02 Avalanche Pass (17 page)

“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 national 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.

T
ina 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 shelf 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.

“Jesse?” she said. “What the hell are you…”

She stopped abruptly as the door to the kitchen opened halfway and the guard peered in suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” he demanded and she gestured weakly to the scattered cans on the floor.

“I… dropped these… that’s all,” she told him, feeling that her voice was unsteady and hoping that it was only in her imagination. She was conscious of the dark shape on the other side of the shelf opposite and couldn’t believe the guard hadn’t noticed it. He glanced down, saw the cans—the suspicion instantly replaced by disinterest.

“Okay,” he said. “Get on with it.” He withdrew from the doorway and the hydraulic-dampened closer allowed it to click shut once more.

Tina stood upright and drew a deep, shuddering breath of relief. She moved forward, closer to the shelf, and said in a low voice: “Jesse? How the hell did you get here? What are you doing?”

He gestured to her now to come around to the end of the row, glancing toward the door as he did so. She got the message. If he came to her, he’d be visible if the guard took it into his mind to check on her once more. She nodded and they both moved to the end of the row, the best point of concealment from any observer coming through the door.

“I was out skiing,” he explained, “and I heard gunfire. Now tell me, what the hell has happened?”

She leaned against the end of the row, suddenly feeling exhausted, and shook her head hopelessly. “Armed men,” she told him. “They’ve taken over the hotel. They’re holding the guests and half a dozen of the staff hostage.”

He whistled softly through his teeth at the news. “How many of them?” he asked.

“Maybe twenty. They’ve all got handguns and automatic weapons.”

She glanced toward the door. “I’d better start collecting the stuff I came in here for. That guy could come looking for me again any minute.”

He nodded agreement and they moved to the back row of shelves where she found the extra cans of beef stew that she’d originally come for. He began helping her, stacking them into an empty carton.

“What was the shooting this afternoon?” he asked. She shook her head, the memory still raw.

“They killed one of the staff when she wouldn’t get on the bus,” she replied.

Jesse nodded. “I figured that’s what it was. I saw the body when I came in. But she’s the only casualty so far?” he asked.

She looked at him in horror as she realized he had no idea of what Kormann and his men had done. “Oh God, no,” she whispered. “The bus that went out? It had maybe sixty of our people on it. He… detonated a charge in the mountains and buried them under an avalanche. Over fifty people.”

She saw the sudden lance of pain in his eyes. He’d seen the bus leaving and figured that the people on board were safe. Then he remembered that series of dull explosions he’d heard some minutes later.

“Jesus,” he said quietly. “Who are these people? Are they some kind of fanatics?”

She paused. “I don’t think so. And they say they’re not political,” she replied. “They’re too”—she searched for the right word, then found it—“professional, I guess. Their leader is a guy called Kormann. He’s very cold and very smart. They’ve got us in the third floor gymnasium rooms. He claims they’ve got more explosives on the mountain behind us and if there’s any attempt at rescue, he’ll bring the whole thing down on top of us.”

The tall deputy hesitated, thinking over what she’d said. She could see her own confusion and uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. “You got any idea what they want?” he asked her and she shook her head.

“They said it’s all about money, pure and simple. Ransom, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Jesse replied. There was silence for several moments as they looked at each other. Then Tina remembered the other item she had to take back.