat. “I don’t understand, we’ve been pushing on hard since we started, why the holiday?”

“
This is our main gear stash before the mountain,” replied Lens. “The snowboards and all the final supplies are in that hut.”

“
I’ll go check on that,” said Vegas, and he headed towards the shack where they had stopped. It sat in an island of dirty snow – tarpaulin and corrugated iron sheets draped over it to make a roof, holes gaping in the walls.

“
So ... does this mean you’re finally going to tell me where we are, where it is?” she asked.

“
Before we go any further, we want you to sign a non-disclosure agreement saying that you won’t at any time reveal the position, identity or any aspect of the route to Powder Burn,” said Lens.

She started to laugh, then stopped.
“You’re not joking?” She looked in turn at both the serious faces. “But how can I write an article about the mountain if I can’t even say where it is?”

“
The same way as we’re going to do the film,” responded Lens. “We make it a mystery. Build up the myth of Powder Burn. The longer we can keep its identity a secret, the longer it will be before anyone else can possibly do it, and the longer our movie will be unique as the sickest mountain ever ridden.”

“
And what if I don’t agree?”

“
We’ll have to leave you here,” said Lens.

“
So, what ... you’re going to tie me up?”

“
That might be a little extreme – fun, but a little extreme. No, you can’t stay awake forever.” Lens glanced at Pete as he spoke.

“
This is bullshit, guys, you’re hustling me here,” she replied, hands on her hips. “If I go back from here, I will already have spent three weeks on this trip. If I don’t agree, I’ve wasted a ton of time and money and got nothing.”

“
Think about it, Sam,” Lens responded, “you don’t want to go back – we’re selling myth and mystery, the legend of Powder Burn. People love that angle, they love what they can’t have. The more secrecy that surrounds this mountain, the more money we all make out of it. We’ll get the buzz going on the circuit and in the resorts, and then we’ll release some clips onto the internet, use the social networks – it’ll be unbelievable stuff, and viral will do the rest of the work. Then we’ll time your article in
National Geographic
magazine with the launch of the film at one of the big competitions – it’ll just blow everyone away. This is the right way to do it. We can all be winners, but we need your help.”

National Geographic
– that dark little secret of her own ... But Lens’s hard sell was working, she could already see the story in her mind, the making of a myth. And, hustled or not, she needed this article. Or she’d be walking home to Vermont. “So ... you actually want me to sign something?”

Lens dug into his pack, and handed across a rough couple of sheets of paper
–
at least they are typed,
she thought. Essentially, it gave Lens the right to check in advance anything she wished to say or publish about the expedition. It looked like he’d lifted it from a magazine publisher. She pulled her pen out of the side-pocket of her pack and scrawled a signature along the bottom, then handed both to Pete to sign as witness.

Vegas ambled back up just as they were finished.
“She signed?” he said.

“
Yup,” said Lens, taking the document from Pete and stowing it back in his pack.

Vegas grunted, noncommittal.

“Everything OK with the gear?” Pete asked Vegas, tossing the pen back to Sam at the same time.

“
Reckon – looks just like it did when we left it. I guess we must have tipped that guy enough after all.” He hesitated. “Does she know where it is yet?”

“
No, she doesn’t,” said Sam. “Well?”

Pete turned and pointed.
“Over there.”

She followed his arm; he was indicating the steep slope that ran along the northern side of the valley.

“In Shibde,” added Lens.

“
Shibde?” she echoed, startled. “But Shibde’s closed to all foreigners, has been for a couple of hundred years or something. How can it be in Shibde?”

“
Because it is ...” said Pete, and tailed off.

For fifteen seconds, she looked round her silent circle of so-called teammates as the full truth dawned.
“We’re going to sneak across the border into Shibde ... to go snowboarding?” she said. “Are you completely fucking insane?” No one answered. So she carried on. “I mean, even if it turned out that the Shibdeese weren’t too bothered by us shattering the centuries of isolation that they have so carefully nurtured and defended ... what if all those stories of a Demagistani invasion are true? They’re paranoid. They’ll think we’re spies, what the hell happens if we get caught? I mean, I could understand if you wanted to go in there and make an amazing documentary about life in Shibde, especially if it’s life under a brutal Demagistani regime – but a fucking snowboarding video?”

“
We won’t get caught,” said Lens.

“
Who’s gonna catch us? Take a look around. You think the dude in the hut is going to chase us up that slope?” said Vegas.

“
He might report it,” she retorted.

“
Like, who to, exactly?” scoffed Vegas.

“
Sam, he thinks we’re headed up to climb that mountain.” Lens pointed at the peak that dominated the end of the valley as he spoke. “It’s the one that the expedition was climbing when they discovered Powder Burn. It’s a popular route. We’re going to leave at one o’clock in the morning. We’ll be long gone by sunup. He won’t have a clue that we climbed the side of the valley instead.”

Vegas opened his arms wide, to take in the empty meadow with its patchy snow, the expansive
high-altitude air. “See anyone else you might mistake for someone who gives a shit?” he said.

“
God –” she started.

“
Whoa, easy, tiger,” jumped in Lens. “Vegas, go make coffee.”

Vegas lowered his arms, smirking at her, and then returned to his gear by the hut.

