02 Avalanche Pass Page 17

  “Okay. Point taken. Go ahead,” he said. Emery met his gaze and nodded once or twice. Then he resumed his narrative.

  “The decision was taken to destroy Estevez’s stockpile. He had his mountain headquarters protected by radar and surface to air missiles so the F-117 was the logical choice for the job. A two-man special forces team was parachuted into the area. They didn’t need to penetrate his perimeter at all. They simply occupied an adjoining hilltop and acted as designators for the Nighthawk.”

  Barrett ran his hand through his close-cropped hair.

  “We’re talking Colombia, right? That means the F-117, if it had launched from Florida, must have crossed into the airspace of at least three countries?”

  “Exactly, General. As I said, that’s why the operation was so perfectly suited to the Nighthawk. It simply flew through borders as if they didn’t exist. As if it didn’t exist, in fact. And to all intents and purposes, it didn’t.”

  Barrett nodded understanding. He was pragmatic enough to accept that violating another country’s airspace was a fair practice—so long as you didn’t get caught doing it. Emery continued.

  “Once the ground team targeted the warehouse with a laser, it was a simple matter for the F-117 to release two laser-guided bombs. The first was a standard five-hundred pound explosive device. The second, following a few seconds later, was a napalm bomb. Bomb number one opened up the roof of the warehouse. Bomb number two fried the cocaine stored there. It took less than a minute to put Estevez out of business.”

  “I should imagine the Medellin cartel were delighted,” Tildeman said heavily.

  Emery nodded agreement. “Of course they were. But from our point of view, at least we continued to face the devil we knew—not some newcomer who might provide us with some unpleasant surprises down the track. We sent a message to Estevez and to anyone else who might plan to follow his example: Don’t consider it. No matter where you are or how big or well protected you may be, we can reach you and put you out of business.”

  Emery had leaned forward again as he told his story. Now he sat back, looking around at the assembled faces, waiting for the obvious question. As he had expected, it came from Haddenrich.

  “Professor,” she said slowly. “You said the ransom amount was significant—nine point seven million dollars. Where’s the connection?”

  Emery smiled. “It was the odd amount that first set me looking. Nine point seven million dollars. As the president said, why not nine point five? Or ten million? It seemed such a strange amount. So we began a search to see if anything turned up a similar figure.” He nodded his thanks to the FBI director. “Director Benjamin was kind enough to lend me some staff and facilities. I even considered the president’s rather simplistic suggestion that it might be a figure converted from a round number in some other currency, but nothing matched.”

  Several people around the table, conscious of the ever-present recorders, winced at the phrase “the president’s simplistic suggestion” but Emery seemed not to notice.

  “What we found, eventually, was Operation Powderburn. Estevez had ten million dollars’ worth of cocaine in the storehouse. But a small proportion had been moved to a second room. It was protected from the initial blast and from the napalm. Our Intelligence told us later that he was able to recover a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine. Three hundred thousand, to be precise.”

  “Leaving a loss of nine point seven million,” Linus Benjamin said softly.

  “Exactly.” Emery smiled at him. He was always delighted when other people reached the same conclusion he had.

  “So you’re telling us that because we burned his cocaine stockpile in 1993, Estevez is behind this attempt to extort money from us?” Benjamin asked. Emery shrugged.

  “It’s a theory, Director Benjamin, nothing more, nothing less. I’m saying it’s a possibility, that’s all.”

  “But why not go for the street value he lost—fifty million dollars?” Tildeman asked, and the professor inclined his head thoughtfully.

  “Aaah, that’s the whole point, you see. We set out to send a message to Estevez and his like. Now he’s doing the same thing right back.”

  “You mean he wants us to know it’s him?” Haddenrich asked and Emery shook his head.

  “That’s the beauty of it. This way we’ll know it’s him but we’ll never be able to prove it. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, the Arabs—Al Qaeda, Hezbollah or one of the other militant groups—will be behind this. We could never convince them that it’s a grubby Colombian drug baron.”

