Rules of Deception (18 page)

37

“Lay your head back,”
said Simone, massaging the dye into his clean wet hair. “First, we let it sink in, then we wash it out, then we cut it. Sicilian Black. You won’t recognize yourself.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Seated on a stool, Jonathan lowered his head into the washbasin and closed his eyes. Simone’s strong fingers worked the dye to all parts of his scalp, massaging the temples, the crown, working down the nape of his neck. The amphetamines had long since worn off. The fuel-injected madness that had led him to storm Blitz’s house and had scripted his fiery exchange with Hannes Hoffmann, the executive at ZIAG, belonged to some foggy, distant past. He felt bone tired, his skin still tingling from the hot shower. Simone’s hands worked the cords at the base of his skull. He exhaled, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, allowed himself to relax.

They had stayed in the hills until early afternoon, when they’d descended to the highway and taken a bus to Lugano, a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants spread along the shores of its eponymous lake, thirty kilometers to the east. While Jonathan hid in a movie theater, Simone had gone store to store, purchasing new outfits for both of them. Afterward, they’d walked to the outskirts of town, looking for a place to spend the night.

The hotel was called the Albergo del Lago. It was a small, family-run establishment situated on the outskirts of Lugano. A terra-cotta palace with twenty rooms all overlooking the lake, and a pizzeria downstairs to justify its two stars. Using Simone’s passport and credit card, they had checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Paul Noiret. In place of suitcases, they carried shopping bags filled with clothing, toiletries, and a dinner of roast chicken and
pommes frites
purchased from a Provençal delicatessen. To inquiring eyes, they were lovers repairing to their hotel after a day in the city.

“All done,” said Simone, peeling off the latex gloves. “In fifteen minutes, your hair will be as black as Elizabeth Taylor’s.”

“I didn’t know she was Sicilian.”

Simone slapped his shoulder. “Smart-ass. Now stay where you are and let the color settle.”

She folded a towel and laid it across his eyes to make sure that no dye seeped down. The next thing he knew, she was shaking his shoulder, telling him to wake up. “Time for your rinse.”

The towel came off his eyes. He blinked at the bright overhead lamps. “I fell asleep for a minute.”

“More like twenty.” Simone turned on the faucet, and when the water was warm, she washed out the dye. Using newly purchased scissors, she trimmed his hair until the curls were gone, and it stayed straight when she combed it. “Stand up. Let me have a look.”

Jonathan stood.

“Just a little more work.” Laying her fingers along his jaw, she held his head in place while she styled his hair to her satisfaction. Finally, she put her hands on his shoulders and spun him around so he could see the completed picture in the mirror. “Done,” she said. “Recognize that guy?”

“That’s frightening.”

“Not quite the response I was looking for.”

The man staring back looked ten years younger. He was the diplomat his father had always wanted, ready and willing to steal away mineral rights from a third world country. The Park Avenue surgeon with an advanced degree in phony compliments. He had to fight from mussing the part in his hair. He smiled and his teeth fairly blazed beneath the bright lights. Not a man you’d want to buy a used car from, he thought.

In short, it was perfect.

“Not Liz Taylor,” he said, slipping out of the bathroom. “But I’ll settle for Vince Vaughn.”

“You’re at least Brad Pitt.”

“He’s blond.”

“Who cares? I’ll take him any color he wants.”

Jonathan walked into the bedroom and picked out the bag holding his new clothing. He put it on the bed and set out the navy suit and overcoat. The television was on. The commentator was speaking Italian, saying that a second policeman attacked the day before in Landquart had died, and that the manhunt for the American doctor wanted in connection with the crime had been extended to the Tessin, where the body of a German businessman had been found early this morning. Jonathan sat down and listened. Twice he heard his name enunciated.
Dottore Jonathan Ransom.
Thankfully, there was no picture.

The commentator moved on to the weather, but Jonathan was no longer paying attention. He was thinking of the television in the lobby that had been blaring the evening headlines when they’d checked in, and the concierge, whose narrow black eyes didn’t miss a trick. If the manhunt had been extended to the Tessin, the police would have contacted every hotel in the area. Faxes would have been sent with his name and description. They might even know that he was traveling with a woman.

He walked to the balcony, opened the door, and stepped into the rain. Far along the lake, he caught sight of a flashing blue-and-white strobe approaching. A hundred meters behind it was another.

For a moment, he stared at the oncoming lights. They could be going anywhere. The concierge downstairs had no reason to suspect him. The lights flickered in the rain and he knew that they weren’t going “anywhere.” They were headed to the Albergo del Lago. They were coming for him.

