Taking the Piste

"Snowboarders ruin the piste. They shave off all the snow so it's like an ice patch, and they sit in the middle of the piste, chatting with friends in a line, so you have to jump over them as you come over the crest of a hill."

                   -- Richard Armitage, interview in The Independent, 7 April 2013

GSTAAD, SWITZERLAND.

TUESDAY, 0930 HOURS.

ATOP MT. ANSPITZER, HÜENERSPIL TRAIL.

Lucas North eased himself off of the chairlift and made his way over to the trailhead. Adjusting his ski-mask, he surveyed the picturesque scenery and took a deep breath. The air up here suits me, he thought.

He'd been sent to Switzerland on a mission to investigate a suspected crime syndicate hiding in plain sight on the mountain. Suspicious postings on Internet chat rooms under the moniker "Anti-Democratic Imperialists" had made reference to a splinter cell here in Gstaad called the "Death Armored Squadron."  Two ski instructors -- both Russian nationals -- were supposedly the masterminds of the local operation. Harry suspected that weapons were being smuggled along with drugs and other contraband, possibly in preparation for an attack on British soil.

As usual, his mission was not without danger. But there were worse places to be sent, Lucas reminded himself as he swung his emergency pack over his shoulder. His cover -- posing as a member of the Ski Patrol -- had been his own idea. A few days skiing in the Swiss Alps would cheer him up a bit, and get him out of dreary, lonely London.

At the thought of London, Lucas's eidetic memory swept him back to The Grid, to his last conversation with Harry. 

Lucas was pacing back and forth inside his boss's office like a caged animal. "I wish I had your full confidence, Harry. I'm not a double agent. What's it going to take to convince you that I'm not working for the bloody Russians?"

 Harry glanced from Lucas to Tariq, his face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. "There's a Russian connection on this mission, Lucas. I wouldn't be sending you in if I didn't have absolute confidence in your allegiance and your abilities."

"But just in case, can I have your iTunes password before you leave?" Tariq asked. Lucas shot him a dirty look and stormed out. Harry watched him go, and finished off the remaining Scotch in his glass.

Tariq lingered in the doorway. "Are you sure that's the best idea, Harry -- sending Lucas back in with the Russians?"

Harry poured himself a third Scotch, not that Tariq was counting. "Actually, the only Russian connection with this case is two guys smuggling knockoff casual men's apparel into Switzerland  through Moscow." He gazed longingly into the amber liquid. "I just need to get Lucas off The Grid for a few days so we can plan his 'Grats on Getting Out of the Gulag' party. Otherwise, Ruth will never let me know a moment's peace."

 Tariq nodded soberly. "I sent him an e-card, but maybe it went to his spam folder--"

 "Crikey!" Harry exclaimed. "This isn't my bottle of poison Scotch, is it?"

Atop the mountain, Lucas realized he was risking frostbite from his overlong and nonsensical flashback sequence. Without further thought he launched himself down the trail. He skied with gusto, reveling in the fresh mountain air on his face. The alpine peaks and gray-white sky became a blur in the distance; he saw only the piste before him and heard only the low hum of his skis gliding over the powdery snow.

Suddenly, as he turned a corner, his skis slid out from underneath him. WHAMMO! He fell back to the ground, hard.

"Hey! You okay?" a voice called out. Lucas's disciplined mind parsed it out automatically: English language; female; American accent. "Should I call the Ski Patrol?" A worried face -- a woman -- hovered over him. "Holy shit -- you ARE the Ski Patrol! What happened?" She offered Lucas her hand to help him get back up on his feet.