Rules of Deception (33 page)

71

“I have him,”
Simone Noiret said quietly into her cell phone. “I’ll pick you up where we agreed.”

She hung up, then lowered the car radio’s volume. “How are you doing back there?” she called over her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

A muffled voice and two thumps was her response. The trunk might be cramped, but there was more than enough oxygen for the short ride. After all, she was not planning on transporting Jonathan to Zurich.

For over two years, Simone Noiret had been working to infiltrate Division. It was odd to think of turning against your own country, but the world was a decidedly odd place these days. Rivalries were as fierce between organizations as between enemy nations.

Born Fatima Françoise Nasser in Queens, New York, she was the daughter of a French-Algerian mother and an Egyptian father. Her earliest memories were of money, or more precisely, arguments about the lack of it. Her father was a congenital miser. When she thought of the cunning it had taken to wrest a lousy ten dollars from his tight fist, it made her sweat. She joined the army at eighteen because her brother had done so before her. Her language skills placed her in Intelligence. Besides French, Arabic, and English, she spoke Farsi. She was trained at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, and the Army Defense Language Institute in Monterrey before being stationed in Germany. She rose to E-5 before she got out. With the money she’d saved and the army helping to foot tuition, she attended Princeton University, graduating summa cum laude with a degree in Middle Eastern Studies.

Hardly a month later, she received a call asking her to come to a meeting in Manhattan with a representative of the CIA. He made his pitch straightaway. The operations directorate had been keeping an eye on her dating back to her time in the army. They offered her a slot overseas. It was spying pure and simple. Not like you saw in the movies, but the real thing. She would attend a course at the Farm, the CIA’s training facility, near Williamsburg, Virginia. If she passed, she would go on for further training as a clandestine operative. He needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Simone said yes on the spot.

That was eleven years ago.

It was Admiral Lafever, the deputy director of operations, who had asked her to join his personal crusade against Division. It was not a request one could turn down, and in any event, she was eager for a new challenge. All records of her employment with the CIA were expunged. A simple legend was created, establishing her as a peripatetic teacher, one of the flock of displaced Europeans who travel from country to country filling vacant slots at one American school after another. Her husband’s job at the World Bank provided a natural cover.

Simone arrived in Beirut a month ahead of Emma. To establish their friendship, she helped Emma secure working quarters for the Doctors Without Borders mission that served as her cover. Friendship came naturally. After all, the two had much in common. Birds of a feather, so to speak. It wasn’t long before they were talking to one another daily.

All the while, Simone watched.

One by one, she uncovered the members of Emma’s network, though not in time to prevent the hospital bombing that had taken the life of a Lebanese police inspector involved with the investigation into the former Lebanese prime minister’s assassination.

In Geneva, Simone continued her work. It was only a month earlier that she’d identified Theo Lammers as a member of Emma’s new network. She passed word to Lafever, and this time Lafever did not hesitate to take action. She’d always figured that somewhere along the line killing might come into things. In her past assignments, it usually did. Part of her wondered if he’d somehow killed Emma, too.

Simone passed through the two checkpoints without incident. At each, she stopped and showed her identification. At each, she was sure to look the inspector in the eye, though not quite respectfully. And at each, she was quickly waved on.

Instead of turning right when she hit the crossroads for the highway that led westward to Landquart, and on to Zurich, she guided the car in an easterly direction, heading deeper into the valley. There were enough twists and turns in the road to convince her that Jonathan couldn’t possibly figure out in which direction they were traveling. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The trunk was locked.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Poor lamb.

72

Alphons Marti
stood atop the hill overlooking the meadow, hands tucked at his side like a victorious general. “Did you think I wouldn’t look into who tipped off the CIA? You know how badly I wanted to nail the Americans. They’ve been using our airspace to ferry suspects to their secret prisons for far too long. It makes me sick to think of the innocent men they’ve captured, the lives they’ve destroyed.”

“Since when are they innocent?” asked von Daniken. “The Americans have stopped quite a few attacks. The system is working.”

“That’s what they’d have us believe. So high and mighty, yet always ready to step on a rule when it applies to them. We had them this time. Gassan was on that plane. It was a golden opportunity to show the world what Switzerland stands for.”

“What’s that? Getting in the way of the war on terror?”

“‘The war on terror’? You have no idea how much I despise that phrase. No, in fact I was referring to decency, honesty, and the rights of the common man. I think such things are the responsibilities of the world’s oldest functioning democracy. Don’t you?”

Von Daniken shuddered with disgust. “I don’t pretend to believe that anyone cares what I think about those kinds of things. All I know is that it was Gassan who told the CIA about the planned attack on our soil.”

“What about it? Are you any closer to finding the drone?”

“Considerably.”

The answer surprised Marti. “Oh?”

“The van used to transport the UAV was photographed by one of our surveillance cameras driving through Zurich last night. Right now I have the Zurich police force combing all the communities surrounding the airport, looking for any sign of it.”

“That’s against my orders.”

“Exactly,” said von Daniken. “I should have told you to go screw yourself two nights ago. I knew you were up to something then. Of course, I didn’t know what kind of traitor you really were.”

