02 Avalanche Pass

by John Flanagan

  Benjamin noticed the quick sidelong glance that Gorton directed at his chief of staff as he said the words “no press.” He guessed that had been a matter of disagreement between them. Pohlsen would have hated to see a photo op like that pass by.

  “I’m sure it would mean a lot to them, sir,” he said. He was a little bewildered by this conversation. He had assumed there would be an official debriefing at some time in the next week, not this informal and undeniably friendly chat.

  “And how about the other guy—the deputy from Steamboat Springs? You think maybe we should do something for him?”

  Benjamin hesitated. He didn’t want to deny Jesse Parker his moment in the sun but Dent Colby had discussed the matter with him at some length.

  “Parker has been helping Dent Colby with the debrief, sir. Then he plans to go back to Colorado as soon as possible. I believe he was pretty torn up about the girl’s death. Took it hard, Colby tells me.”

  The president raised an eyebrow at the news. “Is that right? Something between them, was there?” Benjamin shook his head.

  “Not really. Agent Colby feels it was more a case of the two of them being thrown together as they were, each being the other’s only contact during a high stress time. Besides, I believe that Parker has a relationship with the sheriff back in Routt County.”

  The president’s eyebrow soared at that and Benjamin hurried to correct the impression. “The sheriff is a woman, Mr. President. And from all reports, a very attractive one.”

  President Gorton shook his head. “That’s a relief,” he said. “The alternative was too complicated to consider.”

  “I think maybe a personal letter of gratitude and commendation from you might be enough there, sir,” Benjamin concluded and the president made a note on the legal pad.

  In the background, Pohlsen cleared his throat apologetically and Gorton rose from behind the desk. Taking his cue, Benjamin rose also, preparing to leave. The next words stopped him.

  “Take a quick turn in the Rose Garden with me, Mr. Director,” said the president. Terence Pohlsen glanced at his watch and the clipboard that held Gorton’s list of appointments.

  “Mr. President, you’re already overdue for your meeting with the delegation from Lagos—” he began, but Gorton cut him off.

  “They can wait, Terry,” he said with some asperity. “Christ, we’re giving them a hundred million dollars worth of aid. That should be worth five minutes of their time!”

  Pohlsen shrugged, defeated. He glanced at the list, mentally juggling appointments for the rest of the day as he planned how to make up the lost time. Automatically, he began to follow as Gorton ushered the FBI director through the French doors into the crisp spring sunshine.

  “No need for you to bother, Terry,” the president said quietly and the chief of staff stopped, puzzled. Outside, two ever-present secret service agents fell into place behind the president and Linus Benjamin. One of them raised his sleeve mike to his mouth and spoke into it. Linus could imagine the exchange.

  “Banjo is leaving the Oval Office. In the Rose Garden with Director Benjamin.”

  When Gorton had been sworn in, he had made it clear that he would not be referred to as POTUS (President of the United States). The name, he said, sounded like some kind of a soup and he had instructed the service to use the code name assigned to him as VP. “Banjo” was the result, created after he confessed to a weakness for Dixieland jazz. The agents followed, just out of earshot and as he noticed them, Benjamin understood the reason for the move from the Oval Office. There were no microphones out here. Their conversation would not be recorded.

  Gorton nodded to the bare rosebushes. “No roses to show you, Mr. Director, I’m afraid,” he said in a bantering tone.

  “I’ll try to live without them, Mr. President.”

  “So, our best guess is that this drug lord was behind the whole thing, is that right?” the president asked thoughtfully.

  “We’ve no solid proof, Mr. President. Only one of the gang survived and he knew nothing beyond the facts of the kidnapping. There were another four that the marines caught up with on the mountain—the ones who went after Jesse Parker. But they died in the shootout as well.”

  “Probably cleaner that way. The last thing we want is more terrorists trying to blackmail us into setting prisoners free.”

