He stood erect, tossing the shell case lightly in one hand as he thought. One shot first. That had most likely been the one that had killed the girl. Then a burst of firing that had left these spent shells by the roadside. To what purpose, he wondered? Obviously, there had been no further killing—there was just the one body left lying forlornly in the road. He shrugged. There could be any number of explanations for the sequence. The important point was that the presence of the dead girl’s body established definitely that something very, very wrong was going on around here. When things were normal, people weren’t shot and left to lie where they fell.
There was a raised sidewalk outside the automatic doors that led into the hotel. He stepped onto it now, carefully moving to one side to avoid the infrared beam that would automatically cause the doors to sigh open. Flattened against the wall, he edged to the door and peered around. He had a limited view of the escalators leading from the lobby to the reception area on the first floor level. He hesitated, wondering whether to risk the entrance, then froze as a figure crossed the downstairs lobby, suddenly appearing in his field of view.
The man crossed quickly to the escalators and stepped onto them. He was around six feet, thirtyish and fit looking. Dressed in tan chinos and a rollneck sweater, there was nothing particularly unusual about him. He was the sort of guy you’d expect to see in a ski resort. Except for the slab-sided Ingram submachine gun that he wore, casually slung over his right shoulder.
That was something you definitely didn’t expect to see.
SIXTEEN
CANYON LODGE
WASATCH COUNTY
1750 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SATURDAY, DAY 1
By now, the hostages, guests and staff members alike, had all been gathered in the gymnasium on the third floor. Kormann entered and swept his gaze around the big room. He’d sent three of the hotel staff to collect bedding and the hostages were setting up sleeping spaces around the room, laying blankets out on the hard nylon carpet that provided only a thin covering for the concrete floor. He noticed, with a wry smile, that as far as they could, they’d maintained a male–female separation.
As he entered the room, he felt the eyes of the hostages upon him and an almost palpable tide of hatred sweeping over him. Word had gone around, as he had known it would, of the fate of the sixty staff members in the shuttle bus. Along with the hatred, he could sense something else—fear. And that was the way he wanted it. Markus approached him now. One of the guards went to intercept him but Kormann said a quiet word and the duty manager was allowed to pass.
“What can I do for you, Ben?” he said quietly. There was hatred lurking behind the other man’s eyes, in spite of his best attempts to conceal it. No fear there, he noticed, with some interest. That would bear watching. The duty manager apparently had some starch in his backbone.
The manager gestured to where one of the guests was setting out blankets and sheets. “Is there any reason why we couldn’t bring some mattresses in here?” he asked. “We’ve got two hundred empty rooms full of them,” he added. Kormann made a pretense of considering the request, then shook his head decisively.
“Yes, Ben. There’s a reason,” he said, in that same mild tone. “I don’t see why you people should get too comfortable. A little bunking down on the hard floor will do you all good.”
He smiled and watched Markus contain the sudden flush of anger that showed on his face. Then the other man turned away abruptly and went back to his spot by the window, where he had spread a pair of blankets and a pillow. Kormann watched with interest as he said something to a good-looking girl he’d noticed earlier. From the way he shook his head, he was obviously repeating Kormann’s answer to her. She glanced up once in Kormann’s direction. The terrorist leader met her gaze. She was another who might bear watching, he thought to himself. In the meantime, she might as well be put to work.
He beckoned to her. “You,” he said. “Over here.”
The girl hesitated, then started toward him. She had an athlete’s grace as she moved. She was tall, slim and well-muscled. Odds were she was an expert skier. Most of the staff in a place like this would be. She stopped before him, eyebrows raised in inquiry. There was a hint of arrogance to her bearing.
“Get the chef and report to me outside,” he told her shortly, turning his back on her and walking away. She hesitated again, not sure what to say to his retreating back. As he reached the doorway and gestured for the guard there to let him through, he glanced back at her. She was already moving to find the chef, who was at the far end of the room. Telling the guard to let them through, Kormann went out into the command center he had set up in the gymnasium offices. Pallisani was there, just hanging up the phone as he entered. Kormann raised an eyebrow in question and the other man smiled.
“Just another call to the roadblock,” he said. “I tried to make it sound a little panicky and a little out of control.”
Kormann nodded. That was the plan. The more unstable the authorities thought they might be, the less likely they’d be to attempt a rescue. For that reason, he and Pallisani were alternating calls to the county sheriff at the roadblock. They’d decided, for the time being, to insist on speaking only with the elderly Wasatch county sheriff, ignoring the FBI agent who they knew was in charge. It was all part of a deliberate pattern. By refusing a consistent point of contact, they were keeping the authorities off balance.
“What’d you tell them?” he asked, and Pallisani shrugged.
“Not too much. I ranted a little and said we knew they were trying to sneak cops in through the roadblock. Told ’em we’d kill everyone if we saw one cop or one national guardsman coming over that rise there.”
Kormann nodded. “Good,” he agreed. “Give them another hour and a half and tell them we want to talk to someone who can authorize a ransom, and a chopper out of here.”
