Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

“Jinn said they have cruise missiles. If anyone attacks their enrichment facilities, they won’t hesitate to use them. The president of his country is planning to announce all this to the world next week.”

“Jinn was lying,” said Emma with the same unalloyed confidence, but her face had gone pale. “Iran doesn’t have any cruise missiles.”

“He called them Kh-55’s. He said that they’d come into possession of four of them a year ago and that they’re at their base in Karshun on the Persian Gulf.”

“He was bullshitting you.”

“Can you take that chance? If the United States or Israel bombs Iran, the mullahs in Teheran will turn right around and launch on Jerusalem and the Saudi oil fields. Then what do you think will happen?”

“Christ.” Emma frowned, the muscles in her jaw working furiously. “Kh-55’s? You’re sure of it?”

“You know what they are?”

“The Russians called them the Granat, or pomegranate. They’re long-range subsonic cruise missiles capable of carrying a nuclear warhead. They’re old as sin and the guidance systems are out of date, but they work.”

“Not good,” said Jonathan.

“No, not good at all.” Emma frowned. “He talked about having a surprise for me when I saw him in Davos. Double-dealer.”

Jonathan saw that he’d struck a nerve. “If you’re so sure of yourself, why did you have to disappear?”

“Sure of myself? God, do you really believe that?” Emma looked over at him. “Do you know what a drone is?”

“More or less. One of those remote-controlled planes that fly around forever taking pictures. I know they can fire missiles, too.”

“There’s one in Switzerland now being readied for an attack. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but Blitz let it slip. He was my controller, the only one who was allowed to see the whole picture. He said it was going to be the most important thing we’d ever done. It was the boss’s personal mission.”

“You mean, it’s you guys-it’s Division -that’s planning on taking someone out with it?”

“Not someone. Something. A passenger jet.”

“They’re going to shoot it down here? In Switzerland? My God, Emma, we’ve got to tell the police.”

“They already know. At least, some of it. The man who tried to stop you back there in Davos is running the investigation. His name is Marcus von Daniken. He heads up the Service for Analysis and Prevention, the Swiss counterespionage service. He’s convinced that you’re masterminding the plot.”

“Me?”

“Essentially, it boils down to the fact that von Daniken believes that you are me.”

“Because I was at Blitz’s house?”

“Among other things, yes. You were smart not to go to the police. You’d have spent the rest of your life in jail. Killing the policemen was the least of it. You knew too much about Thor…about Division . We have friends who would have seen to it. Anyway, that’s why I had to disappear. I decided that I have to stop this whole thing. I have enough blood on my hands, but until now, it’s never come from innocents.”

“So you know when it’s going to happen?”

“In a few hours, more or less.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

For the first time, Emma met his gaze full-on. “I’m still your wife.”

She reached out her hand and Jonathan slipped his fingers into hers.

“We have to tell von Daniken,” he said.

Emma glanced at him, her eyes wet with tears. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

The official in the Passport Control booth at Zurich Kloten Airport looked out at the long line of arrivals. The flight was just in from Washington Dulles. He checked his monitor for any passenger warnings. The screen was blank. He gazed out over the procession of well-fed faces and ample girths. Not a suspicious character in the lot.

“Next,” he called.

A tall, portly gentleman approached and laid his passport on the counter. The official opened the passport and slid the data stripe through the scanner. Name: Leonard Blake. Home: Palm Beach. Date of birth: January 1, 1955.

“The purpose of your visit, Mr. Blake?”

“Business.”

He checked the man against the photograph. Gray hair cropped close. Tan. A trim mustache. Expensive sunglasses. Gold Rolex. And a polyester tracksuit. When would Americans learn how to dress?

“How long will you be staying?”

“Just a day or two.”

The official checked his monitor. Blake’s name hadn’t raised any flags. Just another rich American without a shred of taste. He brought the stamp down hard. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Danke schön.”

The passport official winced at the man’s accent. He waved to the woman at the head of the line. “Next!”

Mr. Leonard Blake collected his bags, then proceeded to the car rental desk, where he had reserved a midsize sedan. After filling out the necessary paperwork, he walked into the parking garage and located the car. He put his bags in the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. He spent a moment adjusting the mirrors and the seat. All the while, he surveyed the lot. The place was still as a grave. He unzipped the tracksuit and peeled off the prosthetic padding that added twenty pounds to his weight and eight inches to his midsection. He set the padding in the backseat, then started the ignition and drove out of the garage.

He headed south on the highway. In twenty minutes, he was in the city center. He found a parking space on Talstrasse and strolled the two blocks to the Bahnhofstrasse, the famed artery that ran from the Lake of Zurich to the main train station. Along the way, he passed several fashionable boutiques. Chanel. Cartier. Louis Vuitton. It was said that the two kilometers of Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse constituted the most expensive real estate on earth. Leonard Blake had not come to Zurich to shop, however.

He continued south, walking toward the lake, then turned up a narrow street. He made good use of the many shop windows, slowing long enough to use their reflections to observe the pedestrians behind him. Seeing nothing of worry, he quickened his pace.

He stopped at the third entrance on the right. The baroque wooden doors were unmarked, except for a discreet plate engraved with an intertwined “G” and “B.” The letters stood for the Gessler Bank.

Inside, a porter in a frock coat greeted him. Blake wrote his name and account number on a slip of paper. The porter placed a hushed phone call. A minute passed, and a bank officer emerged from a long hallway. “Good morning, Mr. Blake,” he said in impeccable English. “How may we be of service?”

“I’d like to access my safety deposit box.”

“Please follow me.”

The two men entered an elevator and descended three floors beneath street level. The elevator opened and the official led Blake into a floor-to-ceiling vault, whose open door was policed by two armed guards. Blake was shown into a private viewing room, where he offered the banker his key. A minute later, the banker returned, carrying a large safety deposit box. “Ring for me when you’re ready.”

Blake closed the door. Though there was no need, he locked it, then took off his sunglasses and sat down.

You could never be too safe, thought Philip Palumbo as he opened the safety deposit box. He removed a manila envelope containing valid Brazilian passports for himself and each member of his family, identified as the Perreras. Also in the box were packets of Swiss francs, U.S. dollars, and euros, amounting to one hundred thousand dollars. The money was legally earned and fully taxed. It was his runaway money. A man in his line of work made serious enemies. One day, he was certain, they would come for him. And when they did, he would be ready. He picked up a packet of ten thousand dollars. He could take the money and disappear. He had rabbit holes at five spots around the globe where he might hide. It would take years to find him.