Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

Von Daniken narrowed his eyes. “How’s that?”

“With a charge of that size, the drone itself is, in effect, a missile. It wouldn’t necessarily have to wait for a plane to become airborne to kill everyone aboard. It could just as easily destroy the target on the ground. The detonation would ignite the fuel in the wing tanks. The fireball and the shrapnel it would provoke would initiate a chain reaction. Any plane parked within twenty meters would cook off like overheated ammunition.”

Grimacing, Chabert ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Gentlemen, you may very well lose the entire airport.”

Chabert had left five minutes earlier. Von Daniken sat on the edge of the conference table, arms crossed over his chest, as Alphons Marti paced the floor. Only the two of them were left in the room.

“We need to alert the proper authorities,” said von Daniken. “I think the call should come from your office.”

The list was long and ran to the Federal Office of Civil Aviation, the Federal Security Service, the police departments of Zurich, Bern, Basel, and Lugano, as well as their brother agencies in France, Germany, and Italy, over whose airspace the drone could intrude. It would be up to them to contact the airlines.

“I agree, but I think it’s too early in the game. I mean, exactly what kind of attack are we talking about?”

“I thought we just went over that.”

“Yes, yes, but what about the specifics? Do we have a date, a time, or even a place? Everything we know so far is based on the ravings of a terrorist who gave up the information under what I can only imagine as the utmost duress.”

Marti’s tone was reasonable, a patient parent upbraiding a rowdy child. Von Daniken matched it note perfect. “Gassan may have been under duress, but what he said has proven accurate. He wasn’t lying when he said he delivered fifty kilos of Semtex to Gottfried Blitz, a.k.a. Mahmoud Quitab. We also have a photo showing that Blitz either is, or was, an Iranian military officer. I feel comfortable assuming that Lammers built a drone and delivered it to Blitz. I’d say that, coupled with Gassan’s confession that Blitz’s target was a plane in Switzerland, is more than enough for us to go to the authorities.”

“Granted, but both Lammers and Blitz are dead. Would it be unreasonable to assume that the other members of their group-oh, what do you call it-their cell, might also be dead? If you ask me, I’d say someone’s doing our work for us.”

Von Daniken thought of the flecks of white paint found on the corner of Blitz’s garage, the twenty kilos of missing plastic explosives, the tire tracks that matched those of the Volkswagen van reported to have been used to transport the explosives. “There are more of them out there. The operation’s bigger than two men.”

“Maybe there are, Marcus. I won’t dispute that something’s going on. But you’re not giving me much ammunition. Tell the civil aviation chieftains, and then what? Do you expect them to cancel their flights? Are they going to reroute all planes headed our way to Munich and Stuttgart and Milan and ship everyone here by rail and bus? What if we had a threat against a tunnel? Should we shut down the San Bernardino and the Gotthard? Of course not.”

Von Daniken stared hard at Marti. “We’ll need the close support of the local police,” he said after a moment, pretending that he hadn’t heard a word that Marti had said. “We’ll go house to house in a radius of ten kilometers from the airport. Then we’ll-”

“Didn’t you hear the general?” Marti interrupted in the same maddeningly reasonable tone. “The drone could be launched from anywhere. It could take out a plane in France or Germany, or…or, in Africa, for all we know. Please, Marcus.”

Von Daniken dug a fingernail into his palm. This wasn’t happening, he told himself. Marti was not making light of the threat. “As I was saying, we’ll begin with a house-to-house search. I promise you it will be conducted quietly. We’ll start in Zurich and Geneva.”

“And how many policemen do you expect this will involve?”

“Several hundred.”

“Ah? Several hundred quiet policemen who’ll walk on their tiptoes and not breathe a word of why they had to leave their wives and children in the dead of night to go knocking door-to-door with instructions to look for an armed missile.”

“Not to look for a missile. To speak with residents and inquire if they’ve noticed any suspicious activity. We’ll run the operation under the guise of a search for a missing child.”

“‘Quiet policemen.’ ‘A friendly inquiry.’ By tomorrow morning half the country will know what we’re up to, and by tomorrow evening, I’ll be on the evening news explaining to the other half that we believe that there’s a terrorist cell operating within our borders with the intention of shooting down a passenger airliner, and that there isn’t a damned thing we can do to stop them.”

“Exactly,” said von Daniken. “We do believe that there’s a terrorist cell operating within our borders with precisely that intention.”

He was losing. He could feel the argument slipping from his grasp as if it were sand slipping through his fingers.

Marti shot him a look of damning appraisal. “Do you have any idea of the panic you’ll sow?” he asked. “You may very well shut down the entire air transport grid for central Europe. This isn’t a bomb in someone’s luggage. The economic cost alone…not to mention to our country’s reputation…”

“We’ll need to station Stinger teams on airport roofs and move some antiaircraft batteries around the perimeter of the runways.”

Von Daniken waited for Marti to protest, but the justice minister remained quiet. He sat down and locked his hands behind his head, staring into space. After a moment, he shook his head and von Daniken knew that it was over. He’d lost. Worse, he knew that Marti wasn’t entirely mistaken to preach calm.

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” said Marti. “Before we do any of those things, we need to corroborate this plot. If this Blitz, or Quitab…or whatever his name is…had cohorts, you’ll find them, along with the twenty kilos of missing plastic explosives and the white van. If you want me to shut down our entire country, you must give me concrete evidence of a plot to shoot down an airliner on Swiss soil. I won’t paralyze the country based on a confession extracted by your buddies at the CIA.”

“And Ransom?”

“What about him?” Marti asked offhandedly as he stood and made his way to the door. “He’s a murder suspect. Leave him to the cantonal authorities.”

“I’m waiting to learn if the detective who was injured has come out of a coma. I’m hoping he might be able to shed some light on what Ransom might have wanted with those bags.”

“You needn’t bother. I was told that the detective succumbed to his injuries an hour ago. Now Ransom’s wanted for two murders.”

Von Daniken felt as if he’d been stabbed in the back. “But he’s the key-”

Marti’s eye twitched and a hint of color fired in his cheeks. The anger had been there all along. It had just been kept well hidden. “No, Chief Inspector, the key to this investigation is finding that van and the men who want to shoot down a jet over Swiss soil. Forget about Ransom. That’s an order.”

The van trawled the streets of the sleeping neighborhood. It was no longer white. Days earlier it had been repainted a flat black, its side panels stenciled with the name of a fictitious catering company. The phone number advertised was active and would be answered professionally. The Swiss license plates had likewise been replaced by German ones, beginning with the letters “ST,” for Stuttgart, a large industrial city close to the border.