Camilla’s tragic death made Ries all the more determined to feel alive.
The crux of the climb came at a height of sixty-three feet. The crack that he’d been using to anchor his nuts and cams petered out there, leaving seventeen feet of inverted climb with no place to secure a rope. There were two tough alternatives for completing the ascent. Ries could make the rest of the climb without additional anchors for his rope, but that would risk a fall of up to thirty-four feet. Or he could shift to a crack a dozen feet off to his left. The latter was a considerably easier route, with a slope that was dead-on ninety degrees vertical rather than overhanging. But reaching it took serious skill.
The hand and foot holds between the second crack and his present position were little more than blemishes. One- or two-millimeter pimples on the face of the cliff. The first time Ries had attempted the shift, he’d fallen six times, only making it on the lucky seventh. With experience, he now only slipped about once every other climb.
He was halfway there and doing his best starfish impersonation when he heard the dreaded rattle of gravel overhead. Careful to keep his movement very slow and steady, he rotated his neck in that direction. A coil of rope flew off the clifftop and fell just his side of the last crevice. Due to the overhanging rock, the intruding rope didn’t actually touch his. It ran perpendicular to it about two inches out. That overlap was a major breach of both safety and etiquette, as was tossing a coil without first shouting, “Rope!”
“Hey!” Ries shouted. “You’re not alone on this rock.”
That was another downside to his unusual approach. Some inexperienced climbers, seeing no other lines clipped to the bolt up top, assumed they had the cliff to themselves.
He waited a beat for “Sorry!” but it didn’t come.
The climber, however, did.
He backed off over the edge and started to descend. His skin was dark, although whether Asian or African or spray-tanned, Ries couldn’t tell. Perhaps the oblivious bastard didn’t speak English.
The intruder rappelled down until Ries’s rope was at his eye level. Then he stopped, secured his own rope, and looked over. Had he just been surprised by the sight of Ries’s line? Perhaps he was deaf.
“You need to shout ‘Rope!’ before throwing. What you did is very dangerous for your fellow climbers. And you can’t have your line crossing mine. You’re going to have to reposition.”
The man stayed silent while he studied Ries. With his helmet and sunglasses, Ries couldn’t tell if there was comprehension on the climber’s face, but his mouth didn’t appear particularly apologetic.
“Do you understand?” Ries pressed, using his head to gesture ever so slightly toward the rope. “It’s very dangerous.” Surely his starfish stance said it all.
The man grabbed Ries’s rope in his left hand.
“No, no! That’s not what I meant! Don’t touch my rope!”
While Ries watched in horror, the man pulled a box cutter from his webbing. One of those wicked looking ones with a hooked handle and locking blade. He put it to Ries’s rope and severed the multi-strand with a single forceful swipe. There was nothing Ries could do to stop him. Clinging to the rock demanded all his strength and focus.
As the trailing tail of Ries’s rope slid back along his path like a retreating snake, making that whispery zippy sound, Ries turned away from the man and locked his eyes on the next crack. His salvation. It was still a good four feet from his grasp. You’ve done this before, dozens of times. You don’t need the rope. His hands were sweaty but he hesitated to reach for his chalk. Still, that was the smart move, and this was the time to be—
A tug ripped Ries from the rock face.
The man had pulled Ries’s rope.
As he fell into his favorite view and eternal resting place, Ries screamed his last thought. “Why?”
27
The Naked Truth
I STEPPED INTO THE ELEVATOR as Tom turned toward his room. Had the killer recognized me? No way to know. He hadn’t reacted, but professionals rarely did.
Fortunately, I had been standing to the side with my face in my phone. That posture was a defensive measure I’d made a habit after a similar event in the Czech Republic had ended with arterial spray all over the elevator of the Prague Castle Suites.
Luck had saved my bacon back then.
Luck and my pet weapon.
The ceramic stiletto blade secured to my forearm with a custom-made 3D-printed clip had been issued to me months earlier for a special op in Switzerland. Pencil thin and just as light, it was invisible to metal detectors, if not to body scans or pat-downs. Once I discovered that I could propel the blade into my hand if I whipped my arm just right—something I often practiced when bored—it became as integral to my wardrobe as my watch.
I stroked my sleeve to verify the stiletto’s presence as I rode the elevator down. If Tom had recognized me, he would be running down the stairs at the end of the hall, planning to either flank and eliminate me or make a fast escape.
Exiting into the grand lobby, I used my peripheral vision to check the hallway to my left. Vincent was walking from that direction, but no one else. Inspired by the sighting, I headed the valet’s way.
“May I help you, Mister Chase?”
“Did you just see Tom?”
“No, sir.”
“Do me a favor, if you’d be so kind. Walk back up the stairs, then all the way to the other side.” I drew a long arc in the air as I spoke. “Then meet me in the lobby and let me know if you see him.”
“But of course, sir.”
As Vincent reversed course, I moved to a corner of the lobby and pulled up the GPS tracking app on my phone. Tom’s Mercedes was still in the lot.
A bit of ruckus in the bar caught my attention, but otherwise the lobby was quiet. Nobody was checking in or out. The receptionist who had given Vincent a sideward glance now gave me a welcoming smile.
I melted into a corner and pulled a twenty from my increasingly slim wallet while keeping an eye on the doors.
Vincent completed his circuit in under two minutes. “No sign of him, Mr. Chase.”
“Anybody else about?”
He pointed toward the elevator, which pinged as if prompted. An elderly couple emerged and headed toward the restaurant. “Just them.”
I passed Vincent the twenty in a thank-you shake, then took the stairs up to my room.
After quietly opening and closing my door, I hooked my cell phone back up to the fiber optic camera. It gave me another surprise. Tom had pushed the soft furniture aside and was now standing naked in the middle of his room.
It took me a second to recognize the controlled movements of the ancient martial art he was practicing. Memories of Saturday mornings in Hanoi came flooding back as I watched grasp the sparrow’s tail turn to ward-off, and then roll-back morph into gather. I hit RECORD as Tom exhaled into press, while sweat rolled over muscles stretched tight as drumheads.
People out of the know typically scoffed at the lackadaisical looking exercise, but I understood tai chi’s power. It exercised the entire body, increasing both flexibility and power while improving balance and training the body to remain relaxed during tense situations.
Watching Tom, I found myself mesmerized by another man’s body for the first time in my life. His fat percentage was clearly down in the single digits, but his scar count wasn’t. I spotted two bullet holes, three knife wounds, and half a dozen smaller disfigurements that resembled claw marks. Most were on his arms, as if acquired during defensive gestures. Given the scene before me now, it was easy to picture the man practicing martial arts against multiple opponents armed with classic blunt and bladed weapons. I cringed at the thought of facing such a master with my tiny knife.