Wait and watch.

“Statements are one thing. Actions another.”

“Iran’s actions are a matter of record. For years they have been financing the terrorist activity of Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade.

Their participation isn’t limited to Israel. I don’t need to tell you about the havoc they’ve wreaked in Iraq. They have two goals: to gain de facto control over the Middle East and to destroy my country. They are well on their way to the first. I will not allow them to succeed at the second.”

“The United States has always said that any act of violence against Israel will be viewed as an act of violence against us.”

“This is not a situation where we can wait to be attacked. The first strike will be fatal.”

“I understand, but I think it’s too early to act. We have to take this to the United Nations.”

“If you had known that the nineteen hijackers were planning to take over your jets and fly them into the World Trade Center, would you not have taken preventative actions?”

“Attacking a nation is different than taking out a band of terrorists,” the president said in a carefully measured tone. Any mention of 9/11 left him wary. The hallowed date, and the immediate call-to-arms it inspired, had become this era’s “Remember the Alamo!”

“And a nuclear weapon is different than an airplane,” retorted the prime minister. “Any bomb will kill millions of Israelis.”

The president drew a breath. “What can I do for you, Avi?”

“We require your permission to fly through Iraqi airspace,” said the Israeli prime minister.

“If and when the State of Israel is attacked, you’ll be granted that permission.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, by then it will be too late.”

“The Iranians will retaliate.”

“Perhaps. But some fights you cannot put off.”

There was a pause and the prime minister could hear the U.S. president conferring with his aides.

A minute later, the American spoke. “I understand you have a second request.”

“We also require four of your B61-11 EPWs—earth penetrating weapons.”

“That’s a helluva request. We’re talking about nuclear-tipped devices.”

“Yes, it is.”

The American president had been made aware of the request beforehand and had prepared his response with some precision. “Listen carefully to what I have to say. America will under no circumstance initiate the use of nuclear weapons. We do, however, believe in Israel’s right to a strong and overwhelming defense. To this end, and in respect of our many years of friendship, I’ve ordered my men to immediately transfer four B61’s to General Ganz. I will require your word, however, that you will not use these weapons unless you’re directly provoked.”

“I don’t know if I can give you my word on that.”

“This is nonnegotiable. I’ll say it again. If that sonuvabitch in Iran lays so much as a finger on you or any of your interests, you have my permission to use those bombs as you see fit. You can fly back and forth across Iraq from dawn to dusk. But until then, I want your word that you’ll keep them locked up.”

Zvi Hirsch, who was listening on another line, shot the prime minister a shocked glance.

Violently, he began to nod his head, indicating that the prime minister was to consent at once.

The prime minister complied. “You have my word. On behalf of myself and the people of Israel, I thank you.”

The call was concluded.

Zvi Hirsch set the phone in the cradle. “Did you hear him?”

“Of course,” said the prime minister. “What are you so heated up about?”

“He said we can use the bombs if and when we are directly provoked.”

“And so?”

Zvi Hirsch was so worked up that he had trouble getting the words out.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked. “They don’t have to bomb us. It can be anything…any act at all…as long as we can tie it back to Teheran.”

“They only have to lift a finger against us.”

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62

The Pilot held the stopwatch in his right hand. “Five minutes. Go.”

The men moved quickly, but never hurriedly, from their positions at the foot of the garage.

Breaking themselves up into three two-man teams, each group approached one of three man-sized stainless-steel packing cases called coffins standing against the wall. Two of the cases contained convex aircraft wings, each broken into two four-foot sections. The third case held the fuselage, which housed the aircraft’s operational guts: the inertial navigation system, Ku-band satellite communications processor, fuel tank, primary control module, turbofan engine, and nose camera assembly.

Locking the landing gear into place, the first team set the fuselage on the ground. The men responsible for the wing assembly bolted the sections to one another, and then attached each to the fuselage by means of tungsten pinions. At the same time, the Pilot wheeled a low-slung gurney across the floor. Cradled in the gurney was a tear-shaped metallic nacelle, the size of a large watermelon, weighing thirty kilos, or some sixty-six pounds. The nacelle contained a powerful explosive charge.

