Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

The engineer cut another piece of veal, speared several fries and a crown of broccoli, and stuffed all of it into his mouth.

“Would you mind holding my spot for a couple of minutes?” Jonathan said to him. The words came out sounding more confident than he’d expected. “I have to check my meter. I’m parked around the corner. Be right back.”

“Of course.” The engineer didn’t bother looking up.

Outside, Jonathan turned up his collar against the snow and hurried down the block to a pharmacy. The blinking green cross displayed outside its doors was a common sight. From his apartment in Geneva, he would pass no less than four pharmacies on his way to the tram stop, a walk of just five city blocks. He stepped inside and walked directly to the counter. Without hesitation, he passed his international physician’s identification over the counter and requested ten five-milligram capsules of triazolam, better known by its trade name of Halcion.

Though aware that he was the subject of a nationwide manhunt, he didn’t rate his risk of discovery as high. First of all, Halcion was a frequently prescribed sedative used to treat insomnolence. A prescription for ten capsules wouldn’t raise any flags. Second, unlike the States, pharmacies in Switzerland were independently owned mom-and-pop establishments. There was neither a nationwide database monitoring prescriptions, nor a computer system linking them by which the authorities could alert pharmacists to be on the lookout for him. Unless the police had faxed or e-mailed his name and description to each and every pharmacy in the country-a possibility he discounted, due to both the short time passed since the incident in Landquart and the inertia inherent to any large governmental organization-he was safe.

The pharmacist handed him the bottle of sleeping pills. Jonathan walked outside, then paused in a doorway long enough to empty half of them into a neatly folded ten-franc note. He palmed the note in his left hand and hurried back to the restaurant.

He was back at the bar in nine minutes.

“One more for you?” he asked the man seated next to him.

The man smiled at his good fortune. “Why not?”

Jonathan ordered up a beer-a stein this time-and a schnapps for himself. “Prosit,” he said when the drinks arrived. The fiery spirits rollicked his stomach. He smacked his lips and drew a pen from his pocket. “You’ve been a real help. Could I bother you for the name of the personnel director?”

“We’re a public company. They call it human resources here.” The engineer gave him the name and Jonathan made a show of clicking the pen, giving it a real flick of the wrist. In the same elaborate hoax, he dropped the pen so that it fell on the other side of the man’s feet. As expected, the engineer stepped off his stool to search for the pen. As soon as his head dropped below the bar, Jonathan passed his left hand over the beer and dumped the contents of five Halcion capsules into the stein. A moment later, the man reappeared, pen in hand. Jonathan raised his glass. “Danke.”

Another toast.

Ten minutes after that, the stein was dry as the Gobi and the man’s plate as clean as holiday china. The engineer snapped up the last piece of bread from the basket and devoured it in two bites. Jonathan worried that the sheer amount of food in his stomach might delay the onset of the drug.

By now, the engineer was talking nonstop about his business, going on about exports to Africa and the Middle East, all the paperwork it required, permits, licenses. Jonathan slipped a look at his watch. The drug should have kicked in. Alcohol multiplied the effect of Halcion. Five milligrams was enough to knock an elephant on its ass. The man’s pupils were dilated, but his diction showed no signs of impairment. He glanced at the man’s gut. It was big enough to hold a medicine ball. Maybe five capsules weren’t enough.

“So? You do a lot of business with South Africa?” Jonathan said, struggling to keep up his end of the conversation to prevent the engineer from leaving.

“They’re the worssss. You wouldn’t believe the red tape.”

“Really?” The drugs were finally beginning to kick in.

“Jess one of the quirks of the business. Nothin’ to concer yourself with…” The man’s eyelids fell and didn’t open for an uncommonly long moment. Then he shuddered, and his eyes opened wide. “Unless, of course, you stake a thob with usss…” His eyes closed again and his head teetered like a bobblehead doll in the backseat of an old clunker.

“’scuse me. Need to use the bathroom. Then I ’ave to get back to uh floor.” He put both hands on the bar in an effort to steady himself as he stood. One knee buckled. Jonathan caught him as he went down. “Whoa, there, my man. Let me give you a hand.”

As gently as possible, he guided the engineer to the rear of the restaurant and down the stairs to the men’s room. When he bounded back up a minute later, he had a white ZIAG identification card in his pocket. Mr. Walter Keller would be spending his afternoon sleeping inside the far stall of the men’s WC.

Wait and watch.

The Ghost eyed the restaurant from across the street. His point of vantage was a kiosk selling the usual newspapers and magazines. He passed the time browsing through a number of soccer reviews. When he caught the proprietor giving him a nasty look, he bought some chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes (though he didn’t smoke), and a copy of the Corriere della Sera, the Italian daily paper.

Tucking the newspaper under one arm, he strolled to the end of the block. The long night’s struggle had left him haggard, and he needed all his strength just to cover the short distance. He did it all the same, making sure that no one could spot his frailty.

He was dressed in a trench coat, collar turned up at the neck, a gray wool suit he’d had tailored in Naples, and a pair of hand-cobbled shoes the color of whiskey. Today he was an Italian businessman. Yesterday, he’d been a Swiss hiker. The day before, a German tourist. The only person he wasn’t allowed to be was himself. He didn’t mind. After twenty years in his line of work, the less time spent in one’s own company, the better.

He’d found Ransom at dawn, pulling out of a car dealership’s parking lot where he’d spent the night. The American was clumsy and amateurish in his efforts to spot a tail. He drove too slowly when he should have floored it. He stopped regularly to look over his shoulder. He parked too close to his destination. His actions were futile. Any attempt to hide was undermined by the homing beacon implanted in the religious medallion that hung from his neck.

The Ghost was content to wait and watch. The close-in kill was his domain. He’d built his career on caution and planning, making it a rule never to attempt the casual hit. It was his policy to reconnoiter the site, prepare a trap, and then lie in wait. The Lammers case was a model of planning and execution. Blitz, less so, as there had been so little time to prepare. Ransom’s sudden arrival was testament to the risks inherent in hurried work.

And then, of course, there was the dream.

Ransom would kill him.

The Ghost tried not to be superstitious. Dreams were the province of the Indians who’d worked his family’s coffee plantation. Not that of an educated man. And yet…

Just then, he spotted Ransom emerge from the restaurant.

He watched the American cross the street and disappear into a crowd near the factory gates.

For now, he was happy to keep his distance.

He would know the chance when he saw it.

Until then, he would watch and wait.

And he would pray.