It was another brilliantly clear day and, without meaning to, he stopped to look at the magnificent view, looking back through the sawtooth tops of the mountain range to the haze that hung above Salt Lake City. It all looked so peaceful, so unchanged. He shook his head in wonder and skied forward a few yards until he could just see the hotel in the valley below.
He unlatched the skis and then moved into the sheltering shadow of the cable car terminal building, focusing the binoculars on the roof of the hotel far below him.
From this vantage point, he could see small figures moving on the roof—maybe half a dozen men, he figured. There were two pedestal mounts set up, each with twin fifty-caliber machine guns, and a radar dish. Several long, narrow drab olive cases were in evidence. They had a military look to them and he figured them to be the cases for Stinger missiles.
Nobody on the roof seemed to be looking his way. He swung the glasses toward Canyon Road, where he could make out the huge rift in the snow caused by the avalanche two days ago. Somewhere beyond that, he knew, the police, FBI and army had set up their base. At the thought of it now, he reached for his phone and switched it on.
He punched in a number and hit the send button, waited a few seconds, then heard the muted burr that told him the phone at the other end was ringing.
SHERIFF’S OFFICE
STEAMBOAT SPRINGS
COLORADO
0930 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
For the third time that morning, Lee began to word a memo about overtime hours. She rewound the microcassette recorder to the beginning to erase her previous effort, pressed record and tried again.
“Denise, this is for the financial controller at the county administration office, with copies to the mayor and members of the town council.” She paused, not sure how to begin, then shrugged angrily. Just jump in, she told herself.
“Regarding recent overtime hours submitted by members of the sheriff’s… make that the Routt County sheriff’s, Denise… office staff… make that personnel… sheriff’s office personnel… Routt County sheriff’s office personnel,” she corrected herself savagely, “in particular with regard to activities regarding the recent Olympic ski-jump trials…” she tailed off uncertainly. She sensed that she was saying “regarding, regard and recent” a hell of a lot in that first sentence. She clicked the stop button, rewound and played back what she’d dictated so far.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she said, then threw the recorder violently against the office wall. It slid to the floor, the spring-loaded cover snapped open and the cassette half-ejected on impact.
The door opened a crack and Tom LeGros put his head around the edge.
“You call me, Lee?” he said. He was a little nervous. The sheriff had been like a recently woken grizzly these past few days. She glared up at him for a second, then realized it wasn’t his fault that she was on edge and waved her hand in a negative gesture.
“No. I’m sorry, Tom. Just a bit keyed up is all.”
He nodded, saying nothing. Everyone in the office knew that Jesse had taken off but nobody knew why and nobody was keen to discuss it with Lee. Tom swallowed. He wished there was some way he could help but he’d known Lee long enough to realize that wishing and doing were two different matters.
“Okay, then,” he said. He withdrew his head and closed the door quietly behind him. Lee kept looking at the closed door for several seconds, then shook her head wearily.
“Damn it, Jess. Where the hell are you? Why do you have to run off whenever you’ve got a problem?”
It was a continual source of frustration to her. Put Jesse in a dangerous situation where lives might be at risk, and she couldn’t think of a more steadfast, dependable person. Jesse was the companion you’d choose to go into the trenches with, she thought, remembering her father’s dictum on how to judge another person’s worth. If you were in trouble, he’d move heaven and earth to help you. But when anything threatened his personal space, he had a tendency to run away from the situation, hiding away like a wounded animal while he tried to heal the wounds by himself. He’d done it when they were teenagers, and again after that shooting incident in Denver. It seemed that when he had a personal crisis, he just couldn’t accept outside help from anyone.
“Not that you offered much help,” she muttered to herself, uncomfortably aware that her parting words to him were to “fuck off” and “get over it.” “You know what he’s like. You should have taken it a bit easier.”
The phone on her desk pealed and she hooked the receiver out of the cradle.
“Sheriff Torrens,” she said, her mind still on the problem of Jesse. Then she stiffened in her seat as she heard his voice.
