Rules of Deception (32 page)

68

Jonathan kept his eyes
straight ahead. A squad of policemen advanced down the center of the road, guns drawn and aimed at the Mercedes. A glance in the rearview revealed more of the same, approaching from the rear. He heard the thrum of a helicopter’s rotor overhead. A compact, determined man dressed in a suit and overcoat emerged from the pack in front of him. He had bags beneath his eyes, but there was no mistaking the energy in his step, or the barely veiled anger. It was the same policeman who’d led the charge up the Villa Principessa’s drive two days earlier.

“Who do you work for?” asked Jinn. “CIA? MI6? Mossad? A man has a right to know who he’s dying for.”

“I don’t work for any of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m her husband.”

“Whose husband?”

Jonathan shot Jinn a sidelong glance. “Eva Kruger’s.”

“But…” A curtain fell over Jinn’s features. “Give it to me,” he demanded. “Give me the flash.”

“Sorry,” said Jonathan. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

“But the police will find it…everyone will know that I gave it to you. I must have it back.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Jonathan looked at the phalanx of police and soldiers converging on him. All along, he’d planned on turning himself in once he had proof. Now, though, he had the flash with a record of Iran’s entire nuclear program, as well as the spy who could corroborate his every claim about the events of the past days, and he realized that he still didn’t have enough. The police would confiscate the flash drive. Jinn would be returned to his delegation and whisked out of the country. And Jonathan? He’d be hung out to dry, doing twenty to life.

There was only one way clear. He had to get out of the city. He had to give the flash drive to the only people who would know what to do with it.

Shifting into reverse, he began backing up, swerving in and out of the line of cars. After twenty meters, he braked, threw the transmission into drive, spun the wheel, and accelerated up a side road. Moments later, sirens began to wail. He caught sight of several soldiers taking a knee on the road behind him, machine guns set against their shoulders. It was an easy shot: thirty meters, unobstructed, and straight as an arrow. But no one fired. There was no need. The city was a locked cage.

Jonathan punched the gas and the Mercedes devoured the steep slope. He turned left at the top of the hill. He was driving parallel to the Promenade, past chalets and apartments. It was only a matter of time until they stopped him. Still, time was what he needed. Time to think. To plan. To scheme. He was one of them now. A member of Emma’s team. A professional.

“Stop!” cried Jinn. “You’ll get us both killed!”

Jonathan looked at him from the corner of his eye. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

A police car turned onto the road behind them. It kept its distance, content to hem in one side of the trap. Jonathan turned at the next corner. The road narrowed until it was hardly more than a single lane. Pines grew overhead. He was no longer in the official Forum area. Snow had not been cleared from this part of the village. Ice crusted the road as it curved uphill into a shady forest before ending abruptly. A wall of snow blocked the path. Jonathan slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed before stopping.

Jinn fumbled with the door in an effort to escape. Jonathan punched the central lock and slammed the Iranian into his seat with his right arm. “Stay put!”

He reversed down the road in time to see a police car blocking his retreat. A pasture lay to his right. A hiking path on his left. Jonathan yanked the wheel to the left and accelerated onto the trail. Wooden fences lined either side. The path dipped, flattened, then plunged downhill. The car caromed left and right, battering the fences. Remarkably, his breath was calm, his heartbeat hardly elevated. The snow was his element. Instead of panicking, he gave in to a steely control. He held the steering wheel lightly, nudging the nose left and right, not daring to oversteer.

“Watch out!” shouted Jinn.

Directly ahead, a mother and father dragged their young children on a pair of sleds down the path. Jonathan touched the brakes, causing the car to slide left, but not to slow in the least. He slammed his palm against the horn. The couple stared back in horror and began to run. One of the children looked over her shoulder, smiled and waved.

Jonathan tapped the brakes again, which only amplified his lack of control. There was no way to slow the car.

The Mercedes rapidly ate up the distance between them. Twenty meters separated the car from the family. Fifteen. Ten. The mother slipped and fell. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

A path opened to the right.

Jonathan spun the wheel. The Mercedes lost its tail. He nudged the accelerator and the car found its bearings. The tires asserted their grip, the nose lurching forward. But only for a moment. In front of them the walking path continued downhill, but now it was bathed in the shadows of a pine legion. Snow became ice. The tires lost all purchase. He was sliding, hopelessly out of control. The tail swung right, then left, continuing through forty-five degrees, as they careened backward down the hill, gathering speed.

