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  In three swift moves he covered a gentler bit and came to a slightly protruding formation with very distinct grips that could be ascended like a narrow staircase. But something told him the formation wasn’t entirely stable. He froze, waiting to see if he could feel it wobble again, but no, he must have mistaken a gust of wind for the rock moving. Just in case, he performed the next few moves with less vigor.

  Suddenly he saw a bright flash in the distance. He glanced up and saw that it came from the cableway platform. A garish white light burst from the station building, cutting a milky prism out of the fog of low-hanging cloud.

  Then he heard a shockingly loud, sizzling hiss, as if sudden rain were lashing a red-hot frying pan the size of an intersection.

  And then everything happened at lightning speed.

  The two carrying cables of one of the cars shuddered—he thought the cableway was moving—and began to drop, gathering speed. Severed by the explosive charges, the ends had struck against the metal platform grating; with a nasty rasping noise they slid across it, and Anatol saw something for which he was totally unprepared. The ends of the cables had changed into two white balls of seething-hot steel. They fell off the grating and began to scrape across the rock, racing toward him, writhing and spitting drops of molten metal. He clung to the rock formation and hid his head in his arms, hoping the whips wouldn’t reach him. From the corner of his eye he saw both cables go dancing across the rock.

  He moved a little to the left, and with a hiss and a sizzle, one of the burning ends smacked against the rocks two feet away, striking the spot where his head had been.

  A drop of molten steel came flying off the cable and landed on Anatol’s hand, in the soft spot between his thumb and index finger, burning straight through his flesh. Anatol screamed and shook his hand, losing his balance. He fell away from the wall like a door on hinges. Combined with the blow of the heavy steel cable, this was too much for the unstable rock formation, which shuddered and began to come away from the wall.

  Battling the nausea rising in his throat, Anatol realized what was happening. Swinging like a pendulum, he got back to the wall and managed to get a grip with his mutilated right hand, but it didn’t help. Now he was holding on to a block of rock the size of a van that was leaning away from the wall at a ten-degree angle. Small chips of rock fell off, so Anatol moved to the left side of the boulder and wove his way along the edge. On his right was the void and on his left the wall of Kasprowy, receding at an ever-faster pace.

  There was no time to lose. He summoned all his remaining strength and jumped left, toward the wall, now more than six feet away.

  He didn’t make it. His fingertips scraped the stones, breaking several fingernails, as he fell.

  This is the end, he thought.

  But it wasn’t the end. Instead of falling onto the scree, he slammed against the rock and slid down, racing the boulder.

  For a while they slid at the same speed, but then Anatol came to a sudden stop on a protruding, mossy shelf; the block hit it too, but bounced off and hurtled toward the scree. Anatol watched as it tumbled into the abyss and hit the ground, followed by the deafening bang of exploding stone.

  18

  The two men stood inside the rocking car, staring at the cables that were hanging down its sides, their red-hot ends glowing among the rocky debris three hundred feet below.

  “Why aren’t we falling?” said Janusz.

  “The haulage cable’s holding us up.”

  “What?”

  “The cableway runs on two immobile cables, like on rails. And it moves because there’s a third cable that hauls it up or down. That’s what’s holding us up now.”

  “Will it hold out?”

  The conductor stared helplessly. How should he know?

  19

  Huddled against the rock face, Anatol panted heavily. The adrenaline had made every muscle tense, his heart was thumping like mad, waves of bile rose in his throat, and black-and-white spots danced before his eyes. Just don’t faint, he whispered. If you faint it’ll all be over.

  Soon he had calmed down enough to take stock of his injuries. The hole in his hand looked dreadful and hurt tremendously, but at least it wasn’t bleeding—the red-hot steel had cauterized the wound. His fingernails were broken, but his fingers were intact. Every breath caused a stabbing pain—probably broken ribs. He carefully moved his legs, hoping nothing had cracked when he hit the shelf. His right knee was slightly twisted, but it seemed all right.

