Assignment in the Alps

By Duncan Watt

In the tenth Wallace Boys series, Nigel and Bruce have been given an assignment by the Foreign Office of the United Kingdom. They have to try to help the faltering monarchy of the small Alpine Kingdom of Ruritania on the verge of a coup, the Wallace Boys find themselves in a desperate search for gold and art treasures taken from the fabulous Schloss Falkenstein and hidden in a remote mountain lake by the Nazis at the end of World War Two. To do this they must team up with the Crown Prince, the Archduke Karl-Franz; get the help of a band of gypsies; climb a glacier at night and paraglide down to the lake. But there is a deadline which is drawing dangerously near. Can they make it in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Watt
• Release date: Mar 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476378022

Duncan Watt

I was born in Africa where I grew up; but I have lived in countries like England, America, Papua New Guinea and Japan. I have now lived in Singapore for 35 years.When I was teaching in Zambia I wrote a couple of books in simplified English for my students and these were published by Oxford University Press. Since living in Singapore, where I have, among other things, appeared on the TV News for nearly twenty years, I have written 20 books in my Wallace Boys Series - 11 of which were published here in Singapore.Please visit The Wallace Boys Web Site to find out more about the books, and there is more about me too.

Book preview

Assignment in the Alps

An Adventure of the

by

Duncan Watt

_

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Duncan Watt 2012

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Contents

1. Nigel Gets It in the Neck!

2. How It All Started

3. The Crown Prince

4. Another Way Through the Alps

5. Welcome to Ruritania!

6. Escape

7. Strelsau

8. Falkenschloss

9. ‘Our Darkest Day’

10. Is There a Glimmer of Hope?

11. Up the Glacier

12. Das Weltdach

13. Bruce is On His Own

14. Duke Michael

15. A Knight in Shining Armour

16. The Treasure

17. Help Is At Hand

18. All’s Well that Ends Well!

Note Ruritania

End Notes

1

Nigel Gets It in the Neck!

For the twentieth time in less than five minutes, Nigel shifted his position, but it was no use. Still the rocks dug spitefully into his body despite the thick layer of his well-padded sleeping bag. As he moved once more, he inadvertently opened the neck of the bag, and a cold breath of air felt its way down the boy’s back. There was nothing for it but to give up any hope of falling asleep again. He comforted himself with the thought that he had slept for at least part of the night. He realized he must have been dead tired to manage that. Dawn was reluctantly lightening the sky, the inky blackness of night having given way to a cold greyness. The stars above were flickering out. The moon that had helped the boys the previous night had already set.

Keeping his sleeping bag around him, he slithered like a large caterpillar over to the base of the nearest tree where he hoisted himself into a sitting position. In the growing light, he looked about him. Nearby, at the dark edge of the massed pine trees, lay two other shapes like his. These were his brother, Bruce and their new acquaintance, Karl-Franz, but at the moment Nigel couldn’t say for certain which was which. Both had pulled the drawstrings of their sleeping bags tight shut and, like tortoises, had pulled their heads inside.

With his back against the tree and with the pine forest through which the boys had trekked the previous night behind him, Nigel gazed at the view. Below him there was a small forest clearing, a sloping grassy glade, flower strewn with a chuckling stream to his right. In the moonlight, before the three boys had fallen asleep, Karl-Franz had called the clearing an alp. Cows are brought to alps like this to graze in the summer, he had said, and even now Nigel could hear the deep clanging of a bell as a cow moved her head.

It wasn’t the nearby view that interested Nigel, however, but the fantastic panorama of snow-capped mountains and valleys that spread out in front of the boy. This must be the most spectacular view I’ve ever seen, he thought. He gazed at the scene in awe. Opposite across a wide, steep-sided valley, filled with an early morning mist, rose tier upon tier of magnificent mountain peaks, glaciers winding their way up them. Immediately opposite, much higher than his position, an immense massif towered above him covered in snow and ice. To his left he could see where it ended abruptly in a near vertical cliff of craggy rock, a couple of thousand metres high, he estimated. It dropped into the valley which opened out, he could see.