“Lee? It’s Jesse.”
“Jesse! Where the hell are you? What are you—” She forced herself to stop, hearing the overtone of anger in her voice. This was not the way to deal with him. She’d just been telling herself that. Jesse needed careful handling when he was in this mood and here she was trying to jump down his throat—as usual.
“Lee, I’m in Utah,” he began.
She frowned. “Utah? What—” Then with an enormous effort, she stopped the outburst that was threatening to erupt down the phone line. She took a deep breath, calmed herself.
“Okay, Jess. You’re in Utah,” she said.
“Lee, I need your help. You been watching what’s going on at Snow Eagles Resort?” he said and she felt a cold hand of fear wrap itself around her heart.
“Yes,” she said. She couldn’t say more than the one word. She had an awful sense she knew what was coming.
“Well that’s where I am. Came here to ski and… sort a few things out.”
“You’re a hostage?” she said and he hurried to correct her.
“No. No. I’m in the clear. I was out skiing when they took over the hotel. I’ve been hiding out ever since. They don’t know I’m here.”
“Then get the hell out of there, Jess. Get out right now before they find out!” she said. She felt a terrible sense of helplessness. Jesse was in danger and she was powerless to do anything about it. But Jesse’s voice continued, calm and determined now. She reflected on her earlier thoughts. Now he had a situation to focus on, he was the Jesse you’d go to the trenches with.
“Can’t be done, Lee. There’s no way out at the moment. And besides, I think I might be able to help these people if I stay around.”
“One man, Jesse? What can one man hope to do?” she asked. She was desperate for him to get out of that ski resort, any way he could.
“I can keep the FBI informed as to what’s happening,” he said quietly and she stopped her protesting as she realized how valuable it would be to have an observer on the inside in a situation like this. It made a lot of sense for him to stay put, she thought. More importantly, she realized that, in his place, she’d do the same thing.
“How can I help, Jess?” she said quietly.
He sensed the change in her tone and was grateful for it. “The agent-in-charge is Dent Colby. Remember him?” he asked.
She scratched her cheek thoughtfully. The name rang a bell. As she paused, thinking, he reminded her.
“I had contact with him during the Mountain Murder thing. He was advising us. Never met him but had a few faxes and phone calls to him.”
“I remember,” she said. “You want me to contact him?”
“Figure you’ll have a better chance to get through than me. If I call the FBI, I’ll be shunted aside with all the crazies—and I don’t have time for that. I’ve only got a limited time when I can make contact. The phones are monitored in the hotel and the valley is a dead spot for cells. Only place I can make contact is from the top of the cable car.”
“That’s a problem,” she agreed.
“I want you to get through to him, tell him the situation and give him my cell number. Get him to call me, okay? I’ll wait another two hours. That should give you time to get through to him. If he doesn’t call today, I’ll get up here again tomorrow, same
time. Okay?”
She paused, trying to think if there was anything more she could do to help him, then decided that there wasn’t. Best she could do for him was do what he asked.
“Okay, Jesse. You’ve got it,” she said.
“Lee? Don’t mention this to anyone, okay? Word of this gets out and the press mentions it, I’m toast. They’ll come looking for me.”
“I understand.” She hesitated, there was a lot she wanted to say but somehow this didn’t seem the time to say it.
“Lee?” he said, in the pause. “I better go. This cold weather plays havoc with the phone battery and I don’t have a lot of power left.”
“Okay, Jesse. You hang tight and I’ll get onto this Agent Colby.” Again, a pause. Again the sense that she should say more. Eventually, she said: “Jesse? You take care now. I need you back here.”
“You bet, Lee. I better go. Tell Colby I’ll switch the phone off for an hour, then I’ll turn it back on again, in case he’s calling.”
“Take care, Jess.”
“You said that already.” She was sure she could hear the grin in his voice.
“I meant it. ’Bye.” Abruptly, she jammed her forefinger down on the phone button, breaking the connection. She waited a second or two, then pressed the intercom button on the phone.