Jinn sat wide-eyed, one hand pressed against the ceiling, screaming.

The car jumped as it crested the path’s boundary. It hit a hard object and caromed away from it like a billiard ball from a bumper. Jonathan saw a hut flash by. Everything was moving too fast. He gripped the steering wheel and held on for life. The tail bounced violently, and suddenly, the ride grew smooth. The jarring noise disappeared, and there was silence. Jonathan realized that they were airborne. The rear of the car plummeted. The hood rose like a black wave before him, and he blinked as the sun flashed in his eyes. With a terrific thud, the car landed, tumbled onto its side, turned over once, twice, and then came to a rest on its roof.

Jinn was unconscious, his eyes closed. His teeth had dug into his lip and his mouth was bleeding, but otherwise he didn’t look hurt. Jonathan forced open the door with his shoulder and rolled to the ground. His ears were ringing and his left arm was numb. Shakily, he rose to his knees. The Mercedes had plunged off a ledge, rolled down a short slope, and ended up in a small pasture. The air was alive with the seesaw whine of a dozen sirens, all of them coming his way. He could see blue lights flashing along the path in the forest above him. He blinked, and realized that he was seeing double. A sure sign of a concussion. He squinted and his vision cleared.

Looking down the hill, he caught glimpses of the Davosstrasse between the backs of stores and buildings. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the stores. Dazed and numb, he maintained enough presence of mind to feel for the flash drive.

Thank God, it was there.

A warm breath of wind touched his back, and suddenly he was airborne. The fury of the explosion engulfed him. He landed on his stomach, his face buried in the snow. He raised himself on an elbow and peered over his shoulder. The Mercedes was awash in flames, windows blown out, the hood bent into an A-frame.

Jonathan didn’t know what had happened, whether the gas tank had exploded or if it had been something more sinister. Behind the burning car, on the hillside overlooking the meadow, a police car drew to a halt. A man jumped out.

“Dr. Ransom!” he yelled. “Stop. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

It was the officer from Ascona, the same grizzled cop he’d seen just a few minutes ago on the street.

Jonathan ran.

69

Von Daniken started down
the hillside. The snow was knee-deep and wet, and it buried his leather brogues. He didn’t care. He’d bill the department for a new pair. He put his hand on his pistol, then took it away. In thirty years of service, he’d never drawn his gun and he saw no reason to start now.

A second police car pulled up on the road behind him. Several plain-clothes officers jumped out. Suits all around. He didn’t recognize any of them. No doubt they hailed from the state police.

He turned to Myer. “Radio for a cordon to be set up on Davosstrasse to make sure Ransom doesn’t get back to the main street.”

“Chief Inspector von Daniken,” someone called.

Von Daniken looked over his shoulder. The voice…
he knew it.
He studied the men closely. He’d never seen any of them before.

“Stay where you are,” said the familiar voice. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

Von Daniken did a double take. Those are my words, he thought as he put a face to the voice. He saw the slight figure emerge from between the cars. The pale complexion. The red hair worn too long for a man his age.

“The charge is conspiring with a foreign intelligence service,” Alphons Marti called from up on the hill. “Come back to the car, Marcus, so I don’t have to tell my men to restrain you.”

Von Daniken continued to trudge through the snow.
A warrant for my arrest. How ridiculous.
Yet, deep inside, he’d been waiting for the hammer to fall. It wasn’t just what Tobi Tingeli had told him this morning, though that had sealed the deal. He’d known two nights earlier, when Marti had refused to let him call out the police to search for the drone.

He looked at Kurt Myer, but Myer was being led away, too, and forced into the back of the police cruiser.

“Are you accusing me of being a spy?” asked von Daniken.

“I let the law accuse. My job is simply to enforce it.”

Von Daniken looked from Ransom to Marti. By now, several of his men were making their way down the slope. One of them had even drawn his gun. The American was jogging in the opposite direction, away from the car. “Aren’t you going to stop him? He’s the one we’re after!”

“Not today, Marcus. Today, you’re our number-one suspect.”

By now, a crowd had gathered around the outskirts of the meadow. Several people ran toward the car, including one man with a fire extinguisher. Ransom threaded his way among them, slowing his pace to a walk, getting closer and closer to freedom.

Von Daniken began walking across the meadow, his pace quickening until he was jogging. “Ransom,” he called. “Stop! Do you hear me?”

