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Page 71.

33. Wolves' Gorge

Rick followed the female footprint in the direction it pointed—northward up a series of ancient, weathered hills choked with ferns and underbrush under lush tree canopies.

Birds chittered loudly. Their sweet warbling echoed in the wilderness all around. This was really a sort of spooky, otherworldly place.

It was late in the day, and he supposed a reasonable person would have waited until dawn before hunting across this unknown landscape. Sometimes, though, you ran with the plan. Fate had gotten between himself and Hannah. If nothing else, he wanted a sure answer. Whose side was she on? If he had only that—either way, he could return to his country and begin a new life, feeling a sense of closure.

As he hiked up and down twisting ribbons of soil—among prehistoric boulders the size of houses, amid echoing bird calls and small, scampering animals—he reflected that at least there would be no IEDs here, nor unpredictably hostile people of a different time and mindset. At the same time, dark forces swam silently like underwater icebergs among the money oceans of the world. In those seas of wealth and power, toothy paleo-sharks could suddenly appear like primordial submarines, striking and killing without warning from below. Worse yet were the pilot fish and moray eels they paid to do their dirty work, from tattooed Yakuza and Triads to Western Mafiosi and other nacre killers. Those were the enemy soldiers when push came to shove, Rick thought. He regretted ever raising his hand in that recruiting office in Los Angeles and promising to be a warrior for the money and the power. His employers had a noose hanging from a ceiling in Kaiserslautern, waiting to sacrifice him to the green gods of cash.

The air still carried warmth from the day's sunlight. Rick was soon sweating as he reached high meadows and half walked, half jogged through alternating tree shade and sunny meadows. In the evening, all the world's insects came out to drink from puddles and ponds. Small animals stirred in shadowy spots as they sought water and security. Europe had been much tamed over recent centuries, but he'd seen news stories that wolves were making a comeback. Foxes abounded. Squirrels zipped about, froze to look at you, and darted behind trees. Some U.S. military troops garrisoned in Europe had even released North American mammals like raccoons and skunks that thrived in the temperate climate.

Rick laughingly almost expected a troop of Roman infantry, or a procession of Celtic Druids, or a band of Medieval hunters to cross his path. Could Robin Hood and his Merry Men (or their Ardennes equivalent) be far at a moment like this?

He was fundamentally an infantry guy—and, as such, specialized in walking. You kept going—climbing, falling, running, jogging, rolling, getting up again. It didn't matter, as long as you kept moving. Sailors could sink miles to the abyssal plains in the sea, where no light ever reached. Airmen could fall miles from the sky and land in an explosion on land or sea. Infantry guys were stuck to the land like ants to a sidewalk. They were concerned with bunions on their feet, sweat and crap between their toes, chafing underpants, a twisted backpack strap or jock strap—or a misstep that twisted an ankle or reminded you just how many delicate little bones and muscles you had in each foot. You concentrated on walking at a steady clip, carefully moving your feet ahead, one after the other, staying level so that if you tripped or slipped, nothing got broken or sprained. That was the idea, anyway.

Rick did not stop to rest. He kept an even pace, not too fast and not too slow. He had a lot of energy left, and planned to rest only when the last light failed. He wasn't sure if it was a full moon—he could keep moving on high ground if need be, carefully. He had the nine millimeter NATO standard automatic in his backpack. Along the way, he found a nearly perfectly straight tree branch. He stopped briefly—oh, if only he had a good bush knife—to strip the branch. It would be his pole for beating the bushes ahead of him and for support. It could be a probe, a crutch, and a weapon if need be.

Carrying the pole like a spear, he jogged along a network of hard-packed trails. Most of this land was national park, so there were few farms except near the towns. There were hiking trails and a few tractor trails.

The path took him past a stunningly beautiful old castle ruin, whose empty windows and deserted battlements spoke eloquently of battles maybe a thousand years ago.

After a few miles, he stopped on a high hill and assessed his situation. He could see for miles around—tree tops as dense as any jungle, on a series of hills and cliffs rising over deep crevices. This was, indeed, Luxembourg's Little Switzerland. He wiped sweat from his forehead. He felt tension in his legs from climbing and walking. And he was starting to be a little out of breath. This wasn't easy going.

He had totally lost track of where Hannah might have gone. At this point, he was simply going in as straight a line westward as he could, following the orange sun that grew lower on the horizon. He listened intently. His only hope now was to hear some noise she or her unknown companion might make. He saw a few distant rooftops of the usual regional black slate. Smoke curled from a chimney deep in the forest.

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