Rules of Betrayal (27 page)

“He won’t have a gun?” said Amman, turning to face von Daniken.

“No.”

“Or a knife?” added Schmid.

“Only if he finds one,” said von Daniken. “Otherwise he’s going in naked.”

“It is more interesting this way.” Amman’s eyes darted to Jonathan, and Jonathan knew that his instincts had been accurate. He was right to be afraid.

There was a table in a corner, and they had put the tricks of their trade on it. There was a ring of house keys, a ballpoint pen, a credit card, a hardback book, and several other equally innocuous objects. Jonathan looked at them and for a moment thought he’d been brought here to continue his memory work. But across the room, Schmid was pulling protective pads over his forearms, and Jonathan knew this had nothing to do with memorization.

“Catch!”

Jonathan spun, snatching the keys out of the air a split second before they struck him in the face.

“What do you have in your hands?” asked Amman.

“Keys.”

“Incorrect. You are holding a deadly weapon. Take one and grip it between your index and middle finger so that the teeth extend away from your fist.”

Jonathan looked down at the set of keys in his palm. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his gaze moving to von Daniken.

“I would do as you’re told,” said the Swiss policeman.

Jonathan gripped the key as instructed. Amman motioned him onto the mat. “You must always strike as if you have only one chance to inflict injury. One blow with maximum force.
Klar?”

“Klar,”
said Jonathan.

Schmid raised his padded forearms and circled Jonathan.

“One blow,” repeated Amman.

Jonathan tightened his grip on the key. He struck out tentatively, and Schmid batted his fist away, knocking the keys to the ground.

“With a bit more oomph,” said Amman.

“Er ist wie ein Mädchen,”
said Schmid, cracking a smile.

Jonathan picked up the keys and gripped the largest one between his fingers. Schmid left his arms at his sides and puffed out his chest. He shot his colleague a smug look that said, “What are we doing here with this turkey?”

Amman shrugged, resigned to his task, the more professional of the two.

Jonathan took all this in. Raising himself on the balls of his feet, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. Fair warning, he thought, as Schmid stepped closer, arms still dangling at his sides, chin lifted arrogantly.

The first blow connected just under the ear, Jonathan turning the key vertically so as to shave as little skin as possible off Schmid’s cheek. Before the instructor could react, before he could raise his arms even halfway to his face, Jonathan sent a left crashing into his jaw. Schmid crumpled.

“Wie ein Mädchen,”
said Jonathan, standing over the dazed man. Like a little girl.

“So you fight?” asked Amman as he helped his colleague to his feet. “Chief Inspector von Daniken neglected to inform us.”

“You should have asked me, not him.”

“You are right.” Amman spoke sharply to Schmid, who grudgingly handed over his pads, then hurried to the bathroom to stanch the blood flowing from his wound. “I think we are done with the keys. Pick up the pen.”

Amman showed Jonathan how to hold the pen. “Not like a knife, but like a dagger.” And how to strike with it as an extension of his fist. “No slashing. Jabbing. In, out. In, out. The force coming from inside.” Amman pointed to his chest, meaning his core muscles.

And when it was Jonathan’s turn, he jabbed so fast that only Amman’s reflexes saved him from having an eye poked out.

The credit card became a razor to cut a throat. The book, an instrument to bludgeon the victim’s temple and cause irreparable brain damage.

At some point Danni entered the room. Jonathan saw von Daniken speaking to her, and for a moment she nearly smiled.

“I think it is Danni’s turn,” said Amman when they had finished working through the objects. “Good luck. We are amateurs. She is a pro. Be careful.”

Amman and Schmid left the room. Von Daniken exited immediately afterward. Danni kicked off her shoes and walked onto the mat. “So, anything else you’re hiding from us?” she asked as she pulled her hair behind her head and bound it in a ponytail. “You’re a natural.”

“Hardly,” said Jonathan. “There was a while way back when I liked to mix it up a little. I got pretty good with my fists. The one benefit of a troubled youth.”

“You,
troubled?
I don’t believe it.”

“Yeah, well, luckily, we all grow up.” Jonathan sat down cross-legged and wiped his forehead with a towel. “So what’s next? Arm wrestling?”

