Slaton pulled into Davos as the sun left the day behind, halfhearted shafts of light casting their closing palette across the peaks. He drove directly to the ski area, and left the Mercedes in a remote corner of a broad and nearly empty gravel parking area. On the other side of the lot, near the Alpine-themed lodge and ski lifts, a half dozen police cars and vans were parked in a cluster. None of them had their lights rolling, signifying the passage of the crisis stage on the mountain above.
He set out on foot and surveyed the scene. Halfway up the slope he saw a group of men and women in ski jackets, three idle snowmobiles around them. The snowmobiles were parked in a triangle, their headlights converging on the point in the snow that was the center of everyone’s attention. He noticed that the gondola lift was running, two uniformed policemen standing watch at the entrance.
Slaton veered away from the lift station toward a group of condominiums, a three-story affair near a motionless chair lift whose seats were covered in snow. At the base of the condos he saw a handful of people, including two young men in ski instructor jackets who stood gawking at the tragedy uphill.
He traversed the bottom of the mountain cautiously, his eyes sweeping across the high slopes. From the spot where the investigative crowd had gathered, he walked his gaze upward, estimating loosely how far it would take for a skier who’d been shot to fall, tumble, and come to rest. The precise answer, of course, depended on how fast that skier was moving. From where he stood, Slaton noticed that the section of run leading uphill from Romanov’s final resting place was a relatively straight track. Once his mid-mountain estimates were firm, he scanned upward and outward, glad to have arrived before the light completely faded.
Altogether, the scene before him was completely different from the one he’d seen yesterday on a yacht in Capri. Here a sniper could easily get close to his target, become lost in the trees in a hundred places. A close-in shot would render irrelevant many of the usual complications. Wind, air density, temperature, elevation—all were inconsequential for a trained sniper at a hundred yards. Unfortunately, as convenient as all that was, Slaton knew he wasn’t looking at a short-range shot. He knew because, just as in Capri, the round had been described as very large caliber. Slaton thought it likely that the shooter had used the very same weapon, and nobody lugged a fifty cal into the woods for a hundred-yard shot. More to the point, working in such close proximity with a heavy gun complicated a sniper’s ultimate end game—to escape to shoot another day.
Yet if all that extrapolation was correct—if the shooter had again used a fifty cal from long range—one mind-numbing complication emerged. In Capri, Ivanovic appeared to have been engaged at extreme distance, and while he was standing on a yacht that was rolling on heavy seas. Here the range could well have been less, but the target had been rushing downhill—judging by the slope, and depending on Romanov’s abilities and mood—at something between twenty and fifty miles an hour.
And there was the logic-shattering disconnect. Same gunman, same weapon, outrageously different circumstances. Each impossible in its own right. Yet the results spoke volumes. In each case, one shot giving a clean, center-of-mass kill.
But how?
It was then, as Slaton stood puzzling beneath a setting sun, that he was struck by another commonality between the shootings. It involved not a known fact, but a glaring deficiency. In both cases the bullet had disappeared, and was essentially unrecoverable.
This brought pause. In Capri the vexing issue had been excessive range. Here it was a target moving at high speed. Was there a common solution? Slaton was among the most experienced technical shooters on earth—not the competition variety who practiced by firing thousands of rounds from the same position, but the belly-in-the-mud, wait a full day for a half chance type. Whenever possible, his geometry and calculations were finalized beforehand, in briefing rooms using models and surveillance photos, then amended as necessary in the field. The high-end assassin, which was what he was dealing with, must have known Romanov would be here. He knew his target would be moving fast across the side of a mountain, and made a plan that was within the capabilities of his weapon. He would also have designed a convenient escape.
Combining Capri with what was before him, Slaton put himself in a briefing room. He looked across the base of the runs and saw a shuttered ski school. Next to that an equipment-rental barn was locked down tight. The two ski instructors were still to his right, and he walked in that direction. One was a thirtyish man, the other younger. It was the younger one who nodded amiably.
Slaton nodded back. “I heard someone died up there this morning,” he said in English.
“Unfortunately, yes,” the younger man said.
