02 Avalanche Pass

by John Flanagan

  Eight times. Not directly, one after the other, because once he had fallen, there was no way to regain the summit of The Wall until he had skied down to the cable car station and ridden to the very top of the mountain once again. And each time he made that journey, he was mocked by the fact that, on the lesser slopes, he skied perfectly, rhythmically, gracefully, with all the instinctive, unthinking ability that had been ingrained into him since he was a small boy. It was a bitter reminder of what he had once been and what he could no longer be. Because now he knew that every time he ventured to the steep, challenging slopes that demanded the skill and courage of a true expert, he would fail.

  The sheer physical effort had exhausted him. On two occasions, he had lost a ski when the bindings, unable to resist the twisting force of his fall, had released, saving ankles and knees from damage. On one of those occasions, he had spent fifteen minutes, thigh deep on the sheer slope, struggling to maintain his position, searching deep beneath the soft powder to find the buried ski. It was tiring work. But as great as the physical exertion had been, the mental and emotional exhaustion was even greater and now he sat, back resting against the skis that he had rammed into the snow as far as their bindings, tasting the harsh smoke of the Chesterfield and the harsher flavor of failure. It was over, he told himself. He had come here to try to regain a lost part of himself.

  And he had failed.

  He gazed down dispassionately at the hotel. His rental car was in the underground parking lot, his suitcase locked in the trunk. It would take him ten minutes to ski down from here, change his ski boots for the soft pair of moccasins he had left out of his suitcase, and be on his way. Suddenly he was anxious to be gone, anxious to put this place and its memories of failure well behind him.

  He hauled himself up, dusting the dry snow from his pants, and heaved the skis clear of the snow, dropping them flat on the ground. He flicked the butt of the Chesterfield away, watching its glowing tip describe an arc until it fell, with a slight sizzling noise, into the snow, melting itself a small burrow before the moisture extinguished it. His boots were covered with the packed soft snow and he kicked one against the other to clear them, ensuring that the bindings wouldn’t jam when he tried to close them. Satisfied that the right boot was clear, he poised it above one ski.

  Then, distant but unmistakable, he heard the quick rattle of an automatic weapon.

  He froze. The sound was strangely muffled. A single shot initially, followed by a sustained burst. Muffled, but with a strangely echoing quality to the sound. Not a heavy weapon, he guessed. An assault rifle or submachine gun. A moment later, faintly through the thin, high-altitude air, he heard the sound of people’s voices. Screaming.

  His eyes narrowed with concentration as he tried to place the direction from which the sounds were coming. It seemed to him that they must issue from the hotel. There was no other possible source. Yet common sense told him that he wouldn’t hear shots and voices from inside the hotel. The same insulating qualities and thick walls that preserved the internal warmth of the building would muffle the sound of shots completely. But there was no trace of movement, no sign of people, outside the hotel.

  Which left only one possibility, one that explained the unusual quality he had remarked in the sounds—muffled yet echoing. The shots had to have come from the open-ended tunnel that formed the entrance to the hotel.

  His reasoning was confirmed when he heard another sound—the grinding sound of a heavy diesel engine starting and revving up. A truck or bus engine, he figured. And now that he remembered the underground entrance, an open-ended tunnel that would funnel the sound out into the open air, he knew he was right. Cars and buses bringing guests to Canyon Lodge could drive down a ramp to unload their passengers under cover, out of the weather. Guests then took the escalator to the first floor checkin while a second ramp provided an exit for the vehicles once they had unloaded. The bare concrete walls would create that echoing effect.

  Belatedly, he drew back into the shadow of the trees. Even now, binoculars could be scanning the mountain for a sign that someone had overheard the shooting. Strangely, as he looked down, he could see no sign of any hotel staff in any of the outdoor areas—the heated pool and spa or the terrace bar. He might have expected the sound of shots to bring people running from both those areas. But there was nothing. The hotel looked deserted. Jesse felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He’d been a cop too long to ignore that feeling. He thought now of the 1911 model Colt 45 automatic that was nestled between layers of clothes in his suitcase. To get to it, he’d have to go through the entrance tunnel—unless he made his way around to an alternative entrance, then took the elevator or service stairs down to the lower levels where the underground parking spaces were. As he thought of his gun, he realized he wasn’t going to look for the source of that automatic fire without it.

  Now the engine noise that had been throbbing regularly for the past few minutes altered. It rose slightly, then faded as the driver revved the engine and the transmission took the strain. As Jesse watched, the ancient shape of a yellow Snow Shuttle bus emerged slowly from the mouth of the exit tunnel and labored around the turning circle until it was headed down Canyon Road to Salt Lake City.

  Jesse frowned. In the time that he’d been here, he hadn’t once seen the Snow Shuttle bus come within a quarter mile of the Canyon Lodge. Its normal route took it along the main road behind the cable car terminal, well below the hotel.

  That made two breaks in the normal routine, he thought. And one of them, the sound of gunshots and screaming, was a pretty major variation. He could see no immediate link between the two events but experience told him that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. He watched as the bus seemed to be making hard going of the first shallow rise in the road. It must be heavy loaded, he thought, watching the spurts of black smoke erupting from the exhaust as the driver shifted down through the gears.

