Tildeman’s lip curled. He’d done a stint in the Marines during the Vietnam War.
“Pity Ho didn’t see it that way. He just kept building them and shooting our guys down,” he replied and Benjamin shrugged.
“I didn’t say it was a sensible message. Or even a logical one,” he said. “Just that Johnson thought he was sending it. Then in Belgrade in the late nineties, NATO planes took out the local television station because Milosovic was using it to rally the Serbs. There was no tactical value in the target. It was a message to him: We can shut you up any time we want to. Now start negotiating.”
Tildeman conceded the point, a little reluctantly. It all seemed too much like pie in the sky to him but he had to admit the Belgrade TV station raid had been carried out for the purpose Benjamin had just stated. “I guess he may be right at that,” he said. “It certainly won’t do any harm to cover that base.”
Benjamin held the door open for him. “And at least we know that Emery will cover it thoroughly,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
PAOLO’S RESTAURANT
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON D.C.
EIGHT YEARS PRIOR
Senator Michael Atherton waited until the appetizers had been served and the waiter moved away from the discreet table at the rear of the restaurant. He glanced quizzically at the stuffed field mushrooms on the plate before him. Paolo’s was a pretty low-profile restaurant in the Washington scene—not one of his usual haunts. But the food was always good.
“I take it from the choice of venue that the president feels disinclined to grant my request?” he said. He didn’t add, nor did he need to, that the messenger selected to pass on the news was another indication of the White House’s wish to remain detached. His dining companion was a presidential special aide, a position that was just senior enough to avoid insulting the senator, yet sufficiently vague in terms of responsibility to fly under the radar of the Washington press. If the dinner had been with the assistant chief of staff, for example, it wouldn’t have avoided notice.
His dining companion, a tall, good-looking man in his thirties, shrugged apologetically.
“It’s a bad time, Senator,” he said. “We’re taking a beating on the gun legislation thing already. If the president comes out and openly supports your stance, we’ll be putting out brushfires in all directions. Maybe in six months things might be different.”
Atherton nodded. “Funny how the right to lifers and the gun lobby all seem to be drinking from the same waterhole, isn’t it?” he mused. Atherton was a firm advocate of the right to free choice. He had never backed away from stating his views publicly. He was a charismatic figure and at one stage he’d been tapped as a possible future presidential candidate. But it would never happen so long as he attracted the hatred of a solid core of rabid right to lifers.
He sighed and pushed the plate away, the mushrooms half finished.
“I know how it is, Ted,” he said. “I’ve been around the hill long enough to understand how these things work. Everyone has their own priorities.”
The younger man frowned slightly. He genuinely admired Atherton and he agreed with his stance.
“Of course, sir,” he said. “The president will do anything he can to help you—in the way of discreet pressure or influence…” he said and let the sentence hang. Atherton finished it for him.
“As long as it remains discreet, I guess?” he smiled wryly. His companion pursed his lips. It was a pretty empty offer, he knew. But it was all he could bring to the table. Atherton knew it wasn’t his fault. He’d really had little expectation of any public commitment from the White House and Ted, after all, was only the messenger. He thought it might be time to let the young man off the hook.
“What about your priorities, Ted?” he asked. “Are you planning to stay on at the West Wing?”
The younger man shrugged. “I don’t think so. The president is in his second term and if the new man is from our side he’s going to want his own people. Of course, if he’s not, there’s no possibility of staying on. I thought it’s time to move on. I’m planning to run for office.”
Atherton raised his eyebrows. “The House or the Senate?” he asked.
“Senate. There’s a vacancy coming up in my home state and I thought I might throw my hat in the ring while I can still get the support of an incumbent president.”
Atherton nodded. “Of course. Senator Ewing is going to retire early, isn’t he? Three heart attacks in a year are a good enough warning for any man that it’s time to let up a little. Well good luck to you. I think you’ll make a fine senator.”
His companion smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Senator. It means a lot to have you say that.”
