Spy Ski School Page 4

  “I’m pretty good on skis myself,” Warren boasted.

  I sighed. This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself out of my league around my fellow students. Most of them had been training in various skills such as jujitsu or marksmanship their whole lives, which had been great assets when the CIA was looking for new recruits. Meanwhile, I hadn’t really gotten into spy school on my own merits at all. Sure, I had strong math skills and some facility with languages, but in truth, I’d been recruited as a patsy. I had been bait to catch that mole and the school hadn’t really expected me to survive. When I had, they’d realized they couldn’t return me to normal life—I knew too many secrets—so I’d been allowed to stay. But while I’d proven myself on subsequent missions, I still didn’t feel anywhere near as confident as Jawa or Chip did. The reason they were so bizarrely eager to confront danger was that, after years of training for it, they were convinced they could handle it easily. They were like minor league baseball players who’d finally been bumped up to the majors and couldn’t wait for their first game.

  Meanwhile, I was like someone who’d been plunked into the majors without ever being taught how to catch. I’d had to pick up almost everything on the fly. For example, I’d never skied a day in my life. While Chip and Jawa would be posing as beginners to blend in with the ski school, I really was a beginner. “If anyone tries to kill me on the slopes, I’m going to be a sitting duck.” I sighed.

  “Ptarmigan,” Warren corrected.

  “What?” I asked.

  “There’s no ducks in the mountains,” Warren explained. “Whereas a ptarmigan is a bird found in cold climates like the northern tundra. So you wouldn’t be a sitting duck. You’d be a sitting ptarmigan.”

  “Shut up, Warren,” Chip threatened. “Or the next time I throw a pair of boxers at you, they’ll be the ones I’ve been wearing for the last sixteen hours.”

  Warren cringed in fear and stumbled over his suitcase once again.

  “No one’s really gonna try to kill us,” Jawa told me reassuringly. “That’s just wishful thinking on our part. Statistically, ninety-eight-point-five percent of CIA missions resolve without any action at all.”

  “Mine haven’t,” I reminded him. “So far, a hundred percent of my missions have ended with bad guys trying to kill me.”

  “That’s great!” Chip exclaimed. “Then you’re due for an easy one. But just in case this mission does have some danger . . .” He paused to share an excited glance with Jawa. “Don’t sweat it. We’ve got your back.”

  “That’s right,” Jawa agreed. “You brought us in on this mission. We’re gonna make sure you get out of it alive.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping they were right.

  Warren unzipped his luggage on the floor beside me. “So what does the CIA think Operation Golden Fist even is?”

  “They don’t know.” I set my own suitcase next to Jawa’s on the bed. “Though Cyrus thinks it might have something to do with one of the government facilities in the Rockies. NORAD, Strategic Missile Command . . .”

  “The Cheyenne Mountain Complex,” Jawa suggested.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Noah’s ark for the Cold War,” Jawa replied. “It was built during the 1950s to be able to withstand a nuclear attack. Thirty miles of tunnels, living spaces, and control rooms dug deep under the mountains. The idea was, should everyone actually launch their nukes, the president and a few thousand people could actually live down there for years so humanity would survive.”

  “Why would a bad guy want to access a bunch of old tunnels?” Warren scoffed.

  “Because the complex is still active,” Jawa replied. “It houses the emergency backup controls for everything from our defense systems to the entire U.S. power grid. If Shang got to it, he could cripple our entire country in one blow. Which would then set the stage for China to become the world’s primary economic and military power.”

  Warren’s smug expression vanished. “Oh.”

  “Of course, I’m just spitballing,” Jawa admitted. “Maybe Shang has something even more sinister up his sleeve.”

  “Well, whatever he’s plotting, I’m sure Ben will figure it out.” Chip gave me a punch in the arm that was supposed to be supportive and playful but was actually strong enough to knock me into the wall. “Oops,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s cool,” I said, trying to act like it hadn’t hurt—even though it had. I was also trying to act like I wasn’t completely daunted by my mission. The idea that Shang could be plotting something so diabolical was terrifying to me, and I didn’t have nearly the confidence in myself that Chip seemed to. I caught sight of myself in the slightly cracked mirror that hung over the lopsided dresser in the motel room. I didn’t merely feel incapable; I didn’t look capable either. But then, my pathetic clothing probably had a lot to do with that.

