02 Avalanche Pass (2 page)

He leaned back from his screen and called to the adjoining room.

“Commandante! I’ve got something on radar!”

Just his luck, he thought gloomily, that the bad-tempered head of security was on duty this evening, and not one of his lieutenants. Odds were that this was a false alarm—a flock of birds or a glitch in the system.

The door to the other room opened and Alvarez entered, fastening his belt buckle. He was a big, fleshy man, a former police lieutenant, and the belt cut into him when he was sitting, dozing.

He scowled at the technician now, hunched over the radar screen again, his finger hovering over a point on the screen.

“What now?” Alvarez said, his ill temper at being disturbed all too obvious.

“A contact, sir,” Roberto told him. As the line of light swept over the point, he jabbed his waiting finger where the blip had appeared on the last two sweeps.

Nothing.

The beam swept onward, leaving a blank screen behind it.

“It was there!” he protested, sensing the security chief’s anger. The beam swept around again and again; there was no sign of an echo.

Disgusted, the security chief backhanded Roberto across the back of the head. His head jerked forward under the impact, and he cracked his eyebrow painfully against the hood of the radar scope.

“You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? I’ve warned you before.”

“No! I swear it was there! I saw it! It was…”

The room shook as a deafening explosion erupted across the clearing. Then the overpressure hit them and both men were hurled to
the floor. A few seconds later, a second explosion shattered the night. This time, it was accompanied by the lurid yellow glow of flames licking at the shattered warehouse.

Fifteen thousand feet above them, Stalker watched it all on TV, and smiled as he rolled the F-117 out of its orbit and headed for home.

“Showtime,” he said quietly.

THE PRESENT

J
esse was one of the last out of the cable car.

He cleared the wooden landing stage and dropped his battered head radials into the snow. They were several seasons old and they’d seen a lot of work. But they were old friends and he trusted them. Right now, trust was important, he thought. He stepped into them, feeling the satisfying clunks as the bindings engaged and locked onto his ski boots. Stamping them experimentally onto the snow a couple of times to make sure they were securely fastened, he skated a few steps to the edge of the drop.

Eleven thousand feet below, and seventeen miles away, he could make out the straight lines and grid-like layout of Salt Lake City, viewed through a notch in the sawtooth-shaped mountains. He shook his head. The inner anger that had been burning at him for the past few days forgotten for a few moments in the sheer beauty of the view before him: crystal-clear air, a sky so blue that it hurt the eye to look at it and line after line of marching, snow-covered mountains.

A hand touched his sleeve, drawing his attention away from the stunning landscape.

“You ready?”

Larry Allison, the instructor he’d hired for a two-hour session, was waiting patiently beside him. He was the antithesis of the stereotypical ski instructor: forty-one years old, he was of medium height compared to Jesse’s rangy six foot one, with a stocky build and the beginnings of a paunch beneath the blue and gold uniform
ski suit. His face was round and tanned, becoming startlingly white above the line of the woolen ski cap that covered a balding head. A few strands of his wispy blond hair escaped from under the cap. But for all that, he skied like an angel and was a good instructor as well. Jesse knew that the two didn’t always go together and he’d asked around before he’d selected Larry. The instructor nodded at the view, understanding Jesse’s distraction.

“Can never resist the temptation to look at her myself. We can wait a spell if you like.” He spoke with a slow, friendly Utah drawl. Jesse shook his head briefly.

“No. Let’s get going. I’m ready.”

The instructor studied him for a moment, unhurried and relaxed. “Well fine then,” he said. “We’ll head down to the turn-off and stop there.”

Jesse followed the direction indicated by the pointing ski pole.

“We’re not going down Drifter again?” he asked and Larry pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“Hell, no. Time for something a little harder.”

Jesse nodded assent and started off down the trail, skating a few steps to gain momentum, then falling into a relaxed, slumped posture as the skis picked up speed over the perfect snow. Larry watched him as he skied away. He was a good skier. Hell, he was way better than good. He had the totally relaxed and fluid movements of someone who’d grown up on skis. The instructor frowned. From what he’d seen of Jesse so far this morning, there was little he could teach him. There might be a few minor points of refinement he could help with—anyone could use a tune-up from time to time. But the tall, dark-haired man who’d engaged him at the ski school that morning was every bit as good a skier as he was himself.

