Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

The Pilot sat behind the wheel. He was careful to keep his speed under the legal limit. At every stop sign, he brought the van to a full halt. He had checked that all of the vehicle’s running lights were in working order. Confronted with a yellow traffic signal, he slowed and was content to wait. Under no circumstance could he risk police attention. Examination of the stainless steel crates in the cargo bay would prove disastrous. If the plan had any weakness, it was this: the necessity to transport the drone on public streets without safeguard.

The van slid through Oerlikon, Glattbrugg, and Opfikon, on the outskirts of Zurich. Soon, it left behind the lanes crowded with apartments and homes, and entered a sparse pine forest. The road climbed steeply through the trees. After a few minutes, the forest fell away and the van crested the foothill, coming upon a broad snow-crusted park. Here the street dead-ended and the Pilot guided the van onto a macadam road that ran the length of the park, approximately one kilometer in length. Black ice layered the asphalt. He could feel the tires losing their grip even at this slow speed. He was not unduly concerned. The location met his demanding specifications. The road-or runway, as he preferred to think of it-was as straight as a ruler. There were no trees nearby to interfere with the takeoff. In a few days, the ice would be gone, anyway. The forecast called for a front of high pressure moving over the area by Friday, bringing sunshine and a sharp increase in temperature.

Continuing to the end of the road, he swung the van into a private drive. The garage door was open and the pavement cleared of snow and ice. Seconds after he pulled into the shelter, the door closed behind him.

He left the garage by a side door and walked outside, eager to stretch his legs after the long drive. As he headed toward the park, a roar built in the air, a shrill, ear-piercing whistle that assaulted his ears. The noise grew louder. He gazed into the night sky as the belly of an airliner passed overhead, no more than a thousand feet above him. The plane was an Airbus A380, the new double-deck jumbo jet designed to carry up to six hundred passengers. The engines whined magnificently as the plane climbed higher into the sky. It was close enough for him to read the insignia on the tail. A purple orchid with the word “Thai” beneath it. The 21:30 flight to Bangkok.

The Pilot watched the plane disappear into the clouds, then turned and looked behind him. Sprawled on the plain below was a city within a city. A multitude of lights illuminating long strips of concrete, steel, and glass passenger terminals, and capacious hangars, surrounded by fields of snow.

Zurich Airport.

The view couldn’t have been better.

“Lay your head back,” said Simone, massaging the dye into his clean wet hair. “First, we let it sink in, then we wash it out, then we cut it. Sicilian Black. You won’t recognize yourself.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Seated on a stool, Jonathan lowered his head into the washbasin and closed his eyes. Simone’s strong fingers worked the dye to all parts of his scalp, massaging the temples, the crown, working down the nape of his neck. The amphetamines had long since worn off. The fuel-injected madness that had led him to storm Blitz’s house and had scripted his fiery exchange with Hannes Hoffmann, the executive at ZIAG, belonged to some foggy, distant past. He felt bone tired, his skin still tingling from the hot shower. Simone’s hands worked the cords at the base of his skull. He exhaled, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, allowed himself to relax.

They had stayed in the hills until early afternoon, when they’d descended to the highway and taken a bus to Lugano, a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants spread along the shores of its eponymous lake, thirty kilometers to the east. While Jonathan hid in a movie theater, Simone had gone store to store, purchasing new outfits for both of them. Afterward, they’d walked to the outskirts of town, looking for a place to spend the night.

The hotel was called the Albergo del Lago. It was a small, family-run establishment situated on the outskirts of Lugano. A terra-cotta palace with twenty rooms all overlooking the lake, and a pizzeria downstairs to justify its two stars. Using Simone’s passport and credit card, they had checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Paul Noiret. In place of suitcases, they carried shopping bags filled with clothing, toiletries, and a dinner of roast chicken and pommes frites purchased from a Provençal delicatessen. To inquiring eyes, they were lovers repairing to their hotel after a day in the city.

“All done,” said Simone, peeling off the latex gloves. “In fifteen minutes, your hair will be as black as Elizabeth Taylor’s.”

“I didn’t know she was Sicilian.”

Simone slapped his shoulder. “Smart-ass. Now stay where you are and let the color settle.”

She folded a towel and laid it across his eyes to make sure that no dye seeped down. The next thing he knew, she was shaking his shoulder, telling him to wake up. “Time for your rinse.”

The towel came off his eyes. He blinked at the bright overhead lamps. “I fell asleep for a minute.”

“More like twenty.” Simone turned on the faucet, and when the water was warm, she washed out the dye. Using newly purchased scissors, she trimmed his hair until the curls were gone, and it stayed straight when she combed it. “Stand up. Let me have a look.”

Jonathan stood.

“Just a little more work.” Laying her fingers along his jaw, she held his head in place while she styled his hair to her satisfaction. Finally, she put her hands on his shoulders and spun him around so he could see the completed picture in the mirror. “Done,” she said. “Recognize that guy?”

“That’s frightening.”

“Not quite the response I was looking for.”

The man staring back looked ten years younger. He was the diplomat his father had always wanted, ready and willing to steal away mineral rights from a third world country. The Park Avenue surgeon with an advanced degree in phony compliments. He had to fight from mussing the part in his hair. He smiled and his teeth fairly blazed beneath the bright lights. Not a man you’d want to buy a used car from, he thought.

In short, it was perfect.

“Not Liz Taylor,” he said, slipping out of the bathroom. “But I’ll settle for Vince Vaughn.”

“You’re at least Brad Pitt.”

“He’s blond.”

“Who cares? I’ll take him any color he wants.”

Jonathan walked into the bedroom and picked out the bag holding his new clothing. He put it on the bed and set out the navy suit and overcoat. The television was on. The commentator was speaking Italian, saying that a second policeman attacked the day before in Landquart had died, and that the manhunt for the American doctor wanted in connection with the crime had been extended to the Tessin, where the body of a German businessman had been found early this morning. Jonathan sat down and listened. Twice he heard his name enunciated. Dottore Jonathan Ransom. Thankfully, there was no picture.

The commentator moved on to the weather, but Jonathan was no longer paying attention. He was thinking of the television in the lobby that had been blaring the evening headlines when they’d checked in, and the concierge, whose narrow black eyes didn’t miss a trick. If the manhunt had been extended to the Tessin, the police would have contacted every hotel in the area. Faxes would have been sent with his name and description. They might even know that he was traveling with a woman.

He walked to the balcony, opened the door, and stepped into the rain. Far along the lake, he caught sight of a flashing blue-and-white strobe approaching. A hundred meters behind it was another.