“Traitor?” Marti reddened. “It wasn’t me who contacted the CIA.”

“No,” said von Daniken. “You did worse.”

“I think I’ve had just about enough. You’re finished, Marcus. You purposely betrayed my trust. You gave secret information to a foreign government. Give your gun to my men.” Officers of the Federal Security Service charged with Marti’s protection stood to either side of him. Marti turned to one of his officers. “Cuff him. It’s my opinion that he poses a flight risk.” He looked back at von Daniken. “Why don’t you call your friend Palumbo and see if he can get you out of this mess?”

“Just a moment.” Something in von Daniken’s voice gave the men pause. They held their ground, observers in the war between their superiors.

“Go on, cuff him,” said Marti.

Von Daniken stepped forward and placed a controlling hand on Marti’s forearm. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Von Daniken tightened his grip. “Trust me. This is something you’ll want to keep between us.”

One of the security men made a move toward them, but Marti shook his head. Von Daniken led him down the hill away from the assembled officers.

“The van wasn’t the only discovery we made,” he said, after they’d covered twenty meters. “We were able to trace the money paid to Lammers and Blitz to a certain offshore trust opened by the Tingeli Bank. I believe you know Tobi, don’t you? Weren’t you at university together? Both law graduates, as I recall. Tobi wasn’t forthcoming at first. I had to remind him of his duties as a Swiss citizen.”

“By stepping on more laws, no doubt,” declared Marti, yanking his arm free.

Von Daniken ignored the comment. “As you’re aware, it’s standard practice for the bank where the trust is domiciled to keep all account statements on behalf of its clients. Tobi was good enough to give me copies of the trust’s monthly statements…for ‘the public good.’ We were both surprised to learn that the money that funded the trust wasn’t sent from Teheran, but from Washington, D.C.”

“D.C.? That’s ridiculous!”

“An account belonging to the U.S. Department of Defense.”

“But Mahmoud Quitab was an Iranian officer. You told me so yourself.” When Marti saw that he was making no headway, he changed tack. “Regardless, Tobi had no right to reveal that kind of information. It breaches every bank secrecy law on the books.”

“Maybe so,” said von Daniken. “Still, I’m certain that your fellow members on the Federal Council will be keen to learn the identity of some of the other individuals being financed by the trust. In fact, we tracked some of the payments to a private account at the Bern branch of the United Swiss Bank. You have an account there, don’t you? Number 517.62…um, help me out, will you?”

The color drained from Marti’s cheeks.

Von Daniken continued. “For the past two years, you’ve been receiving five hundred thousand francs a month courtesy of the United States Department of Defense. Don’t talk to me about being a traitor. You’re a paid foreign agent.”

“That’s absurd!”

“All your talk about nailing the CIA and about showing up America was nonsense. You wanted to take Gassan off that plane in Bern so he wouldn’t be interrogated by the CIA. You didn’t want him to give up any information about the attack to Palumbo.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What attack is it this time?” Marti turned toward his men and began to call out to them.

“Don’t even think about it,” said von Daniken, taking a sheaf of papers from his jacket. “It’s all here. Account 517.623 AA. A numbered account, but even they’re not anonymous anymore. Have a look, if you don’t believe me.”

Marti scanned the documents. “They won’t hold up in court. Inadmissible. All of it.”

“Who said anything about court? I’ve already e-mailed a copy to the president with a note explaining our ongoing investigation. I don’t think she’ll want to serve alongside a spy, do you?”

“But…but…” Crestfallen, Marti dropped his head.

Von Daniken took the papers from his hand. “Now then, Alphons, what exactly is Jonathan Ransom doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you won’t say?”

“All I know is that they wanted him out of the way. He’s not a part of it.”

“A part of what? Don’t lie to me. There’s a band of terrorists somewhere out there with a drone that they intend to crash into an airplane in the next forty-eight hours.”

“I told you. I don’t know anything about the drone.”

“Well then, what
do
you know about? You’re not earning five hundred thousand francs a month to twiddle your thumbs. I want to know everything. Who? Why? For how long? If you can tell me anything that might help stop the attack, now is the time. This is the only chance you’re going to have to mitigate these charges.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Marti after a long silence. “But if anyone asks, I’ll deny all of it.”

Von Daniken waited.

Marti sighed. “I don’t know anything about the attack. It’s export licenses they wanted. They’re under my purview as justice minister.”

“Who wanted them?”

“John Austen.”

“Who’s that?”

“A friend. A fellow believer.”

“Don’t give me that nonsense. Who is he?”

“A major general in the U.S. Air Force. His real job is running a top-secret outfit called Division. Two years ago, his organization arranged the purchase of a company in Zug called ZIAG that manufactures high-end engineering products. ZIAG was sending goods to Parvez Jinn in Iran. It was my job to sign off on them. But it’s over now.”

“What kind of goods?”

Marti looked at von Daniken as if the question were a personal insult. “What kind do you think?”

“I’m a policeman. I prefer that the crooks do the confessing.”

