said.”
“Then we’ll make it six,” Kormann told him. “We’re going to be here awhile, Ben, and I don’t know about you but I’m a lousy cook. Let’s just take out a little insurance in self-indulgence, shall we?”
In a few moments, Kormann thought now, as the guard at the door stood aside to let them through, the chef would be thanking his lucky stars that he’d been chosen to stay.
In a few days, who could tell?
Kormann pressed the call button for the elevator. The left-hand car arrived, its doors sighing open with that peculiar self-satisfied sound all elevators seem to make. Kormann nudged Markus forward and pressed the top button. They rode up without speaking. The only sound in the elevator was the gentle hum of the electric motor whirling them up six stories to the roof. Again, the doors slid open and Kormann nudged the other man out.
The Crow’s Nest Bar and heated enclosed swimming pool occupied about a quarter of the flat roof. With panoramic glass windows on three sides, it commanded breathtaking views of the mountain to one side and the ski slopes to the other. Outside, there was a jogging track and an expanse of artificial grass, with lounging chairs and tables set out.
“Move,” Kormann said, nudging Markus toward the door. They came out into the crisp, cold, late afternoon air. The sun had already dropped behind the far mountain but there was still a good half hour of light left in the day. Outside the bar, sheltered from the wind by its solid walls, one of Kormann’s men was busy setting up an array of equipment. Markus stopped and watched curiously. His captor allowed the delay for a few minutes.
“Twin fifty caliber Brownings, slaved to radar tracking, and a dozen or so Stinger missiles,” he said, by way of an explanation to the unspoken question in Markus’s eyes. “Just in case you should be talking to anyone from outside, I want you to know that no choppers are going to be coming up this valley.”
He paused and Markus looked at him. Then, with a cold glint of a smile in his eye, Kormann corrected himself.
“At least they might come up the valley, but they sure as hell won’t be going back down if they do,” he said. Markus nodded somberly. The twin mount heavy caliber machine guns might seem to be old technology in this era of missiles and electronic warfare, but he knew that combat in Vietnam and the Middle East had proved the effectiveness of radar-directed small arms fire against attacking aircraft—particularly slow movers like helicopters. He glanced around the roof and saw another twin fifty mount being installed at the opposite side. Between them, the two gun installations covered all approaches to the hotel. And in case there were any gaps, the shoulder-launched Stingers—heat-seeking AA missiles—would fill them in quickly enough.
Evidently, Markus realized, their few moments of communication were over. Kormann shoved him roughly in the direction of the northern parapet. The duty manager shrugged and began walking in the direction indicated. Shivering in his thin blazer jacket and shirt, he walked toward the four-foot high parapet at the edge of the roof. He noted that Kormann had had the foresight to slip on a warm-looking parka. Markus stopped at the parapet, Kormann a few paces behind him.
“Now what?” asked the duty manager. Dully, he looked out over the magnificent view. From here, you could see the massive peaks of the Wasatches all around them, and the heaving panorama of mountains that stretched out before them, all the way back to Salt Lake City. The city itself wasn’t visible from this point but at night, when the weather was clear or when there was a low overcast, you could see the loom of the city’s lights on the horizon, or reflected on the underbelly of the clouds.
Kormann’s eyes were searching the valley below them, looking for something in the near distance. He found the single road that wound tortuously along the canyon and down to
“Then we’ll make it six,” Kormann told him. “We’re going to be here awhile, Ben, and I don’t know about you but I’m a lousy cook. Let’s just take out a little insurance in self-indulgence, shall we?”
In a few moments, Kormann thought now, as the guard at the door stood aside to let them through, the chef would be thanking his lucky stars that he’d been chosen to stay.
In a few days, who could tell?
Kormann pressed the call button for the elevator. The left-hand car arrived, its doors sighing open with that peculiar self-satisfied sound all elevators seem to make. Kormann nudged Markus forward and pressed the top button. They rode up without speaking. The only sound in the elevator was the gentle hum of the electric motor whirling them up six stories to the roof. Again, the doors slid open and Kormann nudged the other man out.
The Crow’s Nest Bar and heated enclosed swimming pool occupied about a quarter of the flat roof. With panoramic glass windows on three sides, it commanded breathtaking views of the mountain to one side and the ski slopes to the other. Outside, there was a jogging track and an expanse of artificial grass, with lounging chairs and tables set out.
“Move,” Kormann said, nudging Markus toward the door. They came out into the crisp, cold, late afternoon air. The sun had already dropped behind the far mountain but there was still a good half hour of light left in the day. Outside the bar, sheltered from the wind by its solid walls, one of Kormann’s men was busy setting up an array of equipment. Markus stopped and watched curiously. His captor allowed the delay for a few minutes.
“Twin fifty caliber Brownings, slaved to radar tracking, and a dozen or so Stinger missiles,” he said, by way of an explanation to the unspoken question in Markus’s eyes. “Just in case you should be talking to anyone from outside, I want you to know that no choppers are going to be coming up this valley.”
He paused and Markus looked at him. Then, with a cold glint of a smile in his eye, Kormann corrected himself.
“At least they might come up the valley, but they sure as hell won’t be going back down if they do,” he said. Markus nodded somberly. The twin mount heavy caliber machine guns might seem to be old technology in this era of missiles and electronic warfare, but he knew that combat in Vietnam and the Middle East had proved the effectiveness of radar-directed small arms fire against attacking aircraft—particularly slow movers like helicopters. He glanced around the roof and saw another twin fifty mount being installed at the opposite side. Between them, the two gun installations covered all approaches to the hotel. And in case there were any gaps, the shoulder-launched Stingers—heat-seeking AA missiles—would fill them in quickly enough.
Evidently, Markus realized, their few moments of communication were over. Kormann shoved him roughly in the direction of the northern parapet. The duty manager shrugged and began walking in the direction indicated. Shivering in his thin blazer jacket and shirt, he walked toward the four-foot high parapet at the edge of the roof. He noted that Kormann had had the foresight to slip on a warm-looking parka. Markus stopped at the parapet, Kormann a few paces behind him.
“Now what?” asked the duty manager. Dully, he looked out over the magnificent view. From here, you could see the massive peaks of the Wasatches all around them, and the heaving panorama of mountains that stretched out before them, all the way back to Salt Lake City. The city itself wasn’t visible from this point but at night, when the weather was clear or when there was a low overcast, you could see the loom of the city’s lights on the horizon, or reflected on the underbelly of the clouds.
Kormann’s eyes were searching the valley below them, looking for something in the near distance. He found the single road that wound tortuously along the canyon and down to
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