“Simone, we have to go,” he called. “The police are coming.”

Simone poked her head out of the bathroom. “What did you say about police?”

“There was a report on the news…the concierge downstairs, he called the police.”

“Jonathan, slow down, what is it?”

“They know about us, that we’re traveling together. The police will be here in a few minutes. We’ve got to leave.”

He threw on the clothes that she’d purchased for him that afternoon. White dress shirt, navy suit, cashmere overcoat, and a pair of lace-ups. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The suit. The midnight-black hair cut above the ears and parted with a razor. And Emma? What would she think? He was the enemy. The devil in his deep blue suit. He hated himself on sight.

He returned to the balcony. The lights were definitely coming his way. No more than a kilometer now. He could hear the siren’s atonal whine getting louder.

“Come on.” He strode across the room, opening the door to the hall.

Behind him, Simone was putting on her shoes. Grabbing her overcoat, she stumbled against him. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’m ready.”

They avoided the elevator and the main stairs, proceeding instead to the end of the hall where, behind French doors and lace curtains, a balcony overlooked a parking lot at the rear of the hotel. The French doors were unlocked. Stepping onto the balcony, Jonathan dropped Blitz’s briefcase onto the ground below, then shimmied down a drainpipe.

“I can’t,” called Simone from above.

“It’s only the first floor. I’ll be right under you.”

“What if I fall?”

“You can do it. Come on. We can’t wait!”

“Mais merde.”
Simone climbed over the balcony, and without further prodding, took hold of the drainpipe and slid to the ground. It was over in three seconds.

“Was that so bad?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Taking her hand, Jonathan led her down the main road. Instinct told him that couples were less suspicious than loners. The lights of Italy flickered far across the lake. Small sailboats and motor launches bobbed at anchor. Sanctuary, he thought, gazing across the water.

The first police car passed them ten seconds later.

In town,
they flagged a taxi and asked the driver to take them to the Via della Nonna in Ascona. Once there, Jonathan instructed the driver to stop two blocks from Blitz’s home. The rain had momentarily let up and the neighborhood was tranquil. Soft lights burned behind lace curtains. The scent of pine drifted off the hillside. A dog barked nearby.

“Let me get the car,” Simone said, extending an outstretched palm.

“Too risky,” he said. “As far as the police know, you don’t exist. Better to keep it that way. Wait down the street. I’ll be by in ten minutes.”

Jonathan walked up the road toward the Mercedes. A band of yellow tape had been placed across the gates leading to the Villa Principessa and another across the front door. A lone police car sat parked in the gravel drive. The calm and security he’d enjoyed in the hotel were gone. His body was tense with worry. He was on the run again. He kept waiting for the moment when his nerves would calm down, when he would adjust to his new status as a fugitive. If anything, he was growing increasingly unsettled. It was as if he could feel the noose being lowered over his head, the sturdy, coarse rope scratching his neck, the slipknot hard against the back of his skull.

Had Emma felt this way? he wondered as he stared at the villa’s forlorn facade and the neatly tended rose garden. Had she lived with the constant fear of discovery? The worry that at any moment a trapdoor might drop from beneath her?

The Mercedes was parked where he’d left it, thirty meters down the street from Blitz’s home. Jonathan stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street. From the corner of his eye, he saw the policeman get out of the cruiser. In his new suit and overcoat, Jonathan stopped and forced himself to acknowledge the officer. With a smile and a raised hand, he called out a greeting. The policeman stared at him long and hard before answering, then got back into his car.

Jonathan continued with his business. The remote entry sounded with a beep. He slid behind the wheel and the engine rumbled to life. Gliding from the curb, he drove past the police officer and turned right at the next street. He stopped two blocks farther on to pick up his passenger.

“And?” Simone asked, slipping into the car.

“One cop was parked in front of the house. I waved to him.”

“You what? My God, I think you were born to this.”

“You’re wrong there.”

They drove down the winding road, entering town and taking the fork toward the railway station. Twice, he noticed dimmed Xenon headlights trailing at a distance. He asked Simone to check if they were being followed. She stared out the back window and said that she didn’t see a soul. He checked again as he neared the station, but the lights were no longer there.

He pulled to a halt in the shadows at the back of the parking lot.

“We’ve got to split up,” he said. “They’re looking for a couple.”

“You’re overreacting. You can’t be sure that they know about me.”

“Simone.” He sighed, and lowered his voice. “I can’t do what I need to if you’re with me.”

