Rules of Deception (31 page)

Jonathan nodded and opened the driver’s door. It all made sense. The meeting was to take place inside the car. Any exchange of information necessitated a private forum. The car was an ingenious device, at once a passport to allow Eva Kruger entry to Davos and a smokescreen behind which Jinn could hide to pass his traitor’s information to the other side.

Sliding into the car, Jonathan spotted Hannes Hoffmann walking up the driveway.
Cormorant.
Hoffmann had a butterfly stitch above one eye and a hat pulled low on his brow to cover the bruise. Their eyes locked. Hoffmann began to run up the icy road. Jonathan shut the door. The engine revved to life and Jinn jumped in his seat, just as Jonathan had several days before.

“Automatic ignition,” explained Jonathan, playing his role to the hilt. “You can program it for manual if you like.”

“A marvel.” Jinn gazed proudly around the well-appointed interior.

“I have the presents Eva promised you,” said Jonathan as he put the car into drive and touched the accelerator. “The sweater and, of course, your fees in cash.”

“Wait,” said Jinn, motioning for him to keep the money hidden until they were clear of the hotel.

Jonathan rolled up the windows and the tinted glass shielded the car’s interior. Hoffmann tried to force him to stop the car by moving into the center of the road, but Jonathan had no intention of slowing. Tapping the accelerator, he put on a burst of speed. Hoffmann jumped to the side and fell into the snowbank.

Parvez Jinn was too busy studying the onboard navigation to notice.

65

The Sikorsky helicopter
traversed the narrow valley at maximum speed. In contrast to the trip of two days before, the weather was calm with barely a breeze to upset the aircraft. The sky was clearing by the minute. Patches of blue came and went. For a moment, the sun peeked out, its rays harsh and glaring after days of incessant shadow.

Squinting, Marcus von Daniken spoke into the radio. “The name is Kruger,” he said to the watch officer at the WEF base security in Chur. “Anyone presenting themselves at a checkpoint using that name, or anything similar, is to be refused entry into the Forum grounds. You are to consider him armed and dangerous. Use any necessary force. I want him arrested at once. Do you copy?”

“Roger, sir. We copy.”

Below him, he could see the two-lane highway that bisected the valley floor as it passed the town of Klosters. The checkpoints were also clearly visible, clusters of men and materiel at set intervals on either side of the road. Ten kilometers up the valley, he caught his first sight of the town. Davos. Population: 5,500. Altitude: 1,800 meters. The alpine village cut a long and wide swath across the mountain’s flank. A ray of sunlight reflected off the dome of the Protestant church. At the top of the mountain, he glimpsed the royal blue gondola of the Jakobshornbahn.

The radio crackled to life.

“Inspector von Daniken, this is base security.”

“What is it?”

“A Kruger already arrived. First name: Evan. Passed through the valley checkpoint at eleven-oh-seven. A new identification was issued at eleven thirty-one at the Main Security Outpost.”

“Did you say that you issued the man a new identification?”

“According to the report entered by the officer on the ground, Kruger’s ID was defective. It lists the cause as a faulty chip. There was also an instance of erroneous data.”

“What does that mean?”

“The name was originally Eva Kruger, but the guest was a male. He was slated to deliver a Mercedes-Benz sedan to Parvez Jinn, a member of the Iranian delegation.”

Jinn, the Iranian firebrand. Von Daniken remembered the note that had been attached to the wire transfer of one hundred thousand Swiss francs to Gottfried Blitz, a.k.a. Mahmoud Quitab. “Gift for P.J.” Now he knew beyond a reasonable doubt who the money was intended for, though the nature of the tie between the two men remained to be seen.

Von Daniken’s mind fixed on the newspaper articles he’d read concerning the assassinations of the Bosnian warlord and the Lebanese police inspector. Did Ransom have another murder in mind? If so, why had he given the man one hundred thousand francs and a new automobile worth twice that amount?

“Where is Evan Kruger?”

“One second, sir. I need to check.”

Waiting, von Daniken swore under his breath.

“He’s inside the red zone. He passed through the Hotel Belvedere’s grounds eight minutes ago.”

