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Traitors in the Tyrol
Traitors in the Tyrol
Traitors in the Tyrol
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Traitors in the Tyrol

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Almost immediately following 'Assignment in the Alps', the Wallace Boys and Karl-Franz head up into a remote area of the little Alpine kingdom for a bit of R&R. Little do they realize they are heading for trouble - in the form of a secret department of the CIA, America's Central Intelligence Agency. It is this department that has been clandestinely funding the attempted coup in the kingdom - and now they want their money back! The three boys somehow get in the way! And the CIA is hot on their heels, not to mention Rupert of Hentzau, Duke Michael and their oafish henchmen, Bersonin and Krafstein.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDuncan Watt
Release dateApr 18, 2012
ISBN9781476445908
Traitors in the Tyrol
Author

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.

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    Traitors in the Tyrol - Duncan Watt

    Traitors in the Tyrol

    An Adventure of the

    Duncan Watt

    _

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2012 Duncan Watt

    License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Contents

    Prologue

    1. Into the Wilds

    2. How It All Started

    3. The Amazing Shortcut

    4. A Plan

    5. The Boys Play House!

    6. The Opposition is Out Of Action

    7. On the Run

    8. Whitewater!

    9. Back on the Boys’ Trail

    10. Bell 429 Down!

    11. Separated

    12. This Little Piggy Went to Market!

    13. A Long, Hot Vigil

    14. A Sudden Change in Plans

    15. Captured

    16. Escape!

    17. The CIA Bows Out Gracefully

    Note Eco-tourism

    Prologue

    What does that fool think he’s doing? the gravelly voice with a thick South Carolina accent growled angrily. He should be signing that document in front of him. Why is he fiddling around with a radio at a time like this? The owner of the voice leaned closer to the television screen. Just sign the document, he almost shouted at the TV, his teeth clenched in fury. He was watching a live CNN news broadcast intently as if his life depended on it.

    The wide plasma television screen showed Falkenschloss’s magnificent, panelled throne room, glittering under immense chandeliers. Behind a wide oak table, the narrow, pointed lancet windows opened out onto a panorama of sparkling, snow-capped mountains of the southern Tyrol. On the table’s polished surface lay a parchment document. To one side was a golden pen in its holder. Out of place in this setting, a small portable radio stood on the document.

    Seated at the table in a gilded, high-backed chair was King Rudolf VII. He was dressed in a white epauletted uniform, a pale blue sash crossing his chest on which a number of medals and honours sparkled in the bright lights. He looked pale but if he was nervous, he showed no sign of it. His auburn hair caught the light. Standing slightly behind the King was Queen Morag. Gently she placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder reassuringly. The King adjusted the position of the radio so that its speaker faced the room. It was playing a lively piece of music.

    The man watching the television set so intently was in his late fifties with a tough, craggy face and a military bearing. His hair was trimmed in a vicious buzz-cut. Turn up the volume of the TV, he snapped. I want to hear what’s so important that that fool has brought a radio to the scene. And make sure I get an immediate translation if it’s in some foreign language. You speak all the local lingoes, don’t you?

    Yes, Colonel Gretzky, sir, but that won’t be necessary, sir, a man in his late twenties answered. He tapped the volume button on the TV remote a couple of times. That radio’s tuned to the BBC. The BBC World Service.

    The older man spat in disgust. Limeys! How can you tell it’s the BBC, anyway?

    "That piece of music. That’s the Lilliburlero, Colonel."

    The what? What in the name of Hades is that, Cussler?

    However, the younger man didn’t bother to answer Colonel Gretzky, as the music, the BBC’s news theme for nearly eighty years, came to an end, followed by the six ‘pips’ marking the hour. And then, perfectly clearly over the TV speakers, came the crisp tones of the BBC radio announcer’s voice, picked up by the CNN mike.

    This is London. O-eight hours Greenwich Mean Time. This is the BBC World Service. Here is the news read by Lindsay Grant. First the headlines.

    Momentarily, the King pressed the mute control on the little radio, and made a brief announcement in German and then in English. Before I sign the Instrument of Abdication, I would like all of us to listen to the BBC World Service news, he said.

    As he released the mute button, a harsh voice off camera speaking in German broke in. Colonel Gretzky recognized Duke Michael, the King’s cousin, the man behind the palace coup which now seemed to be all unravelling. Duke Michael demanded angrily, What is all this tomfoolery? Get on with what you have to do, Rudolf.

    The King studiously avoided the interruption from his cousin and he adjusted the volume of the radio slightly.

    … were the headlines, the radio newsreader continued. "Now, news just in. It has been reported in the little Kingdom of Ruritania, which has been in the throes of a constitutional crisis, that there has been a breakthrough. It is confirmed that there is no longer any threat that King Rudolf the Seventh will have to abdicate, and he is now firmly in control with the citizens fully supporting him. The abdication ceremony which was to have taken place at this time has been cancelled.

