his neck to look up at the snow-laden mountains towering above them on either side of the road. He nodded in silent satisfaction as he saw the extent of the snow. Plenty there. Plenty of fine powder snow for skiing.
Or for other purposes.
And late in the season as it was, the snow was becoming moreand more unstable every day as the warmer weather raised the water content and the fine powder settled upon itself. Just the way he wanted it.
In the main, Kormann was an unremarkable looking man. Around thirty-five or -six, he stood five feet eleven and had a slim build. His features were regular, average, you might say. Neither excessively handsome nor excessively unpleasant. The mouth and nose were normally sized and shaped—plastic surgery had seen to that some years back. In Kormann’s line of business, it didn’t pay to have features that were too easily remembered or described. His hair was medium length, parted on the side and black, with a hint of gray beginning at the temples.
The one feature that did stand out was his eyes. They were a brilliant blue and plastic surgery could do nothing to disguise them. Tinted contact lenses might have, but much to Kormann’s annoyance, he was unable to wear contacts. His eyes were particularly sensitive and anything more than ten minutes with contacts in would see them red and streaming. So his eyes remained the single, memorable feature of the man. At least in snow country such as this he could conceal them behind dark glasses.
The bus finally crested the rise and the huge gray bulk of the Canyon Lodge loomed before them. Kormann gestured quickly to the entrance of the underground drive-in and his driver swung the Dodge into the tunnel. A quick glance behind confirmed that the other two buses had followed suit. A moment later, he heard their engines echoing in the confined space of the tunnel. There was room for the three buses by the automatic doors leading to the hotel interior. He pointed: “There.” The driver nodded and pulled past the spot, reversing neatly back into it. Kormann had the door open and swung down, breathing the strange mixture of exhaust fumes and crisp mountain air that pervaded the tunnel. As he walked quickly to the doors, the other buses parked in their turn. Doors slid open and men began climbing down, stretching their legs after the seventy-minute drive up from Salt Lake City.
Three sets of double rear doors slammed open and the drivers and their passengers began unloading bags.
Kormann hurried through into the hotel proper. He twitched his uniform blazer straight and took the escalator to the reception level, one floor up. As he’d expected, the lobby was deserted, with only one staff member—a girl in her early twenties—manning the reception desk. This was something else he’d relied upon. With the previous week’s guests gone, and the new ones not due to arrive until the following morning, Canyon Lodge usually operated on a skeleton staff on Saturday evening.
The young girl looked up, a little surprised, as Kormann appeared in the lobby. Then, recognizing the familiar uniform of the Canyon Transportation Service, she smiled at him. Kormann smiled in return.
“Hi. Roger Kormann, Canyon Transport,” he said by way of introduction. “Everything okay here?”
The girl allowed herself a slight frown. “Yeah. Sure. Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”
“No, none at all,” Kormann told her, then, gesturing toward the escalators, “I’ve got the group downstairs unloading, so I’ll just bring ’em up for registration, okay?”
He started to turn away but she stopped him. “Group? What group?” There was a worried tone in her voice. This was something she hadn’t been told about. It had the uncomfortable feeling of a foul-up and, in her experience, foul-ups in the bookings had a habit of being blamed on junior desk staff. Like her.
Kormann stopped and was walking back toward the desk. He spoke deliberately, as if not wishing to
Or for other purposes.
And late in the season as it was, the snow was becoming moreand more unstable every day as the warmer weather raised the water content and the fine powder settled upon itself. Just the way he wanted it.
In the main, Kormann was an unremarkable looking man. Around thirty-five or -six, he stood five feet eleven and had a slim build. His features were regular, average, you might say. Neither excessively handsome nor excessively unpleasant. The mouth and nose were normally sized and shaped—plastic surgery had seen to that some years back. In Kormann’s line of business, it didn’t pay to have features that were too easily remembered or described. His hair was medium length, parted on the side and black, with a hint of gray beginning at the temples.
The one feature that did stand out was his eyes. They were a brilliant blue and plastic surgery could do nothing to disguise them. Tinted contact lenses might have, but much to Kormann’s annoyance, he was unable to wear contacts. His eyes were particularly sensitive and anything more than ten minutes with contacts in would see them red and streaming. So his eyes remained the single, memorable feature of the man. At least in snow country such as this he could conceal them behind dark glasses.
The bus finally crested the rise and the huge gray bulk of the Canyon Lodge loomed before them. Kormann gestured quickly to the entrance of the underground drive-in and his driver swung the Dodge into the tunnel. A quick glance behind confirmed that the other two buses had followed suit. A moment later, he heard their engines echoing in the confined space of the tunnel. There was room for the three buses by the automatic doors leading to the hotel interior. He pointed: “There.” The driver nodded and pulled past the spot, reversing neatly back into it. Kormann had the door open and swung down, breathing the strange mixture of exhaust fumes and crisp mountain air that pervaded the tunnel. As he walked quickly to the doors, the other buses parked in their turn. Doors slid open and men began climbing down, stretching their legs after the seventy-minute drive up from Salt Lake City.
Three sets of double rear doors slammed open and the drivers and their passengers began unloading bags.
Kormann hurried through into the hotel proper. He twitched his uniform blazer straight and took the escalator to the reception level, one floor up. As he’d expected, the lobby was deserted, with only one staff member—a girl in her early twenties—manning the reception desk. This was something else he’d relied upon. With the previous week’s guests gone, and the new ones not due to arrive until the following morning, Canyon Lodge usually operated on a skeleton staff on Saturday evening.
The young girl looked up, a little surprised, as Kormann appeared in the lobby. Then, recognizing the familiar uniform of the Canyon Transportation Service, she smiled at him. Kormann smiled in return.
“Hi. Roger Kormann, Canyon Transport,” he said by way of introduction. “Everything okay here?”
The girl allowed herself a slight frown. “Yeah. Sure. Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”
“No, none at all,” Kormann told her, then, gesturing toward the escalators, “I’ve got the group downstairs unloading, so I’ll just bring ’em up for registration, okay?”
He started to turn away but she stopped him. “Group? What group?” There was a worried tone in her voice. This was something she hadn’t been told about. It had the uncomfortable feeling of a foul-up and, in her experience, foul-ups in the bookings had a habit of being blamed on junior desk staff. Like her.
Kormann stopped and was walking back toward the desk. He spoke deliberately, as if not wishing to
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