02 Avalanche Pass Page 13

  “Well, don’t know about Stingers,” he said, “but they sure as hell have some triple-A up there.”

  “We heading back down now, Sheriff?” the pilot asked nervously. Colby grinned to himself, although no sign of it showed on his set features. It was pretty clear which way the pilot wanted them to go.

  “Might as well, Gus,” Lawson told him. “They ain’t going to let us see anything more tonight.”

  The chopper whack-whacked its way back down the canyon, the pilot bringing it to a landing beside the huddle of sheriff’s department cars. Colby noticed how each organization present—sheriff, state police, national guard and FBI—had staked out their own territory. As he stepped down from the Jet Ranger, a state trooper ran forward, holding his Smokey the Bear hat on against the down draft of the rotor.

  “Agent Colby?” he shouted and when Denton nodded confirmation, the man gestured to the comms trailer some fifty yards away.

  “They’re on the line,” he said. “Want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

  Denton nodded and jogged after the man toward the trailer. There was no need to ask who “they” might be.

  NINETEEN

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  1900 HOURS, EASTERN TIME

  SATURDAY, DAY 1

  The emergency council rose to their feet as President Gorton entered the room.

  He glanced around the assembled faces, angry and annoyed, his face flushed. He’d been awakened from the nap that he took every day at this time and he resented it—all the more so when he read the details of the demand that had been passed on from the terrorists at Canyon Lodge.

  “Where’s Traill?” he asked. The homeland security director was absent.

  “General Traill will receive full minutes of these meetings,” Benjamin told him, “but he has a pretty full plate at the moment.”

  The chief of staff leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  “There’s that Florida thing he’s been working on, sir,” he told the president. Gorton grunted. A series of massive storms had hit the Florida Keys over the past month, leaving tens of thousands of people stranded and at risk. Traill’s people had their hands full getting people out, finding temporary accommodation, discouraging looters and ensuring the safety of those left suddenly homeless.

  “Damn if we haven’t got problems coming out our asses these days,” Gorton said, annoyance obvious in his voice.

  The annoyance deepened as he recognized a face that hadn’t been here before. Truscott Emery smiled back at him as their gazes met. Angrily, Gorton wondered who’d told the special adviser that this meeting had been called. He suspected Benjamin. He knew the bureau director admired Emery’s scholastic, analytical mind. As far as Gorton was concerned, Emery was simply another annoying leftover from the previous administration and he couldn’t wait for the day when he could get rid of him. To his surprise, his own advisers had counseled against it, so he’d decided to bide his time until his position was stronger.

  In the meantime, he had compensated by taking Emery out of the loop as far as possible, excluding him from planning sessions and the cabinet meetings to which he’d been privy under President Couch.

  Emery was an interesting study in the politically seething atmosphere of the Capitol. He was an academic, a professor emeritus with Harvard Business School who, prior to his Washington appointment, had spent his time lecturing to short-term students from high-paying corporations around the world. He was also a very practical thinker and his ability to add insight into the most complex of problems had been valued beyond diamonds by Couch. He had secured the services of the professor as a special adviser, with a free-ranging brief to comment on anything and everything that went on in the Oval Office.

  But specifically, Emery had been retained for situations such as these: confusing, dangerous emergencies where a clear, incisive mind might cut through the overlying complications and see to the core of a problem, and the beginnings of a possible solution.

  Gorton knew that all the other Couch appointees treated Truscott’s opinions with deference and respect. That was another factor that annoyed him. To Gorton, he was simply another annoying reminder that too many people in the USA still thought of this as the Couch presidency.

  Still irritated by the sight of the smooth-shaven, smiling face, Gorton gestured at the room to be seated. He slapped the report onto the table in front of him as he took his own high-backed chair.

  “You all read this?” he demanded. He had skimmed through the report as he dressed. The others all had copies, and he received a chorus of assent from the group.

