There were mountains all around them and the snow was slashing at the cabin windows. Dryman peeled up on one wing and dove down the side of one of the mountains, then pulled out and skimmed across the village at about five hundred feet.
“I think the airport’s over there someplace,” he said, pointing vaguely to the left.
“You don’t know?”
“Hey, Boss, I can’t see anything in front of us. I’m really flying by the seat of my pants.”
Suddenly in front of and below them, through the slashing snow pellets, they saw headlights flash on.
“Glorioski, Sandy, there it is,” Dryman yelled enthusiastically. “All we gotta do now is land.”
The plane roared across the east-west strip heading south. Dryman peeled up, stood the plane on her wing and swung around in a tight arc one hundred feet off the ground, did a perfect 270-degree bank, leveled off, dropped down and hopscotched over the top of the car, clearing it by five feet.
“Hang on!” Dryman yelled as he cut power and pulled the nose up. The plane whooshed down and thudded hard on the frozen ground. Snow showered up over the wings and pummeled the cabin. Dryman pumped the brakes, trying to keep the plane from skidding out from under him. The fence at the end of the field rushed toward them. Then he slammed hard on the right brake and the plane spun around twice and stopped.
They sat for a full minute staring out at the snow flurries that fluttered around them.
“Beautiful,” the pilot finally said half aloud. He turned and looked back at the rear cockpit. A pale Keegan smiled wanly back at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“Always remember,” Dryman said with a laugh. “Any one you can walk away from is a good one.”
The airport manager drove up through the snow, the chains on his tires clinking against the fenders of his car. He jumped out, a young redheaded man in his mid-twenties, his eyes still bugged from the spectacle of watching Dryman make it safely to the ground.
“You guys okay?” he said as they climbed out of the plane.
“I’m ten years older than I was an hour ago,” Keegan replied with a sigh.
“Amazing! Amazing!” the young man yelled. “I’ve never seen anybody fly like that!”
“And probably never will again,” Dryman said, climbing out of the plane. “You did real good, fella. What’s your name?”
“Jesse Manners,” he said sticking out his hand. Keegan jumped down from the wing and slogged through ankle-deep snow to shake hands with the young man.
“Keegan, White House Security,” he said. “This is my pilot, Captain Dryman.”
“Jesse Manners,” he repeated, shaking their hands. “I manage the airport here, such as it is. Why don’t you taxi over to the hangar? Least it’ll keep your plane from freezing up.”
“Good idea,” Dryman agreed.
“Mind if I drive with you?” Keegan asked. “I need to call the sheriff.”
“Sure, but he ain’t here. He’s over at Glenwood Springs to talk to the sheriff there. I seen him at lunch just as he was leavin’. You might try Duane Harris, he’s the forest ranger in charge, usually watches out for things when the sheriff’s off somewhere.”
“He’ll do.”
The ranger sounded friendly and a little awed by the fact that they had flown into Aspen in such bad weather. Manners provided hot coffee while they waited for Harris to drive fifteen miles from town to the airport. Keegan avoided Manners’s questions while they waited and finally the youthful manager went into the hangar to help Dryman check out the AT-6. Half an hour later a husky forest ranger in a heavy sheepskin jacket entered the airport office. He was in his late twenties, a pleasant, shaggy- haired man with the beginnings of a beard and a quick smile.
“Mr. Keegan? Duane Harris, U.S. Forestry Station,” he introduced himself.
“Good to see you,” Keegan said. “I really appreciate your help in this. Meet my pilot, Captain Dryman, H.P. for short.” He showed Harris his credentials and drew the ranger aside, speaking in a low voice. Manners, one of Aspen’s most notorious gossips, appeared to ignore them but his curious ears were keened to the conversation.
“I’m looking for a man named Trexler, John Trexler? You know him?”
“Why, hell, everybody knows Johnny. He works ski patrol for Highlands Resort. Is there a problem?”
“Just need to talk to him,” Keegan said. “I hate to impose on you, but the sheriff’s out of town and I thought maybe you could help us out.”
“Sure enough. Let’s get trottin’, though, this weather’s not gonna get any better. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”
“A great pilot and the luck of the Irish,” Keegan said with a smile as they went out into the storm.
Jesse Manners could hardly wait until Harris was on his way before he grabbed for the phone.
In his cabin, John Trexler was mentally tossing a coin. He had planned to drive the fifty miles into Leadville for the weekend but with the storm coming in he was having second thoughts. The phone rang. It was Jesse Manners at the airport.
“Hey, Johnny, you been holding out on everybody?” Manners asked.
“What do you mean?”
“About the White House?”
“What White House?”
“The White House. You some kind of big shot?”
“What the hell’re you talking about, Jesse?”
“An army plane just put on one hell of an air show out here. Came in right under the storm. Two guys from the White House. They’re comin’ out to talk to you. What’s going’ on, old buddy?”
“They’re from the White House?” Trexler repeated.
“That’s what they said. White House Security.”
White House Security? Trexler’s mind started racing. What could that be?
“It’s a secret, kid,” he said calmly. “Tell you about it later. And listen, Jesse, keep it under your hat for now, okay? It’s a surprise.”
“Sure, Johnny.”
Trexler cradled the phone and stood motionless in the room, his mind bombarded by questions. What in hell would two men from White House Security want with him? What the hell was White House Security? Did it have something to do with immigration? Had someone accidentally stumbled onto his false identity?
Was there a breach in security?
Impossible! Vierhaus, Hitler and Ludwig were the only ones who even knew of his existence. And yet, of all the possibilities that ran through his mind, that one seemed the most logical. While a breach was remote, it was the only thing that made sense.
The question was moot anyway. He could not take a chance, he had to run for it. He needed time and a lot of luck for what was ahead. He had to create another illusion.
He had his knapsack ready. After the incident in Drew City, Trexler was always ready to make an immediate escape. He went into the bedroom and lowered a ladder leading to a storage space in the ceiling of the cabin. He went up with a flashlight, unlocked a footlocker stored there and took out a rucksack. He had everything he needed in it: identification, cash, his long knife, a .45 Colt automatic and clothes. He tied the SS dagger to his right calf and strapped on a money belt containing his cash.
As he outfitted himself, he was working out a plan, one of several options he had formulated through the years. He went back down and threw enough clothes in his suitcase to appear as though he would be away for a couple of days.
He returned to the living room and called the ski patrol office at the lodge. Wes Childress, the patrol captain, answered.
“Wes, it’s Johnny,” he said, sounding as casual as possible. “I’m heading out for Leadville. Just thought I’d check out. I should be back Monday if the roads are clear.”
“You’re not going to make it, kiddo,” Childress answered. “This blizzard’s on us already.”