The design was similar to the warhead used for Sidewinder missiles. In fact, the blueprint had come from Raytheon, the defense contractor responsible for the air-to-air missiles created over thirty years before. Little had changed in that time. Only the explosives had grown more powerful.

The nacelle consisted of a case assembly, twenty kilos of Semtex-H

plastic explosive, an initiator device, and five hundred titanium fragmentation rods. When the proximity sensor detected the target—in this instance a passenger airliner—it would activate a fuse mechanism that ignited the explosive pellets surrounding the Semtex. The pellets would in turn ignite the twenty kilos of high explosive, causing it to release a huge amount of hot gas in a very short time. The explosive force from the expanding gas would blast the titanium rods outward, breaking them up into thousands of lethal flechettes that would effectively obliterate the aircraft’s fuselage.

The goal was to destroy the drone as well as the plane. No trace of the delivery mechanism would ever be found.

As soon as the nacelle was attached and the wiring plugged into the main instrument panel, the Pilot rolled the gurney from beneath the aircraft and called, “Time.”

He read the stopwatch. “Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”

The men did not cheer or evince any satisfaction. As quickly as they had begun, they disassembled the drone. They couldn’t take the chance that a random check might uncover the aircraft sitting in the garage assembled and ready for launch. In minutes, the three coffins were loaded and stored in locked cabinets inside the house.

Having supervised every aspect of the drill, the Pilot walked into the living room where a picture window looked down on the Zurich Airport. At eight o’clock, he spotted the landing lights of an incoming airliner approaching from the north. He was happy to note that it was precisely on time. But then, this particular flight had one of the best arrival records in the world.

He followed the lights until the Airbus A380 landed. The plane appeared oversized even from a distance of four kilometers. He knew its specifications by heart. Seventy-three meters in length.

Twenty-four meters high. A wingspan of nearly eighty meters, nearly that of a football field. It was in every way the largest commercial jet aircraft in the world. It was configured to carry 555 passengers. This evening the manifest put the total at a shade under five hundred. Tomorrow it was set to carry a maximum load.

The aircraft lumbered into its parking space. It was so large that even a special jetway had been built to accommodate it. It was then that he was finally able to make out the five-pointed star painted on the tail.

El Al Flight 863 from Tel Aviv had arrived.

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63

Von Daniken arrived back at Tobi Tingeli’s door precisely at nine o’clock. A maid led the way to the study. Tingeli sat behind a large mahogany desk, talking on the telephone. The jeans and turtleneck were gone. He was dressed in a black suit and pearl gray tie, his hair combed through with pomade. He greeted von Daniken with a glare, tossing a bound dossier across the table to him.

Von Daniken picked it up. Inside was documentation relating to the creation of one Excelsior Trust, based in Curaçao, the Netherlands Antilles.

The holding company was formed with a capital investment of fifty thousand Swiss francs. Three directors were listed, two of whom were employees of the bank. The last name meant nothing to him. He was interested, however, to learn that the client had visited the Vaduz offices of the Tingeli Bank in August of the past year.

The visit fit in neatly with Ransom’s return from the Middle East.

More interesting were the documents that followed. Monthly account statements sent from the Bahamian bank kept by the Tingeli Bank on behalf of the Excelsior Trust. The statements detailed all activity in each of the numbered accounts that had sent money to Lammers and Blitz, as well as a third account that was used to purchase the Villa Principessa.

Still unanswered was the question of who had made the initial deposit into the Bahamian bank.

Von Daniken shuffled through the papers. Both numbered accounts had been opened with cashier’s checks. He found copies of the checks and read the name of the issuing bank printed on the upper right-hand corner. His heart jumped. It was one of the most venerable names in the American financial community.

