02 Avalanche Pass (25 page)

Some of the people around the room exchanged glances, nodding agreement.

Agent Carswell voiced the general consensus. “Yeah, you could have a point there, Dent. Anything we can do to drag it out will help.”

“And if they are faking on this one and they back down, it’ll cost them momentum,” Sandy George added. They all knew that in negotiations of this kind, as in a chess game, momentum was all important. There was a rhythm to this sort of dialogue. You tried to keep going forward. If you had to backtrack, it cost you. Again there was a low chorus of agreement.

“One problem,” Benjamin broke in. “The president won’t go for any attempt to ask favors of the British. He thinks it’ll make him look weak.”

There were a few muttered comments about the president’s weakness, real and perceived, around the room. Benjamin glanced up angrily and silence fell. He might agree with the sentiments but he knew that to allow such comments to go unchecked would, in the long run, have a negative impact on morale.

“We don’t actually have to ask the Brits anything, do we, Mr. Director?” That was Dent Colby again. “Can you pull any strings
with State? Just have our guy go see their guy about anything at all. Then, if we deny that the visit has anything to do with the Irish prisoners, the press is bound to pick it up and run with it.”

Benjamin smiled. Colby was a devious bastard. It would be a simple matter to plant a question with a friendly reporter about meetings between the state department and the British ambassador. And the surest way to ensure press coverage would be to deny any connection between the meetings and the hostage situation in Utah. A few of the others in the room were grinning too.

“Good thinking, Dent,” he said. “I’ll speak to Alan Walinsci at State, see if we can get something organized.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for your time, people. And Dent, keep us up to date and let us know if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Director. Thanks for your suggestions, guys.” The last was addressed to the room in general and a few of those present replied with personal farewells and good luck wishes to their colleague. As the room began to clear, Truscott Emery stepped forward for a quiet word with the director.

“Linus,” he said, “I was wondering…” Benjamin held up a hand to stop him.

“Truss, if you were going to ask if you could keep looking into this downstairs, the answer is yes. Any help you can give us would be welcome.”

The professor’s face broke into a smile. He nodded his head in thanks. “I appreciate it, Linus. I still feel I have something to contribute in this thing.”

Benjamin laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Well how about you get down to that computer and start contributing. I’ve asked Lois to get you a temporary ID and access card. Right now, I’d better talk to Alan Walinsci—see if he can organize to invite the British ambassador around for drinks.”

Dent Colby leaned back from the microphone and stretched his stiff shoulders. The conference with the other FBI personnel had been useful, he guessed, if only to confirm that he was already following the best course. There was a knock at the trailer door and he rose to open it, stepping down into the bright, cold sunlight. The trailer was well heated and he was wearing only a plaid shirt. In spite of the bright sun, the temperature here was barely above freezing and he shivered.

The communications technician who had knocked was standing with a message form in his hand, the paper fluttering in the stiff breeze. The man looked a little nervous.

“What is it?” Colby asked him and the technician handed him the form.

“This came in while you were in conference, Mr. Colby,” he said. “At the time, I didn’t know whether to interrupt you or not. But then I did some checking and I think it could be important.”

Colby took the piece of paper, frowning as he read the name. “Lee Torrens? Who the hell is he?”

“He’s a she, sir. She’s the sheriff over at Steamboat Springs, in Colorado. Contacted the Salt Lake City office saying she has confidential information for you that might help with the situation here. They checked her out and she’s genuine, so they passed the message on,” he added.

Colby frowned thoughtfully. The place name had rung a bell. “Steamboat,” he mused. “I did some work on a case there a few years back.” He looked down at the note again. “I’ll call her. Sure can’t do any harm.”

J
esse stamped his feet in the snow, trying to keep the blood flowing. While it was a bright, sunny day, the temperature up here on the mountain was below freezing and standing around in the ankle deep snow for the better part of an hour was a great way to get frozen feet.

