Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

The first indication of a change in the atmosphere had come upon her return to the restaurant the evening before. Jonathan had noticed immediately that her face was slightly drawn, her acting skills nowhere on display. Without explanation, she’d insisted they leave immediately, saying only that he needed his rest. Things were no better at the hotel. If anything, her demeanor cooled from icy to glacial. Attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. He’d woken at three a.m. to find an empty space in the bed next to him. Rising, he’d found her at the salon window, staring at the crescent moon.

The Audi left the highway and climbed a narrow country road into the forest. The asphalt gave way to hard-packed snow. Pine trees closed around them. Shadows replaced the sun. The interior of the car cooled immediately. Ahead, a steel barrier blocked the road. A sign next to it read, “No Trespassing. Property of Swiss Defense Department. Rifle Range and Storehouse.”

Von Daniken left the engine idling and unlocked the barrier, needing both hands to push it out of the way. When he returned, he looked more morose than ever. For the first time that day, Jonathan felt anxious.

“I’m supposed to be taking the place of a plastic surgeon,” he said. “What do I have to practice shooting for?”

“Who said anything about shooting?” Von Daniken put the car in gear and drove another kilometer before stopping in a gravel parking lot fronting a long concrete building that resembled a barracks. Another car was parked close to the entry.

“Out,” said von Daniken.

Jonathan opened the door. “You coming?” he asked Danni, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

“I know this part,” she said. Then, softening, “Go ahead, Jonathan. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Two men stood inside a large multipurpose room. Fluorescent lights shone overhead. Some chairs were stacked in one corner. Gym mats covered half the floor. Someone had forgotten to turn on the heat. The room was chill and damp.

“This is Mr. Amman and Mr. Schmid,” said von Daniken. “They’re going to teach you some useful skills.”

Amman was slight and blond, and his ruddy, wind-burned skin marked him as an outdoorsman. Schmid was taller and more muscular, his head shaved, the circles under his eyes accentuated by his pale skin and heavy stubble.

“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 Madchen,” 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 Madchen,” 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?”