“And so?” asked Tingeli. He had hung up the phone and come round the desk. “Not what you’d expected?”

Von Daniken recalled his conversation with Philip Palumbo. He wondered if he’d put his colleague at the CIA in danger. “Not a word of this, Tobi.”

Tingeli took the dossier from von Daniken’s hands. “I didn’t like the way our meeting ended last night. I can’t live my life the way I please with you looking over my shoulder, so I did a little extra work on my end. Peddle it to your superiors as a loyal Helvetic doing his patriotic duty.

You want me to keep quiet? Sure. No problem. It’s my job, right? But in return, I want you to stay off my ass, once and for all. I may be odd, but it’s my choice. I’m not breaking any laws.”

Von Daniken received the entreaty with skepticism. “So far, I don’t see anything that merits a promise on my behalf. It was no skin off your nose to get me the information. It was right there in the files. In a week I could have had a subpoena on your desk and obtained exactly what you’ve given me.”

“I figured you’d say as much.” Tingeli handed back the dossier, his thumb marking a page.

“Here’s something that wasn’t originally in the file. I had to make some calls to get this. It cost me dearly.”

The dossier was opened to a confirmation of an outgoing wire transfer from the Bahamian bank in the amount of five hundred thousand francs.

The money was sent from one of the numbered accounts in question to an account at one of Switzerland’s largest banks. Below it was written the name of the account holder.

Von Daniken gasped. “You’re sure about this?”

Tingeli nodded. “Do we have a deal?”

Von Daniken took the outstretched hand and shook it. “Yes.”

Tingeli yanked him forward so that they were uncomfortably close to one another. “Then get out of here. And tell your buddies in Bern that the Tingeli family has done enough for its country.”

Von Daniken descended the steps and walked to the sidewalk where his car was parked. All along he’d been aware of an unseen hand in the investigation. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on. It was just a feeling. Like most policemen, he knew better than to disobey his intuition.

The information he now possessed was enough to shock the nation, let alone a middle-aged cop who still believed in the incorruptibility of his

government. He stood for a moment, thinking of how he should proceed, reckoning whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t.

As he unlocked his door, a dark, late-model Audi sedan roared up the street and braked beside his car. The window went down revealing Kurt Myer’s flushed face. “We found Ransom.”

“Do you have him in custody?”

“Not yet, but we have a line on his whereabouts.”

“What happened?”

“Yesterday evening, two Bern police officers answered a call regarding an intruder gaining entry to an apartment. They knocked on the door and a man responded.”

“Was it Ransom?”

“Looks like it. But before he opened the door, there was an explosion inside the apartment. The policemen broke down the door and found the kitchen and bedroom ablaze. Apparently, it was a gas explosion. A leak in the oven or range…”

A gas explosion. Von Daniken was reminded of the ruptured gas main responsible for killing Drako, the Bosnian warlord.

Myer continued. “At first, the officers thought he’d been blown out of the building, but there was no blood and a search of the grounds failed to turn up anything. The woman who reported the intruder said that the man had identified himself as a doctor. Apparently, he had a wound on the neck and was bleeding. She thought it looked like he’d been cut with a knife. One of the officers thought it sounded like he might be a fugitive, so he ran his description through outstanding warrants. Ransom’s name came back. They printed a picture and showed it to the woman. She recognized him, but said that his hair was black and very short.”

“What was he doing in Bern?”

“He said he was there to see his sister-in-law. Her name is Eva Kruger.”

“What do we know about her?”

“Not a thing. She’s a ghost. No national ID. No work permit. The neighbor says she’s hardly ever around.”

“But the neighbor’s seen her? In the flesh?”

“So she says. According to her, this Eva Kruger travels all the time.”

Of course she does, thought von Daniken. No doubt to exotic destinations like Darfur and Beirut and Kosovo. Plainly, she was another member of Ransom’s network. “I thought you said you had a line on Ransom.”

“We ran Eva Kruger’s name on the state and national level,” said Myer.