  He turned his head to look at the cable cars. One was suspended normally, but the other had fallen several yards, and the remains of its cables were hanging loose. He figured the car was holding on by its third cable, which served to move it up and down.

  Suddenly, from above, he heard a plaintive sound like a guitar string snapping.

  20

  She couldn’t say a single word, but luckily Antoni kept his cool.

  “There’s no way that cable will hold. Quick, let’s make a rope out of our clothes. There are only two people; we can pull them up here. Quick, quick!”

  A few people snapped out of their shock and started taking off their jackets and tying the sleeves together. Joanna stood as if paralyzed, hugging her younger son close to her and staring at the cable car that moments earlier had been within arm’s reach but was now several yards below them.

  “Joanna! Wake up! Yell to them that we’re gonna pull them up! Tell them to get on the roof.”

  Joanna came to and noticed with pride that her older son had stripped down to his shorts and handed his top and pants to Antoni.

  She opened a vent and was met by a blast of cold air that helped her get a grip. She took a deep breath, and moved close to the gap to shout out the message, but she never got the chance. The conductor in the other car opened a vent too, but at that very moment the cabin plunged.

  Joanna watched it fall, a perfectly vertical drop, plummeting majestically, before hitting the ground a few seconds later. The weight of its hook caused the cabin to fold, crushing the passengers.

  At least they didn’t suffer, she thought.

  21

  Dada, dadada da da daaa. With a heavy heart, Anatol answered the phone.

  “Children?” he asked.

  “No. That was the almost-empty one. There are thermite charges on all the carrying cables, two have already been detonated, two are waiting for the signal. We’ve also spotted a camera on the wall beside the cables. It’s looking in your direction.”

  “There must be another one monitoring the charges.”

  “Yes. But we haven’t found it.”

  Silence reigned at both ends of the line.

  “You said you had an idea. We suggest you go ahead and put it into action.”

  “Right.”

  He hung up, put the phone in his pocket, and started to climb. Maybe it was an illusion, but he felt as if he were moving much, much faster.

  22

  The disaster clipped Antoni’s wings. He sat down on the floor in a corner of the car. Hysteria all around. The men shouted, the women squealed, and the children cried. Nobody wanted to die, and nobody had any idea what to do. The distraught conductor bore the brunt of their anger.

  “For fuck’s sake, you said there was an emergency car,” they screamed. “Have them send it and get us out of here. Or they can haul us to the nearest fucking strut, or send a helicopter, or spread out one of those cushions for jumping to the ground—whatever. Why aren’t they doing anything?”

  “I have no idea; they won’t pick up, I’m sorry,” said the conductor.

  Joanna squatted beside Antoni. “The kid wet himself. And it’s getting colder . . .”

  Antoni gazed at her vacantly and blinked a few times.

  “We’ll think of something.” He wiped his face with his hands, glanced at the tearstained boy, and winked at him. “Undress him. We’ll put my pants on him with the legs rolled up—at least he’ll be dry.”

  “Are you sure?”

/>   “Yes. It’s only September, not the middle of winter. My pride will suffer and I’ll look like a doofus, but that’s a small price to pay.”

  “Get out of here—you’ll look sexy.”

  “I’m wearing boxer shorts with platypuses on them.”

  “All right, you’ll look like a doofus.”

  23

  Luckily the final stretch was the easiest. Not so much a climb as a walk up a very steep meadow strewn with stones. He reached the edge of the station building and huddled close to the granite wall. He was three moves away from the platform. He only had to emerge from behind the wall, grab hold of the aluminum structure, and pull himself up. That was all that separated him from the camera lens of a madman with his finger on the trigger, ready to send sixty-one people to their deaths.

  He knew there was no room for error, and in a way that helped him keep calm. He took out his phone and called.

  “Camera on the car?” he asked.

  “Yes. The same system, looking at the roof.”