  “Well?” he rasped, his angry gaze sweeping them. He wanted advice. He wanted suggestions. He wanted someone else to commit himself first. Benjamin shrugged slightly.

  “Fairly typical first contact, Mr. President,” he ventured. “They’ve shown their hand at last. The ransom demand proves that. The usual threats: Don’t try to use force or we’ll kill them all and ourselves. We’re not afraid to die for our cause. All pretty standard.”

  “What about this last piece—about no more helicopters?” the president asked. Benjamin looked around. He guessed it was his part to answer once again.

  “Apparently, our agent in place took a chopper up the canyon for a look-see,” he said. “The response was some very accurate triple-A fire. Agent Colby reports that the terrorists claim to have radar-directed machine guns on the roof as well as the Stinger missiles they mentioned earlier. He’s not inclined to doubt them.”

  The president scowled at his bureau director. “What the hell sort of agent have you put in charge up there, Benjamin? He some sort of cowboy that he’s going to take risks like that? Goddamn it, there are close to a hundred hostages in that hotel and I’m not going to have them put at risk by this grandstanding Rambo of yours.”

  There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Benjamin replied, stolidly, “Denton Colby is one of my best agents, Mr. President. The risk in flying up there was to himself, not to the hostages. He held back at a safe distance. His stance was non-threatening. He received a warning-off and now we know a little more about the situation up there.”

  “Such as?” The president was looking at the bureau chief but it was General Barrett who answered this time.

  “We know that what they say about their defenses is accurate, Mr. President,” he said. “Linus’s agent has established that we can’t try to bust in there with any airborne assault.”

  Gorton locked gazes with the Air Force General. The ex-fighter pilot met his eyes steadily. In a career that spanned two major conflicts and a lot of brushfire wars in between, Barrett had seen more frightening sights than a frowning, posturing politician. Realizing that the general wasn’t going to submit, Gorton switched his angry glare to the table in general.

  “So, what do we do? I want suggestions, gentlemen. That’s what you’re here for.”

  Tildeman cleared his throat prior to speaking. “Linus might correct me on this, Mr. President,” he began, “but I feel the best course now is simply to maintain contact—and to stall them on their demands.”

  He glanced at the bureau chief for consent or disagreement. Benjamin was nodding. “I agree, Mr. President. In these cases, time is our ally. If we continue to speak with them, we have the chance to negotiate—and to find out what’s behind their demands.” The president raised his eyebrows at the last words, so the bureau chief expanded the thought a little.

  “Who they’re working for. What their grievances are—that sort of thing. It all gives us a better idea of how much we can negotiate with them.”

  Gorton sniffed distastefully. “You’re saying I should just sit on my hands and do nothing?” he asked. “While these ragheads dictate terms to me. Is that it?”

  “We can use the time, Mr. President,” NSA Director Tildeman replied. “Colonel Maloney can get his team to the site. Plus, if we find the terrorists are aligned to any nationa
l group, we can start diplomatic initiatives to put pressure on them.”

  Gorton grunted in reply. The suggested course of action suited him, but he wasn’t going to let this group know that. He looked up in annoyance as a new voice spoke.

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Truscott Emery said in his even, well modulated tones, “there’s no evidence so far to suggest that this group is aligned to any of the Middle Eastern States.” Emery had noted the president’s reference to “ragheads.”

  The president leaned back in his high-backed chair and looked appraisingly at the Harvard man. “You think maybe it’s the Irish doing this? Or maybe the Canadians? They haven’t been too happy with us lately,” he asked sarcastically.

  Emery smiled pleasantly and made a deprecating gesture. “No, sir. I’m just saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Odds are, of course, that this will turn out to be an Arab-based group. God knows we’ve made ourselves enough enemies in that part of the world.”

  “As I said,” Gorton said, dismissing the other man. “Do we have a hostage list yet?” he asked.

