Devil's Run (19 page)

Kohl led me to a service
elevator and we descended to a heated basement that was part garage, part
workshop and storage facility. A four track Sno-Cat sat waiting. Günter stood
at attention near the open door, Kohl’s overcoat draped over his left arm, the
ushanka in his right hand. He helped Kohl on with the coat and hat before
assisting him up into the cab. When Kohl was seated in one of the rear
passenger seats, Günter beckoned to me. I climbed in and sat next to Kohl.
Günter took the seat next to the driver.

The Cat lurched forward
towards the door at the far end, passing two other parked Cats, a fire truck,
two Jeeps and a pickup truck. When we were thirty feet away the metal door at
the far end rose to reveal a snow covered ramp that sloped up towards daylight.
We came out onto a swath of open land just below the building and headed for
the trees.

I’d never been in a
Sno-Cat before and was surprised to see the controls differed little from those
of a standard pickup truck. Frankly, it looked like just anyone could hop in
and take off, although I assumed that being a tracked vehicle it was a little
trickier to drive. The cabin was well stocked with first aid and emergency
equipment. A pair of walkie-talkies sat in a charger and a CB radio was bolted
to the overhead. On the right side bulkhead was an orange contraption that
looked like a giant ray gun, with a wide mouth barrel over a compressed gas
cylinder.

“What’s that?” I said.

“That is a hand held
avalanche control device,” said Kohl.

“Really?”

He tapped a padlocked
metal case under the gun. “It uses compressed air to deliver small charges of
explosive precisely.”

“So, it’s like a T-shirt
gun.”

He looked away. “I do
not know what that is.”

The rest of the trip was
in silence. We travelled down a narrow trail not much wider than the Cat itself
until we reached a meadow.

Ah,” said Kohl, “here we
are.”

At one end of the
clearing the trees were scarred and blackened. The snow in front of them had
settled differently, so that a ghostly semi-circle marked the scene of the
fire. The Sno-Cat stopped before reaching the edge.

“This is where the fire
was,” said Kohl.

“And what was here?”

“Mostly lumber and
construction supplies.”

“May I get out?”

“Most certainly.”

I popped the door and climbed
down onto the snow. Günter followed me and helped Kohl down.

I looked back up the
mountain. “This is quite a distance. Why not store it on the lawn up there?”

“So much lumber and
other flammables. The danger of fire, as you see. It was better not to place it
so near the building.”

“Could have put it in
Utah, too. That might have been more convenient.”

“I think you would
agree, Mr. Craig, that based on recent history the decision not to place it
close to the building was a good one.”

I walked closer for a
better look and saw the flames had advanced thirty yards or so into the forest
before being brought under control. The trees nearest the clearing were
blackened trunks, mostly stripped of branches and bark. Moving into the forest
a short distance, I noticed a few stunted arms still protruded from the
opposite side of many trees. I was no expert, but it looked like multiple
explosions had occurred here, originating within the clear area. The one thing
I did not see was any evidence of the exploding trees Chief Masterson had
suggested.

I walked until I reached
the last of the fire damage, where healthy trees had been chopped down to form
a fire break. I took a different route back towards the Sno-Cat, looking for
anything that might prove arson, but nothing stuck out. Besides, they’d had two
months to police up the area.

Then I noticed something
that looked like an arrowhead stuck in one of the withered tree trunks. On
closer examination, it was a shard of metal, rusted from exposure, but still
bearing flecks of what could be yellow paint. I worked the sliver out of the
wood.

“You have found
something, Mr. Craig?” said Kohl.

“No, nothing.” I stuck
the piece of metal in my glove and turned to face him. “What would anyone have
been welding down here?”

Kohl shrugged. “I am not
familiar with the details of construction.” He pointed back towards the
building. “Our resort is unique, one of a kind. I have been told that
standard,” he paused, “connections?”

“Connectors?” I said.
“Like Simpson ties?”

“Yes, the connectors,
that is it. Many of our fixtures are custom made and the standard connectors do
not work.” He waved his arm at the clearing. “Here perhaps.”

“At night?”

“Artists,” he said,
smiling, “who knows with artists.”

I pointed at the trees.
“There were explosions here.”

“I cannot say. Perhaps.”

“What would be here that
could explode?”

“Paint and associated
materials.”

“Stored in the open?”

“Mr. Craig, I am sure
you know that contractors do not always adhere to the letter of the law. I
assure you, we are keeping a much stricter eye on them since this incident.”

“I’ll bet.” I waved my
arm at the burnt trees. “So what exactly about this little trip is supposed to
convince me the fire was not deliberately set by Ken and his friends?”

“That is not my purpose,
Mr. Craig. You will believe what you believe. But, surely terrorists would have
caused wider destruction, or targeted the buildings themselves.”

“Perhaps they planned
to, but someone stopped them.”

“And yet no one has come
forward to claim credit for this event. Is this not unusual for these ecology
terrorists?”

“They have a saying at
Disneyland, Mr. Kohl: dead men tell no tales.”