  No further sound came from the tunnel mouth. He considered the situation. Shots. Screaming. A heavily laden bus going way out of its normal route. Forget that for a moment and concentrate on the shots. Automatic weapon. Somewhere in the hotel. People screaming so people hurt, maybe killed. He shook his head sadly. The world was full of crazies. People were gunned down in schools and churches these days for no good reason at all. Why not a ski resort? The next question was, what could he do about it?

  The answer was nothing, until he got hold of his gun. And that meant skiing down to the hotel, across half a mile of open ground, while he was the only thing within sight that was moving. He didn’t like those odds. That was asking to be spotted and that was something he didn’t want—not while there was some crazy holed up in there with an M16 or something similar. But there had been no further shooting after the second burst. That, at least, was a good sign. The sort of massacres that had happened all too often in recent years were usually characterized by continuous shooting. Not one quick burst and then silence. As long as there was no further shooting, there was no urgent reason for him to go blundering into the hotel. He’d wait until after dark. Or until he heard more shots. Whichever came first.

  The engine note of the bus was fading as it reached the first bend in the road, taking it back to Salt Lake City. Jesse watched as the bright yellow, slow-moving vehicle rounded the bend and disappeared out of sight. It would reappear in three or four minutes’ time, he guessed, when the winding road would bring it back into view some three-quarters of a mile down the road.

  Jesse settled down in the snow again to watch. And to wait for darkness.

  TWELVE

  THE GYMNASIUM

  CANYON LODGE

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1623 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SATURDAY, DAY 1

  The first, uncomprehending shock had worn off. Senator Carling sat on a gym bench, Calvin Rockley close by. The other three members of their party were a few yards away, seated disconsolately on the hard nylon carpet that covered the floor of the gym.

 
; Glancing around, Carling estimated that there must be around forty hostages in the room. Their captors lounged easily against the walls around them. During a career on Capitol Hill, which included many meetings, both formal and informal, with three presidents, Carling had enjoyed ample opportunities to observe the behavior and demeanor of armed, highly trained troops. Now, his relatively experienced eye took stock of the men guarding them. He noted, with a growing sense of unease, that they seemed completely at home with their weapons, showing an air of easy familiarity with them.

  Studying the men, Carling came to the conclusion that his captors were highly trained, experienced and thoroughly professional. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad news.

  There seemed to be no common racial link between them. They were a disparate group. Some might have been Middle Eastern, or even southern European in parentage. There were several who were of fairer complexion, including two blonds, and he had already seen one black man among the group. Whether he was African–American or from some other background, Carling had no idea. He didn’t see any Asian-looking men among them. Maybe that was significent, maybe not.

  Through the picture window behind him, the precipitous, snow-laden wall of the canyon reared high overhead. By now, only the top third of the mountain was catching the light of the low-angled late afternoon sun.

  He sensed movement beside him and glanced to where Calvin Rockley had edged a little closer on the bench. The aircraft manufacturer leaned toward him and spoke in a low tone.

  “What do you think, Senator? Who are these guys?”

  His voice was barely above a whisper, yet Carling noticed that it drew the immediate attention of the closest of the guards—a slim, fair-haired young man with a look of wide-eyed innocence that was belied by the ugly, squat shape of the machine carbine held comfortably in the crook of his arm. The guard shifted his position slightly, so as to keep the senator and his companion directly under his gaze. At the same time, Carling noted, he didn’t neglect the rest of the sector assigned to him. Those wide, blue eyes continued to roam across the dispirited group in the gym, ready for instant action at any sign of rebellion.

  Not that there was much chance of that, the senator reflected bitterly. The surprise achieved by their captors had been absolute. As near as he could calculate, every guest left in the hotel had been swept up in their carefully laid net.

  Softly, his eyes on the guard, wary for any sign of aggression, Carling answered his companion. “Your guess is as good as mine, Cal. Some kind of terrorist group, most likely.”

  “Al Qaeda, maybe?” Rockley suggested. Carling shook his head. He’d relaxed a little now. After their first exchange, the guard seemed to have lost immediate interest in them. Obviously, there was no ban on talking among themselves.

  “They sure don’t look like it,” he replied. He inclined his head toward the guard, “That one looks like the original all-American boy. And I’d swear the guy on the desk when we came in was Brooklyn born and raised.”

  The guard had caught the slight head movement and their interest in him. He caught Carling’s gaze and glanced meaningfully—once—down to the machine gun. He shook his head slightly—a barely perceptible movement that nevertheless sent a clear message: Don’t start anything. We’re in charge here.

  Carling took the hint. He turned slightly so that he was no longer looking directly at the guard. Rockley had caught the interplay as well.

  “Whoever they are,” he said, “they sure seem to know their business.”

  The senator nodded slowly, several times. A slight frown creased his forehead.

  “Whatever that might be,” he said finally.

  CANYON LODGE

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1629 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SATURDAY, DAY 1

  Pallisani noticed the switchboard come back to life. He smiled thinly at the terrified operator still sitting near him, and flicked a switch on the board to answer.