He wondered about Jesse’s reasons. He’d been wondering about them ever since their first run down Drifter, a blue-black run that was moderately challenging and gave him plenty of time to assess a client’s capabilities. Larry always took a new client there first. He’d learned early in his career not to accept a customer’s assessment of his or her own ability. Most skiers wanted to be better than they were and a lot seemed to think that saying it made it so. Not Jesse,
however. He’d assessed himself as “tolerable” when Larry had asked. It had taken maybe twenty yards for Larry to see that he was dealing with an expert.

He shook off the contemplative mood and started after the tall figure. Jesse had reached the turn-off point and was waiting for him and Larry guessed he was waiting impatiently. Clients who shelled out one-eighty big ones an hour for private instruction tended to want their money’s worth. Leaving his thoughts hanging in the clear cold air behind him, he took off after his client.

As he’d anticipated, Jesse was moving his feet in impatient little shuffling steps when he reached him at the beginning of the first trail. Drifter curved to the right, snaking under the cable car and winding its way down the mountain. On their left was The Wall.

“Where to?” Jesse asked and Larry jerked his thumb at The Wall below them. Jesse looked and, for a second, Larry saw the quick flicker of apprehension cross his face and knew why he had been approached for this lesson. Jesse was scared of the steep, almost vertical ski run that dropped away. Maybe “scared” was too strong a word, he thought. But he was definitely nervous—more nervous than a skier of his obvious experience and ability should be.

“You can manage it,” he said quietly. “Just remember your basics… and take it a little easy.”

Jesse nodded several times, his eyes fixed on the steep wall of snow below them. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for the trees that framed the narrow, steep run, the rocks that he knew must lie hidden in the soft, inviting snow, just as they had that last time. He felt an electric thrill of pain jangle in his shin—a reminder of the agony that had been his constant companion throughout the previous summer. He licked his lips, noticing that the instructor was studying him intently.

“Problem?” Larry asked. He watched as Jesse hesitated, then shook his head.

“No,” he replied quietly. “Everything’s fine.”

Larry called, “Follow me,” and dropped off the edge of The Wall.

It was virtually sheer for the first twenty feet or so. Larry plummeted down, then gracefully poled and thrust into his first turn as
the gradient lessened, almost imperceptibly, and he felt the first hint of resistance under his skis. He let go a rebel yell of delight and began a series of short, high-speed turns, sending immense clouds of the light, air-filled powder snow exploding from his skis with each one. For a few moments, he forgot the client waiting at the top of The Wall, watching him disappear down the mountain. For just a brief period, he was free and filled with the swooping, indescribable joy of movement and speed that was as near to flying free as anything he’d ever felt in his life.

Then, reluctantly, a hundred yards down the slope, he broadsided to a halt and looked back up to the crest. The blue-clad figure was still there, stark against the brilliance of the sky behind him. Larry waved one pole above his head in an unmistakable signal.

There was a moment’s hesitation—a moment that spoke volumes. Then Jesse dropped off The Wall, following as close to the instructor’s pattern of turns as he could. Larry watched, eyes slitted against the glare, nodding to himself.

Not bad. A little tension there, but he’d kind of expected that. The frown returned momentarily as Jesse poled for his turn, slamming the stock into the light snow as if he had a grudge against the mountain.

“Too hard, boy,” Larry muttered aloud. Then he nodded approval again as he noted the correct knee action—the high, springing turn that brought both skis clear of the snow so they could rotate easily in free air. But the violence behind that pole plant had him worried. Too often, people used anger as a crutch against fear when skiing. It might work with a beginner but for someone of Jesse’s ability it was a retrograde step.

On his fourth turn, Jesse felt himself come down slightly out of balance. The wall of snow behind him seemed to brush his shoulder as he turned. His heart leapt into his mouth as he remembered the last time—the sudden loss of equilibrium and grace as the concealed rock bit into the soft base of his ski, stopping him as effectively as a trip rope would have. Then came the fall, the snow smothering him as he tumbled uncontrollably, then the blinding shock of agony in his leg as he slammed into the young pine. The memories were all
there in a rush—not sequentially, but all crowding for his attention at the same time. And, irresistibly, he leaned back—just for a fraction of a second.