This would be a good opportunity to orientate myself, he murmured to himself. He reached over to his rucksack and drew out a large-scale map of the area and his compass. It will be useful to know where we are heading. He spread the map flat on his knees. Amazing. I am looking down on virtually an entire country. It’s not often one can say that. And this winding valley below me, which I can’t see properly, is the Rurittal with a river called the Rurit. Opposite, that massive snow-covered expanse must be the Weltdach and those two jagged mountain peaks to the south are the Wildschweinfenge - wild swine fangs. ‘Fenge’ must be fangs, he translated. Wild Boar Tusks. They’re about four thousand metres each. I wonder what ‘Weltdach’ means. Nigel slowly covered the vast area of snow and ice with his glasses. It was clear from the map that the Weltdach was the start of a series of huge glaciers heading north. Below the twin peaks of the Wildschweinfenge were near vertical cliffs which he recognized from some tourist brochures he had studied while he was in London. These rugged, rock cliffs - the Felswand, according to the map - dropped to a beautiful, sparkling Alpine lake, with dense forests of oak and chestnut skirting the shore. And that is obviously the Zendasee. Mm, he thought for a second, "‘See’ has to be the German for ‘lake’. I wonder what the German for ‘sea’ is[1]. Nigel lifted his binoculars slightly. And there’s Zenda Castle. What a forbidding pile."

Nigel spoke no more than the truth. Zenda Castle, built hundreds of years ago to defend the Rurittal, the valley that led into the heart of the mountains, was squat with heavy towers, a castle with a sinister history, of foul deeds.

It crouched forebodingly on the rocky shore of the Zendasee. The forest had been hacked back to make for easier defence, and a wide moat had been carved out of the rock leading the lake water round the building. Zenda Castle menaced the pretty little Alpine village of Zenda from which the castle took its name. Its scattered houses were all built chalet-style with wide overhanging eaves, and Nigel could even see the flower-filled window boxes. As Nigel gazed at the little town, he noticed that the morning mist was fast clearing as dawn crept through the pine forest; already the sky had turned to azure, and the two mountain peaks opposite were tipped with gold. As the mist dissipated, Nigel saw the most beautiful valley one could imagine. Below the huge snow massif, grey limestone cliffs towered vertically and then eased off into a gentle forest-covered slope, before plunging vertically once more to the valley floor. All along this wall of rock were wonderful waterfalls, some no more than feathery veils of silver mist, others raging torrents that roared into the valley. All these joined the River Rurit which, for the most part, ran down the center of the wide Rurittal. A single-track, narrow-gauge train line ran like a model railway along the river through forests, lush fields and farmland. Here and there toy villages clustered round toy stations.

And then the valley swung round out of sight between high bluffs. On the map, Nigel traced the route of the winding valley as it led to the capital high up the valley, the town of Strelsau. That was where the three boys were heading for.

Nigel looked at his watch and saw that he didn’t need to disturb the others just yet. Karl-Franz had mentioned something about a gate that wouldn’t be open yet, so there was no point in being too early. All round was the sound of the birds getting down to business, and Nigel wondered if he should do something like light their gas fire and make some hot chocolate. He could also prepare some toast; that would probably put some energy into his brother, he thought. Bruce never liked waking up early, and judging by the way Karl-Franz was sleeping so soundly, he too wasn’t particularly keen on early starts either.

Nigel was just about to make a move when he froze!

They were good. He had to give them that. They had crept up on him through the darkened forest, and he hadn’t heard them. The first he knew of their presence was when he felt a ring of icy cold steel pressed viciously into the nape of his neck. And he knew what it was and what it could do if he but made a wrong move, or any move which they would consider a wrong move.

Digging deep into the skin at the base of his skull was the business end of a rifle, and it had taken all Nigel’s effort to keep from crying out in alarm. He grunted as the ring of steel was shoved even harder into his flesh and given a nasty twist. The foresight roughly caught his skin and hair, and Nigel grunted in pain, but still made no move that could cause the trigger finger to tighten.