  “Canyon,” he said briefly. In the headset earpiece, he heard the reply from five miles down the road.

  “The line’s reattached. You read me okay?”

  “Clear as a bell. Now get out of there.”

  He flicked the switch up to break the connection. The replacement line had been laid several days previously, bypassing a two-mile stretch of the road at Avalanche Pass. He’d hired the linesman who attached it through an intermediary. The technician had been fired by Bell Telephone several years before for illegal wire tapping. He was now twenty-thousand dollars richer and it was unlikely he’d go to the authorities when he found out what was going on here. Even if he did, there was nothing useful he could tell them.

  THIRTEEN

  THE LOBBY

  CANYON LODGE

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1637 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SATURDAY, DAY 1

  The African-American who had hijacked the shuttle bus was lounging comfortably on one of the sofas near the reception desk when Pallisani emerged from the office, dragging a still-distressed Jenny Callister behind him. The girl’s incessant sobbing was beginning to annoy him and he had things he had to get on with. Catching sight of his colleague, he called him across to the desk.

  “Carter! Over here!”

  Carter rose easily and sauntered over to the desk. He didn’t care much for Pallisani but he’d agreed, as they all had, that a rigid chain of command was essential for an operation of this scope.

  Pallisani jerked the girl’s arm and sent her staggering toward the other man.

  “Put this one with the others in the conference room,” he ordered, a little more abruptly than Carter was willing to accept.

  “Yes, Duce,” he muttered.

  Pallisani swung back to glare at him. “And cut the funny crap. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  Carter nodded. He understood that. He also understood that he wasn’t going to put up with the Italian throwing his weight around unnecessarily. Taking orders was one thing. Taking crap was something else entirely and he hoped the big paisan got the message. He gave the girl a gentle shove in the direction of the elevator.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, “let’s join the others.”

  Pallisani watched them go. He placed both hands deliberately on the reception counter and took a deep breath. He’d got the message from Carter all right. What’s more, he recognized the fact that the big man was right. But dammit, he’d a right to be uptight at this stage of the operation. Things were going to plan so far, but that could change at any minute. He and his companions seemed to be in undisputed control of the hotel but the situation was a fragile house of cards. It could collapse around them at any moment. It was essential at this stage that they maintain their momentum, keep things moving, keep the hostages off balance and wondering what was coming next. Uncertainty was their ally and the longer they maintained it, the firmer their hold over their prisoners became.

  He reached into his shoulder bag and brought out a walkie-talkie. It was a piece of equipment that every member of the team carried. He thumbed the squawk button on the side and spoke into the microphone.

  “Kormann. You read?”

  He released the button and, after a few moments, heard the small loudspeaker in the unit come to life.

  “Kormann.”

  Just the one word. Pallisani thumbed the talk button again.

  “Phones are back on line. Let’s get moving.”

  In the conference room, Kormann slid his walkie-talkie back into the leather holder clipped to his belt. He glanced around, caught Ben Markus’s eye and beckoned to him to move forward. Hesitantly, unsure of what he might be getting into, the duty manager obeyed.

  “Come with me, Ben. We’ve got some business on the roof and I want you there,” Kormann told him.

  Markus nodded warily. After all, he had no other choice in the matter. Kormann took his arm and steered him toward the door. On the way, they passed the dejected figure of the assistant chef.
Kormann grinned at him without sympathy.

  “Tough luck, buddy. Still, things could be worse.”

  The chef had good reason to look glum. Originally, he had not been among those selected to remain behind. But, as he had been about to move down to the bus, Kormann had noticed the high white toque he wore and realized its significance.

  “Just a moment,” he had said. “He stays too.”

  Markus had remonstrated, but without any real hope of success. “But we’ve already got the five you said.”

  “Then we’ll make it six,” Kormann told him. “We’re going to be here awhile, Ben, and I don’t know about you but I’m a lousy cook. Let’s just take out a little insurance in self-indulgence, shall we?”

  In a few moments, Kormann thought now, as the guard at the door stood aside to let them through, the chef would be thanking his lucky stars that he’d been chosen to stay.

  In a few days, who could tell?

  Kormann pressed the call button for the elevator. The left-hand car arrived, its doors sighing open with that peculiar self-satisfied sound all elevators seem to make. Kormann nudged Markus forward and pressed the top button. They rode up without speaking. The only sound in the elevator was the gentle hum of the electric motor whirling them up six stories to the roof. Again, the doors slid open and Kormann nudged the other man out.

  The Crow’s Nest Bar and heated enclosed swimming pool occupied about a quarter of the flat roof. With panoramic glass windows on three sides, it commanded breathtaking views of the mountain to one side and the ski slopes to the other. Outside, there was a jogging track and an expanse of artificial grass, with lounging chairs and tables set out.

  “Move,” Kormann said, nudging Markus toward the door. They came out into the crisp, cold, late afternoon air. The sun had already dropped behind the far mountain but there was still a good half hour of light left in the day. Outside the bar, sheltered from the wind by its solid walls, one of Kormann’s men was busy setting up an array of equipment. Markus stopped and watched curiously. His captor allowed the delay for a few minutes.