Where Truth Lies. Christiane Heggan

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СКАЧАТЬ and Rangoon.

      Alerted that the terrorist might have sneaked into Austria—more precisely, the Mayrhofen Resort in the Ziller Valley—Matt had immediately reserved a room at the luxurious Innertalerhof Hotel in nearby Gerlos, where he had waited to hear from the Vienna office.

      That was a week ago. Rashad had to be feeling pretty invincible by now.

      Matt took a pair of binoculars from his backpack and focused on the cabin. It remained dark, with no sign of life, not even a trail of smoke coming from the chimney.

      Either Rashad was fond of subzero temperatures, or someone had tipped him off and he was long gone.

      He heard a low whistle and turned around. Stefan was pointing at the side door where a pair of skis was propped against a utility fence.

      Relieved, Matt gestured for the two men to cover the back of the house. He would take the front.

      He hadn’t taken the first step when all hell broke loose.

      The front door slammed open and a fully-dressed man, on skis, jumped out and started down the slope.

      “Shit!”

      Matt made a “let’s go” gesture and took off after him.

      The “Tux” as the locals called it, was a skier’s dream. Due to the height and freezing temperatures of the glacier, the Tux was open for skiing all year round and had guaranteed powder as early as October. Matt had skied the glacier’s many trails often, always for pleasure, but at this moment, his mind was only on two things—catching the bastard and staying alive.

      As the slope got steeper, an almost-vertical drop from the top, Matt realized that Rashad, a risk-taker, was as skilled on skis as he was behind the wheel of an all-terrain vehicle or a twin-engine plane. Catching him wouldn’t be easy.

      Matt now had a pretty good idea of where the Iranian was going—the car park eleven kilometers down. Always prepared, Rashad had probably left a car in the parking lot in order to facilitate his escape, should that become necessary.

      “Sorry, Rashad,” Matt muttered. “Not this time.”

      As Rashad raced downhill, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and raised his left pole in a salute.

      “You little shit.” In response, Matt let off the brakes. Leaning forward, knees bent, his poles tucked under his arms, he tore down the mountain like a speed demon. Behind him, one of the Austrians yelled a warning. Matt ignored him.

      He passed the fleeing man at high speed, waiting until he was well ahead before snapping into a smart stop.

      Rashad tried to veer off to the right, but Ernst had already moved into position, while Stefan kept to the left. Trapped, Basim kept on skiing, coming straight at Matt.

      What the hell was that fool doing?

      Matt braced himself for a collision, then at the last possible moment, Rashad stopped, sending a plume of powder up in the air.

      Matt was on him in an instant.

      “You have great courage, Agent Baxter.” Rashad spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent. “I admire that in a man.”

      “Save it, Basim,” Matt said, calling him by his first name as was the Arab custom. “It’s all over for you.”

      “It doesn’t have to be. You let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”

      “You think I want your blood money, Basim?”

      “Money is money. Just think of all it can buy you. Retirement, perhaps? Wouldn’t you like that? Or would you rather die from an assassin’s bullet? Because that’s what’s waiting for you, my friend. You put me away and you sign your death sentence.”

      The threat didn’t faze Matt. He’d heard worse. “You’re the only one with a death sentence in his future, Basim.”

      The two Austrians, young, tall and blond, moved forward. A pair of handcuffs dangled from Stefan’s hand as he approached the Iranian.

      As Rashad was being cuffed, Matt called his superior at the Sacher Hotel in Vienna. “We got him,” he said, watching Basim shoot him a murderous look. “Is that chopper on the way? I’ve seen enough snow to last me for a lifetime.”

      “It should arrive any moment,” Roger Fairfax replied. “And by the way, that was good work, Matt. I’ll buy you a beer when you get back in town.”

      In the distance, the sound of a helicopter engine grew closer. “They’re here,” Matt said. “See you soon, Roger.”

      The helicopter was just overhead now. As the pilot started to lower the cable that would lift Basim into the chopper, Matt’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” He covered his other ear with his hand to shield off the noise of the hovering aircraft. “Lucy? Is that you?”

      “Yes. What’s that racket?”

      “What?”

      “Never mind,” she shouted back. “You need to come home right away, Matt.”

      Matt felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What happened?”

      “Dad’s been arrested for murder.”

      Four

      The clock on the dash of Grace’s Ford Taurus read 8:45 p.m. when she reached the outskirts of New Hope. Getting out of Boston had been a nightmare. After two wrong turns, a flat tire and a three-mile traffic jam on I-95, she had finally spotted the sign for Route 29. Fifteen minutes later, she was crossing the bridge that connected Lambertville, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania.

      She knew little about this quaint little town, except that it was situated in the heart of one of the most beautiful and historic areas of Pennsylvania—rural Bucks County. It was a peaceful, quiet town, although a quick check through the archives of a local paper had confirmed what Sarah had told her. Twenty years ago, a nineteen-year old girl named Felicia Newman had disappeared, and although it was suspected that she had been murdered, her body was never recovered. Five days later, a mentally disturbed man, also a resident of New Hope, was arrested. Since then, there had been little crime in the town—until Steven’s murder.

      Grace slowed down and glanced at the directions. “A right turn will take you to the cottage,” Sarah had said. “To go to the gallery, you keep straight on Bridge Street.”

      After driving for more than nine hours, the thought of curling up in a warm bed, even a strange bed, was infinitely more appealing than an inspection tour of an art gallery. But she couldn’t help it. She was curious. She had to see if Steven’s pride and joy was as spectacular as he had claimed.

      Bridge Street, she soon found out, was partly commercial and partly residential, which made finding a parking space at this time of night, when everyone was home, more difficult than she had expected. She found a slot in front of a shop called Red Hot Momma’s, a boutique of some sort that she would definitely have to check out in the morning.

      After shutting off the engine, she got out of the car and made her way down the stone walk that led to the СКАЧАТЬ