Kohl laughed.
“Americans. You see conspiracies everywhere. You are familiar with Occam’s
Razor?”

“I think so,” I said.
“In layman’s terms, the simplest explanation is usually correct.”

“This is so. And here we
have a choice between a careless workman causing a fire, and your theory,” he
assumed a Shakespearean tone, “of a violent confrontation between two secret
societies, each pursuing evil ends. Which, I ask you, would a rational man
chose?”

“I’m probably the wrong
guy to ask.”

He smiled. “Have you
seen enough, Mr. Craig?”

“I think so.”

As we walked back to the
Sno-Cat, I noticed a well used trail snaking off into the woods. In the
distance, I could just see the roof of a large building. “Where does that go?”

“That is a service
trail.”

“Looks pretty well
traveled.”

“We use one of the old
warehouses in the ghost town for storing some of the groomers and our
firefighting equipment, which proved fortuitous when this terrible event
occurred.”

“I’d like to see that
ghost town.”

“Out of the question. It
is off limits to guests. There are the remains of mines and tunnels, many of
them hidden by debris or foliage. Should someone fall into them, they may never
be found.”

“Well, we can’t have
that, can we?”

“Then let us return to
the resort. We are having a small celebration and I would be pleased if you
would join us for a drink before returning below.”

“Who am I to pass up a
drink?”

“Excellent.” Perhaps, to
pass the time until then, you would like a tour of our little facility.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“I thought you might.”

Kohl gave me the grand
tour of the L-shaped building. The long leg was strictly for the suites. The
top two floors of the shorter leg contained administrative offices and a
dormitory for a small live-in staff. The junction of the two legs was reserved
for the restaurant, kitchen, bar, and lobby.

The first floor and
basement were lavishly equipped with everything I imagined the super rich might
need on a getaway. An exercise room boasted the latest, most expensive workout
machines, plus a sauna, steam bath, and lap pool. There was a temperature
controlled room full of cigars and deep leather chairs in which to smoke them.
The wine cellar was extensive and the business center looked like someone
hijacked a Staples.

“So, Mr. Craig,” said
Kohl, as we walked back through the lobby, “an inquisitive man like yourself,
an investigator, must have questions about our establishment.”

“As a matter of fact, I
do. How is it that this place is even here, at this altitude? Isn’t this public
land?”

“Actually, no. This part
of the mountain is private, handed down for hundreds of years in a single
family. The current heir is a member of our consortium.”

“Really? Can I meet
him?”

“He lives in Monaco
now.”

“Who can blame him? Why
is it called Spanish Mountain?”

“Ah, as I understand it,
the family had a parchment, an old Spanish land grant from the Sixteenth Century
giving them title to the property, which was honored, as many such things were,
by your government.”

“I had no idea the
Spanish pushed this far north,” I said.

“If you know your
history, you know that most of the European powers laid claim to vast lands
that were never fully explored. Some have challenged the legitimacy of the land
grant, but not successfully. In any case, the family was the original operator
of the Spanish Mountain resort, with little success. It remained a less than
profitable enterprise, frequented mainly by locals, until Verdugo assumed
ownership. Since then it has become a top destination. Now we have added this
exclusive section.”

“What I don’t see is how
you make money.”

Kohl stopped and turned
to me. “Why, Mr. Craig, we charge exorbitant fees, of course.”

“I gathered as much, but
from what I’ve seen, the overhead of this place must be enormous.”

“It is indeed, as you
say, enormous.” He gestured for us to continue walking. “However, we offer a
unique service here. Solitude, privacy, discretion. There are only twelve
suites. Each is owned by a wealthy individual desirous of a refuge. A rock and
roll performer, three heads of state or former heads of state, some business
people.”

“Senator Canfield?”

“Technically, no. The
suite is owned by Mrs. Canfield.”

“What about Boyd?”

“Mr. Boyd has a chalet
near the public area.”

We walked past the
dining room and stopped by a heavy metal door. Kohl waved his key card and
then, shielding his actions, punched in the eight digit code. He pushed the
door open.

“Our kitchen.”

We walked down a little
passageway lined with stainless steel shelves into the brightly lit kitchen, a
scene of controlled chaos where three cooks were preparing a variety of dishes
under the direction of a large man with a long handlebar mustache and a black
kerchief. He nodded a quick greeting to Kohl, who bowed slightly.

“We won’t disturb the
chef right now.” He pointed. “Over here is what I wanted to show you.”

I followed him past
three walk-in coolers to a door at the back of the kitchen. Again he used his
key card, again the eight beeps. The door opened into a Plexiglas passageway.
The cliff overhang loomed above us. We walked about twenty feet to a sliding
door. When it opened, a steady stream of warm air washed over us.

