“Four kilos a month enriched to ninety-six percent.”

“Are you satisfied with that? Can’t you get to one hundred percent?”

Jinn shot him a dismissive glance. “Ninety-six is already far above what’s necessary. I thought you’d be impressed.”

“I am…I mean…we are.” Jonathan felt as if he were walking through an unfamiliar house in the dark, always a half step from banging into a piece of furniture or knocking a vase onto the floor.

He had to be more careful. If Jinn suspected that he wasn’t Eva Kruger’s colleague, there was no telling what he might do. “And the other part?”

“What other part?” Jinn was growing anxious. His eyes no longer held Jonathan in the same esteem.

Instinct told Jonathan that the purpose of the meeting wasn’t to review Iran’s current status. It had been arranged for another reason. He guessed that it was a payoff. The money and the car in exchange for “Gold.” And

“Gold” had to be information. Jinn had nothing else to offer. “You know,”

Jonathan said, with an edge.

“If you’re wondering whether I’ve got what you requested, you can rest easy. What choice did you give me?”

Jonathan shot him a sidelong glance. “We all have a job to do.”

Jinn laughed mirthlessly. “Did you know that they make ministers attend the executions of spies?

The French call it pour encourager les autres. To encourage the others.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He’d settled into a rhythm and Jonathan was careful not to disturb it. “If you are caught, they begin with your family.

They take the youngest first. It’s humane enough, if that’s how you’d describe the firing squad. Pasha is eight. Yasmin will come next. She turned thirteen last week. According to the new law, she must start wearing a chador whenever she is in public. The rage is black silk scarves from Hermès in Paris. Be sure to pass that along to your analysts in Virginia or London or Tel Aviv, or wherever the hell it is you’re from.”

He rubbed his eyes, a gesture of fatigue that conveyed a weary ease with his situation. “Where did you find her, anyway?” he asked. “Is she the product of some sick school you’ve set up to take advantage of men like me? Is that it?” It was another rhetorical question. Jinn knew all the answers already. He had worked out his situation in excruciating detail and he appeared relieved to be able to share them with another man. “You know the funny part,” he went on, with no smile in sight, “is that, to this day, part of me thinks she cares for me. In spite of it all. In spite of her threats. Do the photos count as blackmail or extortion? Or is it the banking records? All those bribes she insisted I take? Killed climbing, eh? I don’t think anything less could have done the trick.”

Jonathan had no response. He felt as if Jinn had been speaking for him.

The light turned green and he continued along the town’s main artery, called the Promenade, passing a turnoff to the railway station. Jinn appeared to have gotten himself under control. He pulled himself upright in his seat and sat with the posture of the zealot he made himself out to be.

“To matters at hand,” he said. “The money, please, Mr. Kruger.”

Jonathan handed over the envelope. He’d replaced the money he’d spent with funds from his private account. “One hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

“Has the transfer been made to my account in Zurich?”

“Of course,” said Jonathan, though he had no idea what transfer Jinn was talking about.

“The full twenty million?”

“Yes.”

“It’s for my children, you know,” Jinn explained. “I can’t touch it unless I leave the country.”

The Iranian took a flash drive from his breast pocket and set it on the center console. “It’s all there. Location of our rockets. Weaponization plants. Production facilities. A blueprint of our nuclear efforts from A to Z.

I know what you’re going to do with it. You made the mistake in Iraq. You won’t repeat it. You have your smoking gun. This time no one can say that you didn’t have a good reason.”

“Our smoking gun?”

“Yes, whoever you are. Americans, French, the British, Israelis, it doesn’t matter. You all want the same thing. War.”