He swung his arms in great arcs, driving the blood out to the fingertips. His breath hung on the still air in clouds. For perhaps the tenth time, he moved to the side of the tram terminal and leveled his binoculars at the hotel. He counted half a dozen men on the roof, most of them sitting at ease by the quad fifties and the radar dish. Two of them, however, maintained a constant watch on the pass to the northwest, and occasionally scanned the mountains surrounding the hotel. As one of them swept his glasses in the general direction of the cable car terminal, Jesse froze against the building’s shaped steel side. The glasses swung past him and continued sweeping, covering the ridge lines and the trees through a three hundred and sixty degree arc.

Jesse estimated the straight line distance to the hotel as maybe three quarters of a mile, although going cross-country would almost quadruple that distance. Given a high-powered rifle and a good scope sight, he figured he could stop those guys getting off too many rounds from the fifty calibers. And he could make it pretty damn unhealthy for anyone trying to line up a Stinger on an inbound aircraft. He shrugged. The chances of getting his hands on a rifle were slim to none, he realized.

The sudden burr of his cell phone drove away these random thoughts. He fumbled in his pocket for it, clumsy with the gloves he was wearing, and slid it open. “This is Parker,” he said.

“Deputy Parker?”

“That’s right. Who’s this? Is this Colby?”

The voice was deep and authoritative. It matched the heavyset man he’d seen on television.

“This is Special Agent Dent Colby. Deputy Parker, exactly where are you?”

The voice had a strange echoing tone to it and Jesse guessed that he was talking on a speaker phone.

“How many people can hear me there?” he said cautiously. He didn’t want the world to know where he was and there was always the chance that there might be a member of the press within hearing.

“Just me and my comms tech, Deputy,” Colby assured him. “You can speak freely.”

“Okay. I’ll make it fast. I’m on the mountain above Canyon Lodge, at the top of the cable car station. I’ve been in the hotel and I’ve seen what’s going on. They don’t know I’m here.”

“Records show you checked out night before last,” Colby said. He still wasn’t totally sure about this. Parker might be calling with a gun to his head. It could be a trick on the part of the terrorists—another way to keep him off balance.

“I did,” Jesse said impatiently. “I settled my bill and stayed the night. I was having one last ski run when these guys took over the hotel and all hell broke loose.”

“Okay,” Dent said carefully. “Deputy Parker…”

“Call me Jesse, for Chrissake,” Jesse broke in.

“Okay, Jesse. You understand I have to make sure you are who you say?”

Colby said the words very deliberately, hoping that the other man would read the underlying message—I have to make sure you’re not under duress. He glanced at the notes the technician had give him, seeing one salient fact there that he could use. If Parker had his wits about him, and if there was a gun at his head, Colby would give him a chance to reveal that fact by giving a false answer—one that the terrorists wouldn’t detect.

“I understand.”

Colby frowned at the small loudspeaker, trying to detect some sense that the other man knew what he was talking about. He thought maybe it was there but then he shrugged. Maybe he was just hoping it was.

“Okay, the sheriff in Routt County is Lee Torrens. What can you tell me about him?”

This time he was sure he could detect a grin in the man’s voice as he answered.

“I can tell you he’s a she for starters. You testing me, Colby?”

Dent let go a pent-up breath, suddenly conscious of the tension in his shoulders. He nodded at the loudspeaker.

“Just making sure you’re able to talk freely, is all.” He said. “Okay Jesse, what can you tell me about the situation up there? You’re not a hostage?”

“No. Like I said, they don’t know I’m here. I’ve been sneaking around the hotel for the past day and a half, keeping out of sight.”

Colby drummed his fingers on the desktop for a few seconds, thinking fast. This was a real break. Now all he had to do was work out the best way to exploit it.

“Let me get this clear. You’re free to move around?”

“Within limits. I had to get up to the peak above the cable car to get a signal for the cell phone. The hotel is in a dead spot. I’ve made
contact with one of the hostages. She’s the security officer, name of Tina Bowden.”

