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  PATHS OF GLORY

  ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER

  NOVELS

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honor

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

  The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune

  False Impression

  The Gospel According to Judas (with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)

  A Prisoner of Birth

  SHORT STORIES

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  The Collected Short Stories

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  Cat O’Nine Tales

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume One: Hell

  Volume Two: Purgatory

  Volume Three: Heaven

  SCREENPLAYS

  Mallory: Walking Off the Map

  False Impression

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  PATHS OF GLORY. Copyright © 2009 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Archer, Jeffrey, 1940–

  Paths of glory / Jeffrey Archer.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-4299-7169-0

  1. Mallory, George, 1886–1924—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6051.R285P38 2009

  823'.914—dc22

  2008054221

  First published in the United Kingdom by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd.

  In memory of

  CHRIS BRASHER

  who encouraged me to write this book

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My special thanks go to the mountaineer and historian Audrey Salkeld

  for her invaluable help, advice, and expertise.

  My thanks also go to Simon Bainbridge, John Bryant, Rosie de Courcy, Anthony Geffen, Bear Grylls, George Mallory II, Alison Prince, and Mari Roberts.

  Inspired by a true story

  Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

  And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

  Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  —Thomas Gray (1716–1771)

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE: No Ordinary Child

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BOOK TWO: The Other Woman

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BOOK THREE: No Man’s Land

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  BOOK FOUR: Selecting the Team

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  BOOK FIVE: Walking Off the Map

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  BOOK SIX: Back to Earth

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  BOOK SEVEN: A Woman’s Privilege

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  BOOK EIGHT: Ascension Day

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  1999

  SATURDAY, MAY 1ST, 1999

  “LAST TIME I went bouldering in my hobnails, I fell off,” said Conrad.

  Jochen wanted to cheer, but knew that if he responded to the coded message it might alert a rival group tuned in to their frequency—or even worse, allow an eavesdropping journalist to realize that they’d discovered a body. He left the radio on, hoping for a clue that would reveal which of the two victims the search party had come across, but not another word was spoken. Only a crackling sound confirmed that someone was out there, but unwilling to speak.

  Jochen followed his instructions to the letter, and after sixty seconds of silence he switched off the radio. He only wished he’d been selected as a member of the original climbing party, who were out there searching for the two bodies, but he’d drawn the short straw. Someone had to remain at base camp and man the radio. He stared out of the tent at the falling snow, and tried to imagine what was going on higher up the mountain.

  Conrad Anker stared down at the frozen body, the bleached skin as white as marble. The clothes, or what was left of them, looked as if they had once belonged to a tramp, not a man who had been educated at either Oxford or Cambridge. A thick hemp rope was tied around the dead man’s waist, the frayed ends showing where it must have broken during the fall. The arms were extended over the head, the left leg crossed above the right. The tibia and fibula of the right leg were both broken, so that the foot looked as if it was detached from the rest of the body.

  None of the team spoke as they struggled to fill their lungs with the thin air; words are rationed at 27,000 feet. Anker finally fell to his knees in the snow and offered up a prayer to Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth. He took his time; after all, historians, alpinists, journalists, and the simply curious had waited over seventy-five years for this moment. He removed one of his thick fleece-lined gloves and placed it on the snow beside him, then leaned forward, each movement slow and exaggerated, and with the index finger of his right hand gently pushed back the stiff collar of the dead man’s jacket. Anker could hear his heart pounding as he read the neat red letters displayed on a Cash’s name tape that had been sewn on the inside of the shirt collar.

  “Oh my God,” said a voice from behind him. “It’s not Irvine. It’s Mallory.”

  Anker didn’t comment. He still needed to confirm the one piece of information they had traveled over five thousand miles to discove
r.

  He slipped his gloveless hand into the inside pocket of the dead man’s jacket, and deftly removed the hand-stitched pouch that Mallory’s wife had so painstakingly made for him. He gently unfolded the cotton, fearing that it might fall apart in his hands. If he found what he was looking for, the mystery would finally be solved.

  A box of matches, a pair of nail scissors, a blunt pencil, a note written on an envelope showing how many oxygen cylinders were still in working order before they attempted the final climb, a bill (unpaid) from Gamages for a pair of goggles, a Rolex wristwatch minus its hands, and a letter from Mallory’s wife dated April 14th, 1924. But the one thing Anker had expected to find wasn’t there.

  He looked up at the rest of the team, who were waiting impatiently. He drew a deep breath, and delivered his words slowly. “There’s no photograph of Ruth.”

  One of them cheered.

  BOOK ONE

  No Ordinary Child

  1892

  CHAPTER ONE

  ST. BEES, CUMBRIA, TUESDAY, JULY 19TH, 1892

  IF YOU HAD asked George why he’d begun walking toward the rock, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The fact that he had to wade into the sea to reach his goal didn’t appear to concern him, even though he couldn’t swim.

  Only one person on the beach that morning showed the slightest interest in the six-year-old boy’s progress. The Reverend Leigh Mallory folded his copy of The Times and placed it on the sand at his feet. He didn’t alert his wife, who was lying on the deckchair beside him, eyes closed, enjoying the occasional rays of sunshine, oblivious to any danger their eldest son might be facing. He knew that Annie would only panic, the way she had when the boy had climbed onto the roof of the village hall during a meeting of the Mothers’ Union.

  The Reverend Mallory quickly checked on his other three children, who were playing contentedly by the water’s edge, unconcerned with their brother’s fate. Avie and Mary were happily collecting seashells that had been swept in on the morning tide, while their younger brother Trafford was concentrating on filling a small tin bucket with sand. Mallory’s attention returned to his son and heir, who was still heading resolutely toward the rock. He was not yet worried, surely the boy would eventually realize he had to turn back. But he rose from his deckchair once the waves began to cover the boy’s knee breeches.

