Rules of Deception (38 page)

83

Jonathan approached the policeman,
holding his hands away from his body to show that he was unarmed, just as Emma had coached him to do. “You need to stop your men,” he said. “The people you’re looking for are not in that house.”

“They’re not?” said von Daniken warily.

“No. And neither is the drone.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to stop them, too. You’ve made a mistake. It’s not me you’ve been looking for.”

“Who is it, then?”

“It’s me,” said Emma, stepping from an arc of shadow behind the policeman. “Mr. Blitz and Mr. Lammers were my colleagues, not Jonathan’s.”

“I’m not certain I understand, Miss…”

“Mrs. Ransom,” she said.

Von Daniken considered this. His eyes jumped back and forth between them, and for a moment, it appeared that he’d caught their sense of desperation. “You’re Emma Ransom,” he said, pointing a finger at her as if unconvinced. “The woman who died in a climbing accident last Monday?”

“There was no accident.”

“Apparently not.”

Emma met his eye. The unspoken shorthand of one professional to another passed between them. She allowed him a moment to figure things out, then said, “Jonathan is not involved in this plot in any way. The policemen he killed were acting on our orders. They attacked my husband in order to take possession of certain items that belonged to me. Jonathan responded in self-defense. I can’t elaborate any further except to say again that I’m the person you were looking for. Not my husband. You need to listen to me. You’re targeting the wrong house. You’re mounting an assault on the decoy.”

“The decoy?” von Daniken said skeptically.

“Yes.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I know where the real house is.”

“We have to hurry,” said Jonathan. “Call them off.”

Von Daniken had the stolid, immovable air of an exhausted fighter marshaling his energies for one last fight. His lips moved, and Jonathan guessed that he was sorting between the dozens of questions plaguing him. They were, Jonathan knew, the same questions that had beleaguered him.

“Where’s the drone?” von Daniken asked.

“It’s being kept at a house on top of the hill. Lenkstrasse 4.” Emma pointed to the foothills that rose five kilometers behind them.

“And it’s set for tonight?”

“The El Al flight due in from Tel Aviv,” she said.

On a far runway, an aircraft was preparing to take off. The shrill whistle of the powerful engines pierced the sky. Then, from somewhere closer, came a different noise, a lower frequency. Their faces lifted to the sky as two dull gray shapes skidded low overhead.

“Stop them,” said Emma.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I’m here.”

Von Daniken pulled his walkie-talkie from his jacket and brought it to his mouth. Before he could utter a word, the night erupted in a blur of blinding explosions, shattering glass, and staccato machine-gun fire. A flare burst to life and burned magnificently. Illuminated in its glare were the silhouettes of men rushing into the rear of the house.

Von Daniken began to run down the path. Jonathan and Emma followed close behind. They reached the command post and went in through the back door. A dozen men stood congregated in the living room, staring out the front window as the police band radio blared crazily.

“Den. Clear.”

“Kitchen. Clear.”

“Bedroom. Clear.”

The voices spoke in controlled telegraphese. And then another burst of machine-gun fire.

“Man down!”

The control was gone. Voices stepped over each other in a mad stampede.

“Who is it?”

“A bad guy.”

“Hold it…what the hell?”

“He’s tied up.”

“But he had a gun.”

“Get the boss in here. Now!”

Von Daniken glared at Emma, but she showed him nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the radio.

The melee stopped as quickly as it had begun. They stood enveloped in silence, waiting for further word. A minute passed. On the street, a dog began to bark.

Suddenly, Berger’s voice came on the radio. “Marcus, get in here.”

Von Daniken pointed at Emma and Jonathan. “Stay here.”

He walked purposefully
down the center of the road. He wanted to run, but he was a division head of the Federal Police and he knew that doing so would appear unprofessional. Procedure was all that remained for him to cling to.

He took the stairs leading to the front door two at a time, ducking past troopers making their way out. Cordite fouled the air, burning his eyes. He went inside. All power to the home had been cut prior to the assault. The hallways were dark and choked with smoke. Von Daniken turned on his flashlight. Berger appeared out of a side room, his face blackened. “They knew we were coming,” he said, leading the way into the living room. “It was a setup.”

“What was?”

“Take a look.”

Von Daniken cast his flashlight’s beam onto the mass heaped in the center of the floor. Toppled onto his side was a man tied to a low-backed chair. A length of duct tape covered his mouth. More tape strapped a pistol to his hand. Blood from his chest formed a pool that was still advancing over the wooden floor. In death, his eyes were wide.