“Centrifuges. Maraging steel. That kind of thing. I made sure that all the paperwork passed through the right channels and that no one at customs took too close of a look.”

“You mean the machinery to process uranium for nuclear weapons?”

Marti nodded. “It’s not my business what they care to do with it.”

“What about the attack?”

“I told you. I don’t know anything about an attack. I want to stop the drone as much as you.”

Von Daniken took this in, squinting as he tried to make some sense of it all. Why would the United States circumvent its own efforts to prevent the Iranians from gaining nuclear weapons technology? He replayed the events of the past days—the murders of Blitz and Lammers, the discovery of the drone and the explosives, and now the revelation that a Swiss company secretly belonging to the Americans had been supplying Iran with state-of-the-art nuclear weapons technology.

Slowly, an idea dawned on him.

A monstrous idea.

He stared at Marti with a new and profound hatred. “Why?”

But Alphons Marti didn’t respond. He’d clasped his hands and bowed his head, as if in prayer.

73

At one p.m.,
Sepp Steiner, chief of Davos Emergency Rescue, left his office on the summit of the Jakobshorn, elevation 2,950 meters above sea level, and walked outside. The forecast had called for a high-pressure system to move in from the south, but so far the sky was as woolly and threatening as ever. He strode to the far side of his office and checked the barometer. The needle was locked steady at 880 millibars. Temperature: -4° Celsius. He flicked the glass with his finger and the needle jumped all the way up to 950.

Turning his face to the sky, he studied the clouds. For the last three days, the ceiling had resembled a becalmed sea. This morning, there was a change. Instead of the gray panorama, he could discern individual clouds. The air was noticeably dryer. The breeze had picked up, but it had changed direction. It was coming from the south.

Steiner rushed back to his office and grabbed a pair of binoculars—Nikon 8x50’s that his colleagues joked made him look like a tank commander. Putting them to his eyes, he scanned the mountains from east to west. For the first time in a week, he was able to make out the peaks above Frauenkirchen. He stopped at the Furga, his field glasses trained on Roman’s, the near-vertical chute where his older brother had perished so long ago. The woman was still there, lying deep in the crevasse. Steiner would not want to leave his wife to sleep for eternity in the ice.

Just then, the breeze softened. A cleft opened in the clouds directly above his head and an azure sky gazed down. He jogged the few steps to the weather station. The temperature read minus two. The high-pressure front had arrived.

Hurrying indoors, Steiner fired up his radio and alerted his men.

It was time to go back to Roman’s.

Three hours later,
Steiner’s team reached the knoll where Emma Ransom was last seen. They had come by a secondary route used only in fine weather that was favored by alpinists and ice climbers. It was a shorter trek but much steeper, presenting two separate vertical pitches of twenty meters each.

The last traces of the storm system that had sat over the entire country for the past five days had dissipated. Blue sky reigned and the afternoon sun shone fiercely. A vast field of snow glittered with the secrets of a thousand uncut diamonds.

Steiner gazed up the mountain. There was no sign of the life-and-death struggle that had taken place on this spot. Similarly, it was impossible to discern the location of the crevasse.

He ordered his men to spread out in a line. Each held a two-meter probing stick in front of him. Step by step they advanced, jabbing their poles into the snow to test for solid ground. It was Steiner who discovered the crevasse when he thrust his pole into the snow and it kept right on going until he was bent to the knee.

A quarter of an hour later, his men had cleared a ten-meter swath that permitted them a clear path to the fissure. Flags were set in the snow demarcating the crevasse’s boundaries, as Steiner supervised the fixing of the ropes. He would be the one to descend into the chasm and retrieve the body. After a final check of his harness and knots, he turned on his miner’s light and called, “On belay.” Allowing the rope to play through his fingers, he walked backward into the earth.

Inside the crevasse, the air was cooler. As he descended, the ice walls gave way to striated granite. All light from above dimmed. Soon he was stranded in an obscure paradise, his eyes trained on the halo of light emitted by the halogen bulb.

After he’d rappelled one length of rope—exactly forty meters—he saw the body. The woman was lying on her stomach, one arm stretched out above her head as if she were calling for help. The walls fell away and he allowed himself to slide down the rope more quickly, a steady, unbroken descent like a stone dropping into a pond. As he approached the crevasse’s floor, he was able to make out the patrolman’s cross on her jacket and the fleece of auburn hair covering her face.

His feet touched the earth.

“I’m down,” he radioed to his crew.

In the dim light, she looked fragile and at peace. Blood had congealed in pools around her legs and her head. Removing his pack, he took out a body harness, several carabiners, and a balaclava with which to cover her face to avoid any scratches or contusions on the ascent to the surface. He arranged the equipment in a row next to the body. Then, as was his custom, he knelt and offered a prayer for the departed.

Slipping both hands under the woman’s torso, he lifted the corpse and flipped it onto its back. This way it would be easier to attach the harness. But immediately, he felt something odd. The long, tangled hair fell away. A load of rocks and snow spilled onto the ground. He stood up holding the empty parka in his hands, staring at the pants still lying on the ground.

A gasp fled Steiner’s mouth.

There was no body at all.