  Although George was now almost out of his depth, the moment he reached the jagged outcrop he deftly pulled himself out of the sea and leaped from rock to rock, quickly reaching the top. There he settled himself, and stared out toward the horizon. Although his favorite subject at school was history, clearly no one had told him about King Canute.

  His father was now watching with some trepidation as the waves surged carelessly around the rocks. He waited patiently for the boy to become aware of the danger he was in, when he would surely turn and ask for help. He didn’t. When the first spray of foam touched the boy’s toes, the Reverend Mallory walked slowly down to the water’s edge. “Very good, my boy,” he murmured as he passed his youngest, who was now intently building a sandcastle. But his eyes never left his eldest son, who still hadn’t looked back, even though the waves were now lapping around his ankles. The Reverend Mallory plunged into the sea and started to swim toward the rock, but with each slow lunge of his military breast-stroke he became more aware that it was much further away than he had realized.

  He finally reached his goal, and pulled himself onto the rock. As he clambered awkwardly to the top he cut his legs in several places, showing none of the sure-footedness his son had earlier displayed. Once he’d joined the boy, he tried not to reveal that he was out of breath and in some considerable discomfort.

  That’s when he heard her scream. He turned to observe his wife, standing at the water’s edge, shouting desperately, “George! George!”

  “Perhaps we should be making our way back, my boy,” suggested the Reverend Mallory, trying not to sound at all concerned. “We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?”

  “Just a few more moments, Papa,” begged George, who continued to stare resolutely out to sea. But his father decided they couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled his son gently off the rock.

  It took the two of them considerably longer to reach the safety of the beach, as the Reverend Mallory, cradling his son in his arms, had to swim on his back, only able to use his legs to assist him. It was the first time George became aware that return journeys can take far longer.

  When George’s father finally collapsed on the beach, George’s mother rushed across to join them. She fell on her knees and smothered the child in her bosom, crying, “Thank God, thank God,” while showing scant interest in her exhausted husband. George’s two sisters stood several paces back from the advancing tide, quietly sobbing, while his younger brother continued to build his fortress, far too young for any thoughts of death to have crossed his mind.

  The Reverend Mallory eventually sat up and stared at his eldest son, who was once again looking out to sea although the rock was no longer in sight. He accepted for the first time that the boy appeared to have no concept of fear, no sense of risk.

  1896

  CHAPTER TWO

  DOCTORS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND even historians have debated the significance of heredity when trying to understand the success or failure of succeeding generations. Had a historian studied George Mallory’s parents, he would have been hard pressed to explain their son’s rare gift, not to mention his natural good looks and presence.

  George’s father and mother considered themselves to be upper middle class, even if they lacked the resources to maintain such pretensions. The Reverend Mallory’s parishioners at Mobberley in Cheshire considered him to be High Church, hide-bound and narrow-minded, and were unanimously of the opinion that his wife was a snob. George, they concluded, must have inherited his gifts from some distant relative. His father was well aware that his elder son was no ordinary child, and was quite willing to make the necessary sacrifices to ensure that George could begin his education at Glengorse, a fashionable prep school in the south of England.

  George often heard his father say, “We’ll just have to tighten our belts, especially if Trafford is to follow in your footsteps.” After considering these words for some time, he inquired of his mother if there were any prep schools in England that his sisters might attend.

  “Good heavens no,” she replied disdainfully. “That would simply be a waste of money. In any case, what would be the point?”

  “For a start, it would mean Avie and Mary had the same opportunities as Trafford and me,” suggested George.

  His mother scoffed. “Why put the girls through such an ordeal, when it would not advance their chances of securing a suitable husband by one jot?”

  “Isn’t it possible,” suggested George, “that a husband might benefit from being married to a well-educated woman?”

  “That’s the last thing a man wants,” his mother responded. “You’ll find out soon enough that most husbands simply require their wife to provide them with an heir and a spare, and to organize the servants.”

  George was unconvinced, and decided he would wait for an appropriate opportunity to raise the subject with his father.

  The Mallorys’ summer holiday of 1896 was not spent at St. Bees, bathing, but in the Malvern Hills, hiking. While the rest of the family quickly discovered that none of them could keep up with George, his father at least made a valiant attempt to accompany him to the higher slopes, while the other Mallorys were happy to wander in the valleys below.

  With his father puffing away several yards behind, George re-opened the vexed question of his sisters’ education. “Why aren’t girls given the same opportunities as boys?”

  “It’s not the natural order of things, my boy,” panted his father.

  “And who decides the natural order of things?”

  “God,” responded the Reverend Mallory, feeling he was on safer ground. “It was He who decreed that man should labor to gain sustenanc
e and shelter for his family, while his spouse remained at home and tended to their offspring.”

  “But He must have noticed that women are often blessed with more common sense than men. I’m sure He’s aware that Avie is far brighter than either Trafford or me.”

  The Reverend Mallory fell back, as he required a little time to consider his son’s argument, and even longer to decide how he should answer it. “Men are naturally superior to women,” he eventually suggested, not sounding altogether convinced, before lamely adding, “and we should not attempt to meddle with nature.”

  “If that is true, Papa, how has Queen Victoria managed to reign so successfully for more than sixty years?”

  “Simply because there wasn’t a male heir to inherit the throne,” replied his father, feeling he was entering uncharted waters.

  “How lucky for England that no man was available when Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne either,” suggested George. “Perhaps the time has come to allow girls the same opportunity as boys to make their way in the world.”