  Linus Benjamin nodded. “It’s being finalized now. The hotel chain will be sending it through to us in an hour or two. They’ve got a few names left to check on,” he said.

  Gorton grunted, a noncommittal sound. He glanced up at Chief of Staff Pohlsen.

  “I want to see that as soon as we have it,” he said.

  Pohlsen nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Gorton glanced at his chief of staff and made an almost imperceptible gesture for the meeting to be wound up.

  “Very well gentlemen—and Ms. Haddenrich—we’ll continue to monitor the situation. Colonel, you’ll make preparations to get your team out to the site. I assume the RRTF has priority travel, General Barrett?”

  Barrett nodded. “The team has its own dedicated transport, sir,” he replied.

  “Fine,” Pohlsen went on. “And Director Benjamin, you’ll send me the hostage list as soon as you have it?”

  Benjamin nodded agreement and Pohlsen closed his notebook with a decisive snap. “So in the meantime, we make all efforts to find out what, or who, is behind this situation. Let’s wrap it up for now and we’ll reconvene tomorrow at…”

  The president was already rising from his chair. The others round the table began to rise too—all except Truscott Emery. The round-faced academic remained seated, a half smile on his face as he studied the briefing paper.

  “Does the actual ransom amount strike anyone as unusual?” he asked mildly. The movement around the table stopped. “I mean,” he continued, “why nine point seven million? Why not nine point five? Or just nine million?”

  There was a moment’s silence as all eyes fell on him. He was frowning slightly at the paper, still with the half smile. Benjamin had seen that strange combination of expressions before. It usually meant that Truscott’s mind was working full-time.

  “Why not ten million?” said the president in a dismissive tone. “Does it really matter? Maybe nine point seven works out to an exact figure in durum or rupia or whatever goddamn currency they think in. The important point is, they want a shitload of dollars and we have to decide whether we’re going to give it to them or not.”

  Emery nodded once or twice, then turned to meet the president’s gaze. It was a pity, he reflected, that Gorton combined such a high level of stupidity with his lifelong defensive posture. It made him a much more difficult man to advise and assist.

  “The amount might be significant, Mr. President,” he said pleasantly, letting no hint of his disdain for the man show in his voice, “if someone were trying to send us a message.”

  President Gorton let go a short, harsh bark of laughter. “Someone’s sending us a message, right enough,” he replied, “and it’s this: We’ve got your people. You’ll get ’em back when we get your money. That’s all there is to it.”

  He shook his head and turned away. The others rose from their chairs as he left the room. Only Truscott Emery remained sitting, still staring thoughtfully at the figure on the paper before him.

  TWENTY

  CANYON LODGE

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1810 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SATURDAY, DAY 1

  Tina Bowden opened the fourth can of stew and dumped it into the enormous pot she’d set on the gas burner. She glanced into the pan. Although she knew there must be more than a quart of stew in there already, the thick brown liquid barely seemed to cover the bottom of the pan.

  Commercial kitchens like this always proved a daunting prospect to the security officer. Everything was built on an enormous scale, as if you’d somehow stumbled into a giant’s kitchen. The four cans of Mrs. Blackwell’s Canned Mulligan Stew had been in the ready-use pantry. She could see she was going to need more to feed the forty-odd hostages, but she didn’t know how many or where to find them.

  “Ralph!” she called across the room to where the chef was just searing the first of the chicken breasts on a stainless steel griddle. He glanced up at her. She jerked a thumb at the four empty cans on the bench in front of her.

  “How many of these will I need?” she said.

  He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “Maybe ten, twelve more,” he told her and, as she glanced around the kitchen to see where she might find them, he forestalled her next question.

  “They’re in the big pantry,” he told her, “on the canned goods shelves in back.”

  As he spoke, he flipped the browned chicken. The seared aroma of the marinade, rich with tarragon, filled the room. Tina’s mouth watered and she glanced disparagingly down at the amorphous brown mass that was beginning to bubble slowly in the pan.

