Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

“Just a moment.” Something in von Daniken’s voice gave the men pause. They held their ground, observers in the war between their superiors.

“Go on, cuff him,” said Marti.

Von Daniken stepped forward and placed a controlling hand on Marti’s forearm. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Von Daniken tightened his grip. “Trust me. This is something you’ll want to keep between us.”

One of the security men made a move toward them, but Marti shook his head. Von Daniken led him down the hill away from the assembled officers.

“The van wasn’t the only discovery we made,” he said, after they’d covered twenty meters. “We were able to trace the money paid to Lammers and Blitz to a certain offshore trust opened by the Tingeli Bank. I believe you know Tobi, don’t you? Weren’t you at university together? Both law graduates, as I recall. Tobi wasn’t forthcoming at first. I had to remind him of his duties as a Swiss citizen.”

“By stepping on more laws, no doubt,” declared Marti, yanking his arm free.

Von Daniken ignored the comment. “As you’re aware, it’s standard practice for the bank where the trust is domiciled to keep all account statements on behalf of its clients. Tobi was good enough to give me copies of the trust’s monthly statements…for ‘the public good.’ We were both surprised to learn that the money that funded the trust wasn’t sent from Teheran, but from Washington, D.C.”

“D.C.? That’s ridiculous!”

“An account belonging to the U.S. Department of Defense.”

“But Mahmoud Quitab was an Iranian officer. You told me so yourself.” When Marti saw that he was making no headway, he changed tack. “Regardless, Tobi had no right to reveal that kind of information. It breaches every bank secrecy law on the books.”

“Maybe so,” said von Daniken. “Still, I’m certain that your fellow members on the Federal Council will be keen to learn the identity of some of the other individuals being financed by the trust. In fact, we tracked some of the payments to a private account at the Bern branch of the United Swiss Bank. You have an account there, don’t you? Number 517.62…um, help me out, will you?”

The color drained from Marti’s cheeks.

Von Daniken continued. “For the past two years, you’ve been receiving five hundred thousand francs a month courtesy of the United States Department of Defense. Don’t talk to me about being a traitor. You’re a paid foreign agent.”

“That’s absurd!”

“All your talk about nailing the CIA and about showing up America was nonsense. You wanted to take Gassan off that plane in Bern so he wouldn’t be interrogated by the CIA. You didn’t want him to give up any information about the attack to Palumbo.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What attack is it this time?” Marti turned toward his men and began to call out to them.

“Don’t even think about it,” said von Daniken, taking a sheaf of papers from his jacket. “It’s all here. Account 517.623 AA. A numbered account, but even they’re not anonymous anymore. Have a look, if you don’t believe me.”

Marti scanned the documents. “They won’t hold up in court. Inadmissible. All of it.”

“Who said anything about court? I’ve already e-mailed a copy to the president with a note explaining our ongoing investigation. I don’t think she’ll want to serve alongside a spy, do you?”

“But…but…” Crestfallen, Marti dropped his head.

Von Daniken took the papers from his hand. “Now then, Alphons, what exactly is Jonathan Ransom doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you won’t say?”

“All I know is that they wanted him out of the way. He’s not a part of it.”

“A part of what? Don’t lie to me. There’s a band of terrorists somewhere out there with a drone that they intend to crash into an airplane in the next forty-eight hours.”

“I told you. I don’t know anything about the drone.”

“Well then, what do you know about? You’re not earning five hundred thousand francs a month to twiddle your thumbs. I want to know everything. Who? Why? For how long? If you can tell me anything that might help stop the attack, now is the time. This is the only chance you’re going to have to mitigate these charges.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Marti after a long silence. “But if anyone asks, I’ll deny all of it.”

Von Daniken waited.

Marti sighed. “I don’t know anything about the attack. It’s export licenses they wanted. They’re under my purview as justice minister.”

“Who wanted them?”

“John Austen.”

“Who’s that?”

“A friend. A fellow believer.”

“Don’t give me that nonsense. Who is he?”

“A major general in the U.S. Air Force. His real job is running a top-secret outfit called Division. Two years ago, his organization arranged the purchase of a company in Zug called ZIAG that manufactures high-end engineering products. ZIAG was sending goods to Parvez Jinn in Iran. It was my job to sign off on them. But it’s over now.”

“What kind of goods?”

Marti looked at von Daniken as if the question were a personal insult. “What kind do you think?”

“I’m a policeman. I prefer that the crooks do the confessing.”

“Centrifuges. Maraging steel. That kind of thing. I made sure that all the paperwork passed through the right channels and that no one at customs took too close of a look.”

“You mean the machinery to process uranium for nuclear weapons?”

Marti nodded. “It’s not my business what they care to do with it.”

“What about the attack?”

“I told you. I don’t know anything about an attack. I want to stop the drone as much as you.”

Von Daniken took this in, squinting as he tried to make some sense of it all. Why would the United States circumvent its own efforts to prevent the Iranians from gaining nuclear weapons technology? He replayed the events of the past days-the murders of Blitz and Lammers, the discovery of the drone and the explosives, and now the revelation that a Swiss company secretly belonging to the Americans had been supplying Iran with state-of-the-art nuclear weapons technology.

Slowly, an idea dawned on him.

A monstrous idea.

He stared at Marti with a new and profound hatred. “Why?”

But Alphons Marti didn’t respond. He’d clasped his hands and bowed his head, as if in prayer.

At one p.m., Sepp Steiner, chief of Davos Emergency Rescue, left his office on the summit of the Jakobshorn, elevation 2,950 meters above sea level, and walked outside. The forecast had called for a high-pressure system to move in from the south, but so far the sky was as woolly and threatening as ever. He strode to the far side of his office and checked the barometer. The needle was locked steady at 880 millibars. Temperature: -4° Celsius. He flicked the glass with his finger and the needle jumped all the way up to 950.

Turning his face to the sky, he studied the clouds. For the last three days, the ceiling had resembled a becalmed sea. This morning, there was a change. Instead of the gray panorama, he could discern individual clouds. The air was noticeably dryer. The breeze had picked up, but it had changed direction. It was coming from the south.

Steiner rushed back to his office and grabbed a pair of binoculars-Nikon 8x50’s that his colleagues joked made him look like a tank commander. Putting them to his eyes, he scanned the mountains from east to west. For the first time in a week, he was able to make out the peaks above Frauenkirchen. He stopped at the Furga, his field glasses trained on Roman’s, the near-vertical chute where his older brother had perished so long ago. The woman was still there, lying deep in the crevasse. Steiner would not want to leave his wife to sleep for eternity in the ice.