On that steep, unforgiving slope, it was enough. The skis slid out from under him, losing their grip on the thin, powdery snow and he was over, rolling helplessly onto his right shoulder, tumbling in the sudden frigid cold.

He felt the icy shock of the snow close over his face as he tumbled uncontrollably. Then he was in the clear again, sailing through the air for a few moments before he came facedown into the snow again. Rolling, falling, rolling: going with it as he felt himself gradually losing momentum. Praying that this time there would be no tree. Telling himself that there was no point in trying to force it. He would slide and roll to a stop when the mountain felt it was ready to let him.

Finally, sensing that the slope was beginning to lessen, he rolled his legs under him, getting his skis downhill until they finally dragged the last few yards of speed off and left him flat on his back, staring up from the hole he’d punched in the snow at Larry’s grinning face.

“Well, that’s one way to get down.”

Jesse lay for a few moments, letting his breathing settle into a normal rhythm.

“I guess I zigged when I should have zagged,” he said finally, taking Larry’s proffered hand and dragging himself upright.

He was covered head to toe in the light, dry, clinging powder snow. He slapped at it, feeling the inevitable handful slide down the collar of his ski suit and melt instantly into freezing water.

“Anyone can fall on this steep and deep,” Larry said. “Don’t worry ’bout that. But there’s a technique problem. You’re attacking it too much and you can’t do that in this light stuff.”

Jesse removed his sunglasses and ran one gloved finger around the inside of the lenses to clear away the packed snow there as Larry continued. “Be a little subtle. You slam that pole into this stuff and it’s going to go all the way in. There’s hardly any resistance there to stop it. So straightaway, you’re putting yourself off balance.” He
hesitated, not sure whether he should say what was coming next. Then he shrugged, mentally, and went ahead anyway.

“But someone who skis like you, you should know that.”

He waited. And figured now that whatever problems Jesse had with his skiing, whatever it was that he was hoping Larry could fix, they weren’t physical. They had to do with fear. And the first step toward solving them might well be to get Jesse to admit to them.

But Jesse refused the overture, replacing the Bolles over his eyes, shutting out the piercing glare of the sun off the snow once more.

Larry gave a small shrug. He’d tried. All he could do now was discuss the mechanical side of things. He demonstrated Jesse’s mistake, slamming a pole into the deep, soft snow.

“Now, you do this on all that ice and boilerplate shit they got back east and you’ll maybe get away with it. But here, on Wasatch powder, you got to be subtle, okay?”

Jesse nodded.

“Otherwise,” the instructor continued, “this mountain’s going to say to you, ‘Sorry, my friend, but you ain’t going anywhere whiles you’re pounding those big holes in me.’ And then you’re gonna end up flat on your ass every time. Understand?”

He grinned easily but there was no response. The dark glasses successfully hid Jesse’s eyes, and his thoughts. He simply nodded that yes, he understood. Larry felt a small twinge of frustration. Of course he understood. He was teaching this boy to suck eggs here.

“Okay,” he said finally, falling back on the professional good humor that every good ski instructor has to have, “now let’s get”— he broke off and put a hand on Jesse’s arm—“Hold it a moment,” he said.

“What’s the pr—” Jesse began, but then his words were swallowed by a sudden, explosive whoomph from a point in the trees fifty yards below them. There was a momentary bright flash and Jesse threw up one arm in front of his face.

“Sorry ’bout that,” Larry drawled. “I didn’t know they were firing just yet.”

He pointed across the valley to the steep, snow-covered cliff face opposite.

“Keep your eye on that spot to the right of the cornice,” he said and, almost as he spoke, a white puff flew from the snow to be smothered instantly in a larger explosion of flame, smoke and more snow. The muffled thud of the explosion rolled across the valley to them a few seconds later, repeating and echoing as it rolled and bounced from the walls of the valley around them.