Rules of Deception (9 page)

“My God,” said Simone, eyes agog. “How much is it?”

“A hundred,” he said, after counting the stack.

“A hundred what?”

“One hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

I have hidden resources,
Emma had said.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Simone was laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical laugh a hair’s breadth from out of control.

“Now we know,” said Jonathan, transfixed by the stack of banknotes.

“Know what?” asked Simone.

“Why the police wanted the bag.”

He slipped the bills back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. It remained to be seen how they’d known the bags were in Landquart, and more important, at least to Jonathan’s mind, why Emma was meant to be the recipient of so much cash.

A breeze rustled the branches, wrestling flocks of snow to the ground. Shivering, he pulled the sweater over his head. The cashmere crewneck clung at his chest and his shoulders. The sleeves stopped three inches short of his wrist.

It was another man’s sweater.

16

“Have you seen these?”
demanded Justice Minister Alphons Marti, as von Daniken entered his office.
“NZZ. Tribune de Genève. Tages-Anzeiger.”
He snatched up the phone messages and balled them in his fist. “Every newspaper in the country wants to know what happened at the airport yesterday.”

Von Daniken removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. “What have you told them?”

Marti threw the wadded-up ball into the garbage. “‘No comment.’ What do you think I told them?”

The office on the fourth floor of the Bundeshaus was nothing less than palatial. High ceilings decorated with gold leaf and a trompe l’oeil painting of Christ ascending to heaven, Oriental rugs adorning a polished wooden floor, and a mahogany desk as big as the altar at St. Peter’s. A battered wooden crucifix hanging on the wall testified that Marti was really just a simple man.

“And so,” Marti began, “when did they take off?”

“The plane left as soon as their engine was repaired,” said von Daniken. “Sometime after seven this morning. The pilot listed their destination as Athens.”

“Another shovelful of shit the Americans expect us to swallow with a smile. I’ve made stopping rendition on European soil a cornerstone of this office’s policy. Sooner or later, someone will talk to the press and I’ll have egg all over my face.” Marti shook his head ruefully. “The prisoner was on the plane. I’m convinced of it. Onyx doesn’t lie.”

Utilizing three hundred phased-array antennas positioned high on a mountainside above the town of Leuk in the Rhône valley, Onyx was capable of intercepting all civilian and military communications passing between an equal number of pre-targeted satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the earth. Algorithm-based software parsed the transmissions for key words indicating information of immediate value. Some of those key words were “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” “Intelligence,” and “prisoner.” At 0455 yesterday morning, Onyx had struck pay dirt.

“I reviewed the intercept last night,” Marti went on. “Names. Itinerary. It’s all there.” He pushed a buff folder across the table. Von Daniken picked it up and examined the contents. Inside was a photocopy of a telefax sent from the Syrian consulate in Stockholm to the Syrian Directorate of Intelligence in Damascus titled, “Passenger Manifest: Prisoner Transport #767.” The list gave the pilot and copilot’s names, as well as two that were more familiar. Philip Palumbo and Walid Gassan.

“Check the time stamp, Marcus. The manifest was transmitted
after
the plane took off. Gassan was onboard. I don’t buy for a second that Palumbo pushed him off. You know what I think. I think someone tipped off Mr. Palumbo that we intended to search the aircraft. I’d like you to start an investigation into the matter.”

“Only a few of us had copies of the intercept. You, me, our deputies, and, naturally, the technicians at Leuk.”

“Exactly.”

“We searched the aircraft top to bottom,” said von Daniken as he laid the folder back on the desk. “There was no sign of the prisoner.”

“You mean
you
searched it.” The hyperthyroid blue eyes peered at him.

“I believe you were present.”

“So we can rule ourselves out,” said Marti, a smile showing his bad teeth. “It’ll make your investigation that much easier. I’ll expect a report daily.” He tapped the folder twice with his knuckles, indicating the matter was closed. “And so? What is it, then? Your secretary informed me that you have something on the murder in Erlenbach last night. What’s this about a search warrant?”

