Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

Krajcek was in Zurich, debriefing several informants and had not yet reported back.

Only Hardenberg was frustrated. As for locating the van, he’d so far managed to narrow the list to 18,654 owners of Volkswagen vans in the country. He was waiting on word from rental car companies and from the cantonal police authorities regarding stolen vans that fit the description.

“What about ISIS?” von Daniken asked, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.

“I’ve put in my request,” said Hardenberg. “White Volkswagen van with Swiss plates. We’ll see what comes back.”

“Try centering the search on Germany first.”

“Already did. I set Leipzig as a primary target, and all cities in a fifty-kilometer radius as a secondary. We should get some hits.”

Cataloguing warrants and maintaining a database on individuals deemed of interest to the government formed only one part of the ISIS system. Another tied into the hundreds of thousands of surveillance cameras located across Europe. Every minute of every day, these cameras snapped photographs of whatever vehicles (and people) happened to cross their lens. The license numbers of every car photographed automatically fed into a system linking the databases of intelligence agencies of over thirty countries. It was a kind of “criminal Internet.” Each database would then run the license numbers against any stolen or otherwise suspected vehicles in that country. All over Europe, warnings were continually dispatched that a car stolen in Spain had been seen in Paris. Or a truck used in a jewel robbery in Nice had been spotted in Rome. It was policing without policemen, and it resulted in thousands of arrests each year.

The downside was that the process was painstakingly slow. With the sheer volume of photographs-millions per day-there was nothing like real-time results.

“Keep at it,” said von Daniken. “Let me know the moment anything turns up. You have my number.”

Hardenberg nodded and set to work.

Satisfied that things were starting off on the right foot, von Daniken took the elevator to the ground floor and left the building. Once in his car, he drove directly to the autobahn, where he joined the A1 in the direction of Geneva. He’d have to hurry if he intended on being at the headquarters of Doctors Without Borders by noon.

The Gasthof Rössli was situated across the street from the factory gates of Zug Industriewerk. It was an old-style beiz, or family-owned establishment, with arolla pine walls, a parquet wood floor, and an army of bleached Steinbock antlers mounted on the wall. At noon, the main dining room was warm and stuffy and packed to bursting.

Jonathan walked among the tables, noting the profusion of blue work jackets with the company’s name embroidered in gothic script above the left breast pocket. The same name with the same script was also visible on the identification cards worn around the necks of nearly every other diner. ZIAG. Plainly, the Gasthof Rössli was a favored alternative to the company cafeteria.

At the bar, customers sat nursing steins of beer and eating lunch. There were several stools open, and he settled on one next to a burly, bearded man whose ample belly and vein-tipped nose made no secret of his affection for alcohol. Like most of the others, he sported a white identification card dangling on a blue lanyard around his neck. Jonathan had thirty minutes to get his hands on it.

Sliding onto the stool, he took a look at the menu. He was aware of the man observing him. High in one corner a television broadcast the news mutely. It was difficult to keep from looking up at it. He ordered soup and a beer, and waited for his moment.

Jonathan had arrived in Zug at eleven o’clock after spending the night on the backseat of his car in the parking lot of a Mercedes-Benz dealership outside Bern. It was his first rest in thirty-six hours, and though he’d slept longer than he would have liked, at least he was approaching the day somewhat refreshed.

He’d spent the morning circling the factory, first by car, and later on foot. His visit was not unexpected. Hoffmann had taken his call to heart. Jonathan needed no further proof than the compact car marked “Securitas” parked near the headquarters’ entry. Securitas was a well-known security firm. A similar vehicle had taken up position at a discreet location near the factory entrance. The uniformed guards were content to linger in their automobiles and eye the workers entering the plant from a distance. It was all very low-key. Very discreet. Their presence designed not to disturb, just to be noticed.

The problem was that it was too low-key, reasoned Jonathan. If a friend of mine had been killed the day before, and my name might figure next on the list, I’d hire the entire security company to sit out in front of my place of business, he thought. There would be nothing low-key about it.

Then it struck him why…

There was no other way.

ZIAG was a legitimate company. It had been in business for over a hundred years. It had revenues of ninety million francs. It employed five hundred people. Hannes Hoffmann, Gottfried Blitz, and Eva Kruger were intruders. They weren’t part of the core organization. The real company. They made up the shadow company. The company inside the company. With the collusion of someone high up, they’d burrowed into ZIAG the way a tick burrows under the skin. A parasite nourishing itself on its host’s lifeblood.

Cover.

But why had they chosen ZIAG?

Jonathan’s soup arrived. The bearded man seated alongside him threw him a glance and wished him a perfunctory, “En guete.” Jonathan thanked him and concentrated on his soup. He didn’t want to appear to be too anxious. He finished the soup, then caught the man’s eye. “Excuse me,” he said with proper deference. “Do you know if the company is hiring?”

The worker took in Jonathan’s formal attire. “Always looking for somebody, though I don’t know about the director’s office.”

“Funeral,” said Jonathan, offering an excuse for his dark suit and tie. “I’m a machinist by trade. What about you?”

“Electrical engineer.”

The man was better trained than he looked. Electrical engineering was strictly for quant jocks, the poindexters at ease solving differential equations.

“I thought ZIAG was in the guns business.”

“Long time ago. Now it’s custom order stuff. Precision machinery. Extruders. Heat exchangers. Proximity systems.”

“Sounds like guns to me.”

“All strictly civilian.”

“I was wondering if you knew a woman named Eva Kruger?”

“What department is she in?”

“I’m guessing sales or marketing. She’s not an engineer. I know that much. Auburn hair. Green eyes. Very attractive.”

The man shook his head. “Sorry.”

“She worked with Hannes Hoffmann.”

“Him I know. New man down from Germany. Came with the new owners. He’s running his own project on the factory floor. Word is that it’s something cutting-edge. They say he knows what he’s doing. Very sharp, but you don’t see him much. If your friend’s working with him, she’s connected, alright. That’s all I know. Me, I’ve got ten little morons to supervise. They’re more than enough. If this Kruger woman is in sales or marketing, she’d be in the main building. Look for her there.”

A waitress arrived, placing a plate of Wiener schnitzel and pommes frites on the bar. The engineer tucked a napkin into his shirt collar, ordered another beer, then attacked his food ravenously.

Jonathan eyed the identification hanging from the man’s collar. He knew how to get the ID, but he wasn’t sure if he had the guts to go for it. He thought of the assassin who’d pressed his gun to the car window the night before. A man like that would have no compunction about doing what needed to be done in this kind of situation.