Presumed Dead (2 page)

Philippe Dulac felt a massive adrenaline
rush and lunged forward to catch the woman as she pitched forward into the hut,
but was a fraction too late. Kneeling down, he slipped her backpack off, picked
her limp body up out of the doorway then gently laid her in the warm bunk,
which up until a few moments earlier, had been his. He could feel she was
chilled to the bone, so covered her with blankets before putting a pan of water
on his gas stove.

As it heated, he gently uncovered each of
hers limbs individually and checked her over carefully for injuries. He figured
she must have been in a nasty fall. The parts of her that weren’t cut or
grazed, were covered in fresh bruises, and both her eyes were blackened.

Now that he was starting to recover from
the initial shock of finding her at his doorway like that, he was mystified.
How on earth did she manage to get all the way up here in ordinary walking
boots, he wondered. He brushed the long, blond hair away from her face and
washed the dried blood from under her nose and the corners of her mouth. After
that, he lifted each eyelid, then manipulated her bruised jaw, checking for
breaks. Nothing too serious, he thought, only cuts and bruises. She was lucky.
The most important thing now is to get her warm. He noticed her wedding ring
and judged that she must be in her early thirties. He also judged she must have
been a very beautiful woman… before this.

As he touched her battered body and set
about tending her wounds, she moaned and writhed in painful delirium, throwing
her head from side to side. She was still freezing cold when he finished
cleaning and dressing the worst of her injuries, so he took her boots off and
carefully slipped her into his thick padded ski suit. He added a second pair of
his own socks over hers, then climbing onto the bed beside her, covered them
both with his sleeping bag and blankets.

Wrapping his arms around her, he carefully
pulled her in close to his chest, trying to transfer as much warmth from his
body into hers as he could. The warming-up process was obviously accentuating
the pain in her damaged limbs, because she shuddered and moaned in agony before
eventually falling into an uneasy sleep.

All the time she writhed in distress,
Philippe comforted her by stroking her hair and whispering soothingly in her
ear, like a mother comforting a sick child. When she eventually warmed up and
lapsed into a more peaceful sleep, he started to relax, and before long, was
asleep himself, still cradling her in his arms.

.

Ross was feeling much better following his
telephone conversation. The problem he’d had earlier with Alice didn’t look
like it was going to affect things much after all, and he was quite happy that
now he’d brought Alex up to speed, things would be taken care of in the
mountains and he could relax.

He’d decided on a stylishly cut dinner
jacket and bow tie for the party tonight. What he liked to think of as his
roguishly handsome, Rivera look. Checking his reflection in the bathroom
mirror, he touched up his dark, wavy hair with a little gel and straightened
his tie. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all for a man of fifty.

Venturing out on deck, he accepted a drink
from a passing waiter then made his way up to the party and mingled with the
other guests, most of whom he knew. He was just thinking about going below to
try his hand at one of the tables when Bonatti strolled over to him with a
small, bespectacled, prematurely balding man of about forty, and introduced
him.

‘Ross, meet David Wiseman from New York. He
tells me he’s your wife’s nephew.’ Having done his duty as host, Bonatti
wandered off.

Ross didn’t like the look of those sharp
little eyes and was uncomfortably surprised to find the man’s handshake less
nondescript than his appearance suggested. He was immediately on guard. ‘I
though I’d met all my wife’s family,’ he said, ‘and I don’t recall the name
Wiseman.’

‘I guess maybe I didn’t make myself clear
to Mr. Bonatti, David said with a broad Bronx accent. I’m not related to your
present wife... I’m your first wife, Freda’s, nephew.’

Ross’s stomach did a back flip and his
heart felt like it was bouncing all around the inside of his rib cage. Being a
gambling man though, he had a well developed poker face and stayed as solid as
a rock. The ice in his drink didn’t even clink against the glass. ‘This is a
surprise,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I knew dear Freda had a brother who’d emigrated
to the States, but I understood he’d died relatively young.’

Ross’s mind raced back twenty-five years,
desperately trying to recall the details of Freda’s family and background,
which he’d checked into very carefully when he’d met her. He could vaguely
remember some mention of a nephew, but it hadn’t worried him at the time
because he’d only been a young boy, not likely to make any trouble.