~ ~ ~

2

How It All Started

It all started some months before in London. Nigel and his brother Bruce had been invited to an exclusive gentlemen’s club on that most fashionable of thoroughfares, Piccadilly. A cab had dropped them at the steps and as they entered the august establishment, they were accosted by the porter who had been expecting them. They were taken straight through to the club reading room, a room with deep leather chairs and oak-panelled walls, dark brown with age. Soft lighting from standard lamps lit the scene. The windows overlooked Piccadilly and Green Park beyond, and only the muted sound of traffic permeated the peaceful room.

A dumpy, short individual bounced forward, holding out his hand in greeting. He had enormous horn-rimmed spectacles, which served to make his watery eyes appear larger than they actually were. His head sat on an extremely short neck, making him look remarkably like a most knowledgeable owl, and as he blinked, the effect was enhanced. Not for the first time, Nigel wondered if he could rotate his head right round! This was their host, whose name by some quirk of nature’s irony was Sir Peregrine Faulkener. He was the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, the Headquarters of London’s metropolitan police.

Ah, Nigel, Bruce, I am so glad you could come. And your timing is perfect, cried Sir Peregrine delightedly, leading the boys to a group of chairs in a discreet alcove. To one side was a trolley laden with an ice bucket, glasses and an array of bottles. The coffee table between the chairs was littered with files, photographs and some travel brochures. "This is the best place we can talk and then go in for luncheon later. At this hour, the reading room is usually deserted, apart from old Frobisher over there under The Times. He’s always here. They have to dust him off every now and again, and, if The Times is a day old, I’m told that a doctor checks his pulse from time to time to see if he is still in the land of the living. Let me introduce you to my good friend Lord Burlesdon. Lord Burlesdon, here are Nigel and Bruce Wallace. I’ve told you all about them."

So you’re Billy’s nephews. Uncurling himself from a deep chair, a tall, well-built man stood up. He towered over Sir Peregrine, and his bearing showed that at some stage in the past he had been in the army. He squared his shoulders and shook hands with the two boys, assessing them in a swift appraising glance. And what he saw impressed him immediately. Two young men, in their late teens stood before him. He knew that they were brothers and attended university in Harare, the capital of the southern African country of Zimbabwe where they were born and lived. They had taken a year off their studies to take a yacht, the Silver Spray, from Scotland out to the Pacific for their uncle, William Wallace, the Governor of the little South Atlantic Island of St Helena[2] for when he retired. From his friend, Sir Peregrine, he knew of most, if not all of their exploits, including their most recent adventures in London and the north of Scotland[3].

The two boys hardly looked like brothers. Nigel, he saw, was taller than Bruce and dark haired. Bruce had fair, wavy hair and he was stocky, well-built. Both boys were tanned and both had the same intense blue eyes.

How do you do? Pleased to meet you. Come, let’s sit and let me explain why I asked Peregrine to arrange this meeting. But first what would you like to drink? Help yourselves to the trolley. We don’t need the stewards hanging around. I didn’t want anyone to interrupt us. What we shall be discussing is absolutely confidential and must on no account leave this room. Is that understood? He sat down once more.

The two boys nodded their heads, mystified, and as they poured themselves two light ciders, they in their turn studied Lord Burlesdon. He was in his mid-fifties, the boys guessed. His most outstanding feature was his hair and his pointed beard which were both a dark red, and now carried traces of grey. It was a handsome face, but one that would tend to come off badly if it were exposed too much to the sun because of his skin colouring. As Lord Burlesdon turned in profile to say something to his friend, the boys noticed that his thin, straight nose was slightly long.

"You’ve got something to drink? Good. Now, sit, boys. I apologize for asking you to come all the way down from Scotland while you’re doing sea trials on the…Silver Spray, is it?"

Yes, Sir, said Nigel. We’ve nearly finished and we’re hoping to set off in the next couple of weeks.

"I understand you intend sailing round Gib[4] and into the Med on your way to the Pacific, am I right?"

That’s what we planned, Bruce agreed. We didn’t want to sail all the way round Africa; the winds are not too favourable, and we didn’t want to venture round Cape Horn round South America.

