Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

A makeup kit presented itself next. Jonathan dug around inside it. Mascara. Eyeliner. Lipstick. Foundation, blush, moisturizer, and God help him, a set of false eyelashes. There was perfume, too. Tender Poison by Dior.

“And Emma?” he asked himself. She swore by Burberry’s Tender Touch. An English Rose by name and virtue.

Beneath the tubes and jars and compacts, he found a satin pouch bound by an elegant golden rope. With an inelegant yank, he unknotted it. A pirate’s booty lay inside: a Cartier slave bracelet and an emerald baguette; diamond earrings and a gold mesh necklace. He had no experience with jewelry, but he knew quality, and this was it.

He glanced up to find Simone staring at him. Jonathan felt an eerie communion between them. Their Emma did not wear power suits. Their Emma did not sport flaming red lipstick. She did not put on false eyelashes or dab Tender Poison behind her ear; and she most certainly did not possess an heiress’s jewelry. He had the impression that he was looking through another woman’s belongings.

Simone was examining a ring she’d taken from the pouch. “E.A.K.,” she said. “Know anyone by those initials?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Take a look on the inside.” It was a gold wedding band engraved “E.A.K. 2-8-01.” “That’s who the bag belongs to,” she said. “Mrs. E.A.K., who was married February 8, 2001. It must be one of Emma’s friends.”

Jonathan ran through the E’s he knew. He came up with an Ed, an Ernie, and an Étienne, but he didn’t think the thong was their size. The female list was shorter and ran to one name: Evangeline Larsen, a Danish doctor with whom he’d worked four years earlier.

There was a last item in the jewelry pouch. A stainless and gold ladies’ Rolex wristwatch with a diamond-crusted bezel. To Jonathan, it was the surest proof yet that his wife had no claim on the bag. A Rolex was the symbol of everything they found wrong with the world. Status for sale at five thousand bucks a shot. And Emma’s timepiece of choice? A Casio G-Force favored by hockey players, U.S. Marines, and aid professionals with a duty to interfere.

There was more in the bag. A pair of shoes. Size 5 1/ 2. Emma’s size. He knew because she had small feet and often carped about how hard it was to find anything that fit. Stockings. A box of breath mints. An eyeglass case holding fashionable tortoiseshell spectacles.

Jonathan ran his hands along the inside of the bag. He felt something firm and rectangular tucked inside the wall. A wallet, he guessed. But even as he unzipped the compartment and removed the grosgrain crocodile billfold inside, something was nagging at him. It was the ring. A married woman didn’t take off her wedding band unless she was bathing or swimming, and even then, it was questionable. The thought of trusting it to a poorly secured overnight bag that had been placed on a common train was…well, it was unthinkable.

The billfold held a Eurocard, a Crédit Suisse ATM card, an American Express card, and a Rainbow Card entitling the bearer to use of Zug public transit for a year’s time.

“Eva Kruger,” he said, reading the cardholder’s name. E.A.K. “Ever heard of her?”

Simone shook her head. “She must be one of Emma’s contacts. I’m glad it will be you telephoning her to tell her what you did to her lovely bag and not me.”

But Jonathan didn’t respond. Not to the comment or its implicit humor. He had set about making an inventory of the wallet. There was cash in the amount of one thousand Swiss francs and five hundred euros. In the coin purse, he found four francs and fifty rappen.

Abruptly, he sat up. It came to him that there was one thing missing. Something Mrs. Eva Kruger, the law-abiding owner of a Mercedes-Benz, wouldn’t be caught dead without. Mind racing, he opened the crocodile wallet. It was a surgeon’s shockproof hands that defied his thumping heart and navigated through the credit cards and banknotes, delving into every possible nook and cranny.

He discovered Eva Kruger’s driver’s license, slipped into the space beneath the credit cards. He unfolded it and studied the color photograph affixed inside. An attractive woman with sleek brown hair pulled severely off her forehead, chic tortoiseshell spectacles hiding large amber eyes, and a full mouth gazed into the camera.

“What is it?” asked Simone. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

But Jonathan couldn’t speak. There was a great pressure on his chest, robbing him of air. He looked at the driver’s license again. Behind the diva’s mascara and the tart’s lipstick, Emma stared back at him.

Jonathan threw open the door and stepped outside. Walking a few paces, he stopped to lean against a tree. It was difficult to keep moving, to act as if the world hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet. He forced himself to regard the image of the severe woman with the slicked hair and the fashionable spectacles staring brazenly into the camera.

Eva Kruger.

One look at the photo and the idea of Emma having had an affair seemed an annoyance. No worse than a fly on a horse’s ass. But this-a false driver’s license, a false name, an entire double life-this was a black hole.

Simone came round the front of the car and stood next to him. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Wait until we get back to Geneva. Then we’ll find out.”

“That watch costs ten thousand francs. And what about the other jewelry? The clothes? The makeup? Tell me, Simone, just what kind of explanation do you have in mind?”

She paused, thinking. “I don’t…I mean I can’t.”

He glanced down at his jacket and saw a patch of blood encrusted on it. He didn’t know if it was his or one of the policemen’s. Either way, the sight revolted him. He struggled out of the jacket and tossed it onto the hood of the car. The cold hit him immediately. “Hand me the sweater, would you?”

Simone retrieved the cashmere sweater from the car. “Here you are…”

An envelope dropped from the sweater’s folds into the snow. Jonathan traded glances with Simone, then picked it up. The envelope was unmarked, but heavy. He knew its contents immediately. It had the right heft, the right shape. He tore it open. Money. Lots of it. Thousand-franc notes. Newly minted and crisp as tracing paper.

“My God,” said Simone, eyes agog. “How much is it?”

“A hundred,” he said, after counting the stack.

“A hundred what?”

“One hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

I have hidden resources, Emma had said.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Simone was laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical laugh a hair’s breadth from out of control.

“Now we know,” said Jonathan, transfixed by the stack of banknotes.

“Know what?” asked Simone.

“Why the police wanted the bag.”

He slipped the bills back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. It remained to be seen how they’d known the bags were in Landquart, and more important, at least to Jonathan’s mind, why Emma was meant to be the recipient of so much cash.

A breeze rustled the branches, wrestling flocks of snow to the ground. Shivering, he pulled the sweater over his head. The cashmere crewneck clung at his chest and his shoulders. The sleeves stopped three inches short of his wrist.

It was another man’s sweater.

“Have you seen these?” demanded Justice Minister Alphons Marti, as von Daniken entered his office. “NZZ. Tribune de Genève. Tages-Anzeiger.” He snatched up the phone messages and balled them in his fist. “Every newspaper in the country wants to know what happened at the airport yesterday.”

Von Daniken removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. “What have you told them?”