Rules of Deception (30 page)

64

Jonathan observed
the first trucks at the entry to the valley. Two army transports with a dozen soldiers loitering nearby. Five kilometers up the road, he spotted another pair of trucks. This time the soldiers weren’t loitering. They were crack troops clad in crisp camouflage uniforms, submachine guns strapped to their chests. Every passing car merited a glowering inspection.

A single route accessed the alpine town of Davos. One entry led from the north. One from the south. The military presence increased as the highway wound deeper into the valley. Jeeps. Armored personnel carriers. Roadblocks set on the highway’s shoulder, ready to be swung into place at a moment’s notice. It was a trap waiting to be sprung. At any moment, Jonathan expected a soldier or policeman to dart into the road, wave his arms, and motion for him to pull over, but the Mercedes never drew a second look.

At eleven o’clock, he passed the town of Klosters. The snow had abated, and the sky had lightened a shade. Once or twice, he even caught a fleeting pennant of blue. As church bells pealed the hour, their melancholy timbre forced a shiver the length of his spine.

The road began a series of switchbacks up the mountainside, and he caught the whir of a helicopter overhead. He picked up the World Economic Forum identification and strung it around his neck. The name printed in black block letters no longer read “Eva Kruger.” It had been altered by one letter to read “Evan Kruger.” The picture, too, had been replaced with a passport photo taken earlier this morning at a copy shop in Ziegelbrücke. The work had taken him an hour to complete. The “n” came courtesy of a stencil set that he doctored to match the official font. Fixing the photo to the identification was harder to pull off and had required the use of a lamination press.

I’ve been in training and I never even knew it.

I’ve been Emma’s pawn all along.

A medical degree hadn’t been the only requirement for a successful tenure at Doctors Without Borders. A taste for larceny and a bold imagination were equally helpful. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d falsified import and export documents to facilitate the transfer of medicine across frontiers, or as importantly, to avoid paying bribes to corrupt government officials. If penicillin was forbidden, they altered the papers to read “ampicillin,” which was stronger still but not as well known. When they discovered border guards ripping off shipments of morphine, they changed the bill of lading to read “morazine.” Let them look it up in their Physicians’ Desk Reference and discover there was no such thing.

The only part of the World Economic Forum identification he could not change was the memory chip. His solution was to run a magnet over it, effectively erasing its data. He was willing to wager that in the course of examining thousands of identification cards, security guards had come across one or two others with similar faults.

Eva Kruger’s driver’s license was easier to alter. The cardboard stock used by the Swiss authorities practically begged to be fooled with. An X-Acto knife and paint thinner combined to lift Emma’s photo from the paper. A second passport photo replaced it. He’d made sure to subtly change his appearance. Instead of his suit and tie, he left his jacket off, his collar buttoned to the throat, his hair mussed. Though taken just minutes apart, the two seemed to be from different days.

Again, he changed Eva’s name to “Evan.” Emma’s height was listed as one meter sixty-eight. He changed it to one meter eighty-eight. In fact, he was four centimeters shorter. The weight he likewise increased from fifty kilos to eighty.

He was all too aware that neither the driver’s license nor the Forum ID would stand up to more than a cursory check. Subjected to rigorous examination, they would quickly give up their secrets and be exposed as bogus. But it was the Mercedes registration made out in the name of Parvez Jinn of Teheran that was his ace in the hole and lent him the legitimacy that a simple identification could not begin to match.

Until now, he reasoned, no one could know that he possessed the details of Eva Kruger’s planned meeting with Parvez Jinn. Jonathan also knew that there would be no second Mercedes delivered to Jinn. Therefore, while Falcon might arrange for Emma’s replacement to pick up his accreditation at Security Checkpoint 1, he most probably hadn’t canceled the original pass meant for Eva Kruger.

Jonathan applied the same ruthless logic as before. The desire not to draw attention to oneself. If Eva Kruger’s name was still in the system, he was certain that there would be a note attached stating that she was to deliver the Mercedes to the Iranian official. It would be the car itself, then, that would serve as his passport to entry. It was hard to argue with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar automobile.

