Rules of Deception (23 page)

47

Wait and watch.

The Ghost eyed the restaurant from across the street. His point of vantage was a kiosk selling the usual newspapers and magazines. He passed the time browsing through a number of soccer reviews. When he caught the proprietor giving him a nasty look, he bought some chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes (though he didn’t smoke), and a copy of the
Corriere della Sera,
the Italian daily paper.

Tucking the newspaper under one arm, he strolled to the end of the block. The long night’s struggle had left him haggard, and he needed all his strength just to cover the short distance. He did it all the same, making sure that no one could spot his frailty.

He was dressed in a trench coat, collar turned up at the neck, a gray wool suit he’d had tailored in Naples, and a pair of hand-cobbled shoes the color of whiskey. Today he was an Italian businessman. Yesterday, he’d been a Swiss hiker. The day before, a German tourist. The only person he wasn’t allowed to be was himself. He didn’t mind. After twenty years in his line of work, the less time spent in one’s own company, the better.

He’d found Ransom at dawn, pulling out of a car dealership’s parking lot where he’d spent the night. The American was clumsy and amateurish in his efforts to spot a tail. He drove too slowly when he should have floored it. He stopped regularly to look over his shoulder. He parked too close to his destination. His actions were futile. Any attempt to hide was undermined by the homing beacon implanted in the religious medallion that hung from his neck.

The Ghost was content to wait and watch. The close-in kill was his domain. He’d built his career on caution and planning, making it a rule never to attempt the casual hit. It was his policy to reconnoiter the site, prepare a trap, and then lie in wait. The Lammers case was a model of planning and execution. Blitz, less so, as there had been so little time to prepare. Ransom’s sudden arrival was testament to the risks inherent in hurried work.

And then, of course, there was the dream.

Ransom would kill him.

The Ghost tried not to be superstitious. Dreams were the province of the Indians who’d worked his family’s coffee plantation. Not that of an educated man. And yet…

Just then, he spotted Ransom emerge from the restaurant.

He watched the American cross the street and disappear into a crowd near the factory gates.

For now, he was happy to keep his distance.

He would know the chance when he saw it.

Until then, he would watch and wait.

And he would pray.

48

Jonathan waited
for the one o’clock rush, then joined a group of twelve or so blue-jacketed workers as they congregated at the factory gates, walking past the lone guard in the
Securitas
car. He’d taken off his necktie and turned up the collar of his jacket. Around his neck hung the purloined identification card, the photograph deliberately turned toward his chest.

There were no guards inside the building, just an electronic turnstile that governed passage beyond the foyer. He ran the ID over the electric eye and was in. Men went in one direction. Women the other. He entered a locker room. A time clock was attached to the closest wall. He waited in line with the others, his eyes drilled to the patch of ground in front of him, lest someone pay him any notice. When it was his turn to punch in, he picked a card at random. Luckily, it didn’t belong to any of the six or seven men behind him. Next to the washroom was a closet full of freshly pressed work jackets. He selected one that fit, then passed through a set of swinging doors that led onto the factory floor.

The floor had the wide-open, airy feel of an indoor stadium, right down to the exposed aluminum rafters that supported the roof. A small army of workers moved about, some on foot, others on forklifts, and still others driving electric carts. The vast floor was partitioned at uneven intervals by stacks of inventory rising ten meters above the ground. Oddly, the sheer size of the space conspired to muffle the sound, giving the factory an otherworldly atmosphere.

Closest to him, several rows of pressurized stainless-steel tanks awaited inspection. Jonathan circled them and proceeded across the floor, stopping where he saw something of interest to ask what was being manufactured. The workers were, for the most part, polite, courteous, and professional. He learned, for example, that the pressurized tanks were in fact blenders being made for a large Swiss pharmaceutical company.

Elsewhere on the floor, teams of laborers fussed over autoclaves, heat exchangers, extruders. It seemed a wide gamut for a single firm to manufacture. As the man in the restaurant had said, Zug Industriewerk was no longer in the arms business at all.

Reaching the far side of the factory, he observed an attached hall where few people entered and exited. He noted that the entry was governed by a biometric eye scan. A sign posted next to the door read, “THOR. Thermal Heating and Operations Research. Authorized Personnel Only.”

