“You folks all right?” the driver asked after ushering him inside.
“Just cold and tired.”
“Where’s your vehicle? Anybody in it?”
“We were in a cabin on the rim. Hiked down. Do you have a phone I can use?”
The driver handed Alex a phone. “Summit Texaco’s about seven miles. I was just talking with ‘em on the radio.” He put the snowplow into gear. “Road’s clear behind us, so whoever you’re calling shouldn’t have any trouble picking you up.”
Frederick seemed to have recovered from his outrage during their trek. Alex cuddled the little boy in his lap with one hand while using his other to punch numbers on the phone to contact Silver Hill. Flanagan came on the line, and Alex gave a bare-bones outline of events.
“Great job, Bryson,” the supervisor said. “Don’t talk to anyone. Koenig’s people will decide how to break this to the media and the cops.”
The snowplow operator had let the vehicle slow to a crawl. Mouth open, he shifted his eyes repeatedly between the road and his passengers. “That’s the Koenig boy?” he said when Alex flipped the phone shut and handed it back.
“In the flesh.” Alex shifted Frederick so he faced the snowplow operator. “Say hello to the richest kid in the country.”
* * *
Silver Hill’s blue-and-silver helicopter met them in Summit Texaco’s parking lot. During the flight to Silver Hill with Frederick in his lap, Alex tried to concentrate on Pia’s lies, on the stolen cell phone, and on her attempt to brain him with a skillet. His mind returned doggedly to her concern for Frederick’s comfort and safety, to her determination in lugging the boy to the cabin despite obvious exhaustion. His last thought before the helicopter settled on the landing pad at the resort was the panic, the concern in her voice upon their first meeting, when she pleaded, “Don’t hurt my baby!”
Chapter 8
At twilight, Theo Faust called off the search for Pia and Frederick. With all tracks leading from the wrecked limousine obliterated by back-to-back storms, the search team had set up a pattern of expanding squares around the vehicle. By sunset, they had covered the entire area within which Pia, lugging Frederick, could have walked before the storm hit. She had fallen into a ravine or collapsed from cold and exhaustion, Faust decided. Either way, the bodies were snowed under and would not be recovered until spring thaw, if ever.
Dealing with Pia’s certain death was bad enough. He dreaded having to tell Dominga Koenig that he couldn’t find Frederick’s body as proof that the rival for her husband’s fortune was dead. How was he going to—
A phone call interrupted his brooding. Flanagan, the obsequious redhead who supervised local security, came on the line.
“We found them, Mr. Faust. Seems one of my boys picked ‘em up and sheltered them.”
“Sheltered? You mean they’re okay?”
“The kid is, sir. My guy hiked out with him. A chopper’s on its way to get them.”
“Just the kid?” Faust bristled at the thought that he’d lost Pia and still had to deal with Frederick. “What happened to the girl?”
“She put up a fight, got banged around pretty good. My guy left her hogtied in a cabin up on Black Oak Ridge.”
She was alive? To give his emotions a chance to adjust, Faust took two deep breaths, holding each for a count of three. He had reconciled himself to her death when Dominga decided they should have an “accident” on the road to Silver Hill. Now, he could figure a way to get rid of the kid without losing her.
“When Mr. Koenig’s people release a statement,” he cautioned Flanagan, “news hounds will be on us like flies on garbage. Remember, no comments from anybody. Not even to acknowledge the facts. Get back to me when the boy’s helicopter is inbound.” He clicked off and phoned his boss.
“Good job, Theo,” Koenig said when Faust told him the search had borne fruit. “See that the child gets whatever medical attention he needs. Arrange a room for him at the lodge with a nurse and a bodyguard.”
“What about the girl?”
“Keep her away from the authorities and the press, and ship her back to Lima. She is of no further use to me.”
Long after the phone call ended, Koenig’s answer resonated in Faust’s mind. The old man probably knew about his interest in Pia. Had that closing comment— “She is of no further use to me” —been an invitation to take charge of her once more?
Yes, he decided after thinking about it, that was exactly what Koenig intended. He had in effect made a gift of her. A reward for a job well done.
Quite a difference from the Army. Faust’s relationship with military brass had been rocky from the time he earned his commission. In contrast, the stars seemed to have been perfectly aligned when he met Koenig. Conveniently, the man who introduced them—a Variant Corporation security lieutenant on leave while pulling an Army hitch—had gotten zapped in the same battle that cost Faust enough mobility in his lower leg to derail his career. He accepted a pension for partial disability and stepped into the vacant slot at Variant Corporation.
Then came the labor strife on that pipeline project, Dominga Koenig’s idea to arm rebel stragglers and pay them to obliterate the striking workers, and her decision to make Faust her “go-to” guy—although she sometimes teasingly referred to him as her boy. He handled that pretty much the way he had handled growing up in the wrong part of town and the way he had survived in the Army: Always be respectful but suspicious of people in authority. Assume they never have your best interests at heart. Understand that you are being used, and seek to use them in return.