  “You’ve got to occupy him. Get in touch with the people in the car, have them open the roof hatch and start looking around, gesturing to the camera. Distract him for a few seconds.”

  “Will that be enough?”

  “It’s got to be. Let me know when it’s a go.”

  He hung up and worked out a sequence of moves in his head. Getting across the wall, a jump onto the platform, three steps to the ladder, four steps up to the cables. One glance at the charges.

  He focused on calming his breathing and preparing his muscles. He took a long hard look at the scorched edges of the hole in his hand. He had to get used to the sight to make sure it didn’t distract him while he was tinkering with the charges. Dada—he picked up at once.

  “Go.”

  He took a deep breath and jumped out from behind the wall, fearing the worst. But nothing happened. He ran across the platform, leaped up the ladder, and was soon standing on a narrow walkway used to inspect the haulage and carrying cables. The black rings holding the explosive charges were ceramic, with thin antennae sticking out. He pulled them out first, though he knew that wouldn’t stop the signal.

  He had considered that the terrorist couldn’t have had much time to attach the rings. Their parts must either be clipped shut or connected in a simple, durable way. Durable enough for them not to disintegrate at the start of the reaction.

  A swift inspection confirmed his assumptions. The halves of each ring were bolted together by a thick ceramic screw with a Phillips head. A good method—ceramics were resistant to high temperatures and guaranteed that the incendiary device would work.

  If only he had something to unscrew it with. He tried his fingernail, but it was no use. He took a handful of change from his pocket and dug out a one-grosz coin. It barely gripped the grooves in the screw head. He tried unscrewing it with the coin held between his right thumb and index finger, but the slashed muscles were too weak—the coin slipped from between his fingers, bounced off the platform, and dropped into the abyss.

  24

  He was starting to lose patience. The client was silent, but it was clear that after what had happened to the first cable car the Poles would begin to make foolish moves, and he’d have to react or disappear. He’d rather the client decide.

  He monitored the platform, but everything was just as immobile as before.

  He switched the image to the camera showing the car and raised an eyebrow. Something was going on. The hatch in the cabin roof jerked, then sprang open, showing the people inside. Their turned-up faces stared into the camera with sheepish looks. A dramatic death would probably be the high point of these people’s lives. Their families would give interviews, black-and-white portraits of the victims would appear in the media, their names would be carved on a marble monument, and people would make pilgrimages from all over the country to light candles and add to the conspiracy theories. They were only a few moments away from their one chance at immortality.

  25

  There was no time for panic. He took out another handful of coins, unfortunately just thick five- and two-zloty pieces, no small one-grosz coins. He looked around helplessly. He knew that as soon as the terrorist saw him on camera, he’d detonate the charges.

  26

  The small crowd below the hatch set up a ladder, and then a guy in nothing but his shorts slowly emerged onto the roof.

  Hermod sighed, promising to never again accept a job in this weird part of the world. It would be a few years before Eastern Europe was civilized enough to be ready for full-scale terrorism.

  The guy in shorts stood hesitantly on the roof of the car, grabbed the hook connecting the cabin to the cable, and started gesticulating toward the camera. Hermod tried to understand what was going on, then berated himself for gaping at the bizarre spectacle.

  He switched cameras. And saw a man tampering with the charges.

  Then his phone rang.

  The client confirmed his decision.

  27

  Thermite burns at extreme temperature and needs a very high one to ignite. The nano-thermite used in the charges on Kasprowy required a lower temperature, but still in the hundreds of degrees, which for a small charge is a major limitation. In this case, a radio signal set off an electric fuse, which ignited a narrow strip of magnesium powder that burned hot enough to light the thermite. Which would have flared up with a huge bright flame, but, held in check by the ceramic casing, would burn through the cable and cause the steel to boil.