Thor. It was the name from Emma’s flash drive. The name on the memo he’d found on Blitz’s desk.
Completion is foreseen for late first quarter 200–. Final shipment to client will be made on 10.2. Disassembly of all manufacturing apparatus to be completed by 13.2.

Jonathan knew better than to try to get inside the restricted area. He turned and walked in the other direction. He would have to find the answers to his questions elsewhere. In the main building.

Hanging from the wall was a QC clipboard, and near it, a box containing a half-dozen gleaming valves. He helped himself to both. Following signs posted on interior walls, he guided himself to the main administration building. A polite nod took him past the receptionist and into the elevator beyond.

The floors were marked according to function. First floor: Reception. Second floor: Accounting. Third floor: Sales and Marketing. Fourth floor: Direction. He hit “3.”

Once on the third floor, he noted that rooms were numbered sequentially: 3.1, 3.2. Beneath each number was the name or names of the executive who occupied the office. Hannes Hoffmann’s was the last office on the left. A well-coiffed secretary sat in the anteroom.

“For Mr. Hoffmann,” he said, lifting the box as if it were a Christmas gift.

“Whom may I announce?”

Jonathan gave the name of the man whose identification he’d stolen. “Samples for inspection.”

The receptionist didn’t glance at his ID.

She’s not in on it, Jonathan realized. She’s not part of Thor.

“I’ll buzz him,” the woman said.

“Don’t bother,” said Jonathan. “He’s expecting me.”

No longer thinking about consequences, propelled only by a desire to know—about Emma, about Thor, about everything—he threw open the door and entered Hannes Hoffmann’s office.

49

Hannes Hoffmann,
vice president of engineering according to the nameplate outside his office, sat behind a pale wood desk, a phone to his ear, batting his agenda with a pencil as if it were a snare drum. He was stocky and bland-looking, with thinning blond hair combed straight back from a pudgy, satisfied face, his blue eyes spaced a bit too far apart. It was the face from the photograph in Blitz’s desk. It was a face Jonathan had seen a hundred times before…familiar, yet not familiar at all.

Seeing Jonathan, he stiffened. His eyes homed in like lasers.
Is it him?
The question was practically broadcast in neon letters across his forehead. Jonathan didn’t flinch. Foisting an underling’s smile, he asked where to set the box of valves. Hoffmann looked him up and down a moment longer, then pointed to the edge of his desk and went back to his conversation.

“The shipment has to be at the customs warehouse by ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he was saying. “The inspectors won’t extend the deadline again. Call me if you run into any problems.” Hoffmann hung up the phone and shot an annoyed glance at his visitor. “And you are?”

“We talked yesterday on the phone.”

Hoffmann tensed. “Mr. Schmid?”

“That’s right.” Jonathan set the box on the desk. “Shout,” he said. “Now’s your chance. Go ahead. Yell for your secretary.”

Hoffmann remained immobile as a rock. He said nothing.

“You can’t, can you?” Jonathan went on. “You can’t risk having the police come running and having me tell them everything I know about the operation you had going with Eva Kruger.”

“You’re right about that,” Hoffmann said evenly. “But it cuts both ways. I can’t shout, and you can do nothing to force me to talk.”

“All I want to know is what she was involved in.”

Hoffmann crossed his arms over his chest. “Sit down, Dr. Ransom. I suggest we dispense with the game playing.”

Jonathan approached the desk with caution. He sat down on the edge of the chair, wincing slightly as the SIG-Sauer tucked into his waistband dug into his spine. “How does this setup run? A company within a company? A secret in-house project? Is that it?”

Hoffmann shrugged, a gesture of futility. “Stop this guessing.”

“I figure you’re manufacturing something you shouldn’t and giving it to someone who shouldn’t have it. What is it? Guns? Missiles? Rockets? I mean, why else set up shop in a place like this? I saw the area on the factory floor blocked off for Thor. What does ‘thermal heating operations research’ mean, anyway?”

Hoffmann leaned forward, his cordial demeanor gone. “You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.”

“I’ve got some idea. I know that you got your hooks into Emma last year when we were in Lebanon. I figure you have someone over at Doctors Without Borders, too, who helped move me over here.”

“It goes back further than Lebanon,” said Hoffmann.