  Morris Tildeman shook his head wearily. It was a bizarre idea, he thought. But his years in public office had taught him that bizarre ideas were all too often correct.

  “I still think it’s odd that he didn’t ask for the full amount,” he said.

  Haddenrich shook her head in disagreement. “If Professor Truscott is right, the amount of nine point seven million is significant. Fifty million is a round sum—we might never see the connection.”

  “So who cares about the connection? Fifty million is a lot of money.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want his money back,” she said. “Maybe he wants revenge. And he wants us to know he’s taking it.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CANYON LODGE

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1205 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SUNDAY, DAY 2

  Tina Bowden shoved the kitchen door open and reached to the side to turn on the rows of overhead lights. As the fluorescents flickered to life, she glanced quickly at the big rinsing sink and felt her pulse rate increase slightly. The two coffee mugs that she’d left there that morning after preparing the breakfast were turned upside down.

  Casually, she walked past them and turned them right side up again. It was an unimportant movement and the armed guard who had accompanied them took no notice. She thought that for once, the normally efficient Mr. Kormann had made a small mistake—small but significant. It seemed logical to assign the same guard to her and Ralph each time they came to the kitchen to prepare a meal. But by doing so, Kormann had allowed a situation to develop where a familiar routine was established—and with familiarity came a certain lack of attention.

  This was the third time the same man had accompanied them. He was used to them now, accustomed to their moving around the kitchen, fetching ingredients from the pantry. Now he was beginning to take such actions for granted, where a less familiar sentry might have questioned their every move and even supervised their trips to the storeroom.

  As usual, Ralph had been assigned to cook for the kidnappers, Kormann having ordered a meal of veal valdostana from the suggestions that Ralph had put forward. It seemed that the leader of the kidnappers enjoyed toying with the chef’s sensibilities, making him suggest meals and then insisting that, no matter what they might be, they should be accompanied by French fries. Tina had noticed that Kormann rarely ate more than one or two of the fries. He was fucking with Ralph’s mind, she knew, making sure the chef was constantly reminded of who was in charge.

  As Ralph started selecting veal fillets from the meat fridge, Tina caught the guard’s eye and motioned toward the storeroom door.

  “Need some cans of meatballs in sauce and some pasta,” she said and he nodded easily.

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The lights in here came on automatically with the kitchen lights and for a moment she looked around the brightly lit racks and shelves, seeing no sign of Jesse. Then he stepped out of the shadows beside the big upright freezer at the back of the room and he realized she had been waiting to make sure she was alone. She raised a hand in greeting and moved quickly to the back of the room.

  “Hi again,” he said quietly. “I got this from your room.”

  “This” was her .38 Special. He placed it on the shelf beside them, then put the carton of fifty slugs with it. She reached out and picked up the gun, feeling the custom grips conform instantly to her hand. For a moment or two, the temptation to
take it back into the gymnasium and empty all six chambers into Kormann’s sneering face was almost irresistible. Then she steadied herself and looked around for somewhere to conceal it. There was still the possibility that she and Ralph might be searched when they returned to the gym, she realized. Jesse read her thoughts and took the gun from her, wrapping it in Saran wrap and shoving it deep inside a large bin of rice. The box of slugs went the same way.

  “Best leave it here until you know you want to use it,” he said quietly and she nodded agreement. He’d obviously had time to think of a hiding place for the gun. She began to collect cans of meatballs in tomato sauce as they talked, knowing that her time was strictly limited.

  “What are you planning on doing now?” she asked.

  He hesitated for a second before answering, “I thought I’d try to make contact with the federal guys out where the road’s blocked,” he said. “Strangely enough, I kind of know the agent-in-charge. If I can keep him abreast of what’s going on in here it could give him an edge.”