    "Early this morning, a massive injection of funds by banks and financial institutions around the world has saved the Kingdom from bankruptcy. It is also reported that the major backers in the consortium, which was financing Duke Michael, the King’s cousin, in his bid to turn the country into a republic, have instead offered their support to the King. And a report says that Duke Michael and some of his followers have been taken into custody on charges of treason and sedition. Their lands and property have been seized.

    Now in other news…

    King Rudolf leaned forward and turned off the radio and in German he snapped out an order. Captain Strackenz, take command.

    An officer of the palace guard standing behind King Rudolf gave a brief order. His men went smoothly into action, the CNN TV camera tracking them round the room. Before Duke Michael could react, he had been seized together with two other men, while a third, a young, fair haired man in his early twenties leapt out of the room with a carefree wave to the cameras.

    Turn off the TV. I don’t want to see any more. It’s a disaster. A flaming disaster. What are we going to do? The man with the buzz-cut bent forward in his chair and covered his face with his hands. His gravelly voice broke. All we worked for gone down the tubes! How did this happen? Everything was sewn up - that King was out of there. How did he avoid bankruptcy? He was broke. The country was broke. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. That country was supposed to be ours. We were going to control the place - take it out of the Middle Ages. What country in the world doesn’t have Big Macs or Starbucks? We were going to shove that tin pot, little Kingdom, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century. Well, you’d better put the champagne away. We won’t be needing that, Wayne.

    No, sir. In the silence now that the TV had been turned off, the young man looked round the room, the room he and his colleague had been working in for the last six months, trying to bring about the downfall of a small European country. The room was fitted out like a command center. A bank of television monitors lined one wall, and on a number of carefully laid-out desks stood the latest, high-end computers, linked to distant CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Several concealed satellite dishes sprouted discreetly from the roof of the building.

    He wondered if today had been the last time that he had climbed those narrow stairs hidden at the back of the shop below. The shop sold trendy antiques and looked out onto the shady Zähringer Platz in the Altstadt, the Old Town, of Zürich. It was opposite the Central Library, and over the square a tall, green copper-spired church dominated the scene. Customers to the antique shop were invariably greeted by a couple of charming assistants, and some customers walked out with surprising bargains, as if the assistants had no real idea what they were selling!

    Wayne Cussler had enjoyed living in Switzerland, and it looked like that this was the end of his time in Europe. He would be heading back to the United States; he wondered if there really was a job for him at Langley. In the secretive, shadowy world of CIA agents, he wasn’t really sure if the assignment he was on was legit, or had it been one of those operations that didn’t exist? ‘Black Ops’, they’re called. He was a young man, good-looking and smart, both in appearance and in intelligence - you had to be to be accepted as an agent, and his knowledge of European languages had assured him of this job; though, if he were completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that his knowledge of German left a lot to be desired! His brown hair was neatly cut and his hazel eyes were thoughtful and watchful. And they were watchful now.

    Wayne Cussler was looking at his hard-bitten boss, a soldier for most of his life, one who liked to keep his rank; he was Colonel Marshal Gretzky. He had fought with distinction in the Vietnam debâcle. According to him, you’d have thought he had nearly won that war single-handed, the number of Vietcong he’d disposed of in sundry ways, each more vicious than the last. He’d gone to South-East Asia to shoot Commies. Looking at him now, you wouldn’t have recognized him. When he arrived in Vietnam he had been a young, very overweight sergeant. His years in the jungles of South-East Asia had trimmed his waist, and though he still spoke with a South Carolina accent, he bore little resemblance to the man he was some thirty-five years ago. Discipline had moulded him into a fit, fighting machine; when he could, he worked out daily in his home gym, and weekends would find him jogging along rough mountain trails in the Alps, camping rough. He was a master at orienteering, and Wayne Cussler had often accompanied him on tough backpacking treks into the wilds of Switzerland, even living off the countryside. Little did he know that within the next few days he and the Colonel would be once again be in the rugged, mountainous terrain of the southern Tyrol in the little country of Ruritania.

    Colonel Marshal Gretzky lifted his head from his hands and gazed at Wayne.

    That million dollars in cash and that half billion in bearer bonds. I’m going to get it back from Duke Michael and his cronies, even if I have to break every bone in their stinking bodies to do so, he grated. He smiled grimly, but there was no humour in his grey eyes. They’re not going to get away with a penny, if I can help it. No sirree. I’ll enjoy hunting them down, like I did the Commies in the Mekong Delta. It’ll be just like old times. Now, let’s get organized.

    ~ ~ ~

    1

    Into the Wilds

    With a grunt of relief, Nigel unshouldered his rucksack and let it slide to the ground. It seemed to be getting heavier and heavier. I don’t think I could carry it another step. That last slope was killing, he gasped, dragging the crisp mountain air deep into his lungs. Using the rucksack as a backrest, he sat down on the grassy slope studded with bright yellow flowers. He laid the stout alpenstock he had been carrying beside him and gazed around him as the sweat on his body dried. What a magnificent view, he exclaimed.