“Get your men to the hotel,” said von Daniken. “I want it surrounded as quickly as possible. Don’t worry about making a fuss. You have my authority. I’ll be landing at the southern helipad in four minutes. Have one of your men there to pick me up.”

66

Formed in 1291,
the nation of Switzerland considers itself the oldest continually functioning democracy in the world. The government is based on the bicameral parliamentary tradition and draws heavily from the American and British constitutions. The lower house, or National Council, is comprised of two hundred representatives, elected proportionally from the nation’s twenty-six cantons. The upper house, called the Council of Cantons, counts two members from twenty of the cantons, and one each from the remaining six half-cantons. Instead of electing a prime minister from the majority ruling party to serve as head of the executive branch, members of both houses convene every four years to elect seven members to a governing federal council, the seats being split proportionally according to each political party’s representation. Each councilor is assigned a department or ministry to run, with the president selected on a rotating basis for a one-year term.

Though at forty-five, Alphons Marti was the most junior member of the Federal Council, he had no intention of waiting six years until filling the president’s seat. He’d made his name as a crusader, first in his home canton of Geneva, where he’d cleaned up whatever organized crime was there, and more recently, at the international level, where he’d campaigned against the Americans’ practice of extraordinary rendition.

Sitting at his expansive desk that frigid Friday morning, he looked at the papers in his hand and knew beyond any doubt that the information they contained constituted his ticket to the presidency.

The papers had come from Swisscom ten minutes earlier and they held a list of all phone calls made to and from numbers belonging to Marcus von Daniken. There were a total of thirty-eight calls. Most of the numbers belonged to von Daniken’s colleagues in the Federal Police. Marti spotted his own number on three occasions; at 8:50, when Onyx’s intercept detailing the passenger manifest of the CIA charter was distributed; at 12:15, when the American jet requested permission to touch down on Swiss soil; and at 1:50, when von Daniken called to coordinate the drive to the airport.

Running a finger down the list of phone numbers, he stopped at a 001 country code. The United States. Area code 703—for Langley, Virginia. The number belonged to the United States Central Intelligence Agency.

Marti had his proof.

Setting the papers down, he called Hardenberg, the investigator he’d spoken with the night before. “Where’s von Daniken? I need to speak to him.”

“A helicopter picked him up in Zurich fifteen minutes ago,” Hardenberg replied. “He’s headed to Davos with Kurt Myer.”

“Davos?” Marti’s face fell. “What for?”

“We have a line on Jonathan Ransom. Apparently, he’s delivering an automobile to Parvez Jinn, the Iranian minister of technology.”

Marti pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. “Have you alerted security in Davos?”

“I believe so.”

“If you learn anything else, call me immediately.”

Marti hung up, then immediately dialed the number of the chief of the Federal Police across town. “Yes, Herr Direktor,” he began. “We have a grave problem. A man high in your organization has been identified as acting on behalf of a foreign power. The man we’re looking for is Marcus von Daniken. Yes, I was surprised, too. One never knows who one can trust.”

He lifted his eyes from the incriminating list and stared out the window. He was gazing east toward the mountains.

“How quickly can you get your men to Davos?”

67

“Who are you?”

Parvez Jinn sat stiff-backed in the passenger seat, his eyes appraising Jonathan.

“A friend of Eva’s.”

“You work together?”

“For eight years.”

“Ah,” said Jinn, trying to play down his discomfort at the unannounced change of plans. “So you know her well?”

“You might say that.” Jonathan could only offer so much without giving away his ignorance. Fifty meters farther on, a policeman stood in the center of the road, directing traffic.

“What happened to her? Why couldn’t she come?”

Jonathan shifted his gaze to Jinn. “She’s dead.”

The news hit the man like a sledgehammer. “Dead? When? How? I can’t believe it.”

“Monday. She was climbing with her husband. It was an accident.”

“Her husband? Of course. She was married.
Frau Kruger.
” He looked into his lap and Jonathan saw that he was pressing his lips tightly together.

“Are you alright?”

Jinn looked up sharply. “Of course. I don’t know why I should feel sad after what she did to me.”