Pallisani frowned at that. “Shouldn’t you call them next?” he asked and Kormann shook his head, wondering why he had to explain details like this to the other man. No wonder Pallisani had never risen too high in the Mob, he thought.
“We don’t want it to look like we’re taking turns,” he said. “Keep it random. Besides, if you keep making more and more unreasonable demands, it gives me room to negotiate more calmly later on.”
Pallisani thought that over and nodded. When Kormann put it that way, he could see the logic in it.
“Fine,” he said. Then, in response to a knock on the door, he called: “Yeah?”
The girl entered. Kormann remembered to check the nameplate she wore on her uniform blouse: Tina Bowden. He looked at her blankly, letting her make the first move. His silence threw her off balance and finally she had to speak.
“You said to… get the chef and come out here,” she told him and he nodded.
“I know,” he replied flatly. Then: “I see you. I don’t see him.”
“He’s—” She jerked a thumb at the door, indicating that the chef was waiting outside. Kormann put his head to one side, feigning interest.
“Then let’s get him—” He mimicked her action, jerking a thumb at the floor in front of him.
Tina hesitated, then turned to the door, opened it and called, “Ralph. Come on in.”
The chef entered uncertainly and, Kormann was pleased to notice, fearfully. That was all to the good. Frightened people were a lot easier to keep in control. If they were frightened already, half your work was done.
“So, Ralph,” he said pleasantly, “I guess now you’re pretty glad I didn’t let you go out on that bus?”
The chef went to speak, then stopped, his jaw hanging open. He was around thirty, and, breaking the stereotypical image of a chef, he was a tall thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple. Kormann went on before the chef could regain his wits.
“Now I guess you owe me some pretty fancy meals, right? After all, buddy, I saved your life out there.”
Ralph glanced sidelong at the girl. Her mouth was set in a tight line as she glared
at Kormann. She’d had several good friends on that bus and his joking tone was like salt in a raw wound to her. Ralph read the look on her face and decided it might be better to say nothing. He nodded, a barely noticeable movement. Kormann, pretending not to notice the little piece of byplay, went on in the same light tone.
“So, Ralph, what were you planning to serve up tonight to the guests?” he said, pretending to glance through a pile of printed forms that meant absolutely nothing to him. The chef made a vague gesture, spreading both hands in a kind of a half shrug. His head nodded from side to side.
“Aahhh…” he said, “the special tonight was tarragon-coated chicken breasts, char-broiled and served with a Dijon mustard sauce.”
Kormann swept the printed forms aside and nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds good, Ralph. Were you doing that with French fries on the side?”
Ralph, on familiar territory, was becoming a little more self-confident. He smiled, a little deprecatingly, at the thought of French fries with his tarragon chicken.
“Well no,” he said. “I was going to cream some new potatoes and pipe them around the—”
He broke off in midsentence, his eyes fixed momentarily on the Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter that Kormann had produced and placed on the top of the desk between them. Then he looked up to the other man’s eyes, seeing them hard and unforgiving.
“Ralph, the rule around here is, when I suggest something, you say, ‘That’s right, Mr. Kormann.’ Got it?”
Ralph swallowed hard. Then nodded. Finally, he found his voice. “Yes, Mr. Kormann,” he breathed.
Kormann nodded. “Yes, what?” he prompted and the chef’s eyes slid sideways to Tina, looking for some kind of support there and finding none.
“Uh… yes, with French fries,” he said finally, in a small voice. Kormann nodded, satisfied. The Browning went back into the shoulder holster under his jacket.
“And a green salad, I think, with a good French dressing,” he added and again the chef nodded, remembering, when Kormann’s eyes snapped up to his, to say, “Yes, Mr. Kormann. A green salad would be fine.”
“Good,” Kormann said, no longer looking at the other man as he checked through the printout of the hotel guest list. “So get on with it. The girl can help you.”
Tina started to turn to the door but stopped as she realized that Ralph was hesitating, wringing his hands in fear. Kormann, eyes down on the guest list, affected not to notice for a few seconds, then looked up, frowning, at the chef.
“Yes?” he said.
“Um… the chicken… it was… it was the special,” Ralph finally managed to say.
Kormann shrugged. “Great,” he said impatiently. “Go get on with it.”
Still Ralph didn’t move, although every inch of his body said that he wanted to—simply wanted to get the hell out of this room and as far away from Kormann as he could possibly be. The terrorist leader looked up again.
“What are you waiting on, Ralph?” he asked sarcastically, then added, “The next bus out?” He heard the quick intake of breath from the girl but ignored her, his gaze locked on the chef’s. Ralph made a few helpless movements with his hands.
“There’s not enough for everyone,” he said finally. “It was the special. I only have two dozen chicken breasts unfrozen. When it’s a special we don’t usually have enough for everyone,” he explained weakly as he finished.
Kormann let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. “Well hell, Ralph,” he said, putting a sneering emphasis on the name. “I didn’t want it for everyone. Just me and my men. The rest of you can have stew.”
“Stew?” Ralph echoed, relief evident in his voice.
“Yes, Ralph. Stew. You got any cans of stew in that great big pantry downstairs? I’ll bet you have.”
