Slippery Slope
by
Robin Shaw
Print edition originally published as
Running
G.P. Putnams’s Sons, New York
Chapter 1
IN fifteen minutes, if all had gone well, the airplane would arrive and a parachute supporting a quarter of a million dollars would descend slowly to earth.
To Craig it seemed as if the valley was holding its breath. He and Martin lay, cramped and impatient, behind a jumble of gray rocks. Before them the greens of the meadows and forest, which gave life to this do- main of barren mountains, seemed to be laid out in areas which pointed wedge-like at their hiding place.
The air was still: The small lake, a few hundred feet below Craig, reflected the steep granite walls of the valley, still rose-tinted from the hidden sun.
A shiver ran down Craig's back. The austere beauty of the surroundings, the drop in temperature caused by the altitude, and the disappearance of the sun joined with the fear that he felt at the hazardous nature of the enterprise whose genesis was near.
He glanced over at Martin, whose attention was riveted down the valley up which the airplane would shattering the peace of the mountains and perhaps also of their lives.
There was still the possibility of retreat. Martin had explained that carefully as the crowning glory of the plan when he had first disclosed it to Craig's incredulous ears, nine months ago and two thousand miles away They had sat over a birch fire in the womblike cabin on the icy slopes of Mount Katahdin in northern Maine.
By the strange chemistry of memory that scene was more alive, more present to Craig, than the one in which he now found himself: the mingled odors of wood smoke and the chicken just eaten, the way in which the coffee and brandy were mellowing the muscles, tired after the demanding ice climb they had descended from two hours before, the quiet tones of Martin's voice at odds with his proposals of extortion and theft.
"It won't be easy, but the risk will be minimal if we plan carefully. The trouble with most hijackings and demands for money is that they involve contact between the two sides. They involve violence, and though I don't object to that, I don't want to be on the receiving end.
Craig's interest at first had been an intellectual one. Who has not toyed with the idea of removing a large sum of money from some impersonal corporation? Its shares would drop briefly on Wall Street, perhaps. Its profits would decline for a short period, but there would be no individuals hurt, or only those who could well afford it and had achieved their riches at the expense of others.
So, when Martin had first broached his idea, Craig had listened respectfully, though treating it more as a game to be played in his head without risk or consequence.
What had translated the idea from game to reality? Everybody speculates about committing a crime, but most people are held firmly to the straight and narrow path by the guardrails of their upbringing and their fear of disgrace. It's not enough to say that I've been sucked into this, like a swimmer into a whirlpool, thought Craig. If you stick to the banks of a river you run no danger from whirlpools. Of course there was the boat, a thirty-foot sloop with the lines of an ocean racer, which he had first seen in the dirty little harbor in Seattle. With a boat like that he could wave goodbye to the pettiness and boredom of Baxter College, where more and more he had felt himself to be trapped and deadened. Life so far had been a succession of frying pans and fires, and he had that sickening feeling that never, not for one of his twenty-six years, had he ever been in control. Climbing had once seemed to have been the answer. On rock faces Craig had experienced for the first time the feeling of being totally in control of his destiny, of being able, by this move or that, either to preserve his life or extinguish it.
And Martin. At first he had swept over Craig like a great wave, carrying him along with enthusiasm and joy, thrusting him from the mundane world into an existence where adventure succeeded adventure. That too had paled. Despite their many shared experiences, despite the days they had spent hazarding their lives together in the high places, they had never achieved real closeness. And in the year since Martin had persuaded Craig to become part of this criminal plot their relationship had cooled even more. Yet the plan had continued
And here I am now, he thought, lying on this deserted slope carefully hidden by boulders, gazing down on this Eden in the fading light, waiting for a small plane to drone over and drop a quarter of a million dollars in my lap.
Martin had said that they could always back out, right up to the moment they laid hands on the money.
He had believed him, but he knew now that to watch that vast sum swing gently down to the ground and to walk calmly in the opposite direction was beyond him. Not that I'm poor, thought Craig.
