02 Avalanche Pass (20 page)

“That’s right, John. We’re now hearing that the avalanche that cut the road in was caused by a series of explosive charges and the Canyon Lodge hotel at Snow Eagles Resort has been taken over by armed men. Over a hundred guests and staff members are thought to be held hostage. It’s believed that the hostage-takers have demanded a ransom.”

Jesse frowned at the number for a second, then realized that the
outside world had no way of knowing that over fifty of those hostages were already dead, buried under the rubble and snow of the avalanche on Canyon Road. The reporter continued: “The initial situation remains unchanged, with the road cut by avalanches and all access to the lodge blocked. A sheriff’s department helicopter, attempting to survey the scene last evening, drew warning fire from the hotel, which appears to have been transformed into an armed fortress by the kidnappers.

“So far, the names of the hostages have not been released. The FBI spokesperson said that attempts were being made to contact relatives of those people believed to be in the hotel. A hotline has been set up by the Wasatch County sheriff’s department. Contact 801-8181 if you believe you have a relative or friend in the hotel.

“Last night, we spoke with the FBI agent-in-charge at the scene here, John. Agent Denton Colby. This is what he had to say.”

A shot of the FBI agent faded in on screen. Broad features set on a thick neck over heavily muscled shoulders. Denton Colby. The name was vaguely familiar. Then he remembered.

In 2006, the Routt County sheriff’s department had been faced with a serial murder investigation. Colby had been the FBI contact who provided background information and intelligence. He and Jesse had communicated by phone and fax several times, although they had never met.

“Small world,” he muttered to himself. He wondered if the FBI agent would remember his name. He doubted it. But he’d surely remember the case.

He watched the man answering the reporter’s questions. The authorities were watching events carefully, Colby said. He assured the kidnappers, if they were watching, that their safety and the safety of their hostages was his primary concern and he expressed his willingness to talk with them at any time.

“Call the FBI office in Salt Lake City,” he was saying. “They’ll patch you straight through to me. I’m here and I’m ready to talk to you.” The phone number was superimposed over the bottom third of the screen. For a moment, Jesse was tempted to take it down. Then
he thought of the crazies who’d be screened out by the local FBI office. Only the kidnappers would get through to Agent Colby.

The screen faded back to the reporter at the avalanche location. Jesse rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His prior contact with the FBI agent was a lucky break and he thought he could see a way to get around the screening.

“A White House source said today that there is no indication that the ransom demand is connected to Al Qaeda or any other known terrorist group. The situation is regarded at the moment as an internal criminal activity and is being handled by the FBI, although the president’s emergency council will continue monitoring developments. The spokesman stated that the White House had total confidence in the FBI team on the spot.

“Rumors that the rapid response tactical force has been despatched to the siege site were still unconfirmed. John?”

The slight upward inflexion told the anchor that this was all the reporter had for him at this stage. He swiveled back to face the camera as the location shot reduced down to the monitor beside him once more.

“And we’ll bring you further developments on this breaking story as they arrive. In other news, the secretary of state today was welcomed in Beijing by the premier of the People’s Republic of—”

Jesse had no wish to hear what the secretary of state had said to the Chinese premier. He switched off the set and sat thoughtfully for a few moments. It seemed that the outside world knew very little about the situation here. He was one up on the FBI, he realized. At least one of the hostages was a US senator. There’d be hell to pay when that news got out. Unless, he thought, the authorities already knew it and were keeping it quiet. After all, a United States senator would make a powerful bargaining tool for the group who had taken over the hotel.

He stretched out on the bed, considering his options. Perhaps, he thought, the most useful role he could play would be to keep the authorities aware of what was going on in the hotel. He had a cell phone in the glove box of his car. He could…

Then he remembered. Earlier in the week, he’d tried to use the phone and discovered that the Canyon Lodge was in a dead spot. Probably an intentional one, he had thought at the time, as it meant customers would have to use the room phones, with their usual one and two hundred percent charges for calls. The phone systems in hotels these days were handy little profit centers.