“Well, if I can be of any help, don’t—” Atherton stopped as the maître d’ slipped quietly up to the table and leaned down beside him. “Yes, Emilio?” he asked. The maître d’ spread his hands in a little gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry, Senator. We’ve had a tip-off. It seems that word has got out that you’re here tonight. There’s a group from the Let the Children Live movement heading this way.”
Atherton pursed his lips in annoyance. “With their banners and their bullhorns, no doubt.” Then he smiled briefly at the maître d’. “Thanks, Emilio. Maybe we should cancel our orders and get away from here. I don’t want your other diners bothered by this.”
The waiter frowned angrily. “Stay if you wish, Senator. You’re a valued guest.”
But Atherton was already shaking his head. “No. We’ll go. Besides, it won’t serve any purpose to have my young friend here seen in my company. There’s sure to be press along with them.” He glanced at his companion. “That okay with you?” he asked. The other man shrugged unhappily.
“If it were just me, I’d say to hell with them. But I guess…” He paused. He was obviously not pleased with the situation and Atherton leaned across the table and patted his forearm.
“Problem with working for the White House,” he said. “You can’t indulge in personal statements.”
They stood and made for the entrance. Emilio clicked his fingers and gestured for one of the junior waiters to retrieve their coats from the cloak room. As they shrugged into them, Atherton queried the maître d’.
“The bill?” he asked. But Emilio waved his hands in a negative gesture.
“For two appetizers you hardly touched?” he said. “I’ll take care of it, Senator.”
Atherton smiled his thanks. “I’ll make amends next time,” he said and the waiter dismissed the need for him to do so.
“I’ve sent for your driver,” he said. “He’ll be outside in a minute or two.”
“Then that’s where we’ll wait for him. The mob’s not here yet. We’d hear them if they were.” Atherton pushed open the door and turned to the younger man. “Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked.
“No need. My car’s just down the street.” He reached into his coat pocket to make sure the keys were still there. For a second or two he couldn’t find them, then realized that he’d stuffed his gloves down on top of them when he entered the restaurant half an hour before. He pulled the gloves and the keys out in one motion. Inevitably, he dropped one glove onto the damp sidewalk. Both men bent instinctively to retrieve it.
ROOM 204
GEORGETOWN INN
WASHINGTON D.C.
The room was in darkness. The window was open just a few inches but it was enough to give the crouching figure a clear view of the entrance to Paolo’s. As the two men emerged, he swung up the muzzle of the .308 caliber Springfield M1-A rifle. He centered the scope on his target’s forehead, nudging the focus ring gently to bring the image into pin-sharp view.
From a distance of barely seventy yards, the man’s head and shoulders filled the scope.
His forefinger took the first pressure on the trigger. He took in half a breath and held it.
And the target suddenly dropped out of the scope’s field of vision as he inexplicably b
ent to retrieve something. Caught by surprise and already committed to the shot, the gunman tilted quickly down after him, reflexively squeezing the trigger, knowing instantly that he’d missed.
He threw the gun on the bed, hurried to the door and let himself out, heading for the rear of the hotel and the backstreet where his car was parked.
PAOLO’S RESTAURANT
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON D.C.
Later, witnesses could never agree whether they heard the sound of the rifle shot before they saw Senator Atherton spin around, clutching at the point of his shoulder, where the .308 steel jacketed bullet had slammed against bone.
He stumbled and fell to the ground. His companion dropped to his knees beside him and hunched protectively over him. He looked at the senator’s face, contorted with shock and pain, then up to Emilio’s horrified gaze.
“Call 911,” he shouted.
TWENTY-THREE
ROOM 517
CANYON LODGE
WASATCH COUNTY
0724 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SUNDAY, DAY 2
THE PRESENT
Jesse woke suddenly. The room was foreign to him and for a moment he wondered where he was. Then memory came flooding back. The previous night, worn out by the cumulative effects of a day’s hard skiing and the emotional exhaustion of the subsequent events, he’d crept up the fire stairs and used Tina’s pass card to let himself into her room. Even though he was ravenous, the unmade bed beckoned him and the need for sleep was even more urgent. He was out a second or two after his head hit the pillow.