More soldiers and policemen were reaching the scene every second. No less than ten uniformed men were making their way up the western side of the meadow, fanning out to reach the burning car. Von Daniken waved at them. “He’s over there,” he shouted, motioning toward Ransom. “In the dark suit. The tall man with black hair.”

The policemen’s eyes flitted from von Daniken to Marti. Everyone knew the members of the Bundesrat by sight. As one of the seven-member Federal Council that ruled the country, he was a prominent national figure. They were not apt to disobey his orders.

Marti barked a command to one of his aides, who radioed a message via his walkie-talkie. The assembled soldiers ignored Ransom and converged on von Daniken. Dropping his hands to his knees, the chief of the Service for Analysis and Prevention, one of the nation’s highest-ranking law enforcement officials, stopped in his tracks and waited like a common criminal for the officers to reach him. “It’s alright,” he said, out of breath. “Give me a minute.”

Marcus von Daniken straightened up and looked across the snowy meadow. Caught in the glare was the outline of a black figure, dark as a rook’s wing. Then it disappeared.

Ransom was gone.

70

Jonathan slid
from shadow to shadow, concealing himself in dark corners and recessed doorways, in damp alleys and deserted passageways. His head ached from the blast and he was certain that he’d bruised a few ribs. Still, he was free, and liberty was a bracing tonic. He had just one goal: to get out of town.

He picked his way down a side street slick with black ice. He was anxious to distance himself from the town center. If possible, there were even more policemen patrolling the sidewalks than when he’d arrived in town. A minute didn’t pass without a soldier or a policeman appearing out of nowhere and rushing past him up the hill. The column of black smoke acted like a beacon. The security teams were falling back on the red zone as if it were the Little Bighorn.

He passed several homes, an automobile garage, and an electrician’s workshop. It was difficult to walk casually. Half of him wanted to run like hell, the other half wanted to crawl into a cellar, curl up, and hide. Worst was a nearly uncontrollable desire to look over his shoulder for pursuers. Several times he’d felt certain that someone was trailing him, but upon scanning the sidewalk behind him he hadn’t been able to spot a tail.

He crossed the street and descended a steep walking path that passed between several chalets. At the bottom of the hill, the path widened. To his left rose an outdoor ice hockey stadium. To his right, a commercial road that led to the train station. A cluster of police cars were parked near the tracks. He wouldn’t get out of Davos by train.

He considered where he should go. The busier the road, the more likely he was to run into the police. He needed quiet. He needed to think. He jumped a low fence that bordered a long, low-roofed wooden hut. The stink of manure seeped from its rough-hewn log walls. Listening to the low and rustle of the cows inside, he continued to the rear of the hut.

He pulled up abruptly.

There it was again. The scratching at the base of his neck. He was certain that someone was watching him.

Pressing his back against the wall, he poked his head around the corner and stared down the path. Again, he saw no one.

He leaned his head against the wood, telling himself to calm down. He took the flash drive from his pocket. It was his key to freedom. The question remained: who held the lock?

He gathered himself, mapping out his next steps. He would find somewhere to lay up, wait until dark, and then head up the mountain. Most of the speeches were being given after six p.m. With many visitors attending the Kongresshaus, the town would be calmer, and hopefully, the police presence reduced. Once he made it past the Promenade, the going would be safer. The outer fence surrounding the town was barely two meters tall. He could be over it in ten seconds. Keeping to the mountains, he’d walk out of the valley. By morning, he’d be in Landquart, where the whole thing had begun. From there, he’d find a train or hitch a ride to Zurich.

He froze, certain that he was being watched.

Turning toward the street, he found himself face to face with a compact man several inches shorter than himself. The man was dressed in dark ski attire, but Jonathan could tell that he was no skier. The black eyes bore into him quizzically, as if he were owed an explanation. Jonathan recognized the face immediately. He was the man from the train.

The assassin’s arm shot forward, a stiletto in his hand. Jonathan dodged right, shoving the man viciously to one side. A knife. But of course, he thought. No one could penetrate security with a gun. The assassin slammed into the wall and fell to a knee.

Jonathan knew better than to fight. He’d tried his luck twice in the past days, and both times he’d come away injured. In his view, he had two strikes against him.

He ran.