“We’re trained to fire if we see a gun,” said Berger.

Von Daniken stepped closer, feeling his body go numb, his mind rejecting what his eyes were telling him.

The dead man was Philip Palumbo.

“What else do you know
about the drone?” asked von Daniken when he returned to the command post.

“There will be a team of no less than six,” said Emma. “Four to assemble the drone and keep watch. One to act as flight controller, and the other to fly the plane. They’ll be heavily armed.”

Von Daniken strode to the window and looked at the hilltop. He knew the area, a wooded hillside holding the ruins of the ancient walls that had once surrounded the citadel of Zurich. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a plane took off from the airport. It rose into the sky and banked hard to the right, passing directly over the spot.

He looked down the road. Berger’s men were filing out of the house. There was no time to have them reassemble.

“Get the car,” he ordered Hardenberg. He turned to Myer. “Do you have the flight schedule I asked for?”

Myer produced a set of papers from his jacket. Von Daniken studied the list of arrivals and departures. Arriving at 8:05. El Al Flight 8851 from Tel Aviv. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He looked at Emma. “What else can you tell me?”

“There are two routes to the house,” she said. “One approaches along the road that will serve as a runway. The other comes from the rear. I suggest we split into two teams. I’ll go in the front.”

Von Daniken looked at this arrogant, self-assured woman issuing him orders in his own country. Gall rose hot in the back of his throat. It was a younger man’s gall and was inappropriate for a chief inspector. “Very well. Do you need a weapon?”

Emma tilted her head toward Jonathan. “Just for him.” She waited until von Daniken had given her husband a pistol and two clips of ammunition, then continued. “There will be men posted around the house. Get as close as you can, then hit them with the lights and the siren. That should spook them. After the attack on the decoy, they won’t be expecting us.”

“The man in charge of this? Is his name Austen?”

Emma didn’t answer.

“Can you speak with him?” von Daniken continued. “Will he listen to you if you tell him that we have his compound surrounded?”

“No,” said Emma. “He only listens to one voice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that he won’t stop. Not now.”

Von Daniken radioed the SWAT captain with instructions to bring his men to Lenkstrasse by the rear route as quickly as possible and to expect gunfire.

Just then, Hardenberg pulled up in a white Audi police cruiser. Von Daniken opened the door. “Do you have a car?” he asked Emma Ransom.

“It’s up the road in back,” she answered.

“Good luck, then.”

Von Daniken climbed into the rear of the Audi. Kurt Myer, hefting a Heckler & Koch submachine gun, sat in the passenger seat. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t fired one of these in a while,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

“How long?” asked von Daniken.

“Not ever.”

“Give it to me.”

Myer handed von Daniken the machine gun and he chambered a round and set it to full automatic. “Aim and pull the trigger. You’re bound to hit something. Just make sure it isn’t one of us.”

Myer grabbed the machine gun and set it on his lap.

“Pull up Lenkstrasse on your navigation unit,” von Daniken said as the car accelerated.

Hardenberg input the address. A map appeared on the screen. Lenkstrasse was a ruler-straight stretch of road bordering the city park. The home in question sat at its northern end, at the point where it ran around the far side of the park. “Go the back way,” said von Daniken.

The car negotiated the streets of Glattbrugg, crossing under the freeway before commencing a steep, curving climb up the hillside. Von Daniken called the airport. It took four minutes until he was connected to the tower. He identified himself. “What’s the status of El Al 8851?”

“Coming in twenty minutes early,” responded the flight controller. “Posted for a seven forty-five arrival.”

Von Daniken eyed the onboard clock: 7:36. “Contact the pilot and tell him to abort the landing. We have a verified threat against the aircraft.”

“He’s sixty kilometers out on initial approach. He hasn’t reported any problems. Are you sure?”

“We have every reason to believe there will be a ground-based attack directed against El Al Flight 8851.”

“But I haven’t had any notification from the head office…”

“Do it,” said von Daniken in a quiet voice that brooked no defiance.

“Yes, sir.”

Von Daniken hung up.
Sixty kilometers.
If the smaller drone he’d seen in Lammers’s office had a range of fifty kilometers, one this size could go ten times as far. If they didn’t succeed in stopping the unmanned aerial vehicle before it took off, it would be too late.

“There’s a roadblock ahead,” said Hardenberg.

“Go around it. You’ve got room on the shoulder.”

“Should I hit the siren?”

“Wait till we’re closer.”

Hardenberg eased the Audi off the road and onto the snow and hardscrabble alongside it. The car rocked gently. “Easy, easy.”