“Perhaps he could have used another lesson or two.”
The Swiss looked at him uncertainly. There was a chance the man didn’t appreciate black humor, but Slaton suspected his reaction was more an appraisal. The ski patrol would have been first to reach Romanov this morning. Rescuers who were accustomed to collisions with trees and other skiers, and who typically dealt with sprains and broken bones, would have seen something very different. Word about the shooting would have spread like wildfire among the staff. Yet Slaton was an outsider here, and therefore might not be trusted with such intimate knowledge.
“Actually,” said the young man, “I saw him making runs earlier. He was a very good skier—fast, but always in control.”
“Bad luck then,” Slaton said, adding a shrug of indifference.
In truth, he was encouraged by the answer, because it gave him more to work with: Fast, but always in control. Unfortunately, in the falling light, this new information could not be applied until morning. The idea percolating in his head was speculative, the least plausible of his implausible theories. But it was the only one that fit every fact, so he decided to run with it.
If I had come here with a long-range rifle, intending to kill Romanov under such circumstances … how exactly would I have gone about it?
The first concept that came to mind was curiously straightforward. He edged back toward the man in the red jacket. “Sorry to bother you again, but can you tell me if there is an outfitter in town?”
The Swiss smiled, and said helpfully, “Why, yes. There is only one, but they are a good shop—they will have anything you need.”
Slaton smiled back. He got directions, thanked the man politely, and with darkness finally blanketing the peaks, he headed into town.
* * *
“And you never heard a gunshot?” asked Ottinger.
An irritated Ovechkin shifted in the hard plastic seat. “There was nothing. I was headed downhill, wearing a helmet and a knit cap. What could I hear? Have you talked to Mikhael, my security chief? He was at the top of the mountain, in a much better position to see or hear something.”
He stared at the detective, a hound-faced man with sad brown eyes, who said, “Yes, we have talked to him.”
Ovechkin looked overtly at his watch. He had been at the station for three hours, most of it in this barren interview room. He’d had enough. “Inspector, I wish I could help you. What happened to Alexei is a terrible thing. Believe me when I say I very much hope you catch who did this. My own safety is clearly at risk. Did you make the inquiry in Capri as I suggested regarding the death of Pyotr Ivanovic?”
Ottinger nodded to say he had. “Thank you for that. I discussed the case with an inspector there”—he referenced his notes—“Giordano was his name. There do appear to be similarities between the deaths.”
“Similarities?” Ovechkin grumbled. “They are identical—my business partners have both been shot by a sniper. My life is at risk, I tell you. The minute we finish here, I am leaving Davos for some place more secure.”
The inspector looked at him severely. “You expect to leave?”
“I do. And before you trouble yourself by suggesting otherwise, I should tell you I have already consulted my attorney in Bern. He assures me that by the laws of your canton there is no justification for my detention.”
The policeman seemed to consider arguing the point, but finally relented, perhaps imagining the army of lawyers Ovechkin could bring to bear. “Very well. But will you at least do me the courtesy of leaving a contact number?”
Ovechkin took a pen and a notepad from the table, and wrote down his mobile number. He got up and headed for the door, trying not to grimace as he did so. His quadriceps were feeling the effects of last night’s battle on the mountain—it was the most exercise he’d gotten in months.
He found Mikhael waiting in the lobby, and soon they were on the road. Ovechkin considered stopping at his chalet on the low slopes to pack a few clothes, but decided a quick exit would be better. Anyway, there was nothing there he couldn’t live without. He would call Estrella later and explain that business matters had necessitated an early departure.
“Straight to the airport,” he ordered, “before they change their minds.”
Mikhael steered toward Samedan Airport, a small airstrip tucked in a bucolic valley outside St. Moritz. There his private jet would be waiting, fully fueled with the crew ready. As the snow-covered peaks fell obscured in thin evening light, Ovechkin knew what had to come next. From the back seat he fired off a text to Colonel Zhukov.
Romanov dead. I am very worried. Leaving Davos. We need to meet, somewhere safe. Suggest the same venue as last month.
He waited, but got no immediate reply. He wondered where the colonel might be.