“We got a nibble from the chief of security for the World Economic Forum being held in Davos. He told me that he vetted the same Eva Kruger, domiciled in Bern, a week ago, and granted her a pass to the event. The pass was valid for one day.”

“Today?”

Myer nodded grimly. “It’s a VIP pass. She can get access to anyplace she wants, right down to the floor of the Kongresshaus.”

“What’s on today’s schedule?”

“They have panels running all day long. Big shots from all over the world. The keynote speech this evening is to be given by Parvez Jinn, an Iranian.”

“Have you alerted event security yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Do so immediately. Tell them to invalidate her identification. Give them the latest description of Ransom. He may be armed.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” said von Daniken. “Tell them that we’ll be there in an hour.”

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Jonathan observed the first trucks at the entry to the valley. Two army transports with a dozen soldiers loitering nearby. Five kilometers up the road, he spotted another pair of trucks. This time the soldiers weren’t loitering. They were crack troops clad in crisp camouflage uniforms, submachine guns strapped to their chests. Every passing car merited a glowering inspection.

A single route accessed the alpine town of Davos. One entry led from the north. One from the south. The military presence increased as the highway wound deeper into the valley. Jeeps.

Armored personnel carriers. Roadblocks set on the highway’s shoulder, ready to be swung into place at a moment’s notice. It was a trap waiting to be sprung. At any moment, Jonathan expected a soldier or policeman to dart into the road, wave his arms, and motion for him to pull over, but the Mercedes never drew a second look.

At eleven o’clock, he passed the town of Klosters. The snow had abated, and the sky had lightened a shade. Once or twice, he even caught a fleeting pennant of blue. As church bells pealed the hour, their melancholy timbre forced a shiver the length of his spine.

The road began a series of switchbacks up the mountainside, and he caught the whir of a helicopter overhead. He picked up the World Economic Forum identification and strung it around his neck. The name printed in black block letters no longer read “Eva Kruger.” It had been altered by one letter to read “Evan Kruger.” The picture, too, had been replaced with a passport photo taken earlier this morning at a copy shop in Ziegelbrücke.

The work had taken him an hour to complete. The “n” came courtesy of a stencil set that he doctored to match the official font. Fixing the photo to the identification was harder to pull off and had required the use of a lamination press.

I’ve been in training and I never even knew it.

I’ve been Emma’s pawn all along.

A medical degree hadn’t been the only requirement for a successful tenure at Doctors Without Borders. A taste for larceny and a bold

imagination were equally helpful. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d falsified import and export documents to facilitate the transfer of medicine across frontiers, or as importantly, to avoid paying bribes to corrupt government officials. If penicillin was forbidden, they altered the papers to read “ampicillin,” which was stronger still but not as well known.

When they discovered border guards ripping off shipments of morphine, they changed the bill of lading to read “morazine.” Let them look it up in their Physicians’ Desk Reference and discover there was no such thing.

The only part of the World Economic Forum identification he could not change was the memory chip. His solution was to run a magnet over it, effectively erasing its data. He was willing to wager that in the course of examining thousands of identification cards, security guards had come across one or two others with similar faults.

Eva Kruger’s driver’s license was easier to alter. The cardboard stock used by the Swiss authorities practically begged to be fooled with. An X-Acto knife and paint thinner combined to lift Emma’s photo from the paper.

A second passport photo replaced it. He’d made sure to subtly change his appearance. Instead of his suit and tie, he left his jacket off, his collar buttoned to the throat, his hair mussed. Though taken just minutes apart, the two seemed to be from different days.

Again, he changed Eva’s name to “Evan.” Emma’s height was listed as one meter sixty-eight. He changed it to one meter eighty-eight. In fact, he was four centimeters shorter. The weight he likewise increased from fifty kilos to eighty.