Just that I have been raised in a society that equates happiness with material possessions, and though I know in my heart that the equation is false, I can't resist putting it to the test. Of course I won't spend my money on the usual middle-class junk. I won't buy a house on Long Island or Westchester County and fill it with portraits of astronauts and Presidents, reproduction Louis Quinze chairs, and plastic flowers. What I'm buying is freedom from all that, a simple, rugged sailing boat and enough money to go anywhere.
I've almost convinced myself it's all over, Craig thought. He laughed.
"What's so funny?"—the first words Martin had said for half an hour. He was obviously tense, his brown eyes nervously cold, his right hand scratching at his ear in a gesture that reminded Craig of moments of doubt on the climbs they had done together.
"I was dreaming and I returned to reality. I'm not at all sure I want to continue with this."
"Bullshit!" growled Martin. "We can't back out now."
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not backing out. I'm just not happy. Are you?"
"No. But I will be when I see that parachute float down and I see the plane disappear over the ridge. Don't worry. Nothing can go wrong."
"Except that three or four FBI gunmen may drop on us in place of the money."
"Nonsense! They wouldn't dare. No airline can afford to jeopardize the safety of a hundred passengers for a mere quarter of a million bucks. Everything's going to be all right, provided Jean has done her side of it. Of course all hell will break loose here about two hours after they drop the money, but by that time we'll be far away."
There's no doubt who's the strong man in this partnership, thought Craig. I only hope I'm strong enough to survive.
Martin had returned his gaze to the valley, and the uneasy silence had returned. As yet no sound of an engine. Perhaps five minutes more, fifteen at the outside, then it should be here if everything had clicked into place. The entire plan was Martin's. Craig had merely helped him refine it, to point out minor flaws here and there. He had no illusions as to his place in the undertaking. He was an appendage, a stick to help the monkey reach the banana and perhaps to be discarded when the fruit was in the monkey's paw.
As Craig looked back over their relationship he realized that Martin had never been a friend. Friendship demands openness and love, and Martin had a hard core that preserved itself by resisting these qualities. But they had achieved comradeship, that condition of mutual respect and reliance which is developed by danger. The tragedy of the last few months was that the affection which had grown out of their experience had been replaced by a more utilitarian relationship. Everything had focused on the plan, and the greeds and fears attached to it had slowly perverted the comradeship forged previously on difficult mountains and in the wilderness. Respect was still evident but little affection, as though affection could not bloom in an atmosphere of self-interest.
Martin had become harder. The change appeared to have almost physical results; his eyes appeared less warm and more metallic than when they had first met, his features seemed to reveal more of the underlying bone and his lips had a certain tightness that had been absent before.
Perhaps I too have changed, mused Craig. Certainly, over the past year he had made no new friends and he sensed a growing apart in old relationships. Never before had he had to be guarded in conversation, to hold himself back, even among friends. Sometimes he had hugged his secret like some warm animal, and it had spread comfort through him. But more often it had been a chilling and unpleasant part of himself which he had been reluctant to probe.
His hip had begun to ache from his enforced idleness. He rolled onto his back for a moment and examined the rock a foot or so from his nose. Their hiding place had been chosen well. It afforded a clear, uninterrupted view down the valley but was impossible to detect from above and behind. The patch of moss on which they lay was not thick but did cushion them to an extent from the hard rock. He was cold and uncomfortable, and the inaction had made him feel slightly sick. Waiting was the hardest part. Once the action started there would be no time to think, only to move quickly and carefully, each movement deliberate and predetermined.
He rolled back. Martin was still motionless, his whole being straining for the glimpse of the plane in the fading twilight, for the beat of its engine. It must come now. In twenty minutes it would be too late. It would be dark and they could not hope to find the bag. Had Jean bungled? Were the police even now closing a ring around them? Craig ran back over the details in his head looking for flaws. There were several, but they were minor and necessary. If only Jean kept her head and followed the instructions that had been gone over so many times, then all would inexorably follow from that point.
The valley seemed to darken with every passing minute. Already the ridges of trees running up to the shoulder of Grays Peak had merged into a uniform black mass, and the small lake below gave only a glint of light to distinguish itself from the rocks, grass, and scattered trees around it.