‘That’s right,’ David was saying. ‘Aunt
Freda’s brother, Albert, was my father. He died when I was twelve. I only knew
Aunt Freda for a little while, when she came over for the funeral, but she made
a big impression on me.’

Just wants to reminisce a bit, Ross
thought, still feeling cold with shock. Better indulge him, can’t do any harm.
‘She made a big impression on everyone she met,’ he said. ‘She was a lovely
lady.’

David carried on, ‘I remember she stayed in
New York for a month and took me everywhere. We went to the movies, the zoo….
even a baseball game. I guess she was trying to help me get over Dad. She would
spend hours telling me stories about her home in Switzerland. I’m hoping to
make it up there next week to take a look around. This is the first time I’ve
been in Europe.’

‘It’s worth a visit. Lake Lucerne is a very
beautiful place.’ He’s just a tourist, Ross told himself. Nothing to worry
about. He doesn’t suspect anything. Better make sure though. ‘Are you over here
for business or pleasure?’, he asked.

‘Business.’

‘Bad luck,’ Ross said sympathetically.
‘What’s your line?’

‘I’m with the FBI,’ David replied.

For the second time in five minutes, Ross
was grateful for his cast-iron self-control. His insides felt like they’d
turned to water, but without flinching, he managed to say, ‘Really? How
interesting… and what have you found to investigate here in Monte?’

‘I’m not on an investigation, I’m part of a
liaison team. We’re over here working with the French police to figure more
efficient ways to detect international money laundering. We’re just about
wrapped up now.’

‘So you’re a kind of financial policeman?’
Ross asked, relief flooding through him.

 ‘That’s right. I trained as an accountant,
but after I qualified and got a job, I found it was pretty boring, so when the
FBI started looking for people with financial skills to train as special
agents, I applied.’

‘How interesting,’ Ross said, starting to
dislike the little man intensely for the scare he’d thrown him.

David continued, ‘They put us through the
same basic training as the regular agents, then after that we were sent on
extra courses to learn how to spot financial irregularities.’

‘Confidentially,’ Ross said, deciding to
pull the pompous little man’s leg, ‘there’re a few people on this boat whose
finances wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, if you know what I mean... I say, You’re
not under cover are you? Not after someone here, some master criminal?’

David took a slow sip from his drink, then
looked up coolly and said, ’As a matter of fact, I came here tonight looking
for you.’

Ross actually flinched this time. ‘Looking
for me?’ he asked incredulously.

‘I spotted your name on the guest list in
one of those society papers the other day, and managed to get myself invited as
a guest of the American Ambassador. I was going to look you up while I was in
Europe anyhow, you being my uncle and all, and this seemed as good a way as any
to meet you.’

Ross’s shock turned to anger. I don’t need
this, he thought. The last thing I want tonight is to be stuck with this little
twerp playing Happy Families. He decided to break away. ‘Well it has been nice
meeting you,’ he said, ‘but you must excuse me.’

‘Sure,’ David replied pleasantly, ‘I’m glad
I was finally able to meet you.’

They shook hands, and Ross had just turned
to walk away when David called, ‘Oh, Sir, there was just one question I had.’

Ross closed his eyes briefly and sighed,
then turned back smiling and asked, ‘Really? What’s is it?’

David looked him straight in the eye and
asked, ‘Where was Aunt Freda buried?’

Ross hadn’t seen that one coming and it
caught him by surprise, but he recovered in an instant and replied truthfully,
‘In my family vault at the village church, in Minster at Stone, north of
Hertford. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I want to go visit her grave and
pay my respects,’ David replied. ‘Thanks for the information. Be seeing you.’
With that he turned and walked away.

Ross stared after the little man as he
disappeared into the crowd. He knows, he thought,
he knows
! How the hell
did he find out? It was over twenty years ago for God sake! I haven’t even
thought about it myself for years… it’s ancient history!

He gulped his drink down and grabbed
another as a waiter passed. He needed time to think. Going down one deck, he
managed to get away from the noise of the party and stood at the railing,
looking over the calm water towards the shimmering lights of Monaco. He could
see cars high up on the Moyenne Corniche, the cliff road that followed the
curves of the mountainside above the town where the Alps finally come down to
meet the sea. He could see pinpoints of light standing out like jewels all over
the hillside. Sweeping left and right into the distance were some of the most
exclusive properties in Europe. He intended to own one of those properties
before very long… and a yacht like Ricky’s… and a Learjet.