Von Daniken hesitated, waiting for Marti to ask him to be seated. When it became apparent that no such invitation was forthcoming, he launched into a summary of what he’d learned about Lammers, including his past history designing artillery pieces and his recent interest in MAVs. He ended with his suspicion that the Dutchman was part of a larger network and his request for a warrant to search the premises of Robotica AG.

“That’s all?” asked Marti. “I can’t fill in ‘suspicious miniature airplane’ on a warrant. This is a legal document. I need a legitimate reason.”

“It’s my opinion that Lammers posed a threat to national security.”

“How? The man’s dead. Just because you saw a model airplane…not even a model airplane…a pair of wings with God knows what.”

Von Daniken tried on a smile as a means to camouflage his simmering anger. “It’s not just the plane, sir. It’s the whole setup. Lammers had been in place a long time. He’s got a history of playing with the bad boys, and then one day, out of the blue, he’s executed on his own front stoop. I’m certain that something’s going on. Either it’s coming together or falling apart. The evidence may be inside his office.”

“Conjecture,” barked Marti.

“The man had an Uzi hidden in his workshop, along with a batch of passports that were stolen from individuals either living in or visiting the Middle East. That much is not conjecture.”

The New Zealand embassy in France had called back minutes before von Daniken reached Marti’s office, reporting that the passport found in Lammers’s car had been stolen from a hospital in Istanbul. The true passport holder was, in fact, a quadriplegic who’d been confined to a nursing facility for three years. He hadn’t even known that his passport was missing. Lammers had pulled the same trick as in Jordan, claiming to be a businessman who had lost his passport.

“There’s only one reason someone would want to steal a Belgian and New Zealand passport,” von Daniken went on. “Ease of passage in and out of the Middle East. Especially to countries with travel restrictions. Yemen. Iran. Iraq. This kind of operation requires not only funding but infrastructure and some damned fancy footwork. Lammers was scared. He saw this coming. The operation was active.”

“Conjecture,” repeated Marti. “‘Scared’ is not grounds for issuing a warrant to search a registered Swiss company. We’re talking about a corporation here, not a private citizen.”

Von Daniken forced himself to count to five. “By the way, sir, the official name for the device is ‘micro airborne vehicle.’ It’s also called a drone.”

“You can call it a mosquito on steroids for all I care,” retorted Marti. “I still won’t sign the warrant. If you want to search his premises so badly, open a dossier with an investigating judge in Zurich. If he thinks you’ve got enough evidence to warrant a search, you won’t need me.”

“That will take a week at the least.”

“And so?”

“What if there’s an imminent threat to Swiss soil?”

“Oh, Christ, let’s not get hysterical.”

Behind Marti’s desk was a photograph of him entering the Olympic Stadium at the end of his disastrous marathon. Even in a still frame, he looked wobbly. It was apparent that he had vomited on himself earlier in the race. Von Daniken wondered what kind of man displayed an image of himself at the lowest, most humiliating moment in his life.

“If you believe that there’s an imminent threat, then give me some substantiation,” said Marti. “You said Lammers used to design artillery pieces. Fine. Then show me a big gun. This warrant isn’t just going to disappear into a file. It’ll be my head if I act as your rubber stamp. I’ll be damned if I let you go off half-cocked, mobilizing every resource to check out a wild hunch.”

A wild hunch?
Is that what thirty years of experience boiled down to? Von Daniken studied Marti. The hollow cheeks. The too-fashionable long hair dyed a too-fashionable henna. The man could make a Dutch pretzel out of the law if he desired. He was purposefully being obdurate as payback for the botched raid on the CIA jet.

“What about the Uzi?” von Daniken asked. “What about the passports? Don’t those count for anything?”

“You said it yourself. He was scared. He was on the run. Those facts alone do not allow us to invade his privacy.”