  “From all we can see, they weren’t terrorists, Mr. President. At least, not in the sense that they were politically motivated. We’ve identified six so far and they were all mercenaries—American, Rhodesians and one Italian. One of the guys on the mountain was an ex-mobster named Pallisani. He had no political connections that we’re aware of.”

  “So, on the face of it, it was all about money.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Except when you go below the surface, Kormann was obviously prepared to kill the hostages at the last moment while he tried to make his getaway. If it was all about money, why do that?”

  The president pondered the matter for a few seconds, staring unseeingly at one of the bare rosebushes in the garden.

  “Unless someone else was paying him to do it and that was the plan right from the first moment?” he said, and Benjamin nodded agreement.

  “That’s pretty much the way we see it. And of course, there’s a reasonable amount of evidence to suggest that the ‘someone’ is Estevez.” He paused, then went on. “As a matter of fact, we’re starting to think it wasn’t the first time he’s tried to have the senator killed.”

  Gorton stopped and turned toward him. “He’s tried before? When?”

  “The Atherton shooting, sir. Carling was with him that night. At the time, everyone assumed that Atherton was the target and the shooter was some gun crazy right to lifer. Now we’re starting to think that maybe Carling was the target. They both stooped to pick up the glove at the same time. But Carling was on the side closest to the sniper.”

  President Gorton sighed deeply. He was an ordinary man, he knew, thrust into an extraordinary position. “It’s kind of frightening, isn’t it, that there are two equally plausible reasons behind that shooting?” he asked. Benjamin had no answer to that and guessed that the president wasn’t asking for one. The silence between them grew. Finally, it was the president who broke it.

  “You did a good job, Benjamin. I want you to know I appreciate that.”

  Benjamin nodded his acceptance of the compliment. He sensed there was more to come and the president’s next words proved him right.

  “I’ve got a hell of a job making this office my own, you know?” he said, half to himself. “This presidency is still seen as belonging to Adam Couch and I’m just an accidental blow-in. Well, if I’m stuck with the job, I plan to make it my own.”

  He paused and looked meaningfully at the director. Benjamin shrugged. He couldn’t argue with that.

  “You were a Couch appointment, Director Benjamin. You were part of his administration and I want to make changes so that this becomes my administration. Do you follow where I’m going?”

  Benjamin nodded carefully. “I think so, Mr. President. The last director with permanent tenure was Hoover, I guess,” he replied. Gorton nodded once or twice.

  “I felt I owed it to you to tell you to your face,” he said, eventually. “I’ll be making changes to my emergency council because I need them. Not because you haven’t performed and not because I think you wouldn’t perform in future. But be honest with me, you’d always look on me as a second choice to Couch, wouldn’t you?”

  It was on the tip of Benjamin’s tongue to deny the suggestion. Then wryly, he realized that the president was correct. His opinion of Gorton had improved in the previous week, but he still saw him as a second choice, and way behind Adam Lindsay Couch, he realized.

  “I guess I would at that, Mr. President.”

  Again, Gorton nodded. “I appreciate your honesty. We both know it’s the truth. And one thing I’ve learned is that I cannot carry out this office unless my inner group of advisers are committed to
me—totally and absolutely. And not to the ghost of some former incumbent.”

  “I understand, sir,” Benjamin replied. He felt a twinge of disappointment at the thought of leaving the Bureau. But then, he thought, he’d only been in the job six months. He guessed it wouldn’t be too big a wrench to leave.

  “Any other way we can help you, we’ll be glad to,” Gorton continued. “There’s a vacancy coming up for state’s attorney general in New York. I can almost guarantee you’d have it if you wanted it.”

  Benjamin shoved his hands in his pockets and gazed across the White House lawn. It was a crisp spring day in Washington, with a slight haze in the sky and a chill still in the air.

  “I’d like to think it over, sir,” he said and Gorton nodded repeatedly once more. Benjamin was beginning to realize that this was a mannerism of the president’s.