  “Where the hell do we serve this crap?” she asked him. After all, the Canyon Lodge had a reputation for fine dining that didn’t seem to gel with Mrs. Blackwell’s Canned Mulligan Stew. Ralph grinned easily at her. She noticed that he was more relaxed now that he was back in his familiar environment.

  “On the mountain,” he told her. “We serve it in a bread bowl and the skiers love it.”

  She nodded her understanding and started toward the pantry door. The armed man who had accompanied them to the kitchen stood up from where he had been leaning against a bench, thumbing through a magazine. He moved to bar her way, his eyes asking a question.

  “Pantry,” she said, indicating the door to him. He glanced at it, then at her, and nodded permission. He’d had a quick look inside the pantry when they’d first reached the kitchen. It was nothing more than a giant storeroom with only one entrance. He knew the knives were kept on a rack near the chef’s work position. He’d already removed all but one, leaving that for Ralph to use as he prepared the meal.

  Oddly, Tina thought, he’d allowed the chef to keep the biggest and, presumably, the most dangerous, of the knives. Then she’d realized the logic behind the action. All of Ralph’s knives were kept honed to a razor-sharp edge. Any one of them, even the smallest, would be a dangerous weapon. But the biggest one, with a nine-inch heavy blade, would be the hardest to conceal.

  Tina had her hand on the pantry door handle when Ralph’s voice stopped her.

  “Get me a bag of frozen French fries, will you? In the freezer over to the left.”

  She waved an acknowledgment and let herself into the room. The door, on an automatic arm, swung closed behind her.

  The three rows of shelves stretched away on either side. It was like being in a small supermarket, except for the lack of colored labels. It was cooler in here than in the kitchen. She walked along the first row of shelves, heading for the rear of the room where Ralph had said the canned goods were kept. Then she stopped. Something had struck her as out of place—but what?

  Frowning, she looked around, then saw it. She was in the narrow aisle between the first and second row of shelves. The first row was attached to the wall adjoining the kitchen, the second and third were freestanding, with the freezers and refrigerators beyond another aisle behind the third row. On the shel
f before her, the second row, a piece of bread, topped with a slice of packaged cheese, was resting among the bottles of chili and barbecue sauces. That in itself was strange enough. What made it considerably more so was the fact that one perfectly formed bite had been taken from it. A semicircular piece was missing, and teeth marks were distinctly visible in the cheese.

  She touched the bread with one forefinger. It was soft. It had been freshly cut from a loaf—sometime in the last hour or so. Tina felt her pulse quicken as she glanced along the line of packed shelves. There was somebody in here, she thought. Or there had been, quite recently. Logic said that the most likely explanation was that one of the guards had come in to help himself to a quick snack. But if that were the case, why had he taken one bite and then left?

  There was no sound in the room but the steady hum of the refrigerator motors from the left end of the aisle. She held her breath, listening for a sound… anything… Nothing. She could hear her own pulse, it seemed, beating against her temples.

  She turned slowly, looking back along the rows of cans, packs and bottles ranged along the shelves. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She could feel the presence of someone else in the room—could sense eyes upon her, watching her, waiting for her next move…

  She shook her head angrily. One cheese sandwich and she was giving herself ESP, she thought. She turned back to the shelf, stooping slightly to reach for the slice of bread and cheese, looking through to the other side of the shelf as she did.

  And saw eyes there, staring at her.

  Startled, she jerked back, away from them, stumbling and colliding with the facing shelf, catching at it to keep from falling and sending a row of canned pickles tumbling, rolling and thudding to the pantry floor. At the same time, an involuntary cry escaped her lips. There was a scuffle of movement from the other side of the shelves and suddenly she became aware of a face, a finger raised to the lips, and the head shaking in a negative gesture. Now she could make out a shape on the other side—a figure crouched there with his face level with the lower shelf, so that, from her half-crouched position, she recognized him.