“The man is dead. He doesn’t have any privacy anymore.”

“Don’t play games with me! I will not quibble over semantics.”

“God forbid we piss someone off.” Von Daniken respected the constitution as much as the next man. Never in his career had he strayed from either its letter or its intent. But a policeman’s job had changed radically in the last ten years. As a counterterrorist, he needed to stop a crime
before
it happened. Gone was the luxury of collecting evidence after the act and presenting it to a magistrate. Often, the only evidence was his experience and intuition.

He walked to the window and looked out over the River Aare. Dusk had turned the sky into a palette of warring grays doing battle low over the city’s rooftops. The snow, which had tapered off earlier, was falling again in earnest. A gusting wind batted the flakes into an angry maelstrom. “Don’t bother with the warrant,” he said finally.

Marti stood and rounded the desk, shaking his hand. “I’m glad to see that you’re being more reasonable.”

Von Daniken turned and headed to the door. “I have to be going.”

“Wait a minute…”

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do about the little plane? The MAV?”

Von Daniken shrugged as if the matter no longer interested him. “I’m not going to do anything,” he said.

It was a lie.

17

Jonathan trained his eyes
on the entrance to the Landquart station, and the parking lot directly across the street from it where a late-model Mercedes sedan sat in the center of the third row, precisely where the map in Eva Kruger’s bag said it would be. His vantage point was the doorway of a shuttered restaurant fifty meters up the road. For the past ninety minutes, he’d been circling the station. Trains arrived on the half hour from Chur and Zurich. For a few minutes before and after, the sidewalk filled with commuters. Cars entered and left the parking lot. And then activity died until the next train arrived. Not once in that time had he caught sight of a policeman. Still, it was impossible to determine if someone was watching the parking lot. Whatever the case, he’d decided that Simone was right. The cops who’d wanted to steal Emma’s bags were crooked.

At five minutes to six, evening traffic was at its height. Headlights passed in a blinding parade. He stamped his boots, working to keep his circulation active. He’d left Simone at the edge of town, against her strident wishes. There was a time for teamwork and a time to go it alone. This was a solo run, no question.

Huddling inside his jacket, he kept his eyes trained on the Mercedes.

Pick up letter.

Show receipts.

Retrieve bags.

Consult map for location of parked car.

Change clothing. Slick back hair. Don’t forget wedding ring.

Change lives.

Deliver sweater with envelope containing one hundred thousand francs.

But where? When? To whom?
And, most maddening of all:
Why?

He ran his fingers over the car key, thinking about Emma.

Question: When is your wife, your wife?

And when she isn’t your wife, who is she?

Dr. Jonathan Ransom, graduate of the University of Colorado at Boulder, Southwestern Medical School, chief surgical resident at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, and Dewes fellowship recipient at Oxford Radcliffe Hospital with a specialty in reconstructive surgery, stands on the tarmac of Monrovia-Roberts Airport in Liberia, as the last of the passengers deplane and stroll past him. At eight a.m., the sun sits low in an angry, orange sky. Already, the day is hot and humid, the air rank with the scents of jet fuel and sea salt, and cut by shouts coming from the horde of black faces bunched on the far side of the stadium-high fence bordering the runway. From all too near, the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire punches the air.

Not a thing to worry about, they had promised him during his orientation. The fighting is confined to the countryside.

He walks toward the immigrations building, passing a pair of bloated corpses pushed against the fence. A mother and daughter, to judge by the way they hold each other, though it’s hard to tell because of the flies.

“You’re Ransom?”

A battered military jeep trawls alongside him. A young, suntanned woman with wild auburn hair pulled into a ponytail grasps the oversized steering wheel. “You?” she shouts to be heard over the roar of a departing transport. “You’re Dr. Ransom? Get in. I’ll rescue you from this circus.”

Jonathan throws his bag into the back of the jeep. “I thought the fighting was out in the country,” he says.