Jonathan had read enough about Jinn in the papers to piece together an idea of how his recruitment must have unfolded. It had started during one of Jinn’s trips to the West. As a low-ranking official in the Ministry of Technology, it was his job to meet with businessmen eager to establish commercial relations with Iran. Had the first meeting been in Beirut or Geneva? Or somewhere else Jonathan had yet to learn about? It didn’t matter. It must have been just a hint at first. A discreet remark passed along during the course of an encounter. For a price, ZIAG could arrange for the export of certain “controlled technologies.” Of course, it was Eva who’d brought it up. The lure must have been irresistible to a man like Jinn. He would have seen the possibilities from the start. A chance to rise within the ranks. To become a patriot on the level of A.Q. Khan, the Pakistani engineer who had given his country the bomb. A national hero even.

All combined with the attentions of a woman unlike any he’d ever met.

He’d jumped at her offer.

At first, their relationship would have remained professional. Eva, Hoffmann, and Blitz made sure that the shipments arrived without incident.

It was critical to establish Jinn’s credentials with his superiors. By all accounts, it had been a meteoric rise. In six months, Parvez Jinn was minister of technology. As minister, he was able to travel more freely. No doubt he visited ZIAG’s operations in Switzerland. Visits that coincided with Emma’s “lightning safaris,” her unannounced trips to points unknown to gather supplies. It was during one of these factory visits that Eva Kruger sank in her hooks. Perhaps she’d suggested an onward journey to Bern to continue their discussions in a more private setting. Discussions that involved a visit to her apartment, chilled glasses of Polish vodka, and whatever came next. It was the oldest trick in the book. Once they had pictures, they added bribes to the mix. Transfers to the account in Zurich.

Even the ayatollahs might understand falling for a woman like Eva. They would not, however, countenance the taking of kickbacks.

Jinn was toast.

Jonathan looked at the Iranian official seated next to him, feverishly counting his cash. You poor sonuvabitch, he thought, with renewed hatred for the man. You were no match for my wife.

“Is that all?” Jonathan asked, fingering the flash drive.

“The blueprint of my country’s nuclear program. I should think it’s enough.”

“You’re not holding back? We can stop to check. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“There is one more thing,” said Jinn. “A year ago we came into possession of four Russian-made Kh-55 cruise missiles. The missiles are being kept at Karshun Air Base on the gulf. Each has a ten-kiloton warhead.

If our enrichment facilities are attacked, we will not hesitate to use them.

The plan is to take out Jerusalem and the oil fields at Ghawar. Our president plans on making an announcement next week. I’m here to set the stage. Tell your masters to think twice before they act.”

“I’ll pass along the news.”

“And so?” said Jinn. “Where are the pictures? Where’s my passport? I need to know that I can get out. I’m done being your lackey. Eva promised to turn over everything.”

Jonathan handed him the French passport. “You’ll have to wait for the photographs. Eva had them. You don’t have to worry. This is the end of the operation. No one’s going to bother you anymore.”

It was then that he noticed the commotion ahead of them. A squad of soldiers moved into the center of the road, setting down riot-control barriers to block both lanes of the traffic. Policemen swarmed the sidewalk, barking instructions to pedestrians. Some ran in the other direction.

Others cowered against the wall in a pantomime of panic. A few even fell to the ground and covered their heads with their hands.

Jinn’s phone rang. He answered with a grunt. His eyes swept to Jonathan.

After ten agonizing seconds, he hung up.

“The police have surrounded the hotel,” said Parvez Jinn. “They are looking for the man who delivered the Mercedes. It appears, my friend, that you have killed me.”

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Jonathan kept his eyes straight ahead. A squad of policemen advanced down the center of the road, guns drawn and aimed at the Mercedes. A glance in the rearview revealed more of the same, approaching from the rear. He heard the thrum of a helicopter’s rotor overhead. A compact, determined man dressed in a suit and overcoat emerged from the pack in front of him.

He had bags beneath his eyes, but there was no mistaking the energy in his step, or the barely veiled anger. It was the same policeman who’d led the charge up the Villa Principessa’s drive two days earlier.

“Who do you work for?” asked Jinn. “CIA? MI6? Mossad? A man has a right to know who he’s dying for.”