    Below him wound a deep narrow, thickly forested valley that snaked up between high mountains whose peaks were heavy with snow, mountains that stretched as far as the eye could see, peak after peak, into the distance. Not far away a stream gurgled cheerfully through the meadowland. Above, the midday sun shone down hotly on him and his two companions who had also dropped their heavy rucksacks and were leaning against them. There were three of them; two were brothers, Nigel and Bruce Wallace, though they didn’t look related. Nigel, taller and slimmer was dark haired, while his younger brother was stocky with fair, wavy hair. Their only similarity was their intense blue eyes. They were in their late teens.

    The third member of the group, who was about the same age, had brown eyes, and his fair hair, in a certain light, shone with a deep golden, almost reddish hue; this was the famous Elphberg Red. Many in his family bore this trait. This was Crown Prince Archduke Karl-Franz, heir to the throne of the little Kingdom of Ruritania, ruled for the last three centuries by the Elphberg Dynasty.

    "I thought you’d like it here, said Karl-Franz, looking immensely pleased. It’s pretty wild. There’s no one around for miles and miles. This part of Ruritania is some of the wildest territory in the whole of the Alps. Looking south there, where we’re headed, are hundreds of square kilometres of mountain, forest and lakes where hardly anyone has ever come, until you reach Switzerland. These forests date back to the end of the last ice age."

    There certainly don’t seem to be any roads, muttered Bruce, the third member of the group. Or if there are, you’ve kept them hidden from us. He took a swig from his water bottle. These mountains all round us, - here he indicated the wilderness to the south - do these mountains have names?

    I don’t think so. I doubt if they’ve ever really been properly mapped, Karl-Franz replied.

    "Then, how are you finding your way? I haven’t seen a proper track, and what I have seen may just be animal trails."

    I’ve been here a number of times, Bruce. Nearly every vacation from varsity I try to get up here; I’ve even been up here on my own, though that’s not really advisable, of course. I’ve actually got a map in my rucksack, but it’s my own which I’ve drawn, marking down the peaks and outstanding features. It’s not accurate and a bit rough, of course, but it’s served me very well. I’ve been here in all seasons, even winter when all of this is deep in snow, and the only way of travelling is cross-country skiing. That’s wonderful, but now in high summer it’s magnificent. The Alpine flowers are still out, and the weather is usually perfect, like today. Hey, I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t we have our lunch up here and then we can push on later?

    About time. I thought you’d never suggest it, Bruce grinned. "We got up mighty early this morning and we’ve been hiking for hours. And I didn’t sleep too well last night. It always takes me a few nights to get used to sleeping out. So, as tonight is our fourth night camping, I should be all right, particularly after slogging up these valleys and over these mountains. I’ll be shattered. Are you sure there’s no road? Now, what’s there to eat?"

    And so the three boys had a lazy lunch in the hot sun. Around them insects buzzed, collecting nectar from the flowers that starred the grassy slopes. From a clump of silver birches nearby, they could hear the insistent tapping of a woodpecker.

    After the meal, Bruce lay back and stared at the completely cloudless sky. Look. There’s an eagle. It looks pretty big. Circling high above us.

    Karl-Franz raised the binoculars that hung on his chest. That’s not an eagle. You can tell by its outer primary feathers. That’s a vulture.

    Well, in that case, Bruce, you’d better make a few lively movements. or it’ll come down to inspect you, to see if you’re worth eating, Nigel laughed.

    Karl-Franz was still keeping his binoculars trained on the bird. That’s a bearded vulture, what’s also called a lammergeier. It must be one of those I helped release some time back. They were all eradicated in the Alps many years ago by shepherds who said they killed sheep. Look, there! You can see its mate. There are two of them. Wonderful! Now we’re reintroducing them. We’ve also brought back a number of other species. I hope we see some of the other animals that have been reintroduced - wolves and bears.

    For a while, the three boys watched the lazily circling birds through their binoculars.

    What’s the matter with them? asked Bruce. They’ve sheered off. It’s as though they have been startled. Look at them. They’re heading away.

    And then they heard it - the far-off throb of an engine.

    I thought you said there was no road anywhere near here, said Bruce. What’s that, then?

    It’s certainly not a car, Nigel put in. It sounds like more like a helicopter.

    You’re right. It does.

    And now, quite clearly came the distinct thump-thump of a distant helicopter, its rotor blades beating at the thin air of the mountains.

    He’s keeping to the valley. He’s flying lower than we are. Can you see him yet? Karl-Franz swung his binoculars to the north down the twisting valley, which led eventually to Strelsau, the capital of the little monarchy. "He’s obviously come from Strelsau. I wonder who it could be. No one ever comes here. There’s absolutely nothing down in the south, apart from the old hunting lodge - remember I told you about it. That’s where we are making for. But who else

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