Jesus, thought Colby, this was getting better and better by the minute. To the microphone, he said: “Tell me everything you can about what’s going on up there.”

Jesse paused, collecting his thoughts. Then he began. “They’re pros, Colby, real pros. The girl says there’s a military feeling to them. They’re organized, disciplined. They know what they’re doing. And they’re totally ruthless.”

Dent Colby frowned. The picture Jesse was providing didn’t gel with the impressions he’d been given in his telephone contact with the kidnappers.

“Parker, this isn’t the picture I’ve been getting. When I talk to these guys they’re coming across as a bunch of terrorist crazies.”

“Then they’re messing with your head. These guys aren’t crazy. They’re very calm and collected. According to Tina, they say they’re in it for the money and nothing else. They seem more like mercenaries than terrorists. There’s no particular racial group here. No political agenda.” He hesitated, then concluded, “If you’re thinking of these guys as a bunch of loony-tune fanatics, forget it. They’re cold, hard and organized.”

“You haven’t seen anything that might tie them into any sort of Irish operation?” Colby asked. He was pretty sure the Irish connection was a red herring, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.

“Irish?” Jesse said, puzzled, “First I’ve heard of it. Why d’you ask?”

“Never mind. Just keep telling me as much as you can. The hostages are all safe so far, right? Nobody’s been injured?”

This time the pause was longer. Much longer. Dent felt a sudden premonition of bad news, then Jesse’s voice was back on the loudspeakers again, quiet and with a note of disbelief to it.

“Jesus, you mean you didn’t know? They’ve killed maybe fifty people already.”

The words hit Colby like a kick to the stomach. He actually recoiled slightly from the microphone in front of him, staring in horror at the speakers, as if he could see the man behind the disembodied voice.

“What?” he said, the words barely above a whisper.

“There was a bus… it was full of people from the hotel that they’d released. The bus was halfway down Canyon Road when they brought the mountain down. It’s buried there somewhere under that avalanche. Fifty, sixty people,” he repeated.

Colby was struck dumb by the news. There had been no hint of this in any of the conversations he had had with the terrorists. He had been proceeding under the normal rules of hostage negotiation: keep the lines of communication open, give way on a few small concessions, stall for time and try to establish a rapport with the man at the other end. Above all, do everything possible to make sure the hostages remained unharmed. And now this.

This changed everything. This was outside anything in his experience. Sixty people, simply wiped out. It was staggering. It was beyond comprehension. As he stared at the loudspeakers once more, he knew the immediate question that would be asked of him when he reported this news to his superiors. And he knew he had to ask the question now of Jesse.

“Jesse, the people on the bus… who were they?”

“I don’t know names. But they were all hotel staff. They kept a skeleton staff to run the place, and sent the rest down.”

“So, as far as you know, the guests are okay?” Colby didn’t want to ask directly about Senator Carling. If Parker didn’t know his identity, there was no point in risking telling him about it. His next words dispelled that thought, however.

“The senator’s still okay, if that’s what you’re asking.” The flat tone was discernible, even through the speakers. With over fifty people dead, Jesse wasn’t too impressed with Colby’s obvious focus on one senator. Colby shrugged. That was too bad. This was the real world.

“Do they have any idea who he is?” Colby persisted. This time, Jesse’s tone was more matter-of-fact. As a lawman, he could understand the significance of the question, and the value of the senator as a negotiating tool.

“I don’t know.” Then his memory kicked in and he altered that statement: “Just a moment. Tina said she heard their leader telling
him he’d be back on the Hill as soon as this is over, so I guess they do know who he is. Look, Colby, this cold weather is playing hell with the cell phone battery. I’m getting a battery flat signal constantly and it could cut out any time now.”

Colby felt a sudden chill at the words. He’d heard the warbling chirp on the line but hadn’t registered its significance. This could be his only contact with the deputy and there were still so many questions he needed answered.