Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

The flight that evening was full. Six hundred seventy-three names filled the manifest. Among them was Dahlia Borer of Jerusalem, director of the Israeli Red Cross; Abner Parker of Boca Raton, Florida, an American retiree who had lost both legs in Vietnam to friendly fire; Zane Cassidy of Edmond, Oklahoma, pastor of the Messiah Bible Church and leader of a tour group of seventy-seven Evangelical Christians; Meyer Cohen, leader of the National Religious Party, en route to Washington, D.C., to lobby the American Congress to favor expansion of settlements on the West Bank; and Yasser Mohammed, Arab Israeli member of the Knesset, also en route to Washington, D.C., to lobby the American Congress to forbid any further expansion of settlements on the West Bank.

These last two were seated next to each other. After an exploratory conversation and an exchange of political views, one took out a chessboard. The two men spent the rest of the flight in companionable silence, hunched over their knights and pawns.

Three hundred seventy men, three hundred women, including sixty-four children. Plus a crew of eighteen.

After the plane had reached its cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, Zuckerman addressed the passengers a second time, announcing that he was turning off the seat belt sign and that everyone was welcome to stroll about the two-story aircraft, the newest in the El Al fleet. He was pleased to add that they had picked up a considerable tailwind that would trim their flying time. The new arrival time was set at 7:50 p.m. Fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

He wished all aboard a pleasant flight, and in closing, stated that he would speak with the passengers again shortly before landing.

“No,” said von Daniken into the phone. “We don’t have any details regarding a specific threat. All we know is that there’s a terrorist cell operating in the country which has as its goal the destruction of an airliner on our soil. We don’t know who they are, or where they are at this moment. But, I repeat: we do know that they’re here, most probably in Zurich or Geneva. All our evidence points to an attempt on an aircraft, either airborne or at the terminal, within the next forty-eight hours.”

He was speaking to the director of the Federal Office of Civil Aviation, the organization that had final say on all matters concerning flights originating or terminating at Swiss airports. The man was a friend, a former messmate in the army, but friendship didn’t come into play with matters of such magnitude.

“Let me get this straight, Marcus. You want us to shut down all major airports in the country until further notice?”

“Yes.”

“But that means canceling all outgoing flights and rerouting incoming aircraft to airports in France, Germany, and Italy.”

“I’m aware of that,” said von Daniken.

“You’re talking about over one hundred flights tonight alone. Do you have any idea of the impact that would have on the entire European flight grid?”

“I wouldn’t be making the request if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

There was a pause and von Daniken could sense the man’s anguish. “I’ll need the president’s authority on this,” said the director of civil aviation.

“Madam President is out of the country. She can’t be reached at the moment.”

“What about the vice president?”

“I spoke with him and he’s unwilling to make a decision until he speaks with her.”

“Have you talked to the Federal Security Service? All security aboard aircraft inside our borders is under their purview.”

“I just got off the phone with them. It’s a nonstarter. The most they can do is to pass on a warning to all pilots. Advising them won’t help. We believe the attack is to be conducted with an armed drone. Commercial airliners aren’t built to take evasive maneuvers.”

“No,” agreed the chief of civil aviation. “They’re not. What about the army?”

“The minister of defense has authorized them to position batteries of Stinger air-to-ground missiles around the airports in Zurich, Geneva, and Lugano. Unfortunately, they won’t be in place until tomorrow morning.”

Von Daniken didn’t add what the general in charge of air defense had told him. The problem is, he’d said, that the Stinger might just as easily shoot down the passenger plane as the drone.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, but my hands are tied. The moment you hear something from the president, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll issue a warning to air traffic control. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Von Daniken put down the phone.

Maps of Zurich and Geneva were spread across two of the desks. Myer stood beside the map of Zurich. With a pen, he was dividing the area around each airport into search grids.

Von Daniken approached and leaned over the maps. “How many officers do we have on this?”

“Fifty two-man teams are working the communities around Zurich Flughafen. In Geneva, just thirty-five. They’re going door to door asking if anyone has seen a black or white van, or any suspicious activity.”

Von Daniken bit back his anger. Combined, the police forces of the country’s two largest cities numbered more than ten thousand. One hundred seventy was a paltry commitment.

“It’s all the chiefs were willing to spare,” explained Myer. “Marti is a federal councilor and justice minister. They know his feelings about all this.”

“Do they? Well, Marti’s feelings have changed. We’ll have to call them up and let them know.”

Von Daniken studied the map. Four communities, or Gemeindes, surrounded Zurich Airport: Glattbrugg, Opfikon, Oerlikon, and Kloten. A total of sixty thousand inhabitants in some eight thousand homes and apartment buildings. Myer shaded in the neighborhoods that had already been canvassed with a pink pen. The pie-shaped sliver covered less than ten percent of the total area.

“And so?” von Daniken asked. “What’s the latest?”

“A dozen or so sightings of a black VW van, invariably belonging to a neighbor. Nothing suspicious to report except the usual. Someone peeking in their windows at night, someone siphoning gas from their car, a couple of drunk teenagers singing too loudly. But no terrorists with a state-of-the-art drone.”

“Not one mention of a miniature aircraft with a twenty-five-foot wingspan rolling down the street in front of their house, eh?”

“Not a one,” said Myer.

Von Daniken sat on the edge of the desk.

“What about Marti? Is he going down?” asked Myer.

Von Daniken shook his head. He explained that as it stood, Alphons Marti would never see the inside of a jail. Tobi Tingeli had violated Swiss bank statutes by showing von Daniken a client’s correspondence. Evidence of the monthly transfers from the U.S. Defense Department’s accounts to Marti’s would never be admissible in a court of law. Likewise, von Daniken could not obtain a warrant to search ZIAG’s premises unless Marti gave sworn testimony before an investigating magistrate about the company exporting contraband materials. Marti would be forced out of the government, but it would be done under the guise of a resignation for reasons of ill health, or some other ruse.

“So he gets off,” said Myer.

Von Daniken shrugged. “I’m sure you and I might find some ways to make his life more interesting down the road.”

“It will be a goddamned pleasure.”

Von Daniken poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He couldn’t stop thinking about Marti being on the Americans’ payroll. Export licenses. Dual-use goods. It had all the smell of a setup. But to what end? Why equip your enemy with the devil’s handiwork?