Then his insides churned with anger. He was
angry with Alice for never letting him have what he wanted, angry with Freda
and that pipsqueak nephew of hers, but most of all, angry with himself. You’re
being a bloody fool, he told himself. You’ve had a rough day, your nerves are
in tatters. There’s no way on earth Wiseman can suspect you over Freda’s death.
It’s just his nasty little policeman’s demeanor.

Ross had had past experience with the
police, and he didn’t like them. They could make the most innocent question
sound like an accusation, and the most innocent man feel like a criminal.

Finishing his drink, he steadied himself
against the railing, forcing his anger down. You’ve got nothing to fear from
Wiseman, he told himself, nothing at all. He’s just another blundering
American, he can’t touch you.

Fighting to calm himself, he looked at his
watch: midnight. Another seven and a half hours to go, he thought, before Alex
does the business. Then just a few weeks more, and I hit the jackpot.

At precisely seven-thirty the following
morning, Alex Crawford, wearing wig, sunglasses and a walking outfit identical
to the one they’d dressed Alice in the day before, strolled downstairs into the
hotel lobby and handed the key to the receptionist with a smile.

‘Thank you, Madame Webley,’ the
receptionist said pleasantly. ‘I hope your throat is feeling better this
morning.’

Alex replied with a smile and a little
so-so wave of the hand.

Sauntering leisurely through the town,
looking in shop windows, trying to be noticed by as many people as possible,
Alex arrived at the Montenvers mountain railway station on the edge of town
just in time to board the eight o’clock service. The bright red, two carriage,
rack-and-pinion train slowly zigzagged its way up the steep mountainside,
through tunnels and over precarious bridges, to the Mer de Glace terminus at
over six thousand feet. The huge glacier, whose name means literally Sea of
Ice, was a popular tourist attraction and useful setting-off point for high
altitude walkers and climbers. Despite the early hour, the carriages were
packed with tourists and a few climbers, anxious to make the most of the pure,
early morning light and the clear mountain air.

When the train finally ground to a halt at
the terminus, the crowd surged out onto the terrace overlooking the glacier,
from which three paths led in different directions. The original plan had been
to set off up the path towards a viewpoint known as Le Signal, but because of
the problems Ross had had with Alice the night before, the new instructions
were to follow the path leading in the opposite direction, down towards the
glacier.

Setting off down the trail at a brisk pace,
being sure to stay just in front of two male climbers, Alex walked for about quarter
of a mile before stopping, then bending over in the middle of the path to tie a
bootlace. The two climbers nudged each other and stared appreciatively at the
long, slender legs and shapely backside blocking their way. Smiling and
excusing themselves as they squeezed past, the two men carried on down the path
towards the glacier, chatting happily as they disappeared around a corner.

After checking there was no one else in
sight, Alex quickly removed the sunglasses, wig, fleece jacket and padded bra,
stuffed them into the rucksack, then slipped into a pair of blue tracksuit
bottoms and set off back up the path towards the rack-railway terminus.

Hardly anyone noticed the pleasant looking
young man with short brown hair, wearing a white polo shirt and baggy blue
trousers, as he rode the rack-railway back down to Chamonix, crossed the iron
bridge to the SNCF mainline station then boarded the train for Paris.

.

It wasn’t until an hour or so later, that
the warm sun streaming into the refuge hut brought Alice out of a deep sleep.
She felt snug and comfortable under the pile of blankets, and for a few moments
thought she was at home in her own bed.

Then she tried to move, which was a
mistake. Pain washed over her and she suddenly remembered, with fresh horror, what
had happened the night before. The burning rage she’d felt towards Ross, the
rage that had driven her through the snow and across the ice, the rage that had
saved her life, flared again.

She lay perfectly still for a few moments
looking around, trying to take in her new environment. Slowly she moved each
part of her body, testing it for function and pain. She was incredibly stiff
and found every movement agony, but eventually managed to prop herself up on
one elbow so that she could look out through the open door.