“I don’t work for any of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m her husband.”

“Whose husband?”

Jonathan shot Jinn a sidelong glance. “Eva Kruger’s.”

“But…” A curtain fell over Jinn’s features. “Give it to me,” he demanded. “Give me the flash.”

“Sorry,” said Jonathan. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

“But the police will find it…everyone will know that I gave it to you. I must have it back.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Jonathan looked at the phalanx of police and soldiers converging on him.

All along, he’d planned on turning himself in once he had proof. Now, though, he had the flash with a record of Iran’s entire nuclear program, as well as the spy who could corroborate his every claim about the events of the past days, and he realized that he still didn’t have enough. The police would confiscate the flash drive. Jinn would be returned to his delegation and whisked out of the country. And Jonathan? He’d be hung out to dry, doing twenty to life.

There was only one way clear. He had to get out of the city. He had to give the flash drive to the only people who would know what to do with it.

Shifting into reverse, he began backing up, swerving in and out of the line of cars. After twenty meters, he braked, threw the transmission into drive, spun the wheel, and accelerated up a side road. Moments later, sirens began to wail. He caught sight of several soldiers taking a knee on the road behind him, machine guns set against their shoulders. It was an easy shot: thirty meters, unobstructed, and straight as an arrow. But no one fired.

There was no need. The city was a locked cage.

Jonathan punched the gas and the Mercedes devoured the steep slope. He turned left at the top of the hill. He was driving parallel to the Promenade, past chalets and apartments. It was only a matter of time until they stopped him. Still, time was what he needed. Time to think. To plan. To scheme. He was one of them now. A member of Emma’s team. A professional.

“Stop!” cried Jinn. “You’ll get us both killed!”

Jonathan looked at him from the corner of his eye. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

A police car turned onto the road behind them. It kept its distance, content to hem in one side of the trap. Jonathan turned at the next corner.

The road narrowed until it was hardly more than a single lane. Pines grew overhead. He was no longer in the official Forum area. Snow had not been cleared from this part of the village. Ice crusted the road as it curved uphill into a shady forest before ending abruptly. A wall of snow blocked the path.

Jonathan slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed before stopping.

Jinn fumbled with the door in an effort to escape. Jonathan punched the central lock and slammed the Iranian into his seat with his right arm. “Stay put!”

He reversed down the road in time to see a police car blocking his retreat.

A pasture lay to his right. A hiking path on his left. Jonathan yanked the wheel to the left and accelerated onto the trail. Wooden fences lined either side. The path dipped, flattened, then plunged downhill. The car caromed left and right, battering the fences. Remarkably, his breath was calm, his heartbeat hardly elevated. The snow was his element. Instead of panicking, he gave in to a steely control.

He held the steering wheel lightly, nudging the nose left and right, not daring to oversteer.

“Watch out!” shouted Jinn.

Directly ahead, a mother and father dragged their young children on a pair of sleds down the path. Jonathan touched the brakes, causing the car to slide left, but not to slow in the least. He slammed his palm against the horn. The couple stared back in horror and began to run. One of the children looked over her shoulder, smiled and waved.

Jonathan tapped the brakes again, which only amplified his lack of control. There was no way to slow the car.

The Mercedes rapidly ate up the distance between them. Twenty meters separated the car from the family. Fifteen. Ten. The mother slipped and fell.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

A path opened to the right.

Jonathan spun the wheel. The Mercedes lost its tail. He nudged the accelerator and the car found its bearings. The tires asserted their grip, the nose lurching forward. But only for a moment. In front of them the walking path continued downhill, but now it was bathed in the shadows of a pine legion. Snow became ice. The tires lost all purchase. He was sliding, hopelessly out of control. The tail swung right, then left, continuing through forty-five degrees, as they careened backward down the hill, gathering speed.

Jinn sat wide-eyed, one hand pressed against the ceiling, screaming.

