Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

“And so,” said Hirsch, rubbing his thick, hairless forearms. “Are we supposed to put our hands up and surrender? Is that what our Persian friends desire? Do they expect us to stand still while they arm their rockets with warheads that can destroy our cities?”

A former major general in the Israeli Defense Force, he knew all too well the scenarios involving a nuclear strike on Israeli soil. Israel occupied a land mass three hundred miles long and one hundred fifty miles wide. However, ninety percent of the population was clustered around Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, cities just thirty miles apart. A nuclear strike on either would not only kill a significant percentage of the population, but would wipe out the country’s industrial infrastructure. The radioactive fallout would render the landscape uninhabitable for years to come. Simply put, there would be nowhere for the population to go, save out of the country. A new diaspora.

None of his section chiefs answered.

“I have a meeting with the prime minister in an hour,” Hirsch went on. “I’d like to be able to show that we haven’t been caught with our peckers in our hands. I imagine he’ll be interested in one question and one question only. Will they launch on us?”

Collections pursed his lips. “The president of Iran is a believer in the apocalyptic end times as stated in the Koran. He sees it as his personal mission to hasten the return of the twelfth Imam, known as the Mahdi, the rightful descendant of the Prophet Mohammed. It’s written that his return will be preceded by a confrontation between the forces of good and evil that will see a period of prolonged warfare, political upheaval, and bloodshed. At the end of the period, the Mahdi will lead the world to an era of universal peace. First, though, he has to destroy Israel.”

“Great,” said Hirsch. “Remind me not to come to you for good news next time.”

“There’s more. The president’s drive to gain control of the levers of power has been incredibly successful. He’s dismissed hundreds of the country’s leaders in education, medicine, and diplomacy who don’t share his beliefs, and replaced them with his cronies from the Republican Guard. Worse yet, he’s got his own man elected as the country’s supreme religious leader. Six months ago, the president’s ambitions might have been held in check by the top clerics. Not anymore. This new guy, Ayatollah Razdi, is certifiable. He’s on the horn to Mohammed on a regular basis. He is definitely not a rational actor.”

“You want to know if he’ll pull the trigger,” Metsada asked. “I think we have the answer already.”

Collections nodded. “The president is taking Iran back to the Age of Mohammed. On numerous occasions, he’s said publicly that the Prophet Himself has spoken to him and informed him that His return is only two years away. He’s got one hand on the Koran and the other on the trigger.”

“He can’t keep the program a secret forever.” Metsada’s voice had acquired a venomous edge. “When word gets out, he knows we’ll act.”

“Unless he acts first.” Hirsch dropped into his chair with a grunt. “It’s like March of 1936 all over again.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Hitler ordered his troops into the Rhineland to take back the territory annexed to France after the First World War. His soldiers were poorly trained and pathetically armed. Some didn’t even have bullets for their rifles. The commander carried two sets of orders in his pocket. One to open if the French fought back, the other if they didn’t.

“The French let the Boches walk right in, and even treated them like liberators. The commander opened the first set of orders. He was told to occupy the territory and hand out German flags to the citizens. The event was a watershed. Until that day, Hitler had been all bluster and hot air. After he took back the Rhineland, he began to take himself more seriously. And so did the rest of the world.”

“Excuse me, Zvi,” interrupted Collections. “What did the second set of orders say?”

“The second set?” Zvi Hirsch smiled sadly. “If fired upon, the commander was to immediately retreat and return the soldiers to the barracks. Essentially, it told him to cut and run at the first sign of conflict. The shame would have been too great for the country to endure. The government would have fallen. One shot and Hitler would have been forced out of office.”

“Are you saying we have to confront him?”

Hirsch turned and stared out the window. “I don’t think it will be that easy this time.”

Jonathan sat with knees drawn to his chest, his back against the wall. A nook in the corner opposite held a vase of fresh flowers. A crude iron crucifix hung above it. The shelter had been built into the hillside by the Swiss Alpine Club and resembled a grotto, its floor and walls fashioned from stone and mortar. From where he sat, he had a clear view of all paths converging to his position. One led from the east, a level track tracing the hillside’s contour. Another climbed from the lake, zigging and zagging in a series of switchbacks. A third track approached from the west. Beyond the hillocks that fell steeply away, through the torrential rain, the whipped gray crescent of Lago Maggiore filled the horizon.

Simone lay on her back on the rough flooring, her clothing drenched, her chest heaving. “Do you see anyone?” she asked, panting. “Anyone at all? Are they following us?”

“No,” said Jonathan. “There’s nobody out there.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” With a grunt, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “This is too much,” she said, cradling her head in her hands. “I’m terrified. That man…Blitz…I’ve never seen a man shot like that. What are we going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Abruptly, Simone lifted her head, as if seized by an idea. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said. “We’re going to get off this mountain. We’re going to take a bus into Lugano and find a place to dry off. Then we’ll buy you new clothes. A suit. Something professional. Then we’ll cut and dye your hair and put you on a train to Milan. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“I need a passport first,” said Jonathan. “Preferably one without my name or picture inside it.”

Simone waved off her initial plan. “Okay, forget the train. We’ll wait for a while, then go back and get the car. We’ll drive across the border. They wave everyone through. They won’t stop a banker in a Mercedes. I’ll come with you.”

As she spoke, her eyes bore into him. Christ, thought Jonathan, if I look as scared as she does, we’re in trouble.

“And then what?” he said. “Keep running?” Hauling himself to his feet, he pointed across the mountainside in the direction of Blitz’s villa. “Look back there. The police know all about the stunt I pulled at the railway station. My fingerprints are all over Blitz’s office. I’m the killer, Simone. I’m the guy who blew Blitz’s brains out. Whatever chance I had of convincing them that what happened yesterday was self-defense is gone.”

“That’s why you need to leave the country.”

“That won’t solve anything.”

“But you’d be alive. You’d be safe.”

“For how long? They won’t stop looking for me just because I crossed the border. They’ll send my picture to every country in Europe.”

Jonathan crossed his arms, trying to imagine how it would play out if he left the country. Time and again, he came to a dead end. He couldn’t see it, partly because his mind wasn’t conditioned to cut and run. He’d spent years battling up impossible slopes in impossible conditions. After a while, he’d gotten to thinking that you could do anything if only you didn’t quit. You didn’t have to be great. You just had to keep going.