The first blockade was set up two kilometers from Davos. It was a vehicle inspection point located on a level straightaway. Battered wooden farmhouses stood to either side. A barrier blocked the eastbound stretch of road. He slowed and waited in a line of four cars. He tightened his necktie and sat straighter. He had his driver’s license ready, along with the registration slip. The Forum ID badge dangled from his neck. Even so, his mouth was dry as dirt, his heart hammering somewhere near his Adam’s apple. He advanced toward the blockade. He noted the soldiers encircling every vehicle. His fingers tingled and he realized that he was hyperventilating.

Emma, how did you do this for eight years?

“Sir!” A police officer rapped on his window. “Move ahead.”

Jonathan drove the car a few meters until the bumper nearly grazed the barrier. He was asked to step out of his car and produce his driver’s license.

“Destination?”

“Davos. I’m attending the Forum.”

“You’re an official invitee?”

“I’m delivering this automobile to a guest at the Belvedere Hotel. Mr. Parvez Jinn.”

“I’ll have to take a look at your ID.”

Jonathan freed the laminated badge from his neck. The policeman inserted the ID into a card reader similar to the one Jonathan had seen in the newspaper. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the policeman removed the card and thrust it into the reader a second time.

As he waited, a crew of soldiers ran mirrors beneath the chassis, checking for explosives. One gave a shout and the officer examining Jonathan’s identification walked over to him. The men exchanged words and the senior officer hurried back. “This is an armored vehicle?”

“Yes,” replied Jonathan. “As I said, I’m delivering it to Parvez Jinn, the Iranian minister of technology. He’s exporting it to Iran.” He forced a smile. “I’ve heard it can get a little violent over there.”

“Wait here.”

The senior officer moved a few steps away and radioed his controller. Jonathan overheard him give his name and inquire if there was anything that mentioned the delivery of the Mercedes. A minute passed. Finally, the officer nodded his head and returned to Jonathan. “All set. I’ll have to ask you to allow us to inspect the interior of the automobile.”

“Be my guest.”

The officer barked instructions to his men. Five policemen swarmed over the car, examining the glove compartment, side compartment, yanking up the rear seat, demanding that Jonathan open the strongbox, running an explosives detector around the cabin.

“Roll up all the windows.”

Jonathan slid into the driver’s seat and closed the window. The officer pointed at the scars left by the assassin’s bullets. “What happened? Someone shoot at you?”

“Rocks,” said Jonathan. “Some punks in Zurich.”

Just then, the senior policeman approached Jonathan, flapping the ID against his open palm. “Where did you get this identification?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” It was difficult for Jonathan to guard an even tone.

“Did you pick it up at police headquarters in Chur?”

“It was sent to me. Is there a problem?”

“The memory chip is faulty.”

“I didn’t even know there was a memory chip,” he said contritely. “You can call my employer…please.”

“You misunderstand me,” continued the police officer. “I wanted to apologize for the malfunction. All your information checks out. They’re expecting the car. I’m calling in your faulty ID to make sure you get another.”

“Get me another?” Jonathan was smiling like an idiot. He couldn’t help it. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Technical glitches still occur now and then. There was one discrepancy.”

“Oh?”

“Your name isn’t Eva, is it?”

Jonathan said it wasn’t, and the officer handed him back the ID. “Go to the main checkpoint on Davosstrasse at the entry to town. They’ll take a new photo of you there and issue you a replacement badge. Be sure to keep it visible at all times.
Alles klar?
” He banged lightly on the door, then stood taller and walked toward the next car. “Let’s go! We haven’t got all day!”

At the main checkpoint,
Jonathan was issued a new ID badge and given a list of the day’s events, along with a map of the town and passes to use the city’s two cable cars, the Jakobshorn and the Parsenn. An officer escorted him back to the Mercedes and pointed the way to the Hotel Belvedere, which was visible on the hillside, three hundred meters down the road.