  While Chip, Jawa, and Warren all wore brand-new ski outfits, I had cobbled mine together with hand-me-downs from my cousins. My parka was twenty-five years old, and my scarf had more holes in it than a piece of Swiss cheese. My gloves didn’t even match.

  In fact, now that I thought about it, I was missing one glove entirely. The first was still clipped to the zipper of my parka, but the other had gone AWOL. I tried to remember when I’d last had it. The lobby, I figured. I’d worn the gloves when getting off the shuttle in the motel parking lot but had removed them in the lobby to warm my hands by the fire. The fire had turned out to be a fake—some ceramic logs with cheap plastic flames dancing among them—but I hadn’t seen my other glove since then.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  “Where are you going?” Chip questioned. “To see Erica?”

  “Why would I be going to see Erica?” I asked.

  “Because you’re madly in love with her,” Chip replied.

  Yet another piece of top-secret information that everyone at spy school knew anyhow. Although this wasn’t really a testament to any great spy skills on Chip’s part; practically every guy at spy school had a crush on Erica. “I’m not seeing Erica. I lost my glove.”

  “Ah, the old ‘pretending to lose your glove so you can go see Erica’ trick,” Jawa teased. “Can’t fool us with that one.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, then stepped through the flimsy door into the parking lot.

  It wasn’t much colder outside than it had been inside. The sun was already sinking below the mountains on the horizon, casting the valley in shadow, but the sky was still brilliant blue above. Across the highway, I could see the snowy slopes of Vail Mountain, giant white slashes through green forests with skiers wending their way down them.

  Something suddenly nailed me in the head, just behind my right ear. For a moment I was terrified that I’d already been ambushed by the enemy, but then the sensation of cold wetness kicked in and I realized the weapon had merely been a snowball.

  Hank Schacter, Chip’s seventeen-year-old brother, emerged from around the side of the motel, smirking, two more snowballs at the ready. Hank was a meathead and a jerk. I never would have willingly invited him on a mission, but as my resident adviser at spy school, he’d been brought along as a chaperone. Somehow, he’d scored his own space—albeit an extremely cramped one that barely had room for a twin bed. “We’re on a CIA mission, Ripley,” he scolded. “You can’t drop your guard like that. We can’t have anyone making dumb mistakes.”

  “Like announcing that we’re on a CIA mission in a public space?” I asked.

  Hank tried to think of a response, failed, and then threw another snowball at me.

  I tried to dodge it, but wasn’t fast enough. It thwacked me in the chest.

  “Lousy reflexes, too,” Hank chided. “You better hope the heat doesn’t come down on this operation, or you’re gonna be dead meat.”

  I looked around for cover, but there wasn’t any in the parking lot. The few cars were too far away. And there wasn’t any snow nearby to fight back with; it had all been pummele
d into slush.

  The third snowball smacked me in the face. Snow cascaded down into my jacket.

  “You’re pathetic!” Hank snarled. “If you want to survive, you need to think! You need to keep your guard up at all times. If you allow yourself to be distracted for so much as one second, you’re gonna end up in serious trouble.”

  “Like you?” a voice asked.

  Hank spun around, startled, to find Erica fifteen feet away, standing next to a large pile of snowballs. Meanwhile, Hank had thrown his last one at me and was unarmed. Instantly, his demeanor changed from cocky to weaselly. “Hold on, Erica,” he pleaded. “I was just trying to teach Ben a lesson. . . .”

  “So now I’ll teach you one,” Erica said. “Don’t be a jerk, or this will happen.” With that, she unleashed a fusillade of snowballs, moving so fast Hank might as well have been shot with a snowball machine gun. Hank ran, but Erica predicted his every move, pegging him repeatedly, until he finally escaped into the safety of the lobby.