Just outside the hut she could see a tall,
deeply tanned man wearing a white T-shirt and red climbing trousers. His braces
hung loosely at his sides and he was drinking from a steaming tin mug. He kept
looking up at the sky, cocking his head from side to side as if listening for a
distant sound. Apparently feeling her eyes on him, he glanced over his shoulder
into the hut, and seeing she was awake, quickly came inside and knelt on the
floor next to the bunk.

‘So you are awake!’ he said in good English
with a mild French accent. ‘How are you feeling?’

She studied his handsome features, the
three-day-old stubble, the tousled dark hair, the worry lines on his forehead
and the look of anxiety on his face. She tried to smile, but her chapped and
split lips were too painful. Finally she just settled for saying hoarsely, ‘Not
too bad. Thank you for helping me,’ as she lay back down flat on the bed,
wincing with pain.

‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, brushing the
hair from her face and gently feeling the temperature of her forehead with the
palm of his hand. ‘You had me worried for a while last night. I thought I would
never get you warm.’

She was overwhelmed by his kindness, and
felt her anger ebbing away. Not knowing really what to say, she asked, ‘What’s your
name?’

‘Philippe Dulac. What is yours?’

‘Alice Webley.’ Then she asked, ‘What is
this place?’

Looking around him he replied, ‘This wooden
palace is the Refuge de la Charpoua, high on the Glacier de la Charpoua, about
seven kilometers from the town of Chamonix. It is one of many refuge huts
placed throughout the mountains for climbers to use. But you do not look like a
climber. Tell me, how did you manage to get this high up without any
equipment?’

Alice shifted her gaze away from him and
said, ‘I’d rather not say.’

Philippe looked rather taken aback by her
reticence, but said cheerfully, ‘Well, do not worry, we will have you safe in a
hospital as soon as the rescue helicopter arrives.’

Panic flared in Alice. She looked straight
at him again and asked urgently, ‘Have you called them yet?’ She desperately
wanted time to think things through before going back.

‘Cell phones do not work in most of these
deep valleys, and the smaller huts do not have radios, but the helicopter
patrols the area several times every day. When I hear them coming, I will
signal to them. Do not worry.’

Alice relaxed a little, then asked, ‘How
badly am I hurt?’

‘Nothing too serious, mainly bruises and
some cuts on your hands and legs. I think you must have fallen.’

‘I fell all right,’ she said coolly. Then,
after thinking for a few moments she added, ‘Look, I don’t think it’s worth
bothering the helicopter rescue people. Couldn’t I just stay here for a little
while, then walk down?’

‘Without crampons? You would never make
it!’

‘Don’t you have any spare ones I could
use?’ she asked.

‘There are a few spare pieces of climbing
equipment here for people to use in an emergency,’ he admitted.

‘Fine then, that’s what I’ll do.’

‘But you are hurt,’ he protested. ‘I do not
understand why you want to walk all that way when you could be flown to the
hospital in just a few minutes!’

‘Call it pride if you want to. I got up
this mountain, and I want to get back down it under my own steam.’

‘You are a very obstinate woman, Madame
Webley,’ he smiled, ‘but I like your spirit. If you are going to stay here, it
is on two conditions. One, that you let me look after you, and two, that if you
are not fit to walk by tomorrow, you let me signal to the helicopter.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, with relief. ‘It’s a
deal.’

‘Now, If I’m going to get you well enough
to walk off this glacier, you are going to have to eat. I will make you some
hot soup.’

.

Down on the yacht off Monaco, Ross had just
surfaced following a very late night. After recovering from the scare David Wiseman
had thrown him, he’d spent the next few hours drinking and playing cards. When
he’d finally gone to bed around dawn, he’d drifted into a restless sleep. The
image of Alice tumbling away from him into the darkness kept being intermingled
with visions of Wiseman asking, ‘Where is she buried… where is she buried?’

By ten, he’d given up trying to sleep. He
showered, shaved and made his way onto deck, looking, he hoped, very much
better than he felt in his affluent yachtsman outfit; white deck shoes, cream Chinos,
yellow polo shirt, navy blazer, and white peaked cap. He found Bonatti and a
few of the resident guests sitting in deckchairs on the afterdeck under an
awning, some eating their breakfast, others drinking theirs. Bonatti spotted
him and called out, ‘Good morning, Ross! Come and sit here next to me, my
friend.’