“Not exactly.” Danni sat down next to him. “All these techniques that Mr. Amman and Mr. Schmid were showing you were primarily for self-defense. Ways to protect yourself when nothing else is at hand. That’s not my specialty.”

Jonathan was caught off-guard by her reticent tone. “What is?”

Danni stared straight ahead. “It turns out that I’m very good at killing.”

“Killing? Like an assassin? For real?”

“We don’t use that word,” she said coldly, looking him in the eye. “I can do the things I trained you for. I can make dead drops and spot a tail and pick just about any lock on the planet in under two minutes. But that’s not how my government chooses to use me.”

“And that’s not why we’re the only ones in the room?”

“No.”

“You’re here to …” Jonathan allowed her to finish the sentence.

“I’m here to teach you how to kill quickly and silently.”

“I’m going to Pakistan to gather information. Connor never said anything about killing.”

“It wasn’t an issue at that point.”

“And now it is?” asked Jonathan.

“Think of it as a precaution,” said Danni, but something in her eyes told him the lesson was more than that.

“Has he found out something about my wife? Is she being held against her will? Is she in danger?”

“I don’t know anything about your wife.”

“Then what? Come on, Danni. I mean, get real. Connor can’t ask me to kill somebody. Self-defense is one thing. This is another ball-game.”

Jonathan jumped to his feet and strode across the room. Danni was by his side in an instant, stopping him, taking him by the hands. “Just listen to me.”

“What’s there to say? The whole notion is ridiculous. I’m a doctor. I don’t take lives. I save them.”

“You’ve done it before. Connor told me.”

“To protect myself.”

“And in Zurich? General Austen? You shot two men dead. That wasn’t just self-defense.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“And what if you don’t have one now?”

“It was different. There was a plane. They were going to kill hundreds of innocent people. It was happening at that instant.”

“It’s easier that way, isn’t it? Not having time to think.”

Jonathan dropped her hands and walked to the far side of the room. He needed space. Room to figure things out. He rubbed his forehead, feeling as if he were seeing things clearly for the first time. “What was I thinking? Why did I even tell Connor that I would help? I must have been out of my mind. PTSD or something. All of this—the training in Israel, the marching up and down the streets looking over my shoulder for you and your buddies, the memory games, shadowing Dr. Revy. Who am I kidding? I’m not one of you. I’m not an operative or a spy or whatever it is that you call yourselves.”

Danni approached in measured paces, her eyes locked on his. She was no longer pleading. Her speech to convince had ended. She spoke
slowly and calmly, as if he were a criminal who needed to be talked out of his gun. “What if we’re talking about more than that? Not hundreds but thousands.”

“I don’t care how many people you’re talking about. If he thinks I’m going to kill someone, he’s lost his mind.”

“And if there is no one else?”

“That’s not my concern.”

“Isn’t it all of ours?” asked Danni. “You think this is something I like to do? I felt the same as you when I first learned my trade. I was a twenty-one-year-old woman. I knew how to shoot machine guns and run an obstacle course. But killing? The only thing I’d ever harmed in my life was a duck I shot hunting with my uncle, and I felt sick to my stomach for a week afterward. I thought, How dare they ask me to do such a thing? I’m not evil. But my teachers saw something in me. Not something bad, just something unyielding—maybe something rather cold and uncompromising. I always completed a task, no matter how difficult. I was able to remove myself from the equation and do what needed to be done. Too often it’s your mind that gets in the way. You’re the same as me, Jonathan. You can’t leave a job undone. It’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here because a man tortured my wife and I have a chance of doing something to prevent him and his colleagues from hurting anyone else again.”

“No, that’s not the reason why. You’re here to see if you are as good as she is.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You want to find out for yourself if you are capable of doing everything she does. If you measure up.”

“No. Not true.”

Danni put a hand to his cheek. “You’re here because you still love her.”

Jonathan pulled her hand away. He wanted to deny her words, to shout at her that she was mistaken. He couldn’t. He looked away, then sat down. Danni sat cross-legged next to him. “If you have any questions, you can ask Connor yourself.”