  She nodded. Having an observer in the enemy’s camp could be a big advantage for the FBI negotiators. Any piece of information could be of value in this situation. Then she saw the doubt in Jesse’s eyes. “What’s the problem?” she asked and couldn’t help grinning to herself as she heard the words. Here they were, held in a hotel by twenty armed men, with explosives all around the surrounding hillsides, and she was asking “what’s the problem?”.

  Jesse saw the irony of the question too and for a moment there was an answering gleam of dry humor in his eyes, then he shrugged. “Can’t risk using the phone lines in here,” he said. “I was wondering if there might be another line in the terminal or over to the ski school that didn’t come through this switch?”

  He’d barely finished the question when she was shaking her head. “No use,” she said. “They took out the main phone line when they came in. From what I’ve heard, they laid their own line over the mountains and they’ve plugged into that.” A thought struck her. “How about a cell phone? There’s one in my bureau drawer?”

  “No use,” he replied. “I’ve got my own but we’re in a dead spot here.”

  He stopped, realizing she was shaking her head again.

  “Here, yes,” she said quickly. “But up on the mountain there’s coverage. At the top cable car station you’ve got a clear line of sight to an antenna halfway back to Salt Lake City.” She saw the protest rising in his eyes again and forestalled it. “I know. You can hardly go up in the cable car without being noticed. But the chairlifts should be working. The entire chairlift system is on an automatic time switch—they come on and off every day. You can ride the chairs up to Eagle Ridge, then hike around to the cable car station. It’s a hundred or so feet higher up, but it’s not impossible.”

  Jesse thought about it. It seemed possible. “It’s worth a try, I guess,” he said. “Is there anything else you’ve found out about these guys that I can pass on?”

  Tina chewed her lip thoughtfully. “The more I see of them, the more I’m sure they’re not terrorists,” she said finally. “They’re just in it for the ransom. I overheard their leader telling Senator Carling that as soon as the money was paid, he’d be back on Capitol Hill. There’s been no talk of any other conditions, any political prisoners they want released, any concessions to be made—you know the sort of thing that usually goes with a terrorist group. Just the money.”

  “So they don’t strike you as a bunch of crazies?” Jesse said and she shook her head.

  “Just the opposite. They’re so damn controlled and sure of themselves that it’s scary. Right from the start they said they were here for business reasons only—and I believe them.”

  She glanced toward the door, conscious that she had been here too long already. Jesse gestured for her to go. She grabbed up several packets of dried spaghetti noodles as she went and exited into the kitchen.

  Jesse watched her go, waited for a few minutes to be sure the guard hadn’t decided to check the storeroom, then started prowling through the shelves, looking for something to eat. He had the feeling it was going to be another long day.

  CANYON ROAD

  WASATCH COUNTY

  FIVE MILES FROM CANYON LODGE

  1540 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SUNDAY, DAY 2

  Agent-in-Charge Denton Colby stepped down from the humvee outside his command trailer. He nodded to the marine colonel who was behind the steering wheel.

  “Thanks for the tour, Colonel Maloney,” he said. “I can see your unit’s reputation isn’t exaggerated.”

  Marine Colonel Maloney had suggested that Colby inspect the RRTF encampment, talk to the men and assess their readiness. Colby had been impressed. The rapid response tactical force troops were intelligent, highly trained and dedicated. Most of their officers and senior noncoms carried combat decorations. Now, in response to Colby’s words, the colonel gave an informal salute, one forefinger raised to the peak of his fur-lined cap. “Just wanted to be sure you knew what you had behind you, Agent Colby,” he said. “Don’t want to look like I’m pushing. I know you’re the man in charge. But if you decide you need to use force, we’re ready. We’ll go on your call.”