"Is it going to come?" Craig asked.
"Shut up! Listen! It must come now."
Perhaps it won't come, thought Craig. Then I can return to normality, to teaching Wordsworth and Keats to uncaring students and to living life to the full on mountains, rivers, and the sea on vacations. It's not such a bad life that I should be willing to gamble it against a prison I know would kill me.
"Here she comes! Here she comes!" Martin was smiling for the first time that day, excited and likable in his excitement. He leaned out from the rock and fired a green flare from the pen-like pistol that had been lying ready on the grass before him. It soared into the sky, bright as an alien sun then landed close to the lake, burning an eerie green in the twilight.
Craig looked out over the valley and the forests to where in the cold sky above Grays Peak a speck was growing larger each second and bringing with it a steadily increasing drone, reverberating from the sides of this rough basin, echoing and re-echoing, an alien invasion into the stillness. As the plane began to circle over their heads, its silver wings catching the last of the light, Craig felt an explosive rush build up in himself. As before a difficult and dangerous move on a climb, the adrenalin began to rush into his system, keying up nerves and muscles for the big effort. Perhaps I'm an adrenalin addict, he mused, and that's why I risk my life and liberty in these ventures.
An object detached itself from the plane, dropped fast, and then blossomed into a swinging parachute, sedate and unhurried in the calm air. The plane completed one last circle, its occupants obviously straining for a glimpse of those below, then continued on its course over the shoulder of Mitre Peak behind them.
The violence of its engine faded to a whisper, then to nothing. Silence descended on the valley again. The parachute was going to land about three hundred feet from the lake. It was the only moving object in the valley. The green flare had died to a glowing ember.
"I hope the bastards aren't dropping cops in the next valley," Craig said, more to break the silence than from a wish to make conversation.
"Let them. They won't find us in the dark, and come morning we'll be miles away and just innocent climbers. Anyway, they still need, or think they need, our last phone call. There is too much at stake for them to take the risk. But, sure as hell, they'll start putting a cordon around this area by morning."
The bag on the small parachute hit the ground on a rocky stretch near the edge of the meadow east of the lake. The white fabric, like some shot animal, crumpled gracefully and subsided around its cargo.
The valley held its breath. There was no sound but a scraping of a boot as Martin drew himself onto his knees.
"Let's go," he said and shuffled out of their hiding place.
They stumbled and fell as they ran down the rocky slope, limbs stiff from an hour of remaining prone behind the boulders.
As they reached the bundle, careful to keep off the soft grass, Craig felt an excitement and a delight spread through him. It had worked so far. Up till now he had not really believed in the idea, not believed that a large airline company would follow every direction given to them by a woman's voice and drop a quarter of a million dollars in this remote mountain valley in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains.
Martin was already cutting the bag loose from the parachute rigging as Craig panted, recovering his breath. The parachute flopped uselessly over the rocks, a tangle of nylon and cord. Martin pulled the zipper of the strong canvas bag.
"It's here! It's real!" he exulted, rocking back from the bag with a wad of green bills, laughing and bubbling now. Craig bent forward to look.
"Give me the sack." Martin's jollity did not last long. There was a lot to do before they could feel safe. It was five minutes since the plane was overhead. Within two hours it would all be over; the airline would know the secret of the bomb on the 707, and their last card would have been played. As Martin had said, all hell would break loose then.
Quickly Martin began to unpack the bundles of dollar bills from the canvas bag, occasionally rippling his fingers through a wad. "There's some twenties and lens here. You can't trust these bastards to do what you ask," he growled. He passed the green bundles to Craig, who stuffed them into an open backpack. Suddenly Martin gave a sharp exclamation. "Take a look at this." In his outstretched hand Craig saw a small metallic disk the size of a checker. A miniature transmitter. If they had not unpacked the canvas bag, the FBI would have found the money without difficulty. Martin laid the transmitter on a flat rock and smashed another rock on top of it. The crunch echoed eerily in the stillness. By the time they had emptied the bag, the backpack was bulging. Craig tied off the string at its top and buckled the flap over it.
