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Knowing that there would be a baying pack of newshounds at the bottom of the road, Scot turned into the woods where he could cut across a nearby ski slope and hopefully walk the rest of the way unassaulted.
The peace, quiet, and cold air actually did him some good. His mind had been spi
Cooking aromas wafted uphill from the Silver Lake Lodge and into Scot’s nose, sending a signal to his stomach, which started to grumble on cue. Chili in a bread bowl with a cup of hot chocolate would probably cost eleven bucks at the midmountain resort restaurant, but so what?
Coming downhill from this angle, he could make out Nick and Vance’s office on the far side of the restaurant. There was another favor they could do for him, but it could wait until after lunch.
Scot’s training had become second nature, and he never entered a room without sca
Grabbing a tray, Scot fell in line behind a raucous bunch of Germans who had raced to get into the food corral before him. He remembered a story one of the guys on the Swedish ski team had told when they were practicing for an event in Germany. Scot had been complaining that at the lift lines it seemed as if it was every German man, woman, and child for themselves and that more than once he had come close to punching someone out for skiing right over his skis or cutting in front of him while he waited patiently for his turn. The Swede laughed and told him that was why everyone in Sweden called the Germans the Liftwaffa. Scott said the word under his breath as the boisterousness of the men in front of him grew.
When he finally got to the steam table, he ordered chili in a bread bowl with onions and extra cheese. Next he ordered a hot chocolate, and when the woman pointed to a coffee bar across the room with an equally long line, he opted for a milk. That they would make you stand in a completely separate line for hot chocolate made no sense, but all Scot wanted to do was eat, so he paid his bill and wandered into the sea of tables, hoping to find a vacant one for himself.
As luck would have it, a couple was getting up as Scot approached. Arguing about some problem they hadn’t been able to leave at home when they set out on their vacation, neither heard Scot thank them for the table as he sat down.
He closed his eyes and bent over the bread bowl, inhaling the scent of the chili. With spoon in hand, he shoveled out a large bite, placed it in his mouth, and leaned back in the chair to savor the smoky flavor.
“Hi, there. I’m Jody Burnis. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
It was not so much a request, as a statement. She moved fast and took Scot completely off guard. The sparkly little blond who jumped into the chair opposite him uninvited, had reporter written all over her. “I’m from CNN, and-”
“No comment,” said Scot as he took another bite of his chili.
“But I haven’t even asked you any questions yet.”
“But you will, and I don’t care what they are. I have no comment.”
“You’re Scot Harvath, aren’t you? Former U.S. freestyle skier turned Secret Service agent?”
“No comment.”
“C’mon. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“And I mine.”
“You know, you guys don’t own the president. The American people do.”
That was the first time Scot had ever heard that one. It was patently ridiculous, and he had to struggle to keep from shooting the milk he was drinking out his nose when he laughed. “Lady-”
“Please, call me Jody.”
“As I was saying, lady. No comment.”
“What can you tell me about the avalanche?”
“It was made of snow and came from the top of a mountain.”
“You’re real cute, you know that?” she asked.
“And real hungry. Why don’t you go find someone else to bother?”
“Am I really bothering you?”
“Yes.”
The young reporter leaned in close to Scot with an intent look on her face and kept nodding her head as if she were listening to something.
“Do you have some sort of problem?” Scot asked her. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye he saw the reporter flash someone a hand signal. She must have a cameraman.
Scot turned and, sure enough, two tables back was a man with a Betacam over his shoulder shooting the two of them talking. Noticing the lav microphone clipped to her jacket, Scot leaned over and plucked it from her.
“Hey!” she shouted.
“Zip it, lady,” he told her, and then, holding the microphone as close as he could to his mouth without swallowing it, he began making strange and very loud animal calls. Behind him, he heard the cameraman yell, and Harvath turned just in time to see him swat the headphones from his head. The volume at which Scot had been making all that noise must have been extremely painful.
He turned his attention back to the reporter. “You’ll probably want a release of some sort, so let me give you one. You absolutely, positively do not have my permission to use me, my name, or my likeness in any activity whatsoever. If I see my face on TV or hear my voice, I will sue your pretty little ass and your network for all it’s worth. Am I clear?” He punctuated his last words by throwing the tiny microphone back at her.
“Crystal,” she said, rising in a huff and going over to her cameraman. “Gene? Are you okay?”
“What’s that guy’s problem, man?” from the cameraman was the last thing Scot heard as the two made their way toward the exit. Unbeknownst to Scot, Agent Zuschnitt not only had witnessed the entire exchange, but had orchestrated it. And upon its completion, he quietly slipped out one of the dining room’s many side doors.
Twenty minutes later, Scot had finished his chili, two large cookies, and another milk. Feeling satiated, even a little sleepy, he left the restaurant and headed over to the wing that contained the avalanche control office. The first person he saw there was Nick Slattery.
“Whoa, hold on there a second, dude. The favor bank is closed,” said Nick.
“Hello, pal. Whaddya know?” said Scot with a broad smile.
“What do I know? I know that I’ve had my ass torn off by no less than five people in the last two hours, four of whom were carrying guns at the time. I don’t know you anymore, man.”
“That isn’t any way to treat our friend, Nick,” said Vance, who pushed past Scot and entered the office carrying a cup of hot cocoa.
“Is that…?” asked Scot.
“Cocoa? Yeah,” replied Vance.
“How long’d you have to stand in line for it?”
“Stand in line? Psssah. I’m an important guy here. I don’t stand in line for cocoa. Gimme a fucking break. You want one?”
“I’d love one,” said Scot.
“Nick, would you mind shagging Scot a cup of cocoa? You can leave it on the desk in the outer office and then take a walk. I’m happy to help this guy because he’s my friend and we’ve got a history, but there’s no need for you to be involved any further.”