The Valhalla Exchange

Title PagePublisher’s NoteDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenAbout the AuthorAlso By Jack HigginsCopyrightAbout the Publisher

THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE was first published in the UK by Hutchinson & Company in 1976 under the authorship of Harry Patterson. The author was in fact the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins. Harry Patterson was one of many names he used during his early writing days. The book was later published in paperback as a Jack Higgins novel but has been out of print for a number of years.

In 2007, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

For my mother and father, who helped memore than a little with this one

Whether Martin Bormann survived the holocaust that was Berlin at the end of the Second World War may be arguable, but it is a matter of record that Russian radar reported a light aircraft leaving the vicinity of the Tiergarten in Berlin on the morning of 30 April, the very day on which Adolf Hitler committed suicide. As for the remainder of this story, only the more astonishing parts are true – the rest is fiction.

1

On the Day of the Dead in Bolivia children take food and presents to the cemetery to leave on the graves of the departed. An interesting blend of the pagan and Christian traditions and highly appropriate the way things turned out. But even the most superstitious of Bolivian peasants would hardly expect the dead to get up and walk on such an occasion. I did.

La Huerta was a mining town of five or six thousand people, lost in the peaks of the high Andes. The back of beyond. There was no direct passenger flight from Peru, so I’d flown in from Lima in an old DC3 that was doing some kind of cargo run to an American mining company.

It was raining hard when I arrived, but by some dispensation or other there was a cab standing outside the small terminal building. The driver was a cheerful Indian with a heavy moustache. He wore a yellow oilskin coat and a straw hat and seemed surprised and gratified at the sight of a customer.

‘The hotel, señor?’ he asked, as he seized my valise.

‘The Excelsior,’ I said.

‘But that is the hotel, señor.’ His teeth gleamed in the lamplight. ‘The only one.’

The interior of the cab stank, the roof leaked, and as we started down the hill to the lights of the town I felt unaccountably depressed. Why in the hell was I here, doing the same thing I’d done so many times before? Chasing my tail for a story that probably didn’t exist in the first place. And La Huerta itself didn’t help as we turned into a maze of narrow streets, each one with the usual open sewer running down the centre, decaying, flat-roofed houses crowding in, poverty and squalor on every side.

We emerged into a central plaza a few minutes later. There was a large and rather interesting baroque fountain in the centre, some relic of colonial days, water gushing forth from the mouths and nostrils of a score of nymphs and dryads. The fact that it was working at all seemed a small miracle. The hotel was on the far side. As I got out I noticed a number of people sheltering under a colonnade to my right. Some of them were in carnival costume and there was the smell of smoke on the damp air.

‘What’s all that?’ I asked.

‘All Saints’ Day, señor. A time of festival.’

‘They don’t look as if they’re enjoying themselves too much.’

‘The rain.’ He shrugged. ‘It makes it difficult for the fireworks. But then this is a solemn occasion with us. Soon they will go in procession to the cemetery to greet their loved ones. The Day of the Dead, we call it. You have heard of this, señor?’

‘They have the same thing in Mexico.’

I paid him off, went up the steps and entered the hotel. Like everything else in La Huerta, it had seen better days, but now its pink, stucco walls were peeling and there were damp patches in the ceiling. The desk clerk put down his newspaper hurriedly, as amazed as the cab driver had been at the prospect of custom.

‘I’d like a room.’

‘But of course, señor. For how long?’

‘One night. I’m flying back to Peru in the morning.’

I passed my papers across so that he could go through the usual rigmarole the government insists on where foreigners are concerned.

As he filled in the register he said, ‘You have business here, señor? With the mining company, perhaps?’

I opened my wallet and extracted a ten-dollar American bill which I placed carefully on the counter beside the register. He stopped writing, the eyes dark, watchful.

‘It was reported in one of the Lima newspapers that a man died here Monday. Dropped dead in the plaza, right outside your front door. It rated a mention because the police found 50,000 dollars in cash in his suitcase and passports in three different names.’