He was all too aware that neither the driver’s license nor the Forum ID

would stand up to more than a cursory check. Subjected to rigorous examination, they would quickly give up their secrets and be exposed as bogus. But it was the Mercedes registration made out in the name of Parvez Jinn of Teheran that was his ace in the hole and lent him the legitimacy that a simple identification could not begin to match.

Until now, he reasoned, no one could know that he possessed the details of Eva Kruger’s planned meeting with Parvez Jinn. Jonathan also knew that there would be no second Mercedes delivered to Jinn. Therefore, while Falcon might arrange for Emma’s replacement to pick up his accreditation

at Security Checkpoint 1, he most probably hadn’t canceled the original pass meant for Eva Kruger.

Jonathan applied the same ruthless logic as before. The desire not to draw attention to oneself. If Eva Kruger’s name was still in the system, he was certain that there would be a note attached stating that she was to deliver the Mercedes to the Iranian official. It would be the car itself, then, that would serve as his passport to entry. It was hard to argue with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar automobile.

The first blockade was set up two kilometers from Davos. It was a vehicle inspection point located on a level straightaway. Battered wooden farmhouses stood to either side. A barrier blocked the eastbound stretch of road. He slowed and waited in a line of four cars. He tightened his necktie and sat straighter. He had his driver’s license ready, along with the registration slip.

The Forum ID badge dangled from his neck. Even so, his mouth was dry as dirt, his heart hammering somewhere near his Adam’s apple. He advanced toward the blockade. He noted the soldiers encircling every vehicle. His fingers tingled and he realized that he was hyperventilating.

Emma, how did you do this for eight years?

“Sir!” A police officer rapped on his window. “Move ahead.”

Jonathan drove the car a few meters until the bumper nearly grazed the barrier. He was asked to step out of his car and produce his driver’s license.

“Destination?”

“Davos. I’m attending the Forum.”

“You’re an official invitee?”

“I’m delivering this automobile to a guest at the Belvedere Hotel. Mr.

Parvez Jinn.”

“I’ll have to take a look at your ID.”

Jonathan freed the laminated badge from his neck. The policeman inserted the ID into a card reader similar to the one Jonathan had seen in the newspaper. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the policeman removed the card and thrust it into the reader a second time.

As he waited, a crew of soldiers ran mirrors beneath the chassis, checking for explosives. One gave a shout and the officer examining Jonathan’s identification walked over to him. The men exchanged words and the senior officer hurried back. “This is an armored vehicle?”

“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!”

Jonathan nodded and opened the driver’s door. It all made sense. The meeting was to take place inside the car. Any exchange of information necessitated a private forum. The car was an ingenious device, at once a passport to allow Eva Kruger entry to Davos and a smokescreen behind which Jinn could hide to pass his traitor’s information to the other side.

Sliding into the car, Jonathan spotted Hannes Hoffmann walking up the driveway. Cormorant.

Hoffmann had a butterfly stitch above one eye and a hat pulled low on his brow to cover the bruise. Their eyes locked. Hoffmann began to run up the icy road. Jonathan shut the door. The engine revved to life and Jinn jumped in his seat, just as Jonathan had several days before.

“Automatic ignition,” explained Jonathan, playing his role to the hilt.

“You can program it for manual if you like.”

“A marvel.” Jinn gazed proudly around the well-appointed interior.

“I have the presents Eva promised you,” said Jonathan as he put the car into drive and touched the accelerator. “The sweater and, of course, your fees in cash.”

“Wait,” said Jinn, motioning for him to keep the money hidden until they were clear of the hotel.

Jonathan rolled up the windows and the tinted glass shielded the car’s interior. Hoffmann tried to force him to stop the car by moving into the center of the road, but Jonathan had no intention of slowing. Tapping the accelerator, he put on a burst of speed. Hoffmann jumped to the side and fell into the snowbank.

Parvez Jinn was too busy studying the onboard navigation to notice.

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65

The Sikorsky helicopter traversed the narrow valley at maximum speed.