The car jumped as it crested the path’s boundary. It hit a hard object and caromed away from it like a billiard ball from a bumper. Jonathan saw a hut flash by. Everything was moving too fast.

He gripped the steering wheel and held on for life. The tail bounced violently, and suddenly, the ride grew smooth. The jarring noise disappeared, and there was silence. Jonathan realized that they were airborne. The rear of the car plummeted. The hood rose like a black wave before him, and he blinked as the sun flashed in his eyes. With a terrific thud, the car landed, tumbled onto its side, turned over once, twice, and then came to a rest on its roof.

Jinn was unconscious, his eyes closed. His teeth had dug into his lip and his mouth was bleeding, but otherwise he didn’t look hurt. Jonathan forced open the door with his shoulder and rolled to the ground. His ears were ringing and his left arm was numb. Shakily, he rose to his knees. The Mercedes had plunged off a ledge, rolled down a short slope, and ended up in a small pasture.

The air was alive with the seesaw whine of a dozen sirens, all of them coming his way. He could see blue lights flashing along the path in the forest above him. He blinked, and realized that he was seeing double. A sure sign of a concussion. He squinted and his vision cleared.

Looking down the hill, he caught glimpses of the Davosstrasse between the backs of stores and buildings. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the stores. Dazed and numb, he maintained enough presence of mind to feel for the flash drive.

Thank God, it was there.

A warm breath of wind touched his back, and suddenly he was airborne.

The fury of the explosion engulfed him. He landed on his stomach, his face buried in the snow. He raised himself on an elbow and peered over his shoulder. The Mercedes was awash in flames, windows blown out, the hood bent into an A-frame.

Jonathan didn’t know what had happened, whether the gas tank had exploded or if it had been something more sinister. Behind the burning car, on the hillside overlooking the meadow, a police car drew to a halt. A man jumped out.

“Dr. Ransom!” he yelled. “Stop. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

It was the officer from Ascona, the same grizzled cop he’d seen just a few minutes ago on the street.

Jonathan ran.

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Von Daniken started down the hillside. The snow was knee-deep and wet, and it buried his leather brogues. He didn’t care. He’d bill the department for a new pair. He put his hand on his pistol, then took it away.

In thirty years of service, he’d never drawn his gun and he saw no reason to start now.

A second police car pulled up on the road behind him. Several plain-clothes officers jumped out.

Suits all around. He didn’t recognize any of them. No doubt they hailed from the state police.

He turned to Myer. “Radio for a cordon to be set up on Davosstrasse to make sure Ransom doesn’t get back to the main street.”

“Chief Inspector von Daniken,” someone called.

Von Daniken looked over his shoulder. The voice… he knew it. He studied the men closely. He’d never seen any of them before.

“Stay where you are,” said the familiar voice. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

Von Daniken did a double take. Those are my words, he thought as he put a face to the voice. He saw the slight figure emerge from between the cars.

The pale complexion. The red hair worn too long for a man his age.

“The charge is conspiring with a foreign intelligence service,” Alphons Marti called from up on the hill. “Come back to the car, Marcus, so I don’t have to tell my men to restrain you.”

Von Daniken continued to trudge through the snow. A warrant for my arrest. How ridiculous.

Yet, deep inside, he’d been waiting for the hammer to fall. It wasn’t just what Tobi Tingeli had told him this morning, though that had sealed the deal. He’d known two nights earlier, when Marti had refused to let him call out the police to search for the drone.

He looked at Kurt Myer, but Myer was being led away, too, and forced into the back of the police cruiser.

“Are you accusing me of being a spy?” asked von Daniken.

“I let the law accuse. My job is simply to enforce it.”

Von Daniken looked from Ransom to Marti. By now, several of his men were making their way down the slope. One of them had even drawn his gun. The American was jogging in the opposite direction, away from the car. “Aren’t you going to stop him? He’s the one we’re after!”

“Not today, Marcus. Today, you’re our number-one suspect.”