“Denise? Get me the FBI in Salt Lake City.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON D.C.
1150 HOURS, EASTERN TIME
MONDAY, DAY 3
Large as it was, Linus Benjamin’s office was crowded with people. The FBI director had called in all his senior operatives, deputy directors and controllers to canvas their opinions on the Canyon Lodge situation.
It was a preferred method of the director. He figured that he had on his staff a group of highly paid, highly intelligent, professional law enforcement officers and it only made good sense to turn their collective experience and intelligence loose on any large problem that the bureau faced. The age of the men and women around his office ranged from the early thirties to several who were, in reality, long past retirement age. Benjamin, however, wasn’t prepared to lose the years of experience and maturity that such people embodied and as long as they wanted to stay in harness, the bureau was delighted to keep them on.
They sat on the sofas at his coffee conference table, some perched on the arms. His visitors’ chairs had been the first claimed, and several additional ones had been brought in from his PA’s annex outside the door. The only face in the room that didn’t belong to a bureau employee was that of Truscott Emery. Benjamin hadn’t been surprised when he’d heard how the president had dismissed Emery. Rather, he saw it as the thin end of the wedge that would break up the tight-knit little band of advisers assembled by President Couch. Sooner or later, he knew, he would go the same way as Emery. For the moment, he valued the other man’s intellectual and analytical abilities and had invited him to join the general session.
Opinions through the room had been divided—as was predictable. There were those who advocated the Strike First, Strike Fast option—use the RRTF and go in fast and hard. Hit the terrorists quickly while they thought negotiations were still possible. This was the best time to do it, the proponents argued. As the siege went on, the terrorists’ expectations of military action would inevitably become higher and higher.
The opposite view had its advocates as well. Keep negotiating, give a little more each time and wait for the best opportunity to strike.
All in the room agreed that there was little to be gained by appealing to the British to release the Irish terrorists. As Deputy Director Sandy George had said only a few minutes earlier, “Let’s face it, guys, if the Brits asked us tomorrow to let the Unabomber go so that they could get a bunch of hostages freed, we’d politely tell them to go fish.”
The inevitable result was to continue to wait. To be prepared to cut loose Colonel Maloney and his marines if necessary and, if the chance arose to do so with minimum risk, but otherwise to wait. To keep talking, keep trying to establish a sense of trust, keep trying to whittle down the demands. Maybe to get some of the hostages released.
The more time went by, experience told them, the greater the chance of a positive outcome. It was frustrating but it was the best option. At heart, even those calling for an immediate rescue bid knew it. There was, however, another element added to the mix now, and it was the disembodied voice from the starfish conference phone on Benjamin’s coffee table that pointed it out.
“We’ve got one thing extra going for us now, guys,” said Denton Colby. He had joined the conference from his command trailer in the Wasatch mountains, listening to the opinions put forward by his peers and fellow agents, agreeing with some, disagreeing with others, but for the most part remaining a silent listener. Now he spoke. “This new demand actually gives us a chance to buy some extra time. They can’t expect us to negotiate a release for these Irish guys overnight.”
“Dent,” interrupted Senior Agent Edith Carswell. “You don’t seriously believe that they give a damn about these Irish guys do you? It’s a blind. It’s just something they’re throwing in to put us off balance.”
Several of those present murmured agreement. Dent Colby waited till comment had died down before he spoke. After a second or two, Colby replied. “Maybe so. But even if we don’t believe it, they don’t have to know that. If they think they’ve got us chasing our tails, all the better. It gives us time. These guys are watching the TV news. If they see a report that our ambassador has called on the Brit prime minister, and there’s a certain amount of speculation that we might be asking for cooperation, it’ll buy us a few more days. I can say we’re trying to be good guys, trying to be cooperative. None of that will do us any harm. And it puts the ball back in their court to drop the demand.”
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 clea
r, 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.”
CANYON ROAD
WASATCH COUNTY
1005 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
MONDAY, DAY 3
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.”
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