Martin reached over and took the backpack from Craig. With a smooth movement he swung it onto his back, slid his arms through the straps, and set off. There was no need for words. They had rehearsed the remainder of the night five times in the month they had spent in the Sawtooths.
The light had all but gone, yet they moved fast up the steep bouldered slope toward the center of the Mitre Peak's west face. Craig had his head down, concentrating
on his footing, delighting in his fitness and in the feel of his muscles in motion after the day's idleness. He could hear Martin breathing heavily and regularly just ahead of him, but there was no slackening of his pace. Craig cursed under his breath as his foot slipped on a rock and he momentarily lost his balance. There must be no slips on the face, he thought. The first time he had done it in the dark he had been petrified at one or two points. It was difficult after one left the confines of the gully and swung onto the bare slabs a third of the way up the face. Without the ropes they had left in position the moves would be impossible, and even with them the sensation of five hundred feet of emptiness beneath one's heels was daunting.
Suddenly Craig became aware that Martin had stopped and was removing the pack. He moved up beside him at the foot of the black cliff and leaned back against it, waiting for Martin to pass him the backpack. He saved his breath. He could feel his stomach knotting up slightly at the thought of the climb ahead, but he almost welcomed the sensation. It was better to focus one's fears on the known and almost familiar cracks, slabs, and walls of the face above rather than on the widespread police activities that must be mounting all over the West. By now the small plane must have reported the drop site; the only thing that was holding the enemy off was the need to receive that last phone call. Martin had argued that it was not necessary to make it, but Craig had insisted. If the airline were driven into a corner of desperation, then they might take measures which would lead to disaster for the airplane and its passengers. Craig did not want any lives on his conscience. Martin had laughed and called him tender-hearted but had agreed without too much argument. So the last call to the airline would be made an hour and a half from now, and the floodgates would open, spewing police, FBI, and even troops, perhaps, over this area.
"Here, let's go," said Martin, handing over the backpack. Craig slipped his arms through the straps and reached up for the first hold on the climb. A hundred feet of moderately difficult rock had to be negotiated before the gully was gained and the first fixed rope was reached. Craig felt that he knew every hold on that hundred feet, every ledge for the toe, and every sharp edge for the fingers. The afterglow in the sky cast a pallid light on Craig's features as he climbed smoothly and rhythmically. They were committed now. There was absolutely no going back. Everything depended on speed, on ability, and on abandoning of caution. The whole mind and body had to be focused oil the immediate problem: how to place the foot there and raise the body seven inches, how to reach the hand for the ledge above. Any other thoughts were a luxury that neither of them could afford. The mountain screened out all but essentials, and Martin and Craig were united in a rebirth of comradeship as they struggled upward together.
Chapter 2
"LISTEN carefully. There is a bomb on Consolidated Airlines flight number 536. Repeat flight number 536, Consolidated Airlines; Kennedy International to Los Angeles airport. Have you got that? The bomb will be detonated by a drop in altitude below ten thousand feet. Relay this message immediately to Consolidated Airlines. Further instructions will be given later."
Jean replaced the phone, lit a cigarette, and stepped from the booth into the crowd moving through the plaza at Rockefeller Center. She needed a drink. Though she had gone over her part time and time again with Martin until she did not need the sheaf of instructions in her bag, she was still apprehensive.
"You overestimate the police," Martin had told her. "If you make the call each time from a different coin box and call only travel agencies, they will not trace the calls for weeks, if ever. None of these agencies we have listed have recording apparatus. You could be one of a million New York City women, and that's as close as they'll get to you."
Still, Jean felt conspicuous. As she came out of the plaza onto Fifth Avenue she tried not to look guilty or to avoid passing the policeman who stood at the corner of Fifty-third Street. She hailed a cab. It was early evening and still hot, but the traffic was light.