  Colby said nothing for a moment, standing with his hands on his hips and looking toward the mountains, where a series of peaks blocked the Canyon Lodge from sight. Earlier that day, he’d sited a television camera on one of the peaks, dropping the crew off below the ridge line, and out of sight of the lodge, and leaving them to hike uphill for the last fifty feet. The camera, with a fifty-to-one digital zoom lens on it, was linked to several monitors in the camp, including one in Colby’s command trailer. It provided a constant surveillance picture of the hotel.

  “It may come to that, Colonel,” he said. “If so, I know you and your men will do everything you can to get it done quickly.”

  “Give me the word, sir, and once we’ve cranked our choppers, I can put fifty men on that roof inside five minutes.” The colonel spoke quietly, confidently. He wasn’t boasting. He was stating a fact. Colby nodded several times.

  “You’d lose quite a few of them on the way in, Colonel,” he said and the marine nodded, acknowledging the fact.

  “Every one of my men is a volunteer, sir,” he said. “Every one of them knew what sort of duty they were volunteering for. It’s our job to take casualties and make sure the hostages don’t. We all know that. We all accept it.”

  “And you’ll go in the lead ship?” Colby asked.

  Again, Maloney nodded. “That’s the way we train. That’s the way we’ll do it.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Colby replied. Then, hearing his name called, he looked around to the comms trailer parked on the shoulder of the road. One of his communications technicians was in the open doorway, calling to him and beckoning.

  “Looks like I’ve got a call. Maybe this time they’ll tell me what they really want.”

  So far, conversations with the hotel had been a series of frustrations. They had threatened the lives of the hostages and demanded the ransom. But they had steadfastly refused to begin to negotiate a handover method, threatening instead to open fire on any aircraft or vehicle that entered the valley surrounding the lodge. When Colby pointed out that he would need free passage for some kind of vehicle to deliver the money, they had angrily shouted that he was trying to trick them and hung up.

  Even though the behavior sounded irrational, Denton Colby was beginning to believe that it was totally intentional, a ploy being used to keep him off balance.

  He jogged now to the comms trailer and mounted the steel steps, dropping behind the desk where a gooseneck microphone was connected to the phone line.

  “This is Colby,” he said. “Who’s talking that end?”

  He’d spoken to two of the terrorists so far, never knowing which of them would make contact. One of them seemed to be totally irrational, ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation—real or imagined. The other
was calmer, but no more easy to deal with. When the voice answered, he recognized the calmer of the two.

  “This is me,” the voice said from the small speaker mounted over the desk. The slow-turning wheels of tape recorded every sound in the trailer.

  “It’d be a lot easier if I knew your name?” Colby suggested, for perhaps the tenth time. There was the usual short bark of laughter.

  “You do keep trying, don’t you, Agent Colby?” said the voice.

  Colby shrugged. Even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him, he felt body language helped the tone of voice in a negotiation.

  “Just a first name. It helps when we’re talking. After all, I’m willing to negotiate. I’ve told you that.”

  “You’ve told me. It’s just that when it comes down to it, you’re not willing to negotiate anything meaningful.” The voice was sarcastic.

  “I’m willing. You just won’t tell me how we can effect the handover.” He had to be careful here. If he sounded as if he were blaming the other man for the present impasse, he could easily break off communications. And a continuing dialogue, Colby knew, provided the best chance of survival for the hostages.

  “Figure it out, Colby. You’re a clever man.” Now there was a trace of suppressed anger in the disembodied voice and Colby backed off.

  “I’m trying. Believe me, I want to get this whole mess straightened out. I don’t want anybody hurt. Not the hostages. Not me or any of my men. Not you or any of your men.”

  “Sure. You’ll let us walk with the money, won’t you?”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes,” Colby said.

  “Christ, man, it sounds almost as if you believe it yourself. That was really smooth. I’m impressed.” The anger was back now, and rising, and Colby sensed that once again, a conversation with the kidnappers was going to end in sudden disconnection.

  “I do mean it. I’m telling you… look it’d be a lot easier if I had a name—even a first name…” he hesitated, waiting to see if there would be a reaction.