Ross exchanged pleasantries with some of
the other guests, then took his place next to Bonatti and ordered coffee from a
steward. He couldn’t face solid food. When the coffee arrived, he turned to his
host and asked, ‘Ricky, do you remember that chap, Wiseman, you introduced me
to last night?’

‘The little New Yorker with the glasses?’

‘That’s the fellow,’ Ross said. ‘ What do
you know about him?’

‘Not much, he came with Henry White, the US
Ambassador. He told me he was related to your wife, asked to be introduced to
you. Is there something else I should know?’

Ross suspected some of his friend’s
dealings, especially in the United States, wouldn’t stand up to the briefest
scrutiny from the FBI. He’d decided during the early hours to use that
knowledge to his advantage. ‘Nothing important,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Oh, he
did mention that he works for the FBI… as a financial investigator.’

Bonatti was visibly shocked, and asked
urgently, ‘Did he ask you anything about me?‘

‘No. Well, not directly,’ Ross replied.
‘But he did say he was investigating someone down here for money laundering and
tax evasion, and I got the distinct impression he was rather more interested in
you than he pretended to be.’

‘Is he really related to Alice?’ Bonatti
asked.

‘No, that’s another thing. He said he was
my first wife’s nephew, but I certainly don’t remember him. You don’t think he
could have just made that up to get on board, do you?’

Bonatti’s face darkened, the laughing
bonhomie of the genial host replaced by a murderous hardness. ‘I’ll get him
checked out,’ he said. ‘If it is me he’s after, he’ll wish he’d never been
born.’

‘Let me know what you find out, would you?
I’d be interested to know what he’s up to.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that, Ross,’ Bonatti said,
‘and thanks for tipping me off.’

Ross smiled with satisfaction as Bonatti
excused himself and hurried away, saying he had a phone call to make.

If he knew Ricky and his associates,
Wiseman was as good as dead.

.

By two that afternoon, the subject of their
deliberations had just crossed to the north side of Lake Lucerne on a car
ferry, following a five-hour drive via Milan from Monaco. After disembarking,
David drove the final few miles into the lakeside resort of Weggis, and parked
his hire car on the quay near an open-air bandstand where a three-piece
orchestra was playing Strauss.

The scene could have come straight from the
lid of a chocolate box. The flowerbeds, magnolias, palms and fig trees paraded
a palette of colors in the warm September sunshine while a paddle steamer
glided gracefully past on the tranquil lake against a backdrop of snow capped
mountains. It was as beautiful and peaceful a place as he had ever seen, so he
sat for a while listening to the orchestra and soaking up the afternoon sun,
trying to relax.

He’d been looking forward to this trip to
Europe for years, since before Aunt Freda had died in fact. While she was over
in New York with them, just after his father’s death, she’d promised him a
vacation at her chateau, or Schloss, as she called it, on the lake. But she’d
died before he was able to come.

He could remember vividly how upset and
disappointed he’d been, when a few months after her visit his mother had
received a letter from Aunt Freda telling them that she was to be married to an
English nobleman, Sir Ross Webley of Hertfordshire.

She’d sounded really happy and excited in
the letter, and he’d been bitterly jealous. Looking back later, he’d realized
it was just a silly schoolboy infatuation, but at the time, he’d been deeply in
love with his glamorous rich aunt, and he hated the thought of losing her to
another man.

Then, not long afterwards, they’d received
another letter, this time from Aunt Freda’s lawyer here in Weggis, regretfully
informing them that she had died from a heart attack whilst at her new
husband’s estate in England. His mother had been very upset by Freda’s death
and by the fact that they had not been left anything in the will, especially
since Freda had been sending them money regularly and had promised to pay for
David’s college education. She’d been sure there was something fishy about her
sister-in-law’s death, but there’d been nothing she could do about it. David
remembered how he’d cried for a week, then vowed that one day, when he was a
man, he would go to Europe and find out what really happened to her.

But without Freda’s help, the following
years had been tough, working his way through college, then finding a job and
supporting his mother. He’d more or less given up the idea of ever getting to
Europe when the chance of a trip at the Bureau’s expense had come up. He’d
arranged to fly home a week after the rest of the team so that he could take
his long awaited European vacation. Having his return airfare covered by the
Bureau left him with just his hire car and accommodation to pay for the week,
which he figured was a pretty good deal.