Now, waking, he was instantly conscious of the faint scent of Tina’s perfume lingering on the sheets and pillow. The realization made him a little uncomfortable. Hotel rooms were impersonal as a rule but this was her permanent base and there was evidence of her all around him. Her parka was tossed casually across the back of the easy chair by the coffee table and the table itself was host to a half-full plunger style coffeepot and a used cup. The straight-backed chair by the desk in the corner was pushed back at an angle—obviously from the last time Tina had risen from it. Normally, housekeeping would have replaced it squarely in position, but he guessed that as a staff member’s room, 517 didn’t merit daily housekeeping visits. A bra hung from the back of the chair. He recognized it as the one she had worn the night she had come back to his room. He felt another surge of guilt. Their casual encounter was developing into something much more serious, he thought. Lee’s face rose before his mind’s eye and he pushed it away.
He tossed back the cover and swung out of bed. The heating system was still functioning in the lodge so the room was comfortably warm. Carefully, he eased the drapes back a fraction, peering through the gap he created. There was no sign of movement around the hotel. No sign of any sentries. Logically, he assumed, they would be on the roof, where they could command a three hundred and sixty degree view of the area. They wouldn’t be looking for trouble from within.
He padded silently to the door and put his eye to the wide-angle lens set in the top panel. The corridor seemed empty—as much as he could see of it. There was no reason to suppose that his presence in the room had been discovered, he thought. But there was no reason to believe that it hadn’t either. He went into the bathroom and used the toilet, at the last moment stopping the instinctive movement that led his hand to the toilet handle. His experience with hotel plumbing told him that the resultant noise could be as dangerous to him as an alarm system.
His stomach growled and he was conscious of the fact that he’d decided on sleep rather than food the night before. He found the small pantry area in the room that contained the coffeemaker and minibar.
There were two packets of potato chips, a pack of beer nuts and a Nestlé Crunch bar on the shelf. Jesse ripped open the barbecue-flavored chips and crammed a handful in his mouth.
As he crunched them, he twisted the cap off a container of orange juice and washed them down. He crossed to the bureau. There were a few loose sheets of notepaper lying on the desktop, and a Parker ballpoint pen. A slotted metal plate was positioned by the left-hand bureau drawer and he slid the pass card into it, hearing the soft click of the lock disengaging after a second or two.
The gun was there, just as she’d said. It was a Smith and Wesson Model 686, chambered for .38 Special or .357 Magnum loads. It had a three-inch barrel and custom rubber grips. There was also a carton of fifty .357 Magnum bullets and he slid the pack open to reveal five empty spaces and the gleaming brass bases of the forty-five remaining shells. He swung out the cylinder on the pistol. As he’d suspected, she left the chamber under the hammer empty. He flicked the cylinder shut again and considered the weapon. An extra gun mightn’t be a lot of use to him, he thought. He was familiar with his own Colt and the feel of the revolver was foreign to him. Plus the custom grips were obviously tailored to her smaller hand. But an extra gun in experienced hands among the hostages might well make a difference a little down the track. He placed the .38 and the carton of heavy slugs on top of the bureau and softly closed the lid again.
He found the TV remote and switched the set on, hurriedly reducing the volume to the lowest audible level as he searched for a news program.
Channel 6 had one. As the digital clock on the bedside unit ticked over to the half hour, the 6 Eyewitness News logo faded up on-screen, accompanied by the usual self-important fanfare beloved by news producers the world over. This was a local station, and the siege at Canyon Lodge was the lead story. The anchor man looked into the lens and intoned in a deep, carefully modulated voice: “Top of the news is the breaking story from Snow Eagles Resort in the Wasatches. It is now believed that the avalanche blocking the road was no accident, and that guests and staff are being held hostage in the Canyon Lodge hotel. Matt Downing has the story.”
He swiveled his chair to look at the monitor to one side of the news desk. As he did, the feed cut full screen to the on-site reporter at Canyon Road, in front of an array of vehicles, from sherriff’s department cruisers to Army six-by-sixes, parked close by the site of the avalanche that had blocked the road.
“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 ans
wering 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.
02 Avalanche Pass Page 15