"Westbank Hotel, Forty-sixth and Madison," she told the driver and opened her copy of Harper's. The last thing she wanted was to get into conversation with the driver. Her palms felt moist and she was sure her thoughts were showing plainly on her face. Calm down, she told herself. You're just another New York girl out for an afternoon's shopping.
Jean paid the driver; she had already sorted out the right amount with a generous but not too large tip before the cab drew up outside the hotel.
The cocktail bar of the Westbank Hotel was a large, dimly lit room popular with the Madison Avenue crowd, more because of its location and its quiet, roomy atmosphere than for its charm, which was nonexistent. Already about twenty people were scatterered in the room drinking, Jean was pleased to note, in groups of two and three. Luckily there were no singles on the prowl—she had chosen the bar for that reason; it had an atmosphere that discouraged roman- tic contacts. Also outside on the street was a pair of telephone booths.
She looked at her watch. Forty-five minutes to the next call. Ordering a whiskey sour, she leaned back on the comfortable chair in the rather hidden corner near the door. She paid for her whiskey when it came, opened her Harper's and tried to give an impression of unapproachableness. Behind the magazine she was anything but calm, but she was more confident than she had been earlier.
The most nerve-racking part was over. She hoped the overworked clerk at the Consolidated Airlines desk in Kennedy had been sufficiently harassed not to remember her. The wait in line had strained her nerves to the utmost. The tall man behind whom she had sheltered until the last moment had been impatient and had given the clerk a bad time, demanding obscure changes of plane at O'Hare and Denver for New Mexico. At least he hadn't wanted to go nonstop to Los Angeles and, with luck, the clerk wouldn't remember her or her destination.
A ski cap had obscured her auburn hair, and rather severe glasses had taken the place of her contact lenses, which she was now wearing. She had tried to behave normally, though passing over one hundred and seventy-five dollars in cash was not really normality in credit card city U.S.A. Yet the clerk had hardly looked up, as if grateful for simplicity in a day of trials. She had taken her ticket and gone immediately to the baggage hatch to pass over the nondescript brown suitcase that Martin had given her. He had stolen it several months before from a careless passenger in Grand Central, so there was no way it could be traced to her.
When the bag was safely on the conveyer she turned and made her way across the spacious terminal, out through the swing doors, and into a cab. She felt as though she had stopped breathing in the building, dreading that she be asked back to the counter for some oversight, or more dangerously, that she run into some acquaintance who would recognize her and ask embarrassing questions. It had not happened, but on the way back to the city she was far from at ease. In fact, she doubted if she would ever be thoroughly calm again. She had never before found herself on the wrong side of the law, and if it had not been for Martin she never would have been. She had, however, been surprised at her excitement when he had described the plan.
Raised in a small Midwest town, Jean's life had been confined by the grocery store that her parents, now dead, had struggled to keep profitable against the onslaught of the supermarket. Her father's death, a short year after her mother's, now seemed to Jean a blessing though i had hit her hard at the time. A vague love of mountains she had only dimly seen in childhood had taken her West to Denver rather than to the more conventional haven of her peers, Chicago. The same undefined and unacted-on love of mountains had made of Martin an attractive, exciting character when he approached her in the small restaurant beneath the monolithic cliffs of Boulder. She had been unable to resist his bubbling enthusiasm and his close knowledge of peaks she had only gazed at in awe from her car. Since they both lived in Denver, that had been the start of regular meetings and a growing intimacy.
There had been little talk of marriage until the last few months, almost two years after their first meeting. She had introduced the subject after a long weekend, idyllic in comparison with her dreary weekday existence as a secretary to the vice-president of an insurance company. Martin had been enthusiastic but vague, and Jean felt in the core of her being an uneasiness born of a deepening knowledge of the wild nature of Martin's ego. He scorned the normal conventions of middle America—a steady job, a bank balance, and a nicely furnished home. These were not Jean's ideals either, but she sensed that Martin's abhorrence of stability ran deeper than her own. He seemed to her like a cougar they had once seen together as they crested a ridge in a high valley. It had loped away over the green pasture toward the rugged hillside, where its tawny coat blended to an invisibility among the granite rocks. Shy, powerful, and worshiping the solitary freedoms of the high places—that was Martin—and the empathy in his eyes as he had watched the cat betrayed his ideal.