Of course, he could always try the room phone. The hotel had an automatic switch that would allow him to dial an outside line. But the switch could be monitored and he wouldn’t take the risk. Maybe he could find a phone outside the hotel itself, he thought. There was a payphone near the base of the chairlift, he remembered, and there would be other phones in the adjoining buildings. Potentially, there was the same problem with those phones, of course. Chances were they would all go through the same central switchboard in the hotel. The cell phone would be best. He’d just have to find a spot where its signal wasn’t blocked. There had to be one somewhere on the mountain.

M
ost of the usual group was assembled although this time, Benjamin noticed, the marine colonel was absent. He assumed that he was on the way to, or was already at, the siege site with his rapid response tactical force. Following the decision to keep the president’s involvement as low key as possible, they’d moved the venue for these meetings to the cabinet room. The Oval Office, after all, was the president’s principal workplace and a constant gathering of this group in the Oval Office, along with the disruption it would cause to his normal schedule, might have aroused the sort of media attention and speculation that they didn’t want on this case.

President Gorton swept in on a wave of self-importance, followed by Chief of Staff Pohlsen. He made a half-hearted gesture to prevent them rising from their chairs—which, had they obeyed it, would have brought his displeasure down on each and every one of them. He dropped into his own high-backed chair at the head of the table and glared at them all.

“Now what the hell is this about Carling?” he grated.

Benjamin cleared his throat and answered. “Ah… Senator Carling was chairing a kind of informal conference with a group of aerospace executives from his constituency. Does it every year,” he replied. Gorton frowned, trying to place the name. He didn’t know the senator from Washington but the name rang a bell in his memory.

“Carling… Carling…” he muttered to himself. Then memory
cut in. “He was involved in some kind of shooting a few years back, wasn’t he?”

“Only by chance, sir,” Benjamin told him. “He was a White House aide at the time. He simply happened to be dining with Senator Atherton when there was an attempt on Atherton’s life.”

“Atherton? The abortionist?”

Mentally, Benjamin rolled his eyes at the president’s propensity to sum up a person in one overarching, and usually inaccurate, phrase.

“He’s a free choice advocate, Mr. President, yes. The assassin’s bullet hit him in the shoulder. Carling had dropped his glove and they both bent to pick it up at the moment the shot was fired.”

“Mmm. Pity.” Gorton said. “So, as to Carling. Do the kidnappers know his identity?”

“They’ve shown no sign that they do, sir.”

The president rubbed his fingers across his smooth shaven chin. At this early hour of the morning, the skin was sleek and shiny from the close attention of his razor. Later, the gray stubble would begin to spoil the effect. Gorton usually shaved two or three times in a day, depending on his schedule of commitments.

“So what do we do?” Gorton demanded of the room in general. “How do we get Carling out of this goddamned mess he’s got himself into?”

Janet Haddenrich answered this time. “We feel it’s best to keep a low profile on this one sir,” she said smoothly. “If they know who they’re holding, they have a real bargaining card.”

“How can they not know?” General Barrett interrupted. “All they have to do is check the hotel registration.”

Benjamin shuffled the printed sheets in front of him, containing the list of fifty names of the hostages. “There’s a good chance that Senator Carling was incognito,” he began and, as the general looked askance at him, continued. “It’s fairly normal procedure. And it would account for the fact that the terrorists haven’t mentioned his presence.”

“Maybe,” Barrett said doubtfully. His opinion of the senator from Washington was that Carling, like most elected officials, would
never travel incognito. They craved the limelight. That was what kept getting them elected, after all. “Or maybe these damned terrorists are just jerking us around, waiting to see if we’ll admit he’s in there.”

Linus Benjamin lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Could be,” he agreed. “But we just have to play it by ear until we find out more. In the meantime—” he turned back to the president—“we feel the White House should maintain its current low profile. Too much interest from the president might start the terrorists looking harder at the hostages’ names.”

There was a general muttering of agreement around the table and Gorton paused, pretended to think the matter over, then nodded decisively.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll play it that way for the time being.”