  “Nice work, roomie!” Zoe cheered, emerging from a motel room. Zoe tended to be unnaturally cheerful most of the time, but being on her first mission—and at a ski resort—had made her almost manic with glee. She’d been smiling constantly since the moment we’d met at the airport that morning. “You sure showed him!”

  Erica regarded Zoe curiously, thrown by her enthusiasm. “Yes,” she said finally, “I did.”

  Zoe came to my side to help me scrape the snow out of my hair. “How’s your room?”

  “Crowded,” I said. Zoe and Erica had lucked out; as the only two girls on the trip, they got a whole room and separate beds to themselves. “How’s yours?”

  “Great!” Zoe chirped, and then lowered her voice to even below a whisper. “Although it’s kind of freaky being with Erica. Half her luggage was ammunition. Who brings grenades on a ski vacation?”

  “I can hear you,” Erica said, even though she was still fifteen feet away.

  Zoe grimaced, alarmed that she’d been overheard.

  “And it’s not a vacation,” Erica pointed out. “It’s a top-secret CIA mission.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that out loud?” I asked.

  “Because the only people close enough to hear me are also on the mission,” Erica explained. “I’ve already cased the area. All the other residents of this fleabag motel are out skiing, housekeeping has gone home for the day, and the guy running the desk has the stereo in the lobby jacked up so loud playing Christmas music he can barely hear anything over the jingle bells. So the only humans around are either fellow spies or shams.”

  “Shams?” I asked.

  “Hello!” Alexander Hale cried, exiting his room.

  “Case in point,” Erica told me, indicating her father.

  Erica and Alexander had the most dysfunctional family relationship I’d ever encountered. And I came from a family where my cousins had gotten into three different fistfights at our Christmas party. Erica absolutely resented her father—though, in her defense, for much of his life, Alexander hadn’t been a model parent. For example, six months before, he’d accidentally left a piece of information crucial to national security in a public bathroom and then covered for himself by blaming the mistake on Erica, resulting in a black mark on her permanent record. Alexander had ultimately admitted to the truth—and ever since, he’d been desperately trying to prove his worth to Erica every chance he got, but she rejected each attempt he made.

  “How are my little agents doing?” Alexander asked. He was wearing a ski outfit that appeared to be custom-tailored. Zoe and I looked round as Butterball turkeys in our parkas, but Alexander looked stylish as could be in his. “Having a good time so far?”

  “Hardly,” Erica replied, before Zoe or I could. “This place is a dump.”

  Alexander’s good cheer faltered. When he smiled again, he looked far more apologetic. “Ah, yes. Well, there’s been quite a bit of belt-tightening at the Agency lately. We have to keep an eye on the budget for missions now. Not like the good old days. Once, when I was on a mission in Gstaad, I rented the executive suite of the Hotel Beauxville for six weeks. . . .”

  “And he wonders why the CIA doesn’t have any money anymore,” Erica muttered.

  “But this place isn’t so bad,” Alexander said spiritedly. “Sure, it’s a little cramped. And it’s cold. And it’s unlikely that the sheets have been washed in the last few weeks. And there’s barely any water pressure in the showers. And . . .” Alexander frowned. “What was my point again?”

  “This place isn’t so bad,” I reminded him.

  “Oh! Right you are, Benjamin! The fact being that sometimes, struggling against adversity is the best way to build friendships. Why, I can remember one mission in Siberia, when I was subjected to simply the worst ordeal known to man. I was on the run from the Russians with Agent Johnny Cliff. We were off in the most hostile wilderness you can imagine, miles from civilization, with no food, no shelter, and half the KGB on our tail. But while the experience was miserable, it brought Johnny and I together in a way like no other. We were as close as brothers after that. Closer, maybe.”

  “Didn’t you take all the responsibility for the success on that mission?” Erica asked. “After which Johnny never talked to you again?”

  Alexander smiled weakly. “Er, well . . . all brothers have their differences.”

