Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

“Yes,” replied Jonathan. “As I said, I’m delivering it to Parvez Jinn, the Iranian minister of technology. He’s exporting it to Iran.” He forced a smile. “I’ve heard it can get a little violent over there.”

“Wait here.”

The senior officer moved a few steps away and radioed his controller. Jonathan overheard him give his name and inquire if there was anything that mentioned the delivery of the Mercedes. A minute passed. Finally, the officer nodded his head and returned to Jonathan. “All set. I’ll have to ask you to allow us to inspect the interior of the automobile.”

“Be my guest.”

The officer barked instructions to his men. Five policemen swarmed over the car, examining the glove compartment, side compartment, yanking up the rear seat, demanding that Jonathan open the strongbox, running an explosives detector around the cabin.

“Roll up all the windows.”

Jonathan slid into the driver’s seat and closed the window. The officer pointed at the scars left by the assassin’s bullets. “What happened? Someone shoot at you?”

“Rocks,” said Jonathan. “Some punks in Zurich.”

Just then, the senior policeman approached Jonathan, flapping the ID against his open palm. “Where did you get this identification?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” It was difficult for Jonathan to guard an even tone.

“Did you pick it up at police headquarters in Chur?”

“It was sent to me. Is there a problem?”

“The memory chip is faulty.”

“I didn’t even know there was a memory chip,” he said contritely. “You can call my employer…please.”

“You misunderstand me,” continued the police officer. “I wanted to apologize for the malfunction. All your information checks out. They’re expecting the car. I’m calling in your faulty ID to make sure you get another.”

“Get me another?” Jonathan was smiling like an idiot. He couldn’t help it. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Technical glitches still occur now and then. There was one discrepancy.”

“Oh?”

“Your name isn’t Eva, is it?”

Jonathan said it wasn’t, and the officer handed him back the ID. “Go to the main checkpoint on Davosstrasse at the entry to town. They’ll take a new photo of you there and issue you a replacement badge. Be sure to keep it visible at all times. Alles klar? ” He banged lightly on the door, then stood taller and walked toward the next car. “Let’s go! We haven’t got all day!”

At the main checkpoint, Jonathan was issued a new ID badge and given a list of the day’s events, along with a map of the town and passes to use the city’s two cable cars, the Jakobshorn and the Parsenn. An officer escorted him back to the Mercedes and pointed the way to the Hotel Belvedere, which was visible on the hillside, three hundred meters down the road.

Jonathan kept his speed below ten kilometers an hour. The sidewalks were crowded to bursting. Soldiers manned every corner, randomly checking IDs. Policemen holding German shepherds on short leashes patrolled the streets. The road snaked through town, past jewelry boutiques and ski shops, quaint hotels and cafés. A steep driveway led to the porte cochere fronting the Belvedere. A pole barrier governed access. On either side was a temporary three-meter fence topped with curled razor wire. He saw that the fence ran up the hill and surrounded the hotel and its grounds.

Welcome to the red zone.

Jonathan braked to a halt. An armed guard approached and ran his badge through a handheld card reader. The barrier rose. He continued up the hill and stopped in front of the revolving doors. A brace of soldiers stood to either side, submachine guns strapped to their chests. In the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the barrier being lowered. To his ear, it closed with the finality of a bank vault.

He sat behind the wheel, wondering what his next move should be. Was the meeting supposed to be inside the hotel? Should he call Jinn, or just wait? It was exactly twelve o’clock. No Swiss banker was ever more punctual. He looked toward the broad flight of three carpeted steps that led to a grand revolving door. The guards on the landing bent to take a closer look at him. One started toward him. Jonathan swallowed, aware of the sweat beading on his forehead. He busied himself with a check of his fingernails, another look at his tie. He glanced back at the revolving doors. The guard had returned to his post and was scanning the approaches to the hotel as if his gaze alone, and not the three-meter barbed wire fence, would keep out all intruders.

The next moment, all hell broke loose. A storm tide of swarthy men in black suits surged out of the revolving doors. It was hard to count how many were in the group. Jonathan stopped at seven. By then, he had seen him. Tall, stately, trim, the hint of a beard. A man who strode on a higher terrain than the rest. At once among and apart from the others. But it was the expression of indignant anger stamped on the proud features that Jonathan seized upon and matched to the photograph he had seen the night before. Parvez Jinn.

Suddenly, there was a cry. Jonathan thought for a moment that someone had sounded the alarm. But it wasn’t a cry of fear. No assassins or suicide bombers had been spotted on the radar. It was the opposite. A cry of joy. Parvez Jinn stood at the base of the stairs, neat hands pressed to his face, the percolating anger superseded by a look of beatific worship.

“My car,” he said in American English. “The S600. It is a work of art.”

“A V8?” someone voiced.

Jinn’s voice slapped down the impudent dog. “A V12!”

At once, the assembled horde fell upon the car, circling it, eyes wide, hands hovering above the chassis, not daring to touch it. Jinn walked the length of the automobile. No customer possessed a more critical eye.

Jonathan lowered his window to ensure that no one spotted the three indentations caused by the killer’s bullets. He’d banged out the dents on the fender himself. An attendant at the service station had found a matching black paint. It wasn’t perfect, but you needed to be lying on your back beneath the chassis to see the contrasting hues. A wash and detail job had followed, with Jonathan applying a last coat of Armor All to the tires just before entering the Davos city limits. Except for the window, the automobile looked factory fresh.

Jonathan stepped out of the car.

The head of security approached him at once, but not with animosity. The security man bowed and made a show of shaking his hand and extolling the car’s beauty. At six foot three inches in height, his newly black hair combed and parted just so, his suit in immaculate order, Jonathan was the picture of a German car salesman. The country of Mercedes-Benz was a longtime ally of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Jinn followed a step behind. If he was surprised to see a man in Eva Kruger’s place, he showed no sign of it. He offered a limp hand to shake and addressed him in English. “Greetings, friend.”

“Evan Kruger,” said Jonathan, grasping the hand and feeling the jolt that passed through it as Jinn registered the name. The Iranian came closer, a fierce smile straining his handsome features, and Jonathan whispered, “Eva’s had an accident. I’ve been sent in her place.” Then louder: “I would enjoy taking you for a short demonstration drive of your new vehicle, Mr. Jinn.”

At once, the head of security stepped up to Jinn’s shoulder and uttered a string of warnings in Farsi. Jonathan understood only half of it, but he got the gist. The minister of technology was not to enter the automobile and go anywhere alone and unguarded. Parvez Jinn warned him off. No one told him what to do. With a dismissive wave, he circled the car and climbed into the passenger seat. “We go!”