The Iranian looked straight ahead. His lips moved for a moment, but no words came out. His hand had assumed a death grip on the armrest, his knuckles white as chalk. He was experiencing mild shock. Jonathan stared at the man, hating him. He had a strong urge to hit Jinn in the jaw and slam his shocked, undeserving face into the window. He had no right to mourn Emma.

Jonathan looked away, somehow gaining control over his emotions. It was crucial that he get Jinn’s mind off Eva Kruger—
off Emma
—before he suffered a breakdown. He called to mind the information he’d discovered on Intelink. Invoices. Packing statements. Customs declarations. “You’ve received the last shipments, haven’t you?” he asked.

Jinn nodded, but it took him a moment longer to find his voice. “The Chalus facility is up and running,” he said weakly. “Four hundred cascades. Fifty-five thousand centrifuges. We shut down all our other facilities and moved everything there to reach our goal.”

Cascades. Centrifuges. A fully operational facility.
Jonathan’s suspicions had proven true. ZIAG had been illegally exporting equipment used to complete the uranium enrichment cycle. But why would the company do that? And on whose behalf? If he knew that, he would be much closer to discovering the identity of Emma’s employer. He recalled the articles he’d read over the last year about Iran’s desire to become a nuclear power. “What’s your output?” he asked.

“Four kilos a month enriched to ninety-six percent.”

“Are you satisfied with that? Can’t you get to one hundred percent?”

Jinn shot him a dismissive glance. “Ninety-six is already far above what’s necessary. I thought you’d be impressed.”

“I am…I mean…we are.” Jonathan felt as if he were walking through an unfamiliar house in the dark, always a half step from banging into a piece of furniture or knocking a vase onto the floor. He had to be more careful. If Jinn suspected that he wasn’t Eva Kruger’s colleague, there was no telling what he might do. “And the other part?”

“What other part?” Jinn was growing anxious. His eyes no longer held Jonathan in the same esteem.

Instinct told Jonathan that the purpose of the meeting wasn’t to review Iran’s current status. It had been arranged for another reason. He guessed that it was a payoff. The money and the car in exchange for “Gold.” And “Gold” had to be information. Jinn had nothing else to offer. “You know,” Jonathan said, with an edge.

“If you’re wondering whether I’ve got what you requested, you can rest easy. What choice did you give me?”

Jonathan shot him a sidelong glance. “We all have a job to do.”

Jinn laughed mirthlessly. “Did you know that they make ministers attend the executions of spies? The French call it
pour encourager les autres.
To encourage the others.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He’d settled into a rhythm and Jonathan was careful not to disturb it. “If you are caught, they begin with your family. They take the youngest first. It’s humane enough, if that’s how you’d describe the firing squad. Pasha is eight. Yasmin will come next. She turned thirteen last week. According to the new law, she must start wearing a chador whenever she is in public. The rage is black silk scarves from Hermès in Paris. Be sure to pass that along to your analysts in Virginia or London or Tel Aviv, or wherever the hell it is you’re from.”

He rubbed his eyes, a gesture of fatigue that conveyed a weary ease with his situation. “Where did you find her, anyway?” he asked. “Is she the product of some sick school you’ve set up to take advantage of men like me? Is that it?” It was another rhetorical question. Jinn knew all the answers already. He had worked out his situation in excruciating detail and he appeared relieved to be able to share them with another man. “You know the funny part,” he went on, with no smile in sight, “is that, to this day, part of me thinks she cares for me. In spite of it all. In spite of her threats. Do the photos count as blackmail or extortion? Or is it the banking records? All those bribes she insisted I take? Killed climbing, eh? I don’t think anything less could have done the trick.”

Jonathan had no response. He felt as if Jinn had been speaking for him. The light turned green and he continued along the town’s main artery, called the Promenade, passing a turnoff to the railway station. Jinn appeared to have gotten himself under control. He pulled himself upright in his seat and sat with the posture of the zealot he made himself out to be.

“To matters at hand,” he said. “The money, please, Mr. Kruger.”

Jonathan handed over the envelope. He’d replaced the money he’d spent with funds from his private account. “One hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

“Has the transfer been made to my account in Zurich?”

“Of course,” said Jonathan, though he had no idea what transfer Jinn was talking about.

“The full twenty million?”

“Yes.”