By now, a crowd had gathered around the outskirts of the meadow.

Several people ran toward the car, including one man with a fire extinguisher. Ransom threaded his way among them, slowing his pace to a walk, getting closer and closer to freedom.

Von Daniken began walking across the meadow, his pace quickening until he was jogging.

“Ransom,” he called. “Stop! Do you hear me?”

More soldiers and policemen were reaching the scene every second. No less than ten uniformed men were making their way up the western side of the meadow, fanning out to reach the burning car. Von Daniken waved at them. “He’s over there,” he shouted, motioning toward Ransom. “In the dark suit. The tall man with black hair.”

The policemen’s eyes flitted from von Daniken to Marti. Everyone knew the members of the Bundesrat by sight. As one of the seven-member Federal Council that ruled the country, he was a prominent national figure.

They were not apt to disobey his orders.

Marti barked a command to one of his aides, who radioed a message via his walkie-talkie. The assembled soldiers ignored Ransom and converged on von Daniken. Dropping his hands to his knees, the chief of the Service for Analysis and Prevention, one of the nation’s highest-ranking law enforcement officials, stopped in his tracks and waited like a common criminal for the officers to reach him. “It’s alright,” he said, out of breath.

“Give me a minute.”

Marcus von Daniken straightened up and looked across the snowy meadow. Caught in the glare was the outline of a black figure, dark as a rook’s wing. Then it disappeared.

Ransom was gone.

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Jonathan slid from shadow to shadow, concealing himself in dark corners and recessed doorways, in damp alleys and deserted passageways.

His head ached from the blast and he was certain that he’d bruised a few ribs. Still, he was free, and liberty was a bracing tonic. He had just one goal: to get out of town.

He picked his way down a side street slick with black ice. He was anxious to distance himself from the town center. If possible, there were even more policemen patrolling the sidewalks than when he’d arrived in town. A minute didn’t pass without a soldier or a policeman appearing out of nowhere and rushing past him up the hill. The column of black smoke acted like a beacon.

The security teams were falling back on the red zone as if it were the Little Bighorn.

He passed several homes, an automobile garage, and an electrician’s workshop. It was difficult to walk casually. Half of him wanted to run like hell, the other half wanted to crawl into a cellar, curl up, and hide. Worst was a nearly uncontrollable desire to look over his shoulder for pursuers.

Several times he’d felt certain that someone was trailing him, but upon scanning the sidewalk behind him he hadn’t been able to spot a tail.

He crossed the street and descended a steep walking path that passed between several chalets. At the bottom of the hill, the path widened. To his left rose an outdoor ice hockey stadium. To his right, a commercial road that led to the train station. A cluster of police cars were parked near the tracks. He wouldn’t get out of Davos by train.

He considered where he should go. The busier the road, the more likely he was to run into the police. He needed quiet. He needed to think. He jumped a low fence that bordered a long, low-roofed wooden hut. The stink of manure seeped from its rough-hewn log walls. Listening to the low and rustle of the cows inside, he continued to the rear of the hut.

He pulled up abruptly.

There it was again. The scratching at the base of his neck. He was certain that someone was watching him.

Pressing his back against the wall, he poked his head around the corner and stared down the path.

Again, he saw no one.

He leaned his head against the wood, telling himself to calm down. He took the flash drive from his pocket. It was his key to freedom. The question remained: who held the lock?

He gathered himself, mapping out his next steps. He would find somewhere to lay up, wait until dark, and then head up the mountain. Most of the speeches were being given after six p.m. With many visitors attending the Kongresshaus, the town would be calmer, and hopefully, the police presence reduced. Once he made it past the Promenade, the going would be safer. The outer fence surrounding the town was barely two meters tall. He could be over it in ten seconds.

Keeping to the mountains, he’d walk out of the valley. By morning, he’d be in Landquart, where the whole thing had begun. From there, he’d find a train or hitch a ride to Zurich.