  “Think it over. Think it over. Let me know. It’s not a punishment, Benjamin, I want you to know that. It’s not some kind of revenge. It’s what I need if I’m to do this job halfway decently, is all.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Now I guess I’d better get back to these people from Lagos. What the hell do you call them—Lagotians?”

  Benjamin couldn’t help grinning. “I guess that’s as close as anything, Mr. President.” He added, “Thanks for taking the time to explain.”

  Gorton waved a hand in dismissal. “It was the least you deserved. I’m sorry things turned out this way. Damned sorry. But…” he shrugged. Everything had been said and he turned away again, heading for the French doors. But Benjamin had one more thing to say.

  “Mr. President?” he said again and Gorton stopped, turned back to face him, eyebrows raised in a question.

  “I want to thank you, sir. For your directness… and your honesty.”

  Gorton allowed a trace of a smile to lift the corners of his mouth. “I could say the same for yours, Mr. Director,” he replied and Benjamin shrugged.

  “I owe it to the office, sir,” he said and the smile widened a trifle.

  “Just to the office, Mr. Director? Not to the man as well?” the president asked.

  Benjamin hesitated then replied, knowing he was speaking the truth. “Maybe to him as well, Mr. President.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  SNOW EAGLES RESORT

  WASATCH COUNTY

  1023 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  SUNDAY, DAY 9

  It fell away below him. Steep. Impossibly steep. Seeming almost sheer as he stood at the edge looking down.

  It had snowed the day before and the fresh fall had covered all traces of his last run down The Wall with a thick blanket of fresh Wasatch powder. The mid-morning sun shone on it now, reflecting fiercely so that even behind his dark glasses, his eyes narrowed.

  Below and beyond, the various ski runs of Snow Eagles Resort stretched out to the hotel. It was empty now of skiers as the resort was closed while Dent’s people carried out their final investigations. The snowfall had almost covered the traces of the burned out Apache as well. A little later in the day, a big Boeing chopper was due to come in and lift the wreckage out of the valley.

  His breath clouded on the clear, frigid air. It was a perfect day. Clear sky, bright sun, no wind and the air so cold it cut like a knife into your lungs as you breathed it in. It was the sort of day Jesse lived for and he wished that the sadness weighing down upon him would lift.

  Odd that he should grieve so deeply for Tina Bowden, he thought. After all, there’d been just that one night between them. He had liked her, and enjoyed her company. But it went no further than that. During the siege, they had met less than half a dozen times, exchanging hurried words as they kept one fearful eye on the door to the kitchen, speaking in whispers, trying to make sense of the whole crazy situation. And yet he felt a deep sense of loss—and had done so since the moment when the marine light colonel had told him that she had been killed at the end. She’d died protecting one of the hostages, standing over him and facing a mercenary armed with a machine pistol. He didn’t care about the other casualties. They were just names and there was no face to any of them—no connection to him. But Tina Bowden he had known, even if it had been for such a short time.

  He’d spoken about it with Colby. The FBI agent had a psychology degree, after all, and he suggested that the pressure of the situation in which they had met had accelerated their relationship, making them interdependent and creating a bond similar to that formed between soldiers in combat. Jesse thought maybe he was right.

  Whatever the reason, he wanted to say his own good-byes to her before heading back to Colorado and this had seemed the right place to do it. The hotel was still crowded with people and the gym where she had died was scorched by the flames of the Stinger’s exhaust and scarred with bullet holes. Technicians and forensic crews crowded one another, sifting evidence, looking for some clue as to the reasons behind the whole affair.

  Here there was silence and the solitude he wanted. He rode the chairlift to the top as he had done before, then skied up to the crest, passing the spot where Pallisani and his men had finally been cornered by the squad of marines. The snow had covered all traces of that battle as well, he noticed.

  Now here he was, above The Wall, staring down at the perfect snow below, smiling wryly to himself as he remembered how it had become a symbol for him—a crystallization of his efforts to regain his former self. Looking at it now, it was just a ski run, he thought. Steep. Sheer, almost. But skiable. And well within his capabilities. Behind him, Drifter curved away into the trees, emerging several hundred feet lower down, where it joined back into Broadway for the run home to the hotel. In front of him was The Wall. Double Black, experts only. A mental as well as a physical barrier to him. He reached into his side pocket and took out a single red rose.