“This isn’t fighting. This is ‘dialogue.’ Haven’t you been reading the papers?” She extends a hand. “Emma Rose. Delighted.”

“Yeah,” says Jonathan. “Back at ya.”

They drive through the worst slums he has ever seen, a wall of poverty five miles long and ten stories high. The city stops abruptly. The countryside takes over, as quiet and lush as the city is noisy and barren.

“First posting, is it?” she asks. “They always send the newbies.”

“Why’s that?”

Emma doesn’t respond. A Mona Lisa smile passes for her answer.

The hospital is a converted sumphouse situated on the edge of a mangrove swamp. Dozens of women and children lie idle in the grass and the red, scalloped mud surrounding the drab building. It’s apparent that many are injured, some severely. Their silence is an affront.

“We get a group like this every few days,” says Emma, stopping the jeep around the back. “Mortar attacks. Thankfully, most of the wounds are superficial.”

Jonathan glimpses a boy with a chunk of shrapnel the size of a three iron jutting from his calf. “Superficial,” meaning he won’t bleed to death.

A short, bearded man with bloodshot eyes greets Ransom warmly. He is Dr. Delacroix from Lyon. “Good thing the plane was on time,” he says, wiping his hands on a blood-caked T-shirt. “The girl in OR two is yours. Chop-chopped her right hand.”

“Chop-chopped?”

“You know?” Delacroix makes a gesture like a guillotine falling. “Took a machete to it.”

“Where do I scrub?” asks Jonathan.

“Scrub?” Dr. Delacroix exchanges a tired look with Emma. “You can wash your hands in the lavatory. You’ll find some gloves in there, too. Save them. We try to use each pair at least three times.”

Afterward, Jonathan stands on the patch of alkali dirt outside the field hospital that serves as terrace, reception, and triage area. At midnight, the air is wet with heat, populated with the cries of howler monkeys and the punctuation of small arms fire.

“Coffee?” Emma hands him a cup. She looks different from when he saw her earlier. Thinner, smaller even, no longer so full of piss and vinegar.

“No O positive,” says Jonathan. “We lost two patients because we didn’t have enough blood.”

“You saved a few.”

“Yes, but…” He shakes his head, overwhelmed. “Is it always like this?”

“Only every other day.”

It is Jonathan’s turn not to reply.

Emma looks at him thoughtfully. “The older ones won’t come,” she says after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know why they only sent the newbies. That’s the reason. It’s too hard after a while. All this gets to you. It wears you down. The older ones can’t handle it. They say you can only look at so many dead people before you start feeling dead yourself.”

“I can understand.”

“Not like Blighty, is it?” Emma goes on, her tone sympathetic, comrade to comrade. “I saw you were at Oxford. I was at St. Hilda’s. Comparative Political Systems.”

“You mean you’re not a doctor?”

“God no. I’ve got my practical nursing on the side, but admin’s my thing. Logistics and all that. If we ever do have enough O positive, you’ll have me to thank.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Jonathan begins to apologize.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t tell at first whether you were English. Your accent, I mean. I thought either Scottish or London by way of Central Europe. Prague or something.”

“Me? I’m from the southwest. Cornwall, that area. We all talk funny down there. Near Land’s End. Penzance. You know it?”

“Penzance? In a way.” He takes a breath, and though he knows he will look foolish, he puffs up his chest and recites in a sing-song voice:

I’m very well-acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

When she says nothing, he adds, “Gilbert and Sullivan.
Pirates of Penzance.
Don’t tell me you don’t know the Modern Major-General?”

Suddenly, Emma bursts out laughing. “Of course I do. One simply isn’t used to hearing that in the wilds of Africa. My God. A fan.”

“Not me. My dad. He was a diplomat. We lived all over the place. Switzerland, Italy, Spain. Wherever we moved, he joined the light opera. He could sing that song in English, German, and French.”