He froze, certain that he was being watched.

Turning toward the street, he found himself face to face with a compact man several inches shorter than himself. The man was dressed in dark ski attire, but Jonathan could tell that he was no skier. The black eyes bore into him quizzically, as if he were owed an explanation. Jonathan recognized the face immediately. He was the man from the train.

The assassin’s arm shot forward, a stiletto in his hand. Jonathan dodged right, shoving the man viciously to one side. A knife. But of course, he thought. No one could penetrate security with a gun. The assassin slammed into the wall and fell to a knee.

Jonathan knew better than to fight. He’d tried his luck twice in the past days, and both times he’d come away injured. In his view, he had two strikes against him.

He ran.

He crossed the length of the livestock hut, cutting between the hut and the barn next to it. Soon he was back on a paved road, running for all he was worth. After one hundred meters, he came to a fork in the road. He

chose to go in the direction that climbed the hill. Ahead, he could see cars and pedestrians crowding the Davosstrasse. He looked over his shoulder.

The street was empty.

The killer had vanished. Jonathan stopped running and settled into a walk.

Two police cars were parked at the end of the block. Beyond them rose a security fence topped with razor wire. It was a checkpoint governing access from the green zone to the red zone.

Jonathan slipped behind the garage of a beverage distribution company.

Kegs of beer were stacked four high, row upon row. He ducked inside the maze of crates and barrels, snaking this way and that, until he reached a dead end. With nowhere to go, he freed a crate and sat down.

For the moment, he was safe.

He pulled his coat around him and ran through his options. The list was depressingly short. He could no longer wait until dark. If the assassin had found him once, he’d find him again. Hiding was not an option. Bathed in shade, he began to shiver.

If only he could wait until dark…until the speeches…

Paul Noiret was scheduled to give his talk about Third World corruption this evening. If Paul was here, so was Simone.

Jolted out of his funk, he pulled out Blitz’s phone and dialed.

“Allô.”

“Simone,” he said breathlessly. “It’s Jonathan.”

“My God, where are you?”

“I’m in Davos. I’ve gotten myself in trouble. Where are you?”

“I’m here, too, of course. With Paul. Are you safe?”

“For now. But I need to get out of here.”

“Why? What’s happened? You sound frightened.”

“Do you see that plume of smoke not far from the Belvedere?”

“It’s directly across the street from my hotel. Did you hear the explosion?

Paul and I think it was a bomb. He won’t let me leave the room.”

“It might have been one.”

Thinking back on the explosion, he realized that there was no reason for the gas tank to have ignited, and that the blast was several times bigger than what could have been fueled by a half tank of gasoline. Its force reminded him of an artillery burst. The car had been rigged to go off.

He didn’t know how it was set off, or why the police at the checkpoint hadn’t detected the explosives. All he knew was that the explosion had blown an armored car’s engine block off its mounts and left the hood bent like a ruined pup tent.

“You mean you know something about it?” Simone asked.

“I was in the car thirty seconds before it went up. Look, Simone, I need your help. Did Paul bring his car?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just listen. If you can’t go through with what I’m asking, I’ll understand.” Jonathan forced himself to speak slowly. “I need you to get me out of town. I need a ride to Zurich. If you leave now, you can be back in time for Paul’s speech.”

“What would I tell him?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“But I don’t know what the truth is.”

“I’ll tell you everything in the car.”

“Jon, you’re putting me in a difficult spot. I told you to leave the country.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I get to the U.S. consulate.”

“The U.S. consulate? But why? They’ll only turn you over to the Swiss police.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve got something that may buy me some time.”

“What is it? Did you finally get your proof?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, losing his patience. “Will you do it?”

“I can’t tell Paul. He won’t allow it.”

“Where is he now?”

“With his colleagues, preparing for his talk.”

“Do this for Emma.”

“Where are you?”