  He turned it in his fingers, letting the sun play on the lustrous red petals, then tossed it underhand, out onto the snow.

  It landed ten feet down and rolled, bouncing lightly until it came to rest twenty-five feet below him, in the bright sunlight that speared through a gap in the trees. It looked to him like a single drop of dark red blood on the perfect white of the snow, and he thought that was fitting.

  “Semper fi, Tina Bowden,” he said softly.

  Then he kick-turned one-eighty degrees and skied off down the gentle, even slope that was Drifter. He didn’t want to disturb the rose in the snow and he had nothing to prove to himself anymore.

  EPILOGUE

  THE J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Linus Benjamin rose from behind his desk to greet his visitor, reaching forward to shake hands. The woman had a surprizingly strong grip, he thought. He gestured to the visitor’s chair.

  “Sheriff Torrens, please take a seat. Would you like coffee? Water?”

  Lee shook her head, smiling briefly. “No thank you, Mr. Director.”

  Benjamin smiled in turn at the title. “Not for much longer, I’m afraid. My replacement takes over in two weeks.”

  “So I’d heard. That’s why I wanted to see you.”

  She was a very attractive woman, he thought. Tall, long-legged and with an excellent figure. Her hair was shoulder-length blond, she had high cheekbones and her gray eyes were slightly uptilted. He placed her age as late thirties, possibly early forties. He revised his first judgment. More than attractive, he thought, quite beautiful in a natural, outdoors way.

  “I’ve never had the chance to thank you for your help with the Snow Eagles affair,” he said and she shrugged, dismissing her part as unimportant.

  “I was just a communication link,” she said. “It was Jesse who did all the hard work.”

  Benjamin inclined his head a little. “He did at that. So why did you ask to see me?” He sensed she was a person who would prefer to get right to the point. “Is it to do with your deputy?”

  She hesitated, then replied. “It is,” she said. “But I don’t want him knowing about it. I wanted to ask yo
u about Estevez.”

  “The man we believe was behind all this?” he said and she nodded.

  “Way I heard it, he’s a vengeful kind of character,” she said, and he agreed with her.

  “That’s Emery’s theory. This whole thing was about revenge. Back when he was a presidential assistant, Senator Carling authorized a raid that cost Estevez a lot of money—and set his operation back by at least six months. He wanted Carling dead because of that. In fact,” he continued, “we now believe that this wasn’t the first time he’s tried to have him killed. Emery’s been squirreling around on this and he’s unearthed some interesting facts. There was a bungled shooting some years ago, when Carling was meeting with a Senator Atherton. At the time, everyone assumed Atherton was the target. Now, we’re not so sure. We’ve also noticed that the men who betrayed Estevez in the first place all seemed to have dropped off the radar over a period of years. Now we’ve had another attack on Carling at Snow Eagles. So yes, I think your description of him as a vengeful man is accurate.”

  “And he hasn’t achieved his principal aim. Carling is still alive,” Lee said, and again Benjamin nodded agreement.

  “That had occurred to us,” he said.

  “And Jesse is the one who threw a spanner in the works,” Lee continued, and now the FBI director started to see what was behind her request for a meeting.

  “Ye-es,” he said thoughtfully. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “It’s occurred to me,” Lee told him. “And it’s occurred plenty to the press. Jesse’s name and face have been splashed all over the papers and the TV from one end of this country to the other.”

  “Your point being?”

  Lee took a long breath. “Mr. Director, I was raised on a ranch. On a ranch, if you’ve got a predator that kills your stock, you don’t wait for it to come back and do it again. You go out and hunt it down. I’ve been a hunter since I was fourteen years old. It’s kind of why I do what I do now, as a matter of fact.”