LITMIR.BIZ

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looked at the will again. It was difficult to be mad at Steven for putting her in such a situation. He had always been an impulsive person, and often drove her crazy with his last-minute decisions. Nor could she be upset with Sarah for wanting to make sure that her son’s wishes were respected. She may have been angry with him, but her love had remained just as strong.

      “Are you all right with Steven’s decision to leave me the gallery?” she asked. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting that.”

      “I never doubted your talents as an art expert, Grace.”

      That didn’t exactly answer her question, but Grace didn’t push it. “All right. I’ll go to New Hope, for one week. Not a minute more.”

      “Those are the terms.” She reached into her handbag again. This time she retrieved a thick envelope. “In here you’ll find everything you’ll need—the address of the gallery, as well as Steven’s cottage, where you’ll be staying, the keys to both, a notarized letter from Steven’s attorney in Philadelphia, in case anyone questions your presence.”

      “You think someone will?”

      “I doubt it. While I was in New Hope, making arrangements to have Steven’s body sent home, I spoke with Josh Nader, the chief of police there. He was very accommodating. I told him about the will, although I did not mention the special stipulation should you turn the inheritance down. As far as he and everyone else in town is concerned, you are the new owner of Hatfield Gallery. Chief Nader said to call on him if you need anything.”

      “Were you that sure that I would agree to go?”

      Sarah didn’t answer the question, but pointed at the envelope in Grace’s hands. “I also included five thousand dollars to cover your expenses—”

      “I won’t take it.” Before Sarah could protest, Grace opened the envelope, took out the money and handed it to the older woman, whose mouth opened in surprise.

      “But why not? You will be incurring expenses.”

      “Please put your money away before I change my mind.”

      “Is your airplane ticket refundable?”

      “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Put your money away.”

      Unaccustomed to taking orders, Sarah’s defiant gaze held hers for a while. When Grace didn’t flinch, Sarah let out a soft laugh. “I should have taken time to know you better, Grace. I might have liked you.”

      Three

      Innsbruck, Austria October 9

      FBI Special Agent Matt Baxter stopped to catch his breath and turned to check on his two buddies, Austrian police officers Stefan Birsner and Ernst Verlag. Both were in superb shape, but at this altitude, the steep climb up the Hintertux glacier was a challenge for even the most experienced climbers.

      The lift had dropped them off at the Gefrorene Wand Summit and they’d had to walk the rest of the way to the cabin, where, hopefully, the yearlong chase would end. Stefan raised his hand in acknowledgment, and Matt nodded before resuming his walk. They were lucky, first to have found someone who would operate the lift, and second, that at this early morning hour, the trails were empty. The last thing they needed, should the plan backfire, was an audience.

      Matt looked up. The cabin wasn’t much farther. It looked desolate, surrounded by all that snow, and unoccupied, which concerned him. The last report he’d received from the Vienna office was that Basim Rashad, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, had rented the cabin for the week.

      Based on the information, Matt had enlisted the help of the Austrian police, and had mapped out their route. He had turned down an offer to use a police helicopter. The sound of a chopper would alert Rashad, and who knew what that maniac was capable of if he found himself cornered? Matt had no intention of returning to Vienna with the ashes of another martyr who had died for his cause. His mission was to bring the Iranian back alive so he could face trial for masterminding a deadly bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Indonesia.

      Matt stopped and surveyed the cabin, hoping that Rashad was still in bed and not watching the mountain through his window. But why would he? So far, his plans had gone off without a hitch. After playing cat and mouse with the FBI for the last year, Rashad had vanished into thin air somewhere between Bangkok 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

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