We also wanted to see a bit of Europe, put in Nigel. We hope to stop in various ports and marinas, and visit as many countries as we can. We’ve never been to Europe before, you see, and we didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

"Good. That’s what I understood from Peregrine. So what I am going to ask will not really take you much out of your way. But let me explain who I am and then what I would like you to do.

My name, as you’ve been told, is Lord Burlesdon, quite an old English family, dating from some time in the Middle Ages. Before I inherited the title from my father, I was Leopold Rassendyll. I work in the Foreign Office but I am not here in that capacity today. What I am going to ask of you is more of a personal nature and not official at all. In fact, if it got out that the British Government were involved, there could be all sorts of repercussions. No longer can the British send a gunboat to arrange the world to their liking.

Not that they could send a gunboat to where you’re proposing to ask the boys to go, Sir Peregrine murmured with a smile.

"Ah yes, of course. That would be a trifle tricky, Lord Burlesdon agreed. But you understand what I am saying. What I am about to ask you is completely secret, and at no time must you ever divulge this conversation or whatever you take on on my behalf. Is that agreed?"

Nigel and Bruce looked at each other totally mystified, but they nodded. Yes, said Bruce. What you say will not go further than this room, but we can’t guarantee to take on this assignment, whatever it is, until we know more about it.

I understand. Now let me explain. On your travels in Europe, I would like you to visit a very small, beautiful Kingdom. It’s high in the Alps on the border of Austria and Switzerland, fairly close to Italy.

You mean Liechtenstein? Isn’t that somewhere there? asked Nigel.

"No, not Liechtenstein. This country is right in that area, very close to the Duchy of Liechtenstein. Well, at the moment it is going through a serious crisis. It looks as though hostile forces in the Kingdom are going to overthrow the King and turn the country into a republic. That, in itself, I wouldn’t object to necessarily, but what they’re going to do to the country will put it on the path to complete ruin. It will be a complete disaster if the King is removed. He is an exceptional ruler. He is completely honest and has the interests of the whole population at heart. He is very popular with his subjects, but it is a minority that is against him, and they could so easily force him out of power.

"The problem with the country is that, over the years, it has become impoverished, and the opposition has powerful, rich backers who want to take over the country. For the last twenty-five years, since the King ascended the throne, the country has tried to follow the path of sustainable growth. Let me give you an example. Though it is one of the most picturesque countries in the world, it encourages tourism only on a limited scale, and then only sustainable eco-tourism. It has banned the building of huge hotels and resorts, and it doesn’t allow trainloads or busloads of trippers to come in and tramp all over the country. It has closed itself off in some respects, by not allowing McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises. The King believes that tourism should be for genuine tourists. What’s the point in travelling to a foreign country and eating fish and chips, or wolfing down a Big Mac with a side order of fries? Ugh. All washed down with a Starbuck’s coffee. He gave a shudder. Things you can get in your own home town."

Agreed, murmured Bruce. And people who eat Big Macs let everyone know that they’ve done so. They leave Big Mac packets all over the place, and even if they do happen to put them in litter bins near a McDonalds, they’re usually so over-filled that there’s stuff spilling halfway down the street.

That’s exactly what King Rudolf and Queen Morag are fighting against. They want tourists who go to a place for the scenery, the history and the culture, not imported trash.

He’s my sort of guy, Bruce smiled. Meaning no disrespect to His Majesty, of course.

There’s a quote I like, put in Nigel. "I dislike feeling at home when I’m abroad."

"Exactly - Thesiger, I believe[5]. But this is just what the opposition wants to do, and once that happens, the country will be ruined."

But, asked Bruce, what can Nigel and I possibly do?

To tell you the honest truth, I don’t know. I am clutching at straws here, and you are the only straw I can clutch. When Peregrine told me about your escapades, I thought what harm can come of it? So I am going to ask you to visit that country, make friends with the Crown Prince; I am in touch with him, and, guardedly, I told him I would be approaching you.

But why are you so interested in this country? And what is this country, anyway? asked Nigel. What connection have you got with it? Though your name, Rassendyll, does sound familiar; should I have heard it before?

"Those are very good questions, my boy. Well, let me answer them. The country is called Ruritania; a country that keeps to itself and very rarely hits the headlines. And what is my