“Well… yeah. I guess so,” the chef replied and Kormann nodded emphatically.
“Well, get busy and open some cans, Ralph. No, on second thought, let the girl do that. I guess you can open a can, can’t you, honey?” This last was addressed to Tina Bowden, who met his gaze, trying to hide the anger in her eyes and not quite succeeding. She knew he was needling her, knew it was a mistake to let him see how much she hated him. But she simply couldn’t help it.
“I guess so,” she said, at last.
“Well, get to it,” he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “Otherwise you’re going to be mighty hungry in that room.”
SEVENTEEN
LAKE GATUN
PANAMA
THE CANAL ZONE
TWO YEARS PRIOR
It was a rich man’s retreat, Kormann thought, as the silent manservant showed him through to the rear terrace, overlooking the lake. As he followed the man, he noticed the square outline of the pistol under the tail of his shirt, worn outside the black trousers. Big, he thought. Probably a Browning Hi-Power 9. Then, as he took in the rich wooden furnishings of the rooms they passed through, and the mosaic tile work that covered the floor, he amended the earlier thought. It was a very rich man’s retreat.
Estevez was waiting for him on the terrace, at a table shaded by a cantilevered sun umbrella. As he emerged from the dim coolness of the house, Kormann squinted slightly in the bright glare. It was hot and humid this close to the equator, but there was the relief of a cooling breeze sweeping up the hill from the lake. Below them, a handful of glistening white and chrome pleasure boats carved their way along the Banana Cut. Further away, a huge slab-sided cruise ship plowed through the Culebra Cut—the commercial channel.
The Jefe—as he liked to be called—rose to greet him, a smile creasing his tanned face. The eyes were obscured by dark aviator-style sunglasses, so it was impossible to tell if the smile was genuine or not. He looked cool and comfortable in a linen shirt and trousers. His black hair was brushed so that not one strand was out of place. The teeth showed white against his tanned skin. He was a handsome man, Kormann thought, and he looked much younger than his sixty years. Kormann wondered if the hair was dyed, and decided that it probably was. Estevez had that macho streak in him that would always want to deny the aging process.
“Raymond,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
Kormann was mildly pleased that he didn’t affect to call him Raimundo. They shook hands. Estevez’s grip was as firm and strong as his own. Then he motioned his guest to a cane chair on the opposite side of the glass-topped table where he had been sitting. He gestured to the servant, who had remained hovering in the doorway.
“Drinks please, Paolo,” he said. The servant bowed slightly and withdrew. The Jefe studied his guest for a few seconds. He was slightly above average height, lean and well muscled, and he moved like an athlete—balanced and smooth and without wasted motion. He was wearing chinos and a khaki drill shirt that had a vaguely military cut—which was appropriate, considering his occupation. The hair was cropped short. The eyes were a piercing blue above the strong nose. There were crinkles at the corners of the eyes and his face wore a permanent tan, witness to a life spent in the open air.
“You’re looking well. Business is good?”
Kormann shrugged. “Business will always be good while Africa is full of politicians trying to kill each other,” he said.
There was the very slightest hard edge of an accent. It was almost South African, but not quite. The mercenary allowed his glance to wander around the surroundings—the wide terrace, the green jungle below and the sparkling blue waters of the lake. It was a common mistake to assume that the Panama Canal was like the Suez—a straight, narrow channel cut through the land at sea level. But once ships had passed through the locks at either end, they entered Lake Gatun, a vast expanse of water dotted with islands and traversed by the pleasure boats of rich Panamanians.
“Seems you’re doing well yourself,” he said. He knew this was only one of Estevez’s homes. The Jefe never liked to stay too long in one place. There were people in Colombia who would be only too keen to repay what they saw as past insults and affronts. Their task w
as made all the more difficult by the fact that they could never be too sure where Estevez could be found at any time. Kormann glanced down to the jetty below the house; a high-speed catamaran cruiser was moored there, alongside a perfectly maintained vintage Grumman Gosling amphibian.
Estevez shrugged. “My business is always good too,” he replied. He raised one eyebrow as Kormann absentmindedly fished a soft pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and shook one out. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he said reprovingly. “Nicotine is a drug of addiction.”
Kormann smiled as he lit the cigarette. “You’re concerned about drugs of addiction?” he asked.
Estevez shrugged. “Drugs are for business. Not pleasure.”
The servant returned at that moment. He set down a tray of drinks and placed an ashtray beside Kormann’s elbow. Kormann glanced sideways at him.
“Your man knows my habits,” he said and the Jefe shrugged.
“He’s a good servant. He anticipates my needs and those of my guests. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“And I’ll bet he’s a crack shot with that Browning Hi-Power he has under the tail of his shirt,” Kormann added, and this time it was Estevez’s turn to smile.
“Of course. All good servants should be multiskilled.”
He reached for the drinks tray and took a bottle, pausing with it over a tall glass, his eyebrows rising in a question. It was an unbranded white rum, Kormann knew, made especially for his host, smoother and more potent than any commercial brand on the market. He nodded and Estevez poured generous measures into two glasses.
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