Nevertheless, she hoped. Without that hope she would never have found herself in this situation, outside the law, immersed in a plot to extort a quarter of a million dollars.
Martin held the bait of marriage behind his request for help. He had talked of "us" and what "we" would do with the money, of his wish to open a climbing store and become a guide in Idaho, and as she listened, it had seemed her only chance. Martin was not likely to take a normal, steady job and support her as a wife. Her meagre salary could not keep both of them. He had always been a rover, a lumberjack, a ski instructor, a fruit picker. He never spoke of his roots and rarely of where he was headed. He lived for the day, and the farthest he would go into the future was the next expedition, the next climb.
Jean had never taken to hard rock climbing. Mountain faces were more attractive to her at a distance than when she found herself on them. She had persevered due to her wish to get close to Martin, but she could sense frequently that he would rather be with a male companion of more equal ability. Yet she was drawn to Martin and knew she was the only woman who had managed to touch something in him.
So that was why she was here in this rather plastic hotel bar, miles from any place she called home and feeling very alone and vulnerable. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to go. The bar was filling up. She rose, put her cigarettes and the unread Harper's in her bag, and pushed through the swing door, almost colliding with a laughing couple coming in from the street.
The telephone booth was occupied, but she still had a few minutes to go. She leaned against the shop front, lit another cigarette, and tried to control her impatience. When the day was over she would take the train to Chicago and then fly back to Denver to await Martin. New York was such an impersonal city. Few in the crowds hurrying past her glanced in her direction. She drew confidence from this thought.
The man in the phone booth was obviously finishing his conversation, glancing at his watch and drumming his fingers on the glass. She moved closer to establish her priority.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Some people will talk forever."
He had an open, friendly face and would obviously welcome asking her to have a drink with him, Jean surmised, and she defeated any such possibility with a businesslike "thank you" and a firm movement into the booth. She shut the door, put her handbag on the ledge, and removed her sheet of instructions. This was the most important call, and she must get it right. She lit another cigarette and dialled the number typed on the second page of her notes.
"Good afternoon, Trans American Travel Agency."
"Listen carefully. This is vitally important. Relay this message without delay to Consolidated Airlines."
"We are not a branch of—"
"Don't interrupt. Listen. This is a life or death message. The bomb on Consolidated Airline's flight number 536, Kennedy to Los Angeles, nonstop, will explode unless you relay these instructions."
"But—"
"Shut up and listen!" Jean could feel her tension rise and threaten to overcome her. Her pulse was heating wildly, and she could hear its throb through the receiver clasped to her ear.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars must be placed in a dark-colored canvas bag and loaded on a light plane in Boise, Idaho. The bills must be used, of one-dollar and five-dollar denominations. The plane must fly on a bearing of seventy-four degrees magnetic, repeat seventy-four magnetic, at an altitude of twelve thousand feet. It will sight a green flare. When it does it must circle the location once and drop the bag by parachute. The plane must immediately return to Boise. Two hours after the drop, if there has been no deviation from these directions, complete instructions on how to defuse the bomb will be relayed. Have you got that?"
The icy cold voice of the travel agent asked for the repetition of the instructions, and Jean stumbled her way through them again. "Do you understand now?" she asked as she finished.
There was silence on the end of the line, then the voice said, "Yes, you bastard."
Jean dropped the phone on the hook, dizzy and quivering. She could hardly push the sheet of instructions back in her bag. The voice of the travel agency girl had been cold and full of hate. Jean leaned back against the booth wall for support, her knees weak and her heart pumping. Through the glass she became aware of a short man inspecting her with a quizzical stare. The booth suddenly felt exposed and threatening, an island of glass in a sea of people. She felt her breath constricted, claustrophobia adding to her already unbearable tenseness. With a desperate motion she pushed at the door. It wouldn't open. She almost surrendered to panic, remembering only in time that it opened inward. She burst onto the sidewalk.