“It’s for my children, you know,” Jinn explained. “I can’t touch it unless I leave the country.”

The Iranian took a flash drive from his breast pocket and set it on the center console. “It’s all there. Location of our rockets. Weaponization plants. Production facilities. A blueprint of our nuclear efforts from A to Z. I know what you’re going to do with it. You made the mistake in Iraq. You won’t repeat it. You have your smoking gun. This time no one can say that you didn’t have a good reason.”

“Our smoking gun?”

“Yes, whoever you are. Americans, French, the British, Israelis, it doesn’t matter. You all want the same thing. War.”

Jonathan had read enough about Jinn in the papers to piece together an idea of how his recruitment must have unfolded. It had started during one of Jinn’s trips to the West. As a low-ranking official in the Ministry of Technology, it was his job to meet with businessmen eager to establish commercial relations with Iran. Had the first meeting been in Beirut or Geneva? Or somewhere else Jonathan had yet to learn about? It didn’t matter. It must have been just a hint at first. A discreet remark passed along during the course of an encounter. For a price, ZIAG could arrange for the export of certain “controlled technologies.” Of course, it was Eva who’d brought it up. The lure must have been irresistible to a man like Jinn. He would have seen the possibilities from the start. A chance to rise within the ranks. To become a patriot on the level of A.Q. Khan, the Pakistani engineer who had given his country the bomb. A national hero even. All combined with the attentions of a woman unlike any he’d ever met. He’d jumped at her offer.

At first, their relationship would have remained professional. Eva, Hoffmann, and Blitz made sure that the shipments arrived without incident. It was critical to establish Jinn’s credentials with his superiors. By all accounts, it had been a meteoric rise. In six months, Parvez Jinn was minister of technology. As minister, he was able to travel more freely. No doubt he visited ZIAG’s operations in Switzerland. Visits that coincided with Emma’s “lightning safaris,” her unannounced trips to points unknown to gather supplies. It was during one of these factory visits that Eva Kruger sank in her hooks. Perhaps she’d suggested an onward journey to Bern to continue their discussions in a more private setting. Discussions that involved a visit to her apartment, chilled glasses of Polish vodka, and whatever came next. It was the oldest trick in the book. Once they had pictures, they added bribes to the mix. Transfers to the account in Zurich. Even the ayatollahs might understand falling for a woman like Eva. They would not, however, countenance the taking of kickbacks.

Jinn was toast.

Jonathan looked at the Iranian official seated next to him, feverishly counting his cash.
You poor sonuvabitch,
he thought, with renewed hatred for the man.
You were no match for my wife.

“Is that all?” Jonathan asked, fingering the flash drive.

“The blueprint of my country’s nuclear program. I should think it’s enough.”

“You’re not holding back? We can stop to check. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“There is one more thing,” said Jinn. “A year ago we came into possession of four Russian-made Kh-55 cruise missiles. The missiles are being kept at Karshun Air Base on the gulf. Each has a ten-kiloton warhead. If our enrichment facilities are attacked, we will not hesitate to use them. The plan is to take out Jerusalem and the oil fields at Ghawar. Our president plans on making an announcement next week. I’m here to set the stage. Tell your masters to think twice before they act.”

“I’ll pass along the news.”

“And so?” said Jinn. “Where are the pictures? Where’s my passport? I need to know that I can get out. I’m done being your lackey. Eva promised to turn over everything.”

Jonathan handed him the French passport. “You’ll have to wait for the photographs. Eva had them. You don’t have to worry. This is the end of the operation. No one’s going to bother you anymore.”

It was then that he noticed the commotion ahead of them. A squad of soldiers moved into the center of the road, setting down riot-control barriers to block both lanes of the traffic. Policemen swarmed the sidewalk, barking instructions to pedestrians. Some ran in the other direction. Others cowered against the wall in a pantomime of panic. A few even fell to the ground and covered their heads with their hands.

Jinn’s phone rang. He answered with a grunt. His eyes swept to Jonathan. After ten agonizing seconds, he hung up.

“The police have surrounded the hotel,” said Parvez Jinn. “They are looking for the man who delivered the Mercedes. It appears, my friend, that you have killed me.”