Kohl waved me into a
small cavern that had been shaped and expanded by human hands. The damp walls
retained their rough, natural appearance, and there was the odd stalactite
around the edges, but most of the floor and ceiling had been leveled and a
concrete pad poured. Fluorescent lights hung from chains bolted to the ceiling,
their cold glare competing with the warm yellow light that streamed through the
steamy windows of six small greenhouses stretched in a neat row across the
center of the cave. A single pipe rose from the peak of each roof, connecting
with larger pipes that ran across the ceiling. Each greenhouse entrance had a
metal door with a wheel in the center, like the watertight doors on a
submarine. Against the cave wall, opposite the greenhouses, were large coils of
flexible black piping, some bags of fertilizer, and several large wooden
crates, one of which bore a pasted on label reading “Dave’s Hardware.”

“So, this is your famous
hydroponic garden,” I said.

“Quite so. Many of our
fruits and vegetables and all the herbs and spices used in food preparation are
grown here.”

I pointed at the door of
the nearest greenhouse. “Airlock?”

“Of course,” he said,
nodding. “Each individual crop requires its own climate. The atmospheric
pressure and temperature must be maintained precisely for optimum results. It
is also imperative that disease and biological pests not be introduced to the
individual environments.”

I walked over for a
look. The windows were blurred with condensation, but I could see some fruit
bearing plants.

“Strawberries?”

“Yes. The berries are
delicious I might add. The dessert we prepare with them has already won several
culinary awards.”

“And these?”

“Lettuces,” he said,
pointing to each one in turn, “herb garden, tomatoes, cucumbers, and so on.”

“It’s like a
subterranean Sizzler.”

He started to ask me
what a Sizzler was, but the volume of the air conditioning increased
drastically. At the cave’s far end, a stooped, mustachioed figure in a white
lab coat stepped through a door I had not noticed. He was typing on a touchpad,
oblivious to our presence.

“Ah, Doctor Fisher,”
said Kohl, raising his voice above the roar of the ventilators.

Fisher stopped abruptly
and looked up, blinking with surprise, and pushed his glasses up on his forehead.
The door behind him slid closed, instantly reducing the sound level.

“Mr. Kohl. This is
unexpected.”

“I apologize, Professor.
I was showing a new guest your wonderful project.”

“It’s most unusual. Most
unusual.”

“I apologize. We will
not be long,” said Kohl, who then turned to me. “Dr. Fisher is a world-renowned
expert in the field of hydroponics and food production, a Nobel prize winner.
We were lucky to get him. Weren’t we, Professor?”

Fisher blinked, lowered
his glasses, and went back to making notes. Kohl smiled patiently and turned
back to me.

“Our investors are able
to provide unlimited funding,” he said. “Dr. Fisher is making breakthroughs
here that will reap benefits for all of mankind. He is not only improving the
field of hydroponics. Through genetic experiments he is developing new methods
for accelerating plant growth. Our strawberries, as an example, develop in a
quarter of the time it takes for natural growth.”

“Handy if you have a
hankering for shortcake.”

“Think of what this
means for world hunger, when he is finished and his methods are shared with
mankind.”

“Out of the goodness of
your hearts, no doubt.”

“Mr. Craig, only an
insane person does anything for a single reason. Of course the considerable
investment made here must be paid back through reasonable compensation for the
processes developed. But, I think the price will be small compared to the
benefit. It may be regrettable to some, Mr. Craig, but the great breakthroughs
in science most often come from the baser human instincts, such as the desire
for profit. Or war.”

“Or the space program.
Let’s not forget Tang.” I turned to Fisher and pointed at the strawberries.
“This one looks more like aeroponics than hydroponics.”

Fisher looked up in
surprise, pushing his glasses back onto his forehead. “Quite correct. For these
berries I find that a more appropriate method. It allows for a disease free
environment.”

I pointed at the display
near the door. “And your greenhouses are computer regulated.”

“Yes, of course.
Throughout the process, different levels of nutrients and fertilizer must be
delivered in precise amounts, which vary throughout the growth cycle.”

“You are familiar with
hydroponics, Mr. Craig?” said Kohl.

“In a past life I dealt
with individuals who dabbled in it. I picked up a little knowledge here and
there.”

“Really? I was not aware
you had experience in agriculture.”

“Not how I would have
categorized it.” I smiled at him. “It was a cash crop, though.”

“Ah.” Kohl smiled. “I
believe I understand.”

“If you’ll excuse me,”
said Fisher, gesturing with his touchpad, “I must see to my calculations.”

“As you wish,
Professor.”

Fisher went to the
strawberry green house and touched a small screen near the door. It lit up to
display what looked like temperature, barometric pressure, humidity, and a host
of other figures I didn’t recognize. After a moment he began typing on the
computer.

“So,” I said, pointing
at the door through which Fisher had entered, “what’s back there?”

“Oh, the control room
for the greenhouses. As Dr. Fisher said, all this takes considerable energy and
monitoring.”

“I’ll bet. No free
samples?”

“It is a shame you will
not be here to try the waffles with strawberries in the morning.”

“I’ll take that as a
no.”

Kohl smiled and gestured
towards the entrance.

“We go?” I said.

“We go. Good night,
Professor.”

Fisher mumbled some
reply without looking.