Jonathan looked at her, surprised. “He’s coming?”

“He’ll be here later today to give you your final briefing. You’re leaving tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“But …” Suddenly there was nothing more to say, and Jonathan wondered if the fear showed on his face.

Danni slid a long, slim knife from a hidden pocket in her pants. Its blade was the color of mercury. “Let’s get started,” she said, offering him a hand so he could get to his feet. “We don’t have much time.”

The kidnapping of Dr. Michel
Revy took place at two in the afternoon on that same picture-postcard day and was orchestrated and executed by Chief Inspector Marcus von Daniken, with assistance from members of his own Service of Analysis and Prevention, the wing of the federal police concerned with counterterrorism and the monitoring of all espionage activities within Switzerland’s borders.

The operation was hurried from the start, but this was nothing new. Time was rarely a policeman’s ally, and von Daniken had long ago made his peace with rushed operations. Perfection was not a word in his vocabulary. He’d had twelve hours to draw up his plan, assemble a team, and put them into position. He would have liked another day in order to stage at least one rehearsal, but Michel Revy’s schedule forbade it. In von Daniken’s business, you worked with what you were given, not with what you wished for.

“Mobile One, pull off. Mobile Two, get in position.”

Von Daniken sat parked in a shaded lay-by in the densely forested foothills on the outskirts of Bern. An insistent breeze was blowing from the north, kicking snow off the hillsides and sending it spinning and twirling in the fractured light. On his lap was a handheld tracking monitor, and he kept his eyes glued to the red dot moving along the A1 motorway in his direction. The red dot was Revy (transmitted from the homing beacon von Daniken himself had installed in the bumper of Revy’s Porsche Panamera, the outrageously expensive, outrageously beautiful sports sedan for which the surgeon owed three months’ back lease payments). The three blue dots trailing the Panamera belonged to von Daniken’s men. He was running a standard
“three-car swing,” slotting a new driver behind Revy in a seven-minute rotation.

“He’s exiting the motorway,” said Mobile One.

“Hang back until he gets through the village. Once he turns on Dorfstrasse, set up the roadblock. No one gets through.”

In fact, the surveillance was a precaution. An e-mail sent from Revy’s computer the night before and intercepted by the Remora software indicated that he was planning to drive to his mother’s home that afternoon for a short visit prior to boarding a jet later that evening for Pakistan. There had been discussion about how and where to abduct him and what to do with him afterward: whether to grab him at his mother’s house, whisk him from the hotel before he checked out, or, finally, kidnap him somewhere en route between the two. Some suggested drugging him and placing him in an induced coma for the duration of his captivity, others locking him in a safe house near the Gornergrat where only the crows would see him. Any option had to meet two imperatives. No one could witness the capture, and Revy could never know who had kidnapped him or where he’d been held.

In the end, they decided on the third alternative—kidnapping Revy en route to his mother’s home—after field reconnaissance located a stretch of road von Daniken could commandeer and ever so briefly make his own. Afterward, Revy would be taken to an abandoned air-raid shelter in the Engadine above the town of Pontresina and be looked after by a revolving team of two guards. The coma was deemed too risky.

Von Daniken rolled down the window and turned his head toward the van with Swiss Telecom markings parked next to him. “Five minutes,” he called.

The driver flicked the ash from his cigarillo to the ground, then started the van and drove up the road.

Von Daniken shifted in his seat. As was his habit before a takedown, he was suffering from a case of nerves. The fact was, he was no field man. He’d made his name investigating financial crimes before moving laterally to counterterrorism and espionage. Despite his dislike
of guns and violence and all things martial, he’d found that he had a propensity for the work. It turned out that he was a sneaky bastard who could outthink and outmaneuver even the best-trained agents. But thinking was one thing and acting another. At this moment, von Daniken would have much preferred to be seated at his desk, sipping his second espresso of the afternoon and listening to his department chiefs deliver their daily reports.

The red dot veered right at the fork of Lindenstrasse and Dorfstrasse. Dorfstrasse was a two-lane road winding through forest and foothills for exactly 3.8 kilometers before reaching the nearest intersection.