Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

Alone, she watched the train exit the station.

When the taillights had faded into the darkness, she strode down the platform to the buffet. Decorated in brasserie style, the restaurant was doing a lively trade, mostly businessmen enjoying a beer or ristretto on their way home from work. She took a table by the window and lit a cigarette.

The waiter arrived and she ordered a whiskey. Uno doppelte, per favore. The drink came shortly and she drank it in a single gulp. She called her husband and chatted with him about the goings-on at the World Economic Forum, then informed him that she would arrive in Davos sometime after one a.m. “Jonathan’s fine,” she added. “Very upset, naturally, the poor lamb, and keeping it all inside. Just like him. No, he hasn’t scheduled a date for the service.”

Just then, the table rattled and a pale, compact man sat down across from her. Simone looked up sharply. “I’m afraid this table’s reserved,” she said, lowering the phone. “There are plenty of other places free.”

“I enjoy sitting by the window.”

She bit back the comment on the tip of her tongue.

“Paul, I have to go. Train’s here. Bye, love.” Simone dropped the phone into her purse. For the first time, she looked directly at the man seated across the table. He had sad eyes and skin so pale as to be translucent. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. “Yes, the view can be nice,” she responded. “But I prefer it in summer.”

“I’m in Zurich during the summer.”

Simone slipped a piece of paper across the table. “He’s in a black Mercedes,” she said. “Temporary plates. He’s headed to Goppenstein. The car ferry through the mountain. He told me that he’s trying to make the 10:21 to Kandersteg.”

The Ghost studied the paper for a moment, then tore it in half and dropped it in the ashtray. “And from there?”

“To Zug. You should have no problem following him. He’s wearing a tracking device around his neck.”

“That will make things easier.” The Ghost lit a match and set fire to the scraps of paper.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He didn’t answer and she felt foolish and angry for having betrayed her concern.

“He has a briefcase with him,” Simone continued, in a harder voice. “Get it. And make sure you find the flash drive. It’s concealed in a wristband he’s wearing on his right hand. And watch the tailgating,” she added. “I had you the whole way from Blitz’s house.”

“It wasn’t me. I was waiting in the parking lot.”

“You’re sure?”

The black eyes met her own. “I followed your instructions,” he said, his voice quieter.

“Good.” Simone nodded. “Oh, and one more thing…he’s armed.”

The Ghost rose from his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

Simone slid lower into her chair and lit another cigarette. She stared out the window into the darkness.

Leaving Ascona, Jonathan did not follow the signs north, toward Lugano, Airolo, and the St. Gotthard Tunnel that could guide him under the pass and deliver him safely to his destination in three hours. As he had the night before, he took to the mountains. Using the car’s onboard navigation system, he punched in the name of the town where he was headed. The route appeared on the screen. A voice told him to turn left in five hundred meters and after five hundred meters he turned left. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and drifted away from the water, moving up the Versazca valley and beginning a series of lazy switchbacks into the mountains. Banks of silvery clouds tumbled down the hillsides. It began to rain in earnest, and soon the rain turned to sleet, striking the windshield like a fistful of nails.

Blitz’s briefcase sat on the floor next to him. He thought of the memorandum to Eva Kruger concerning the termination of Project Thor. The memo was innocuous enough, but for the mention of Thor on Emma’s flash drive. “Who is this?” Hoffmann had demanded, not with anger so much, but with palpable fear.

It was a question Jonathan wanted to ask for himself. It was the subterfuge that gnawed at him worst. The planning. The falsehoods. The deception. How long had it been going on? he wanted to ask Emma. When did it all start? How many times did you lie to me? And, finally, how could I not have known?

He turned on the heater. Warm air swirled inside the car, bringing with it a familiar scent. Vanilla and sandalwood. Reflexively, he looked to the passenger seat. Expectation crowded every corner of his being. It was empty, of course, but for a second, he had been certain of Emma’s presence. He had smelled her hair.

“I have a confession to make,” says Emma. “I’ve been reading your mail.”

It is August. A Sunday morning. They have journeyed to Sanaya, a skeletal town on Jordan ’s eastern border with Iraq. It is a temporary assignment. Three days filling in for one of Emma’s colleagues who has been stricken with appendicitis. The work is pleasant, if undemanding. Colds. Infections. Minor cuts and bruises.

It is early and they lie side by side atop a flurry of tangled sheets. An open window brings a warm, fitful breeze and the chant of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Alone and undisturbed, they have rediscovered the habits of courtship, making love each morning, drifting back to sleep afterward, making love again.

Paris is forgotten. There are no headaches. No empty stares.

“Reading my mail?” Jonathan asks. “Find anything exciting?”

“You tell me.”

“A letter from my girlfriend in Finland?”

“You’ve never been to Finland.”

“A copy of Playboy?”

“Nope,” she says, sliding on top of him and sitting up. “You don’t need a girlie mag.”

“I give up,” says Jonathan, running his hands over her hips, her breasts, feeling himself stir. “What was it?”

“I’ll give you a hint: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Her accent is atrocious. Paris by way of Penzance.

“We just did. At least, I think that qualifies.”

Emma shakes her head in exasperation. “Ah, oui, oui,” she continues. “Uh, je t’aime. Pepé le pew. Magnifique… ”

“You love Pepé Le Pew? Now I know I married a nutcase.”

“Non, non. Fromage. Duck à l’orange. Pâtisserie.”

“Something French? You read my copy of the Guide Michelin?”

Emma claps her hands, her eyes bright. He is getting warmer. “Um… Croix-Rouge…Jean Calvin…Fondue,” she goes on, rambling merrily.

The lightbulb goes on inside Jonathan’s head. She’s talking about the letter from Doctors Without Borders. A curt note from his boss asking if he’ll accept a post at headquarters in Geneva. “Oh that.”

“‘Oh that’? Come on,” she says, falling onto the bed by his side. “You weren’t going to tell me? That’s great news.”

“Is it?”

“Let’s go. We’ve done our bit.”

“ Geneva? It’s admin. I’d be stuck behind a desk.”

“It’s a promotion. You’d be in charge of organizing all missions going into Africa and the Middle East.”

“I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to be with patients.”

“It’s not like it’s forever. Besides, it will do you good to have a change of pace.”

“ Geneva isn’t a change of pace. It’s a change of profession.”