Casanova by Mark Arundel Page A

point. Charlotte tried to speak but her voice didn’t come out. I stared into her eyes. She was in frightened shock. There was a ridge. Fir trees gave it thick cover. It was a professional hit. The assassin had been waiting for the old man to come through the door. I made an instant decision. I shook Charlotte.
    ‘Stay here. Go inside and close the door. Find Casanova and keep him inside. I’ll be back.’
    I left her. I went down the wooden steps as fast as my boots would allow. I knew the assassin would flee. Professionals always plan a vanishing act. The village would provide cover and time to escape. The village—I had to make an interception before then. There were only two ways to get down, either along the piste trail or off-piste, through the trees. I stamped my bindings shut, grabbed my poles and pushed away towards the trail. The assassin had been above the cabin. There was every chance I could make a sighting. I skied out, searching and then stopped on the edge where the mountain fell away into deep snow and wooded fir trees. I scanned through the flat light and the silence. I reasoned it most likely the assassin would be on skis, although I didn’t dismiss the possibility of a snow-cat. I listened for an engine but there was only silence. I listened for the sound of skis. The mountain seemed to sigh and settle into a deeper slumber. I waited, searching all the time. I couldn’t ski uphill. I considered taking my skis off. Then, as I began to think I wouldn’t see anyone, I caught a glimpse of movement. It was a figure dressed in white and carrying a rucksack. It lasted for only a moment. The figure was travelling on foot and had crossed the trail at the very top of my vision before dropping into the deep snow and trees, and out of sight.
    I couldn’t give chase uphill. My only chance of making contact was to drop into the trees myself and hope to force an interception lower down. I looked over the edge. It didn’t look inviting. It was steep and densely wooded. The virgin snow showed no one else had bothered to ski it; there were just too many trees. I dropped over sideways, keeping all my weight on the lower ski and slid between two hefty tree trunks. I pushed down with my outside pole and jumped one-eighty degrees to maintain control. The skis held and I balanced with my knees deeply bent. The snow fell away below me and I slipped lower. I pushed forward and traversed between the next obstacles of trees. I slowed, jump-turned again and then used the cover from another hefty tree trunk to stop. I listened and searched. Higher up, across the steeply sloping copse, I heard the faint sound of movement. I held my position and watched. The hooded figure, clothed in white, appeared for a moment between the trees. The figure was stepping carefully and moving downwards. There was something in the athletic movement of the body, something I thought I knew. I waited. Then there was a second glimpse. Lower down this time. I pushed away from the solid tree trunk and traversed carefully until another tree offered cover. I stopped. The hooded figure was now below me, moving with haste and balance in the difficult conditions. I followed silently, dropping sideways through the deep snow. I searched ahead and saw a track below, which crossed the slope at an angle towards the village. It was a track used by walkers. The hooded figure was closing in on an easy route back to the village. I needed to make my move. I skied away from the tree and searched for a fast route to the bottom. With my concentration taken elsewhere, I lost my balance and had to perform a hasty and noisy turn to avoid falling. The hooded figure stopped and half glanced back before continuing onward at a quicker pace. It was time for me to intercept.
    I broke cover and turned between the trees, dropping quickly. We reached the level track together. The white figure began to turn but on my skis, I was much too fast. I dipped and pushed. My skis shot me