  In the context of boiling steel and one of the most violent thermal reactions known to chemistry, it might look as if what Gmitruk was doing made absolutely no sense. He was pouring a thin trickle of water from his climbing bottle onto the black ring. On the surface, it looked as pointless as splashing a glass of water onto a burning barn. But the major had remembered something he’d heard in passing during one of his NATO training courses: thermite won’t react if it gets wet.

  Unfortunately, there was a second fact he’d forgotten: adding water to a reaction already in process will lead to an explosion.

  And that’s exactly what happened when the radio signal transmitted from the Yurta Café reached the fuses.

  The spark flared in both charges, and the magnesium flashed, igniting the thermite. One of the charges started burning through the steel cable, and the other exploded, bursting the ceramic casing, damaging the carrying cable, and hurling Anatol to the platform floor. He rolled to the edge of the grating, went over the side and down, and grabbed the aluminum edge with his injured hand midflight.

  Pain shot through his body, and it felt like all the tendons and muscles in his hand and forearm had snapped, but he managed to cling on.

  It crossed his mind that this was the greatest achievement of his climbing career. Just when he seized the edge with his other hand, the carrying cable severed by the flames fell, drawn by its thirty-ton weight, and took a nosedive, shaking the entire platform structure. It grated across the rock face and dragged its tip behind, spraying drops of steel boiling at seven thousand degrees, ready to blaze through a human body.

  After a moment that felt like years, Anatol opened his eyes and looked toward the mountains—the car was suspended in the same place as before. Then at the cables. One had gone. The other was still there, but it was damaged, glowing red where the thermite had exploded. Part of its weave was protruding, splayed in all directions. Then the next few metal wires that were twisted together to form the cable snapped. Twang, twang, ping.

  Groaning with pain, Anatol pulled up his battered body and scrambled onto the platform.

  “Don’t look, think!” he screamed to himself. He had at most thirty seconds to do something, before the cabin tumbled into the abyss, passengers and all. He raced for the engine room.

  “Haul it the other way!” he yelled at the terrified cableway worker. “Bring it down as fast as you can!”

  The cableway worker stared at him, dumbstruck.

  “Down, move it down,
or they’ll all be killed!”

  The guy woke up, turned a key, and lifted a lever. The engine screeched into action, and the haulage cable shuddered and started moving away from the wall.

  The movement and vibration made the woven metal wires—the only cable keeping sixty-one people alive—start to snap faster. Twang, twang, ping.

  28

  Antoni had no idea what had happened. He was standing on the cabin roof, making faces at a small camera, just as he’d been ordered by the military man who had called the conductor. He was hoping the platypus boxer shorts were distracting enough.

  He was waving his hands at the lens when he heard shouts from inside the cabin. He looked around and saw white flames flaring on the upper cableway station. Then one of the cables snapped. The cabin swayed violently, and with a shriek Antoni tumbled onto the roof and rolled toward its edge. At the last second he managed to grab a metal handle. And hung there, dangling in midair, pressing platypuses against the glass, his fellow passengers screaming on the other side.

  And then the car slowly began to move along one cable toward the lower station. Everyone was shouting with joy, as each second brought them closer to salvation. Apart from Antoni, who could feel his arms getting weaker. Just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to pull himself up, the doors of the car opened and several pairs of hands—including those of his lover and her sons—pulled him inside.

  He thought about how crazy it would be to survive such a cinematic moment only to be killed in a disaster seconds later.

  In the background, the conductor was talking on a radio, and the people were gazing at the approaching support as if they could transport the car there by willpower.

  29

  Twang, twang, ping, ping, ping went the metal threads, snapping ever faster—only a quarter of the original thickness was left.

  “When I yell,” said Anatol to the engineer, without taking his eyes off the cable, “switch off the engine and have the conductor hit the brake. Wait for it . . .”

  Twang, twang—two threads snapped. Then they stopped breaking, and everyone thought the cable might hold after all. But it creaked, snapped entirely, and flew into the void.