The cable cars were still operating, going up and down simultaneously, passing each other, going up full, coming down empty. I glanced up at the engine house speculatively.
Rico Corelli. If only I knew what he really looked like. The hotel was small — I could take up my station in the lobby and meet him without all this ridiculous cloak and dagger stuff so dearly loved by Hawk and his minions.
Still. One man had already been killed. Rico Corelli was a big man on a dangerous mission. Security was important.
I knocked on the door to Juana's half of the suite.
"Yes?"
"Let's go down, Juana."
We went out together like husband and wife — an old married couple in whom the fires of sex and love had long ago died. The bachelor husband and the virgin wife.
The air was cold but bracing. The snow appeared perfect for skiing, just a light layer of powder in the right places. No storm was predicted. Yet I could sense that there might be some snow that night.
We sat at one of the last tables in the Prado and drank some hot chocolate with cognac. A party of four people came down from the slopes and parked their skis and poles against the wall of the snack bar and looked for a table and chairs.
They were speaking German. I know some German, so I offered them half of our table. They took one look at Juana and hastily accepted. The party consisted of four men. One was in his forties and obviously the leader of the group; the other three were probably in their late thirties. The leader spoke German but was actually Swiss. The other three were mixed — one Dane and two Germans.
They could not take their eyes off Juana, even after the muchacho brought them four steaming mugs of chocolate.
"Herr Bruno Hauptli," said the big man, reaching out to shake my hand.
"George Peabody. From the States."
"Ah, yes! Of course. I did recognize something of an American accent in your German."
"I apologize," I grinned. "This is Juana, my wife."
"Such a lucky man!" exclaimed Bruno Hauptli, turning to his companions and explaining in German that she was married to me.
"Ya, ya," said the two Germans as they stared at Juana. The Dane drooled into his chocolate.
"You people ski tomorrow?" Herr Hauptli asked.
Juana nodded. "We intend to."
"Ah! I am not on the slopes tomorrow, but perhaps the next day — or the next!" Herr Hauptli slapped his thigh excitedly. "Why do we not make a duet of it — I mean, a trio," he said, remembering me.
Juana sparkled. "I'd love it!"
"Herr Peabody?"
"Oh, love it, love it!"
Everybody laughed because it was obvious that I would not love it.
The talk churned on. Hauptli suddenly had Juana by the arm, was leading her off from the table and leaning down with her over his skis and poles. They were deep in some technical discussion about the lock device he had on his skis. Juana was bubbling and effervescent.
"Herr Hauptli," I said in German to one of the younger men. "He is a businessman, yap?"
The German next to me was classically blue-eyed and blond-haired. "Ya! Herr Hauptli is one of the most successful businessmen in the Common Market," he said. "He has a great deal of responsibility."
"He is on vacation?" I asked.
"A big meeting is to be held in Paris in a week. For now, Herr Hauptli is relaxing, enjoying the sunlight, and the snow and the…"
A pause.
The Germans both laughed and the not-entirely-melancholy Dane slapped the table with his open palm.
"The girls!"
Much laughter.
It reminded me of one of those old comic operas I used to see on the late late show — old nineteen thirties' movies. Something struck me as not just quite right about it. But I couldn't put my finger on it.
The restaurant was set up like a typical ski resort refectory, with one long table all the way down the middle of the room, trestle-fashion, and smaller tables along the walls of the room.
Our party — Juana and I had joined Herr Hauptli and his friends — was right in the center of the entire gathering. Herr Hauptli kept up a running line of Teutonic chatter that was ear-shattering and mind-blowing all at the same time. Even those who could not understand German or English seemed totally hypnotized by his charisma.
I took my time during the long meal and scrutinized the rest of the patrons of the hotel.
I was looking for Roman Nose, trying to spot the real Rico Corelli in the sea of faces about me. There seemed to be no possibilities.
It was eleven-thirty before I was even aware of the time. The brandy came and I sat sipping it. When Herr Hauptli paused for breath I turned to Juana and said: "I'm going out for a breath of fresh air before bed. Are you coming, dear?"
She smiled at me calmly. "No, darling. Sorry. It's much too cold. Don't be late."
I smiled and finished my brandy.
"Herr Hauptli, it's been a real pleasure. See you tomorrow, or whenever — right?"
"Ya," said Herr Hauptli, his face red with the wine and brandy and the stimulation of eating. "Auf weidersehen."
I pushed back my chair, bowed to the two Germans and the Dane and made my way through the crowded restaurant.
It was extremely cold outside. The air was nippy. I poked my head out, and then went back upstairs to our suite and got myself some ear muffs and a stocking cap. I also put on my windbreaker after checking the loads in my shoulder holster and making sure the knife was strapped to my ankle.
I made it to the top of the winding trail without incident Away from the protection of the buildings I felt colder than I had felt since I had come to the Sierra Nevadas. The wind cut through my clothes until I felt half naked.
There were no lights on in the engine house. Nor was there a sound on the mountainside. I looked back over my shoulder. The yellow beams of light from the hotel rooms and from the windows overlooking the Prado made golden patterns in the white snow.
The building where the chair lift machinery was sited was surrounded by banks of snow. I could see the main entrance facing out into the valley. The door to the engine room was closed, but it was unlocked. I turned the knob and pushed it open. Inside the building it was very dark, although the reflection of the stars on the snow brought in some light. It was surprising how bright the sky was even in the dead of night.
I could see past the wheel to the turnaround where the cable cars swung around in a semi-circle, reversing direction. A cable car stood in the middle of the semi-circle, holding there until the machinery started up in the morning.
I was just about to go forward when I saw someone moving past the cable car. Whoever it was had either been inside the building when I entered, or had come in from some other entrance. I thought he must have been there waiting for me. Then he, of course, would be my contact man.
Arturo.
I gripped my piece, drew it out, and tensed to move forward, opening my mouth to whisper "Arturo."
I never got the word out.
Someone else did!
"Arturo!"
The sound seemed to come from behind the cable car. I lifted the piece and aimed it at the silhouette there. If he was calling for Arturo, he was not Arturo. And since I was supposed to be calling for Arturo, I knew that the man there would be someone else also trying to find Arturo before I did, someone not on my side.
"Sí?" a voice asked in the other half of the big engine room.
Instantly there was a loud, echoing gunshot — a report that bounced back and forth in that small room like the pounding of a hundred drums. A blaze of orange flame appeared and disappeared instantly. I heard a scream to my left.