General Barrett voiced the question that all of them wanted answered. “Do we have any line on these people yet?” he asked Benjamin.

The FBI director turned both hands palms up in a negative gesture. “Nothing so far,” he said. “Homeland security has nothing on them and neither do we. Whoever they are, they’re playing it real close to the chest.”

“Our sources are showing nothing so far, either,” chipped in Haddenrich. “There are a couple of possibilities—long shots. We’re checking them out. But so far these people look as if they’re new kids on the block.”

“These guys are professionals. Look at the equipment they’ve got,” Tildeman added. “Radar-slaved fifty caliber, heat-seeking missiles.”

Pohlsen held up a hand to interrupt. “Stingers and machine guns?” he said skeptically.

“That’s pretty low tech for this day and age, surely.”

But General Barrett shook his head in reply. “That’s just the thing, sir,” he said. “Professionals usually stick to the KISS principle.” He noticed Gorton’s frown of incomprehension and elaborated. “Keep it Simple, er… Sam,” he said, at the last moment changing “Stupid” to “Sam” as he realized that the president could possibly think the word was aimed at him.

“Low-tech equipment is reliable. There’s less to go wrong. The past few decades have shown simple triple-A is often more efficient than more complex missile systems.” He turned now to Haddenrich. “Surely we’ve got
something
on them?”

The CIA director made no reply. She raised one eyebrow at the general and shook her head. They might be pros, the gesture said, but we still don’t know jack about them.

“Well we need answers, goddamn it,” the president rasped. “Get more people on it and keep them working on it till we know something. We have to know who we’re dealing with.”

There was no answer to that. Several pairs of eyes around the table dropped and there was a low mumble of acknowledgment. Both the FBI and the CIA were frustrated by their inability to pin the blame to any individual or group. The fact that Gorton could then use their inability as a way to needle them made it even more galling.

There was an apologetic cough from the bottom of the table and Truscott Emery leaned forward, his well-manicured hands resting on a small stack of computer printouts.

“Um… we might have a possible lead,” he said softly and the table turned toward him. His hesitant tone brought an instant frown to President Gorton’s face.

“Are we talking facts or supposition here?” Gorton asked, and his predecessor’s special adviser hesitated once more before replying.

“No facts yet, Mr. President. Just a theory we’re working on,” he said.

The president heaved a deep sigh. “Well let’s not waste any of our time on it until you have some facts, okay?” he said unpleasantly.

Emery nodded several times, looking down at the notes in front of him.

“Of course, Mr. President. It’s just that—” The president’s hard gaze cut him off midsentence.

“Facts, Mr. Emery. That’s what we need to deal in here. We go off half-cocked on any of your wild-eyed theories, we could be putting a lot of people in danger. This is the real world. Not some hypothetical one you used to study at Harvard. Understand?”

The special adviser made a half bow from his seated position. “Of course, Mr. President,” he said, his even tone giving no hint of the rage he felt inside at the vain, stupid man sitting at the far end of the table. “I’ll refine the theories a little and present them then,” he said.

Again, the president’s gaze bore into him. “Present them when they’re facts, Mr. Emery,” he said shortly. Then, dismissing the man, he asked the table at large, “Anything else?”

Heads shook around the table. One or two of them looked sympathetically to the annoying little special adviser, he noticed. Well, that was their bad luck. It was time he reined in some of these leftovers from the former administration. Time they knew that President Couch was dead and gone and not coming back again. He rose, waited until they all stood with him, then left the room. Pohlsen delayed a few seconds.

“Anything breaks here, Benjamin, let us know ASAP,” he said. “You too, Ms. Haddenrich,” he addressed this last to the director of the CIA, who nodded. “Otherwise, another briefing tomorrow, same time.” He glanced at his watch and hurried out after the president. Benjamin, Tildeman and Janet Haddenrich all exchanged wry glances. Then Benjamin looked down the table to where the chubby special adviser was replacing his notes in his briefcase, the careless way he was stuffing them in was the only clue to the rage that was burning inside him.