“No,” retorted Jonathan. “It all started in Beirut. I was there when she made her decision.” It had to be then, he told himself. That’s why she had the headaches, the depression. She was deciding. “Did she go to Paris to meet with you?”

“Ah, yes, Paris. I remember. All those calls you made, not reaching her at the hotel. We were supposed to forward them, but there was a glitch in technical services. Regrettable. She told me she had a friend cover for her. She said you believed her. I guess not.”

Jonathan ignored the barb. “Who do you work for?”

“Suffice it to say we’re a powerful group. Look around you. You have the Mercedes. The cash, too, I presume. You saw Blitz’s home, and something of what we’ve set up here.” Hoffmann folded his hands and placed them on the desk. He looked as benign as an insurance agent trying to sell him a whole-life policy. “I’m afraid that will have to do.”

“Not today, it won’t.”

“Turn around, Dr. Ransom,” said Hoffmann sternly. “Leave this office. Leave the country. I can make sure the police drop the warrants for your arrest. Whatever you do, don’t look back. There’s still time for you to get out of this predicament.”

“Does that also mean you’re going to call off that guy who took a shot at me last night?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“And what about the cops who tried to steal Emma’s bags? Or don’t you know anything about that either?”

“The policemen were contracted out. They got overzealous. I apologize. However, I’d say that you ended up with the better end of the stick.”

“Then who killed Blitz?”

Hoffmann considered this for a moment. “People with a different agenda than our own.”

“People who don’t think Thor’s such a good idea? What if they don’t see fit to let me walk off into the sunset?”

“I can’t speak for them. If they made an attempt on your life, I imagine it was because they believe you’re working with your wife.”

“You mean they think I’m working with you?”

Hoffmann kneaded his brow. It was apparent he didn’t relish the idea of anyone thinking that Jonathan worked with him. “Either way, I can’t help you there.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” said Jonathan. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to solve my problem.”

Hoffmann slid his chair away from his desk. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, as if to indicate that the formal part of the meeting was over. They could talk as friends now. “I feel for you, Dr. Ransom. The not knowing is the hardest part. My marriage didn’t last three years. You made it eight. I’d say you did better than most.”

As he spoke, his eyes blinked rapidly again. An ocular stutter. It was an odd tic, and something about it reminded Jonathan of someone he’d known a long time ago.

“I reiterate my suggestion,” Hoffmann continued. “Leave this office. Get out of the country as quickly as you possibly can. We have no desire to see any harm come to you. In our books, you’re one of the good guys. You’ve been an enormous help to us, whether you knew it or not. Give me your word that you won’t look into our activities and I’ll call off the hounds.”

“And I have your word on that?”

“Yes.”

Hoffmann blinked as he said the words, his eyes fluttering for nearly two seconds. In that instant, Jonathan put a name to the face. It had been five years, maybe more, but he was sure of it.

It goes back further than Lebanon.

“I know you.”

Hoffmann said nothing, but his cheeks were suddenly pierced by sharp points of red.

Jonathan went on. “You’re McKenna. Queen’s Household Division seconded to the U.N. peacekeeping force in Kosovo. A major, right?”

Hoffmann chuckled as if he’d been called out on a prank. He sat forward, the look of bemusement plain on his face, and when he spoke, the Berliner’s strict German was gone, abandoned in favor of a plummy Belgravia slur. “Took you long enough, Jonny. You’re right. It was Kosovo. New Year’s Eve, if I’m not mistaken. We tossed back a few that night. You, me, and Em. Put on a bit of weight since then, but who hasn’t? Present company excepted, I suppose. You look damn fit, all things considered.”

It was him. It was McKenna.
Forty pounds heavier, minus some hair and a whisk-broom mustache, but him all the same. The same blinking eyes. The maddening habit of calling him “Jonny.”

Jonathan felt a terrible pounding pressing in at his temples. Kosovo. The New Year’s Eve shindig at the British barracks. Major Jock McKenna in his highlands kilt, marching in at the stroke of midnight with his bagpipes playing “Auld Lang Syne.” And then he remembered the last part. The reason why he’d been so slow to recognize McKenna.

“But you’re dead. You were killed in a car accident two days before we left the country.”

Hoffmann shrugged, as if to say another artifice disposed of. “As you can see, I wasn’t.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jonathan asked.

“Whoever I need to be.”