In contrast to the trip of two days before, the weather was calm with barely a breeze to upset the aircraft. The sky was clearing by the minute. Patches of blue came and went. For a moment, the sun peeked out, its rays harsh and glaring after days of incessant shadow.

Squinting, Marcus von Daniken spoke into the radio. “The name is Kruger,” he said to the watch officer at the WEF base security in Chur.

“Anyone presenting themselves at a checkpoint using that name, or anything similar, is to be refused entry into the Forum grounds. You are to consider him armed and dangerous. Use any necessary force. I want him arrested at once. Do you copy?”

“Roger, sir. We copy.”

Below him, he could see the two-lane highway that bisected the valley floor as it passed the town of Klosters. The checkpoints were also clearly visible, clusters of men and materiel at set intervals on either side of the road. Ten kilometers up the valley, he caught his first sight of the town.

Davos. Population: 5,500. Altitude: 1,800 meters. The alpine village cut a long and wide swath across the mountain’s flank. A ray of sunlight reflected off the dome of the Protestant church. At the top of the mountain, he glimpsed the royal blue gondola of the Jakobshornbahn.

The radio crackled to life.

“Inspector von Daniken, this is base security.”

“What is it?”

“A Kruger already arrived. First name: Evan. Passed through the valley checkpoint at eleven-oh-seven. A new identification was issued at eleven thirty-one at the Main Security Outpost.”

“Did you say that you issued the man a new identification?”

“According to the report entered by the officer on the ground, Kruger’s ID was defective. It lists the cause as a faulty chip. There was also an instance of erroneous data.”

“What does that mean?”

“The name was originally Eva Kruger, but the guest was a male. He was slated to deliver a Mercedes-Benz sedan to Parvez Jinn, a member of the Iranian delegation.”

Jinn, the Iranian firebrand. Von Daniken remembered the note that had been attached to the wire transfer of one hundred thousand Swiss francs to Gottfried Blitz, a.k.a. Mahmoud Quitab. “Gift for P.J.” Now he knew beyond a reasonable doubt who the money was intended for, though the nature of the tie between the two men remained to be seen.

Von Daniken’s mind fixed on the newspaper articles he’d read concerning the assassinations of the Bosnian warlord and the Lebanese police inspector. Did Ransom have another murder in mind? If so, why had he given the man one hundred thousand francs and a new automobile worth twice that amount?

“Where is Evan Kruger?”

“One second, sir. I need to check.”

Waiting, von Daniken swore under his breath.

“He’s inside the red zone. He passed through the Hotel Belvedere’s grounds eight minutes ago.”

“Get your men to the hotel,” said von Daniken. “I want it surrounded as quickly as possible.

Don’t worry about making a fuss. You have my authority. I’ll be landing at the southern helipad in four minutes. Have one of your men there to pick me up.”

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Formed in 1291, the nation of Switzerland considers itself the oldest continually functioning democracy in the world. The government is based on the bicameral parliamentary tradition and draws heavily from the American and British constitutions. The lower house, or National Council, is comprised of two hundred representatives, elected proportionally from the nation’s twenty-six cantons.

The upper house, called the Council of Cantons, counts two members from twenty of the cantons, and one each from the remaining six half-cantons. Instead of electing a prime minister from the majority ruling party to serve as head of the executive branch, members of both houses convene every four years to elect seven members to a governing federal council, the seats being split proportionally according to each political party’s representation. Each councilor is assigned a department or ministry to run, with the president selected on a rotating basis for a one-year term.

Though at forty-five, Alphons Marti was the most junior member of the Federal Council, he had no intention of waiting six years until filling the president’s seat. He’d made his name as a crusader, first in his home canton of Geneva, where he’d cleaned up whatever organized crime was there, and more recently, at the international level, where he’d campaigned against the Americans’ practice of extraordinary rendition.

Sitting at his expansive desk that frigid Friday morning, he looked at the papers in his hand and knew beyond any doubt that the information they contained constituted his ticket to the presidency.