A driving backbeat lifts to them across the crowded night sky. The electric thump of a funky bass. Emma tilts her head in its direction. “The Muthaiga Club. Great dance spot. They don’t do the Mikado, though, I’m afraid.”

“The Muthaiga Club’s in Nairobi. I saw
Out of Africa.”

“So did I,” she whispers, standing on her tiptoes. “Don’t tell anybody I pinched the name. You coming?”

“Dancing?” He shakes his head. “I’ve been up way too long. I’m fried.”

“So?” Emma takes his hand and leads him toward the source of the pulsing music.

Jonathan resists. “Thanks, but really, I’ve got to rest.”

“That’s the old you talking.”

“The old me?”

“The chief resident. The terrible drudge. The one who wins all those awards and fellowships.” She tugs his hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I was admin. I read your papers. Want some advice? The old you, the one who works far too hard. Forget about him. He won’t last a week out here.” Emma’s voice drops a notch, and he can’t be sure if she’s serious or scandalous. “This is Africa. Everyone gets a new life here.”

Later, after the dancing and the home brew and the wild, joyous singing, she leads him out of the club, away from the throbbing drums and the swarming bodies, into the bush. They walk through a grove of casuarinas along a footpath, a scratch in the night shadow, until they reach a clearing. Above them a howler monkey lets go with a cry, then bandies from tree to tree. She turns to him, her eyes locked on his, hair askew, falling about her face.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, a hand going to his belt, pulling him toward her.

Jonathan has been waiting for her, too. Not for weeks, or months, but longer. In the space of a day, she has seized him. He is kissing her and she is kissing back. He runs a hand beneath her shirt, feeling the hard, moist skin, sliding it higher, cupping a breast. She bites his lip and presses herself into him. “I’m a good girl, Jonathan. Just so you know going in.”

She unbuttons his shirt and smooths it off his shoulders. A palm rubs his chest, then moves lower. Stepping back, she pulls her T-shirt over her head and kicks off her jeans. She devours his hungry regard.

“How do you know?” he asks, as she wraps her body around his.

“The same way you do.”

He lies down in the grass and she arranges herself above him. The moonlight dances across her burnt copper hair. The trees sway. Somewhere, a shriek pierces the sky.

The train pulled in from Chur, and a minute later, from the opposite direction, one from Zurich. Passengers crowded the pavement fronting the station. It was now or never. Jonathan left the doorway and hurried across the street. Vaulting the wall bordering the parking lot, he walked down the center aisle. If anyone was watching the station, they had a clear view of him. One six-foot-three-inch Caucasian male clad in a newly purchased navy parka, a matching ski cap pulled low over his brow to hide the thick, slightly curly hair that had started to go gray at the age of twenty-three.

Don’t rush, he told himself, straining to keep his muscles in check.

He pulled the keys from his pocket and activated the remote entry. He had the feeling that things were run very tightly around here. Emma had always been a stickler for organization. The car beeped. Don’t look around, he told himself. It’s Emma’s, which means it’s yours. An S600. Diamond Black. The car every surgeon’s wife was born to drive.

He slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He touched the gearshift and the engine roared to life. He jumped in his seat, slamming his head against the roof. “Shit,” he muttered, before realizing that he’d pressed the ignition button atop the shift lever. It was the latest in automatic functions. He settled down, finding his breath. Soon, he decided, cars would be driving themselves.

It was then that he took in the interior of the automobile. The smell of fresh leather, the pristine condition of the cabin, the air-crackling “newness” of the vehicle. Not just a Mercedes, but a brand-spanking-new, top-of-the-line sedan. Cost: stratospheric. Not so much a car as a temple of luxury; automotive engineering elevated to a higher plane. He got himself settled, adjusting the seat, the mirrors, putting on his seat belt. He slid the transmission into reverse and backed out of the space. The car moved in hushed silence, negotiating the ice-encrusted pavement as if floating on a cloud.