He crossed the length of the livestock hut, cutting between the hut and the barn next to it. Soon he was back on a paved road, running for all he was worth. After one hundred meters, he came to a fork in the road. He chose to go in the direction that climbed the hill. Ahead, he could see cars and pedestrians crowding the Davosstrasse. He looked over his shoulder. The street was empty. The killer had vanished. Jonathan stopped running and settled into a walk.

Two police cars were parked at the end of the block. Beyond them rose a security fence topped with razor wire. It was a checkpoint governing access from the green zone to the red zone.

Jonathan slipped behind the garage of a beverage distribution company. Kegs of beer were stacked four high, row upon row. He ducked inside the maze of crates and barrels, snaking this way and that, until he reached a dead end. With nowhere to go, he freed a crate and sat down. For the moment, he was safe.

He pulled his coat around him and ran through his options. The list was depressingly short. He could no longer wait until dark. If the assassin had found him once, he’d find him again. Hiding was not an option. Bathed in shade, he began to shiver.

If only he could wait until dark…until the speeches…

Paul Noiret was scheduled to give his talk about Third World corruption this evening. If Paul was here, so was Simone.

Jolted out of his funk, he pulled out Blitz’s phone and dialed.

“Allô.”

“Simone,” he said breathlessly. “It’s Jonathan.”

“My God, where are you?”

“I’m in Davos. I’ve gotten myself in trouble. Where are you?”

“I’m here, too, of course. With Paul. Are you safe?”

“For now. But I need to get out of here.”

“Why? What’s happened? You sound frightened.”

“Do you see that plume of smoke not far from the Belvedere?”

“It’s directly across the street from my hotel. Did you hear the explosion? Paul and I think it was a bomb. He won’t let me leave the room.”

“It might have been one.”

Thinking back on the explosion, he realized that there was no reason for the gas tank to have ignited, and that the blast was several times bigger than what could have been fueled by a half tank of gasoline. Its force reminded him of an artillery burst. The car had been rigged to go off. He didn’t know how it was set off, or why the police at the checkpoint hadn’t detected the explosives. All he knew was that the explosion had blown an armored car’s engine block off its mounts and left the hood bent like a ruined pup tent.

“You mean you know something about it?” Simone asked.

“I was in the car thirty seconds before it went up. Look, Simone, I need your help. Did Paul bring his car?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just listen. If you can’t go through with what I’m asking, I’ll understand.” Jonathan forced himself to speak slowly. “I need you to get me out of town. I need a ride to Zurich. If you leave now, you can be back in time for Paul’s speech.”

“What would I tell him?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“But I don’t know what the truth is.”

“I’ll tell you everything in the car.”

“Jon, you’re putting me in a difficult spot. I told you to leave the country.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I get to the U.S. consulate.”

“The U.S. consulate? But why? They’ll only turn you over to the Swiss police.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve got something that may buy me some time.”

“What is it? Did you finally get your proof?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, losing his patience. “Will you do it?”

“I can’t tell Paul. He won’t allow it.”

“Where is he now?”

“With his colleagues, preparing for his talk.”

“Do this for Emma.”

“Where are you?”

“Drive down Davosstrasse until you pass the tourist office. Turn left and go to the bottom of the hill. You’ll see an old barn down the road to your left with a trough out front and a rusty tractor sitting out back. I’ll be waiting there.”

Simone hesitated. “Alright, then. Give me five minutes.”

A silver Renault
pulled up next to the barn on schedule. Simone rolled down her window. “Jonathan,” she called. “Are you there?”

Jonathan waited for a few seconds, his eyes on the road behind her, waiting to see if she’d been followed. When no cars approached, he waited longer still. He was certain that the assassin was out there.

Finally, he ducked from behind the shed on the opposite side of the street and dashed to the car. “Open the trunk,” he said, wrapping his knuckles against the passenger window.

Simone jumped in her seat.

“Hurry up,” he said. “Someone’s following me.”

“Who is it? Where? Do you see them?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he’s close.”

“They’re saying an Iranian minister was inside the car when it exploded. Parvez Jinn. He was set to give the keynote address tonight.”

Jonathan nodded. “The trunk,” he said.

“Tell me what I’m getting myself into.”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Come on. Hurry!”

Simone considered this, then motioned for him to get in. A moment later, she released the trunk.

“Stop in Landquart and let me out,” he said. “I’ll explain everything to you then.”

With that, he hustled to the rear of the car, arranged himself inside the trunk, and pulled it closed.