The papers had come from Swisscom ten minutes earlier and they held a list of all phone calls made to and from numbers belonging to Marcus von Daniken. There were a total of thirty-eight calls. Most of the numbers belonged to von Daniken’s colleagues in the Federal Police. Marti spotted his own number on three occasions; at 8:50, when Onyx’s intercept detailing the passenger manifest of the CIA charter was distributed; at 12:15, when the American jet requested permission to touch down on Swiss soil; and at 1:50, when von Daniken called to coordinate the drive to the airport.

Running a finger down the list of phone numbers, he stopped at a 001

country code. The United States. Area code 703—for Langley, Virginia.

The number belonged to the United States Central Intelligence Agency.

Marti had his proof.

Setting the papers down, he called Hardenberg, the investigator he’d spoken with the night before. “Where’s von Daniken? I need to speak to him.”

“A helicopter picked him up in Zurich fifteen minutes ago,” Hardenberg replied. “He’s headed to Davos with Kurt Myer.”

“Davos?” Marti’s face fell. “What for?”

“We have a line on Jonathan Ransom. Apparently, he’s delivering an automobile to Parvez Jinn, the Iranian minister of technology.”

Marti pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. “Have you alerted security in Davos?”

“I believe so.”

“If you learn anything else, call me immediately.”

Marti hung up, then immediately dialed the number of the chief of the Federal Police across town. “Yes, Herr Direktor,” he began. “We have a grave problem. A man high in your organization has been identified as acting on behalf of a foreign power. The man we’re looking for is Marcus von Daniken. Yes, I was surprised, too. One never knows who one can trust.”

He lifted his eyes from the incriminating list and stared out the window.

He was gazing east toward the mountains.

“How quickly can you get your men to Davos?”

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“Who are you?”

Parvez Jinn sat stiff-backed in the passenger seat, his eyes appraising Jonathan.

“A friend of Eva’s.”

“You work together?”

“For eight years.”

“Ah,” said Jinn, trying to play down his discomfort at the unannounced change of plans. “So you know her well?”

“You might say that.” Jonathan could only offer so much without giving away his ignorance.

Fifty meters farther on, a policeman stood in the center of the road, directing traffic.

“What happened to her? Why couldn’t she come?”

Jonathan shifted his gaze to Jinn. “She’s dead.”

The news hit the man like a sledgehammer. “Dead? When? How? I can’t believe it.”

“Monday. She was climbing with her husband. It was an accident.”

“Her husband? Of course. She was married. Frau Kruger. ” He looked into his lap and Jonathan saw that he was pressing his lips tightly together.

“Are you alright?”

Jinn looked up sharply. “Of course. I don’t know why I should feel sad after what she did to me.”

The Iranian looked straight ahead. His lips moved for a moment, but no words came out. His hand had assumed a death grip on the armrest, his knuckles white as chalk. He was experiencing mild shock. Jonathan stared at the man, hating him. He had a strong urge to hit Jinn in the jaw and slam his shocked, undeserving face into the window. He had no right to mourn Emma.

Jonathan looked away, somehow gaining control over his emotions. It was crucial that he get Jinn’s mind off Eva Kruger— off Emma—before he suffered a breakdown. He called to mind the information he’d discovered on Intelink. Invoices. Packing statements. Customs declarations.

“You’ve received the last shipments, haven’t you?” he asked.

Jinn nodded, but it took him a moment longer to find his voice. “The Chalus facility is up and running,” he said weakly. “Four hundred cascades.

Fifty-five thousand centrifuges. We shut down all our other facilities and moved everything there to reach our goal.”

Cascades. Centrifuges. A fully operational facility. Jonathan’s suspicions had proven true. ZIAG

had been illegally exporting equipment used to complete the uranium enrichment cycle. But why would the company do that? And on whose behalf? If he knew that, he would be much closer to discovering the identity of Emma’s employer. He recalled the articles he’d read over the last year about Iran’s desire to become a nuclear power. “What’s your output?” he asked.