Meanwhile, he had a lifestyle he had never dreamed of in Waycross or even during his Army years. And he had his own private army in the form of Shining Path remnants hiding in Peru’s nearly trackless backcountry. They had proven useful several times since he employed them to solve Koenig’s pipeline labor problem. And they had grown eager for more action, hungry for the cash and equipment it brought. They looked to Faust for guidance as well as logistics.
After this Colorado trip, with the technology he was procuring for them, they would become as formidable a fighting force as they had been in the 1980s, before American training and equipment enabled the Peruvian military to decimate the rebels’ ranks and drive the survivors into jungle and mountain hideaways. They wouldn’t be strong enough to take over the country, but they could dominate Ancash and La Libertad provinces, where Peru’s rare-earth minerals were located, and that was all he needed.
Dominga Koenig’s scheming, her access to her husband’s wealth and connections, had made it possible, but Faust was putting the pieces together. And he would—
His phone’s buzz pulled him from his musing.
It was Flanagan. The resort’s security honcho said a helicopter was inbound with Frederick on board.
“Send a van to the landing pad with a bodyguard and a nurse,” Faust instructed. “Also, send a van for me. And that guy you recently hired, Alex Bryson, send a helo to pick him up.”
“Bryson, sir? You want to see him?”
“He works for you because I put him on the payroll. Bring him in.”
“He’s the one who caught the kidnapper. He’s on the inbound chopper.”
Fresh elation flooded Faust as he waited for his ride to the helicopter landing pad. Dominga would be pissed when she learned the kid was still alive, but they had some time in which to wrap up that mission. Meanwhile, he’d win points with her husband for salvaging his “project.” He’d have Pia back, and he was about to be reunited with the angst-ridden soldier he took under his wing while commanding Special Forces in the Peruvian backcountry. He had become a surrogate big brother to Bryson, and the young soldier repaid him by saving his life when Faust caught a piece of shrapnel in that final, furious firefight with guerrillas. In Lima, Faust had a first-class job for his protégé. It would be great to have his only real friend under his wing once more.
Chapter 9
Evening had settled over Silver Hill by the
time the helicopter deposited Alex and Frederick at the resort. Two vehicles waited by the landing pad: a gray shuttle van and a black Chevrolet Tahoe that the resort used for hauling VIPs. When Alex stepped out of the helicopter cuddling Frederick, who had cried and fretted throughout the noisy, vibrating ride, a middle-aged woman in a white uniform emerged from the shuttle van with her arms extended. “Frederick,” she cooed. “Come here, sweetie.”
Frederick wrapped both arms around Alex’s neck. The woman tugged. Frederick whined and clung tighter.
Alex gently separated the clasping little fingers and pulled the tense arms from his neck. “You have to go, tiger. She’ll take you to your mama. Everything will be all right.”
Frederick’s whine became a howl. His terror-tinged screams were muffled when the woman settled with him in the shuttle van, but they remained audible until the gray vehicle pulled away. The sound twisted Alex’s gut as he watched the van ease its way up the ice-crusted slope to Silver Hill.
A voice from the past intruded on his misery: “Sergeant Bryson, I presume.” It came from behind him, but it echoed over the months of his campaigning across Peru’s mountains with his Special Forces team.
He spun around. “Captain Faust!”
“Memory like an elephant.” Faust grinned and extended his hand. “You’re looking great.”
Alex gripped his ex-commander’s hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“We’re in civvies now, so let’s can the sir crap. How’s the job going?”
“It pays the rent.” A couple of inches shorter than Alex and six years older, Faust looked pretty much as he had when they first met. Alex had thought then that the captain’s narrow face, icy-blue eyes, and military-short, blond hair would make him an ideal photographer’s model for an Alpine resort or a Nordic sports-equipment manufacturer. “Thanks for setting it up.”
“You deserve it. The Army gave you a raw deal.”
“I thought you were in Lima.”
“I came north to ramrod Koenig’s security team. And to take you back with me.”
Alex’s mind raced to catch up. “You want me to go to Lima?”
“Got a crackerjack gig for you down there. Your minimum wage days are over.” Faust punched Alex’s shoulder playfully. “You’ve salvaged Koenig’s pet project. That’ll have him eating out of your hand.” His grin widened. “Let’s go talk to the old boy.”
Alex stumbled mentally. Frederick was a project? “You need to send someone to pick up the kidnapper. There’s no heat in the cabin, and she isn’t dressed for the cold.”
A terse nod. “Have to handle diplomacy first.” Pressure from Faust’s hand on his shoulder gave Alex a firm sense that he should head for the flight operations building, a short walk through the snow from the helicopter landing pad. Faust borrowed the supervisor’s office, telephoned his boss, and put the phone on speaker.
“We have Frederick,” he said when Koenig came on the line. “The resort doctor will look him over, but he appears to be in good health. Standing beside me is Alex Bryson, the guy who captured the girl and brought Frederick in.”
“Good work, young man,” Koenig said in British-accented and elegantly modulated English. “Theo, contact the household staff in Lima, have them clean out the girl’s quarters and dispose of her belongings.” A click on the line signaled the end of the connection.