She looked into her lap. “What can you hope to gain from our splitting up?” When he didn’t answer, she raised her head and stared at him. “At least take my advice and get out of the country while you can. Find yourself a lawyer. Then come back, if you must.”

He took her hand. “Tell Paul I send my best. I’ll catch up with you both when I get back to Geneva.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Say a prayer.”

“I don’t know if that will be enough.”

“Then wish me luck.”

“Fool.” Simone shook her head in exasperation, then leaned closer and wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Take this. It will keep you safe.” From around her neck, she took a medallion hanging from a leather lanyard and pressed it into his hand. “Saint Christopher. The patron saint of travelers.”

“But he’s not a saint anymore.”

“That makes two of us,” said Simone.

Jonathan looked at the medallion, then put it around his neck. “Goodbye.”

“Adieu.”

He watched her make her way across the parking lot. When she reached the station, he thought he saw her raise a hand to her face and wipe away a tear.

38

Simone Noiret tugged her purse
onto her shoulder and walked into the train station. Strewn from one end of the platform to the other, a dozen people stood waiting for the train. A shrill wind whistled through the rafters, chilling her to the bone. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she made her way to the monitors announcing arrivals and departures.

She’d tried, she told herself. She had done everything humanly possible to warn him. Regardless, she’d failed to sway him from his course. He was a good man. He didn’t merit the consequences of his wife’s behavior. Simone wondered if her husband would do as much for her. She doubted it. Paul was not a good man. That was why she had married him.

With a gust, the 8:06 pulled into the station. It was a Regional Express with two engines and twenty-odd cars en route from Locarno to Regensburg on the border of Germany. Brakes squealed as the train ground to a halt. Passengers alighted. Simone looked up and down the platform as her fellow travelers climbed aboard. Finally, she stepped onto the train. The smoking compartment was half full. She chose, however, to continue through the partition into the non-smoking car. Again, there were plenty of free seats. She ignored them. Her eyes were on the platform. She saw no sign of Jonathan. Reaching the end of the car, she passed into the causeway, threw open the outside door, and hopped onto the platform.

Alone, she watched the train exit the station.

When the taillights had faded into the darkness, she strode down the platform to the buffet. Decorated in brasserie style, the restaurant was doing a lively trade, mostly businessmen enjoying a beer or
ristretto
on their way home from work. She took a table by the window and lit a cigarette.

The waiter arrived and she ordered a whiskey.
Uno doppelte, per favore.
The drink came shortly and she drank it in a single gulp. She called her husband and chatted with him about the goings-on at the World Economic Forum, then informed him that she would arrive in Davos sometime after one a.m. “Jonathan’s fine,” she added. “Very upset, naturally, the poor lamb, and keeping it all inside. Just like him. No, he hasn’t scheduled a date for the service.”

Just then, the table rattled and a pale, compact man sat down across from her. Simone looked up sharply. “I’m afraid this table’s reserved,” she said, lowering the phone. “There are plenty of other places free.”

“I enjoy sitting by the window.”

She bit back the comment on the tip of her tongue.

“Paul, I have to go. Train’s here. Bye, love.” Simone dropped the phone into her purse. For the first time, she looked directly at the man seated across the table. He had sad eyes and skin so pale as to be translucent. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. “Yes, the view can be nice,” she responded. “But I prefer it in summer.”

“I’m in Zurich during the summer.”

Simone slipped a piece of paper across the table. “He’s in a black Mercedes,” she said. “Temporary plates. He’s headed to Goppenstein. The car ferry through the mountain. He told me that he’s trying to make the 10:21 to Kandersteg.”

The Ghost studied the paper for a moment, then tore it in half and dropped it in the ashtray. “And from there?”

“To Zug. You should have no problem following him. He’s wearing a tracking device around his neck.”

“That will make things easier.” The Ghost lit a match and set fire to the scraps of paper.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He didn’t answer and she felt foolish and angry for having betrayed her concern.

“He has a briefcase with him,” Simone continued, in a harder voice. “Get it. And make sure you find the flash drive. It’s concealed in a wristband he’s wearing on his right hand. And watch the tailgating,” she added. “I had you the whole way from Blitz’s house.”

“It wasn’t me. I was waiting in the parking lot.”

“You’re sure?”

The black eyes met her own. “I followed your instructions,” he said, his voice quieter.

“Good.” Simone nodded. “Oh, and one more thing…he’s armed.”

The Ghost rose from his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

Simone slid lower into her chair and lit another cigarette. She stared out the window into the darkness.