“No problem,” said Myer as the Audi regained the pavement. “I told—”

The windshield exploded, showering the cabin with glass. Bullets raked the car. A tire blew, and the Audi sagged to one side. The radiator exploded in a hiss of steam.

“Get down!” shouted von Daniken. A moment later, he was struck by something warm and wet. He wiped his face, and his hands came away coated with gore. Kurt Myer lay twisted between the seats, his face a pulp of bone and gristle.

Hardenberg threw open the door and commando-crawled to the rear of the vehicle. Von Daniken eased open the door, counted to three, then scrambled into the forest. He threw himself to the ground, his face buried in the snow.

The gunfire died down, an occasional shot flicking ice into the air.

“Call Captain Berger,” he yelled to Hardenberg.

“My phone’s in the car.”

Von Daniken felt in his pockets. He’d dropped his own phone somewhere during his unceremonious exit. He drew his service pistol and fumbled with it until he’d managed to chamber a round and make sure that the safety was off. He swore under his breath. His watch read 7:42. He picked up a new noise coming from the top of the hill. It was the drone’s jet engine coming to life.

He looked around him. The house was thirty meters directly uphill from him. It was a modern building, cantilevered over the hillside, supported by great steel pylons. The windows were dark, lending it an abandoned feel. He knew better.

He raised his head for a clearer view. A bullet struck a tree ten centimeters away. He dug his cheek into the snow. Night vision goggles. Of course. How else could they see him in this damned dark?

“Run down the hill,” he said to Hardenberg. “You’ve got to warn the others.”

Hardenberg sat with his back pressed to the rear bumper, his face bluer than ice. “Okay,” he said, but he didn’t budge.

“Stay behind the car and they won’t be able to hit you,” von Daniken went on.

Hardenberg stirred. He swallowed and his shoulders gave a giant shrug. He set off, crawling on all fours backwards down the road. Von Daniken watched him retreat. Five steps. Ten.
Stay down,
he urged silently. Hardenberg crawled a few more meters, then raised his head tentatively.

“Low,” von Daniken whispered, patting the air, signaling for him to keep down.

Hardenberg misinterpreted the motion and began to stand.

“No,” shouted von Daniken at the top of his lungs. “Get down!”

Hardenberg nodded hesitantly and continued to walk down the hill. A bullet struck him in the head and he collapsed onto the cement.

“Klaus!”

Von Daniken rolled onto his back, sick with himself.

84

Captain Eli Zuckerman
adjusted the trim on his ailerons and eased back the throttle as a prelude to disengaging the autopilot. Flying a passenger jet had become so automated that once a plane’s onboard computers were programmed with a particular flight’s data—destination, cruising altitude, maximum allowable ground speed—the aircraft could literally fly itself. The only time Zuckerman felt himself in full control of the aircraft was during takeoff and landing, a total of thirty minutes per flight. The rest of the time, he was basically a technician monitoring all the instruments and making sure that his first officer kept up with ground communication. It wasn’t exactly the job he’d dreamed of when he’d left the air force so many years ago as a red-hot fighter jock with twenty-one kills during three wars.

Zuckerman hit the disengage button. The plane shuddered and dipped as he took manual control. Easing the yoke left, the A380 began a gentle turn to the south. It was a clear night, ideal flying weather. He could see the city’s lights in the distance, and farther off behind it, a great black emptiness that was the Alps. He trimmed the flaps and the aircraft began its slow descent to Zurich Flughafen.

“Sixteen minutes to touchdown,” said his copilot.

Zuckerman stifled a yawn. As expected, it had been an uneventful flight. He checked his watch—fifteen minutes to landing—then glanced at the first officer. “So, Benny,” he said. “What are you thinking for dinner? Wiener schnitzel or fondue?”

“El Al 8851 heavy, this is Zurich Air Traffic. We have an emergency. Code 33. Divert to Basel-Mulhouse, vector two-seven-niner. Climb to thirty thousand feet. You are advised to use all possible haste.”

Code 33. A ground-to-air attack.

“Roger. Code thirty-three. El Al 8851 heavy proceeding on vector two-seven-niner. Climbing to thirty thousand feet. Do you have radar contact of that bogey?”

“Negative, El Al 8851. No radar contact as yet.”

“Thank you, Zurich.”

Eli Zuckerman tightened his shoulder harness and shared a worried look with his first officer. Taking the yoke firmly in his hand, he banked the aircraft hard to port and pushed the throttle forward. The aircraft surged ahead.

It was time to see what this baby could do.