“It’s only about three days’ hike to the run on the other side,” said Lens. “Once we get over that hill” – he waved up the slope – “we walk around the head of a valley. There’s nothing and no one. Mostly it’s high-altitude desert, completely empty – no one goes there, because there’s no reason to go there.”

She looked up at the climb. She’d just tell them
she wasn’t a real journalist anyway, and walk out of here. Screw them. Vermont suddenly seemed a very attractive option. Maybe her mother would even swing for the flight, she wanted her little girl home pretty bad.

“
It’s about nineteen thousand feet,” Pete said gently. “We went up there when we brought the gear in. This is fifteen thousand, and it drops back to about the same height the other side – walk high, sleep low. It’s the second time we’ve been well over fifteen thousand. With a rest here to acclimatize, we’ll be all right.”

She stared upwards for a few moments longer before turning back to them.
“If Shibde really has been invaded, it’s a hell of a story to go in there and get the pictures. Shibde, the pristine, peaceful, medieval Himalayan kingdom overrun by Demagistan, the authoritarian, nascent superpower with a human-rights record that would make Genghis Khan blush ...”

“
But that’s not what we’re going to do,” replied Lens, firmly, “because whatever is going on in Shibde politically is happening a long way from Powder Burn. I’ve had a look at the US spy-satellite images and believe me, there’s no habitation within three or four days’ walk of that run. There are no roads, no huts, no livestock – nothing, just mountains, glaciers, dust, rock, snow and ice. And even looking a bit further away, all I saw was a few small villages.”

“
Did you check the whole country?”

“
No, just along the border, near that mountain.”

“
So you don’t know if it’s true or not – the invasion?”

Lens hesitated.
“I might have seen trucks. I’m not a satellite-photo analyst. I taught myself what to look for when it comes to terrain, using images of areas I know, but I’ve no idea what I’m looking at when it comes to anything else. Anyway, there was no evidence of military activity anywhere near Powder Burn. They’ve no reason to come near the borders. The last thing Demagistan wants is to advertise their presence to the world – most people already believe they’re in there, they don’t want to make it worse by appearing in some trekkers’ viral video clip.”

“
People have tried to get in to find out what’s happening, haven’t they? Didn’t
whatshername
, that CNN chick, have a go a while back?”

“
People have been trying for decades, centuries, to get in – but their whole objective was to see the towns and villages, to see what life was like, to see if the stories of a golden Shangri-La were true. Then as soon as they get anywhere near the locals, they stand out like a sore thumb and are unceremoniously dumped back over the border. The last guy that got in there and managed to stay was Colonel Harry Spedding. He was sent in to spy out the land ahead of a British attack in 1854. He ended up befriending the king – and, more importantly, his daughter. The story is that they were lovers –”

“
What happened to the CNN girl?” Sam interrupted. She wasn’t to be distracted by the history lesson.

“
She didn’t get far. And she didn’t even know whether she’d been thrown out by the Shibdeese, or Demagistanis dressed as Shibdeese.”

“
And they beat her up, didn’t they?” It was coming back to her now, she’d watched a news report last summer.

Lens folded his arms.
“It wasn’t bad, just a little warning. And anyway, as I keep saying – we’re not going anywhere near any people. They won’t even know we’re there, and if we keep our mouths shut afterwards, they won’t even know we’ve been.”

She looked back up at the climb; she could feel Lens and Pete watching her.

“So you’re in?” asked Lens, hopefully.

“
I don’t know ...” She sank wearily to sit on a boulder, and dropped her head into her hands. She took a long, deep breath, all the way into her belly, and let it out slowly. “It’s all making sense now. That’s why Pete wasn’t bothered when I said they won’t let you back into the country after you release the film without a permit. And you brought your supplies up here in advance, so there’re no porters or guides this time, no one to see you sneak off. You’ve thought it all through.”

“
Lens, he’s the clever one,” said Pete, pushing his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

She looked up at Lens as she spoke
. “No, not clever – conniving, sly, duplicitous, scheming, manipulative, cunning maybe – but definitely not clever.”

“
Look, Sam, I’m not proud of what I’ve done – but there was no choice. We couldn’t take the chance of you giving away the location of Powder Burn.”

She shook her head again.
“I can’t believe you’ve dragged me into this ludicrous, insane plan, way past the point of no return. I was beginning to think you were my friends ...”

The two men exchanged a look.
“Don’t blame Pete for this, it’s all my fault,” said Lens. “I’m sorry, but there was no other way,” he continued. “I’ll leave you to think about it, I’ll get a cup of coffee with Vegas.”

When he was gone, Pete looked down and kicked at the snow with the toes of his boots.
“I’m sorry too ...”

“
You’re sorry?” she replied. “Well, now I’m going to tell you a little secret. I’ve only ever had one travel story published, and that was about a climbing hotel in Kashmir, specially written for the 1,251 readers of
Altitude
. I’ve got about as much chance of getting a story in
National Geographic
as Lens has of being made Person of the Year by
Time
.”

Pete’s head came up.
“I don’t care if you can’t get it published in the church magazine. It’s Lens and Vegas that want the publicity.”

“
Oh, believe me, I want to get an article in that mag ...” She stopped. It didn’t seem necessary to go on: the pile of rejection letters from the New York editors; the failed interviews for the chichi magazine jobs; the aborted, of-the-moment novels whose moment passed before she got to chapter three; the hopeless evenings in her Brooklyn apartment when the only thing that tapped across the keyboard was the cat.