Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

The sliding door was locked.

He stepped back and fired into the glass door. The window shattered and a shard landed on his ankle, embedding itself. Wincing, he pulled it clean. Blood welled up, filling his shoe.

The house was silent. No lights burned anywhere. If there had been any guards, they’d abandoned ship. He was aware only of a low-frequency thrum given off by an electrical current of some kind. He crossed the room and entered a corridor. A door at the far end barred his passage. A numeric keypad governed entrance. He fired at the lock. It did no good. The lock and door were both made of steel.

Putting his ear to the door, he made out a low hum and could feel a vibration against his cheek. Suddenly, the humming died. The vibration calmed. The entire structure went as still as if it had been unplugged.

Jonathan’s eyes shot to the keypad. The pinlight was blinking green where before it had burned red.

The power had gone out.

He threw his hand to the door and turned the knob.

It opened.

Leading with the pistol, he walked into what could only be called an operations center. To his left, a picture window looked out over the Zurich Airport. Directly ahead, an array of instruments and monitors rose from the ground to the ceiling. A man sat in a chair, his back to him, his hand on a joystick. It would be John Austen.

A few feet away, another man was working feverishly at a bank of controls.

“Auxiliary power on,” said the second man, who, Emma had told him, would be the flight engineer. “Satellite connection reestablished. We have picture.” He looked up and saw Jonathan and aimed a pistol at him. Jonathan shot him twice. The man fell back against the wall.

Jonathan approached the pilot. “Step away from the controls.”

The pilot didn’t answer. The hand controlling the joystick moved to the right. The screen in front of him emitted an eerie green glow. At first, Jonathan wasn’t able to make out anything. Looking closer, he observed a gray shape looming in the distance. The shape was gaining in definition. Now he could see a head and tail and a host of pinpricks that were the lights from passenger windows. It was the jet as seen by an infrared camera.

Jonathan’s eyes moved to the radar screen. The two blips at its center were incredibly close to one another. The letters beneath one read, “El Al 8851H.” The other blip had no designation.

“I said, step away from the controls.”

“You’re too late,” said John Austen.

He won’t stop until he’s accomplished what he set out to do, Emma had said. Believe me, I know him.

Jonathan walked up to him, placed the gun to the nape of his neck, and pulled the trigger.

The pilot slumped forward.

Jonathan pushed his body out of the seat.

The image of the plane was closer now. He could make out a wing and the outline of the fuselage and the landing lights flashing. All impossibly close.

Jonathan shoved the joystick forward.

The image of the plane grew closer still. He was too late. The drone was going to strike the aircraft. A red light on the console was blinking. Proximity fuse armed. He looked at the radar. The two blips merged as one. Then back at the camera. The plane filled the entire screen.

Reflexively, he braced for impact.

Just then, the plane darted out of view. The screen went dark. Jonathan looked at the radar. The blip bearing the designation El Al 8851H was still there. Moments later, the second blip reappeared. The distance between the two aircraft had widened.

He kept the joystick pointed down, as the drone flew into the darkness.

He located the altimeter on the console and watched the numbers fall from twenty-seven thousand feet to twenty to ten, and then, to zero.

The picture dissolved in a blizzard of white noise.

Jonathan found Emma slumped in the passenger seat. She was conscious, but barely.

“I tried to stop him,” he said. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

She nodded, and motioned for him to come closer. “He never listened to anyone,” she whispered.

Jonathan peered into the abandoned woods. “Where did they go?”

“They’re ghosts. They don’t exist.”

He took her hand. Her grip was weak and cold. “I need to get you to a hospital.”

“The world thinks I’m dead. I can’t go to a hospital.”

“You need surgery to take out that bullet.”

“You’re a doctor. You can look after me.”

Jonathan eased the seat back and examined her wound. The bullet had passed through her upper arm and lodged itself in the flesh below her shoulder blade. “You stopped the attack. You can come in now.”

Emma shook her head, a forlorn smile tracing her lips. “I broke ranks. There’s only one punishment for that.”

“But Austen was acting on his own…”

“I’m not so sure.” Emma shifted in the seat. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Division’s like the Hydra. Cut off its head and ten more grow in its place. They’ll need to make an example.”

Jonathan grasped her hand more tightly.

“They’ll be watching you,” she said, her voice stronger. She was an agent again. She’d been trained for this. “They’ll suspect you had help. There’s no way you could have found the drone on your own. Sooner or later, they’ll find out what really happened. Someone will go into the mountains and discover that I didn’t really have an accident. I made mistakes. I left tracks.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Jonathan stared at her, unable to bring himself to speak.

Emma reached up and touched his cheek. “We have a few days until they start looking.”

The seesaw whine of sirens sounded from down the hill. Jonathan turned and saw the blue lights flashing in the forest as they neared the house. A police car pulled up in front of the driveway. Marcus von Daniken climbed out, his right arm in a sling. He walked over to them. “Did you stop it?”

“Yes,” said Jonathan.

“Thank God.”

Jonathan gestured toward the house. “There are two men inside.”

“Dead?”

Jonathan nodded. Von Daniken considered this. He looked at Emma. “Who are you?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” she said.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” said the policeman.

“I can take care of her,” said Jonathan.

Von Daniken ran a hand over the bullet holes puncturing the hood. He tossed a set of car keys to Jonathan. “It’s a blue VW. I left it in back of the command house. Take it and get out of here.”

“Thank you,” said Emma.

“You owe me.” The Swiss turned and walked haltingly toward the house.

More police cars were arriving by the second. A helicopter swooped low and hovered overhead, its spotlight trained on the scene.

Jonathan reached into the car and lifted his wife into his arms.

“My name’s Jonathan,” he said.

“My name’s Cary. Nice to meet you.”

He turned and carried her down the hill.

The planes of Israel’s 69 Squadron attacked at dawn. They came in low over the water beneath Iranian radar. The newly installed antiaircraft systems had only seconds to see them. By the time the first missiles were launched, it was too late. The bombs struck their target with deadly accuracy. In minutes, sixteen conventionally armed bunker busters had completed their job. The missile facility at Karshun on the Persian Gulf had been wiped from the map. Deep inside a fortified weapons magazine ten meters below ground, the four Kh-55 cruise missiles, each armed with a ten-kiloton nuclear warhead, were obliterated.

Operation Nightingale was a success.