  Erica sighed with disgust and then started across the parking lot toward me. “Well, Dad, this has been extremely enlightening, as usual, but I’m afraid Ben and I have something to take care of right now.”

  “I’ve lost a glove,” I said.

  “No, you haven’t.” Erica pulled my glove from her pocket and slapped it into my hand. “I found that in the lobby.”

  “Hey, thanks!” I told her, then added, “Um . . . if you had this, what do we have to take care of?”

  “Reconnaissance.” Erica grabbed my arm and led me across the parking lot, toward a pedestrian bridge that crossed over the highway to connect us with Vail Village. “We’re on a mission, remember? It’s time to get to work.”

  RECONNAISSANCE

  Lionshead Village

  Vail, Colorado

  December 26

  1630 hours

  Thirty minutes later, I got my first glimpse of my target.

  Erica and I were casing the Shangs’ hotel, the Arabelle. It was five stories tall and located in an area of Vail known as Lionshead Village. Lionshead was mostly free of roads, with wide-open concourses for tourists to walk on. The Arabelle had a prime position in the center of it, right at the base of Vail Mountain, closer to skiing than any other hotel, and it was incredibly luxurious. For example, there were “ski valets” whose job it was to carry guests’ skis to the lifts for them, even though the lifts were less than a minute away. Renting one small room for a week there cost more than my father’s car. And yet Leo Shang had rented out the entire place, top to bottom, on the busiest ski week of the year for only himself, his daughter, and their security staff.

  One side of the Arabelle faced a public square with an ice-skating rink, some fancy restaurants, an ice cream parlor, and a pizza joint. Erica had treated me to a slice of pepperoni and grabbed one for herself as well. We ate them as we walked around the hotel. “We’ll look less suspicious if we’re eating,” Erica explained. “Like two kids who just went out for pizza, rather than two spies on a recon mission. Plus, I’m starving.”

  I didn’t question this. I was starving too. Between the plane and the shuttle, we hadn’t had a chance to eat much that day except airline peanuts.

  It didn’t seem as if we needed much of an excuse to be walking around, though. There were hundreds of other people walking around too. The ski lifts had just closed for the day, and skiers were pouring down the mountain in droves. An area the size of a soccer field in front of the Arabelle was crowded with people unclipping their skis and snowboards and heading off to their hotels. The ice rink was packed with parents and children. The line for pizza had
taken fifteen minutes. Everyone seemed to be in an extremely good mood, jazzed after their day of skiing, sharing stories about their best runs. For a brief period, I forgot all about my mission and began to grow excited about learning to ski the next day.

  I watched a crowd of snowboarders not much older than me skid to a stop after their last run, beaming with excitement. “Looks like fun,” I observed.

  “I suppose it could be,” Erica replied.

  I took a bite of my pizza; the cheese was already congealing in the cold weather. “I can’t believe you’ve never skied before.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just seems like something you would have done. I mean, you know fourteen different styles of martial arts. I figured you would have mastered skiing somewhere along the line.”

  “I haven’t had the chance,” Erica said. “I’ll master it tomorrow.”

  I smiled, amused by her attitude. “It’s not supposed to be that easy. I read that it can take a few days before some people even learn how to turn.”

  Erica shrugged. “I taught myself how to be a world-class fencer in one morning. It won’t take me more than a day to get good at skiing.”

  I wondered if Erica was right. At the moment, the nearby slopes were full of evidence that skiing could be difficult. For every skier who came down the mountain well, there were many others coming down badly. I could see a dozen people who’d wiped out at the base of the mountain. As I watched, one poor soul shot off the run entirely and fell into Vail Creek. And things didn’t get much better once everyone had taken their skis off. Ski boots seemed to have been designed to make walking as difficult as possible. Everywhere I looked, people were wobbling about in them like toddlers taking their first steps. One person crashed to the ground right in front of us, his skis and poles flying every which way.

  Erica stepped right over him, leading me toward the front doors of the Arabelle.

  I hustled after her, feeling strangely out of breath. “Hey. Can we slow down a bit?”

  “Getting winded?” Erica asked.