Hoffmann sprang from behind the desk. Jonathan struggled to free his pistol, but he was too slow. Inexpert. An arm flashed, knocking the pistol from his hand. A short double-edged blade protruded from between the middle and ring finger of Hoffmann’s other hand. He slashed at Jonathan. The blade narrowly missed his neck, slicing through the jacket’s lapels. Jonathan jumped back, knocking over a chair.

“Your turn,” said Hoffmann as he rounded the desk. “Go ahead. Shout. You want the police. Fine. Call them. I’m protecting myself against a murderer.”

Jonathan scooped up the chair and thrust it in front of him, fending off the larger man. Hoffmann darted forward, the blade nothing but a blur. Jonathan raised the chair, deflecting the blow.

He looked toward the desk. The box of stainless steel valves he’d hauled upstairs rested on the corner. Each valve was the size of a drinking glass and weighed nearly a kilo. He stepped forward, forcing Hoffmann back, and snatched a valve. With only one hand to hold the chair, he was vulnerable. Hoffmann saw this at once. He grasped a chair leg and yanked it to one side. At the same time, he transferred his weight to the opposite foot and attacked. Jonathan was too slow to retreat. A whiz of silver cut the air. This time the blade pierced the jacket and lacerated his chest. At the same moment, Jonathan brought the valve down. The blow glanced across Hoffmann’s brow, opening a gash above his eye. Hoffmann grunted, shook it off, and charged, pressing his bulk against the chair like a lineman driving a blocking sled. Jonathan dropped the valve and clutched the chair with both hands. Hoffmann pressed in closer. He was the heavier man and despite his bland appearance, immensely strong. The blade slashed and Jonathan felt a stinging sensation on the side of his throat.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Hoffmann?”

“Perfect,” said Hoffmann in a ridiculously enthusiastic voice. He leaned into the chair, his face a brilliant red, perspiration beading his forehead. Less than a meter separated the men. He raised his hand, preparing to strike.

All at once, Jonathan dropped to a knee and forced the chair to his left. Caught unawares, Hoffmann’s momentum carried him in the same direction. He fell forward and dropped to a knee. Jonathan circled behind him, grabbing another valve from the box and slamming it against the back of Hoffmann’s head. He began to get up, and Jonathan struck him again.

Hoffmann collapsed to the floor.

“Mr. Hoffmann!” called the secretary, banging on the door now. “Please! What’s that noise? May I come in?”

Dazed, Jonathan stumbled backward, seeking the desk for balance. He caught his reflection in a framed photograph. He was a mess. The cut on his throat was leaking blood. It had missed the carotid artery by less than an inch. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the wound.

“One second,” he said, smiling grotesquely to imitate Hoffmann’s jolly voice.

He looked around the office. A window behind the desk opened onto a four-story drop. There were no drainpipes to slide down this time. He hurried to the door, picked up his pistol, and slipped it into his waistband.

“Come in,” he said.

The secretary entered in a rush. Before she could take in the scene, Jonathan closed the door behind her.

“My goodness, what happened?” she asked, the disparate elements slowly adding up.

Jonathan forced her against the door, bracing the woman with his forearm. “If you’re quiet, I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

The secretary nodded vigorously. “But…”

“Sshhh,” he said. “You’ll be alright. I promise you. It’s better to relax.”

The woman’s eyes widened in terror.

He pressed his fingers against her carotid artery, cutting off the flow of blood to her brain. She jerked once in his arms, and five seconds later, she passed out. He lowered her to the carpet. He estimated she would regain consciousness in anywhere from two to ten minutes. Hoffmann would be a little longer in coming around.

Jonathan surveyed the office. He could not leave looking as he did. He took off the blue work jacket, then found Hoffmann’s overcoat and put it on, sure to button it to the neck. He walked slowly down the corridor, head bowed, hand keeping his handkerchief to his neck. He took the stairs to the ground floor and exited the main entrance. After a block, his stiff gait turned into a jog, and soon after that, a headlong run.

He found the Mercedes parked in the garage on the Zentralstrasse across from the train station. He yanked the first aid kit from beneath the front seat and fumbled for some gauze and tape. It did little good. He needed stitches.

One hand applying pressure to his neck, he drove the car slowly out of town, joining the autobahn and pointing the nose in the direction of Bern.

There was only one place he knew to go.