Faust rested a hand on Alex’s shoulder as they walked out of the office and into the operations ready room. “The helo’s being refueled,” he said. “You’ll need to show the pilot where you left Pia. Meanwhile, they’re setting up a room for you at the lodge. We’ll get together tomorrow for drinks and dinner. Let’s make it eight o’clock.” A rough slap on Alex’s back, and Faust left the operations building.
Alex found a coffee urn. Steaming cup in hand, he settled onto a couch with his feet propped on a battered, cigarette-burned coffee table to wait for the helicopter to be made ready. He picked up a day-old copy of the Denver Post and read a front-page account of Frederick’s disappearance. The baby and his nanny, accompanied by a driver and a bodyguard, had been en route to Silver Hill Ski Resort. According to the bodyguard, another vehicle rear-ended their limousine. They spun off the road, slid sideways down a slope, and rammed a grove of cedars head-on. He bumped his head and blacked out. When he came to he found the driver dead, Frederick and the nanny gone. Blowing snow had obliterated all footprints and tire tracks. The reporter speculated that the nanny had cohorts in the trailing vehicle, that they took the Koenig boy while the bodyguard was unconscious.
Alex had been wrestling with fresh remorse over leaving Pia trussed in the snow-bound cabin. The article helped him regain his perspective. Whatever happened, it served her right. She’d betrayed the Koenig family’s trust and endangered Frederick. And she had swung that cast-iron skillet with deadly intent. She would probably have killed Frederick, too.
No, he couldn’t buy that. She was a kidnapper, that much was clear. And she’d certainly tried to do him in. But the way she’d been with Frederick, he couldn’t believe she would deliberately hurt the kid.
But she tried to leave the cabin when they heard the TV newscast about the kidnapping. Would she have done that if it wasn’t true?
Suppose she had claimed the report was a mistake, a mix-up? Would he have believed her? He sipped his coffee and stared at the newspaper. Without the fight, maybe he would have trussed her more gently, but he would nevertheless have hogtied her.
He tossed the paper aside and refilled his cup. On his way back to the couch, he flipped on a television. Half asleep, he barely heard a regional newscast until the camera focused on a stylishly dressed woman with blond hair pulled severely back. The announcer identified her as Frederick Koenig’s mother.
Alex sat up straight and tried to read her expression. Boredom, he decided.
“I am so glad our baby is safe,” she said. Her Spanish accent was pronounced, her voice flat. She could have been reading from a script. “We are grateful to the authorities for their effort. Our love goes out to the American people for their outpouring of sympathy during this crisis.”
Alex stared at the screen as the camera focused back on the newscaster. What kind of mother would react so blandly to her child’s rescue?
“So ends the grand caper that wasn’t,” the newscaster said. “The saga that mobilized every lawman in Colorado and virtually shut down Denver International Airport ends not with a bang, but a whimper. The culprit, thought to be a kidnapper, proved to be nothing more sinister than a hit-and-run incident and a Rocky Mountain snowstorm. Cold and hungry but unharmed, little Frederick Koenig and his nanny were found in a cabin not far from their disabled limousine and are now winging their way home to Lima. While her husband resumes planning the fate of Silver Hill Ski Resort and the vast acreage of the Colorado Land and Cattle Company, Mrs. Koenig is doing what celebrity gossips claim she has done every day during her family’s visit: she’s going shopping.”
No kidnapping? Frederick and Pia on their way home? What the hell was going on? Alex stared at the television while a pitchman for the Rocky Mountain Appliance Emporium screamed that record cold weather was ruining business. “Washers and dryers by the truckload, and they’ve got to go. Instant credit and cash back. No reasonable offer refused.”
“Let’s go, Bryson,” someone called from the doorway. It was the Silver Hill security man who had shown him around the ski resort’s minuscule village when he first signed on. In a mental fog, Alex followed the man to the helicopter landing pad. Neither of the two other helicopter passengers wore the silvery-gray jumpsuit and parka that made up the Silver Hill security force’s uniform. They were not people Alex had seen before. One pointed to the empty copilot’s seat. “Guide us in, ace. That’s all you have to do.”
Alex strapped himself into the seat, slipped on a headset, and keyed the intercom. “Run due south to the Warrior River,” he told the pilot. “Then west along the southern rim. I’ll let you know when
I spot the cabin.”
The pilot gave him a thumbs-up, and the helicopter lifted off. Alex stared out the windshield, still trying to make sense of what he had heard on the TV and what Koenig had said to Faust on the telephone. With Frederick safe, Koenig seemed to have lost interest in Pia. He must have given the media a whitewash story to smooth over the facts—whatever they were.
Twelve minutes after takeoff, the cabin came into view in bright moonlight. No smoke visible from the chimney. How long ago had the log Alex left in the cabin’s fireplace been consumed or gone out? A vision of Pia’s body on the couch, as stiff as a side of beef in a frozen-meat locker, made acid boil in his stomach.
The helicopter settled in the snow. The engine wound down, the rotor’s clatter died. “Where’d you stash her?” asked the man who had directed Alex to the copilot seat.
The Descent From Truth Page 7