Jonathan kept his speed below ten kilometers an hour. The sidewalks were crowded to bursting. Soldiers manned every corner, randomly checking IDs. Policemen holding German shepherds on short leashes patrolled the streets. The road snaked through town, past jewelry boutiques and ski shops, quaint hotels and cafés. A steep driveway led to the porte cochere fronting the Belvedere. A pole barrier governed access. On either side was a temporary three-meter fence topped with curled razor wire. He saw that the fence ran up the hill and surrounded the hotel and its grounds.

Welcome to the red zone.

Jonathan braked to a halt. An armed guard approached and ran his badge through a handheld card reader. The barrier rose. He continued up the hill and stopped in front of the revolving doors. A brace of soldiers stood to either side, submachine guns strapped to their chests. In the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the barrier being lowered. To his ear, it closed with the finality of a bank vault.

He sat behind the wheel, wondering what his next move should be. Was the meeting supposed to be inside the hotel? Should he call Jinn, or just wait? It was exactly twelve o’clock. No Swiss banker was ever more punctual. He looked toward the broad flight of three carpeted steps that led to a grand revolving door. The guards on the landing bent to take a closer look at him. One started toward him. Jonathan swallowed, aware of the sweat beading on his forehead. He busied himself with a check of his fingernails, another look at his tie. He glanced back at the revolving doors. The guard had returned to his post and was scanning the approaches to the hotel as if his gaze alone, and not the three-meter barbed wire fence, would keep out all intruders.

The next moment, all hell broke loose. A storm tide of swarthy men in black suits surged out of the revolving doors. It was hard to count how many were in the group. Jonathan stopped at seven. By then, he had seen him. Tall, stately, trim, the hint of a beard. A man who strode on a higher terrain than the rest. At once among and apart from the others. But it was the expression of indignant anger stamped on the proud features that Jonathan seized upon and matched to the photograph he had seen the night before.
Parvez Jinn.

Suddenly, there was a cry. Jonathan thought for a moment that someone had sounded the alarm. But it wasn’t a cry of fear. No assassins or suicide bombers had been spotted on the radar. It was the opposite. A cry of joy. Parvez Jinn stood at the base of the stairs, neat hands pressed to his face, the percolating anger superseded by a look of beatific worship.

“My car,” he said in American English. “The S600. It is a work of art.”

“A V8?” someone voiced.

Jinn’s voice slapped down the impudent dog. “A V12!”

At once, the assembled horde fell upon the car, circling it, eyes wide, hands hovering above the chassis, not daring to touch it. Jinn walked the length of the automobile. No customer possessed a more critical eye.

Jonathan lowered his window to ensure that no one spotted the three indentations caused by the killer’s bullets. He’d banged out the dents on the fender himself. An attendant at the service station had found a matching black paint. It wasn’t perfect, but you needed to be lying on your back beneath the chassis to see the contrasting hues. A wash and detail job had followed, with Jonathan applying a last coat of Armor All to the tires just before entering the Davos city limits. Except for the window, the automobile looked factory fresh.

Jonathan stepped out of the car.

The head of security approached him at once, but not with animosity. The security man bowed and made a show of shaking his hand and extolling the car’s beauty. At six foot three inches in height, his newly black hair combed and parted just so, his suit in immaculate order, Jonathan was the picture of a German car salesman. The country of Mercedes-Benz was a longtime ally of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Jinn followed a step behind. If he was surprised to see a man in Eva Kruger’s place, he showed no sign of it. He offered a limp hand to shake and addressed him in English. “Greetings, friend.”

“Evan Kruger,” said Jonathan, grasping the hand and feeling the jolt that passed through it as Jinn registered the name. The Iranian came closer, a fierce smile straining his handsome features, and Jonathan whispered, “Eva’s had an accident. I’ve been sent in her place.” Then louder: “I would enjoy taking you for a short demonstration drive of your new vehicle, Mr. Jinn.”

At once, the head of security stepped up to Jinn’s shoulder and uttered a string of warnings in Farsi. Jonathan understood only half of it, but he got the gist. The minister of technology was not to enter the automobile and go anywhere alone and unguarded. Parvez Jinn warned him off. No one told him what to do. With a dismissive wave, he circled the car and climbed into the passenger seat. “We go!”