“Drive down Davosstrasse until you pass the tourist office. Turn left and go to the bottom of the hill. You’ll see an old barn down the road to your left with a trough out front and a rusty tractor sitting out back. I’ll be waiting there.”

Simone hesitated. “Alright, then. Give me five minutes.”

A silver Renault pulled up next to the barn on schedule. Simone rolled down her window.

“Jonathan,” she called. “Are you there?”

Jonathan waited for a few seconds, his eyes on the road behind her, waiting to see if she’d been followed. When no cars approached, he waited longer still. He was certain that the assassin was out there.

Finally, he ducked from behind the shed on the opposite side of the street and dashed to the car.

“Open the trunk,” he said, wrapping his knuckles against the passenger window.

Simone jumped in her seat.

“Hurry up,” he said. “Someone’s following me.”

“Who is it? Where? Do you see them?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he’s close.”

“They’re saying an Iranian minister was inside the car when it exploded.

Parvez Jinn. He was set to give the keynote address tonight.”

Jonathan nodded. “The trunk,” he said.

“Tell me what I’m getting myself into.”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Come on. Hurry!”

Simone considered this, then motioned for him to get in. A moment later, she released the trunk.

“Stop in Landquart and let me out,” he said. “I’ll explain everything to you then.”

With that, he hustled to the rear of the car, arranged himself inside the trunk, and pulled it closed.

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“I have him,” Simone Noiret said quietly into her cell phone. “I’ll pick you up where we agreed.”

She hung up, then lowered the car radio’s volume. “How are you doing back there?” she called over her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

A muffled voice and two thumps was her response. The trunk might be cramped, but there was more than enough oxygen for the short ride. After all, she was not planning on transporting Jonathan to Zurich.

For over two years, Simone Noiret had been working to infiltrate Division. It was odd to think of turning against your own country, but the world was a decidedly odd place these days. Rivalries were as fierce between organizations as between enemy nations.

Born Fatima Françoise Nasser in Queens, New York, she was the daughter of a French-Algerian mother and an Egyptian father. Her earliest memories were of money, or more precisely, arguments about the lack of it.

Her father was a congenital miser. When she thought of the cunning it had taken to wrest a lousy ten dollars from his tight fist, it made her sweat. She joined the army at eighteen because her brother had done so before her. Her language skills placed her in Intelligence. Besides French, Arabic, and English, she spoke Farsi. She was trained at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, and the Army Defense Language Institute in Monterrey before being stationed in Germany. She rose to E-5 before she got out. With the money she’d saved and the army helping to foot tuition, she attended Princeton University, graduating summa cum laude with a degree in Middle Eastern Studies.

Hardly a month later, she received a call asking her to come to a meeting in Manhattan with a representative of the CIA. He made his pitch straightaway. The operations directorate had been keeping an eye on her dating back to her time in the army. They offered her a slot overseas. It was spying pure and simple. Not like you saw in the movies, but the real thing.

She would attend a course at the Farm, the CIA’s training facility, near Williamsburg, Virginia. If she passed, she would go on for further training as a clandestine operative. He needed an answer in twenty-four hours.

Simone said yes on the spot.

That was eleven years ago.

It was Admiral Lafever, the deputy director of operations, who had asked her to join his personal crusade against Division. It was not a request one could turn down, and in any event, she was eager for a new challenge. All records of her employment with the CIA were expunged. A simple legend was created, establishing her as a peripatetic teacher, one of the flock of displaced Europeans who travel from country to country filling vacant slots at one American school after another. Her husband’s job at the World Bank provided a natural cover.

Simone arrived in Beirut a month ahead of Emma. To establish their friendship, she helped Emma secure working quarters for the Doctors Without Borders mission that served as her cover. Friendship came naturally. After all, the two had much in common. Birds of a feather, so to speak. It wasn’t long before they were talking to one another daily.

All the while, Simone watched.

One by one, she uncovered the members of Emma’s network, though not in time to prevent the hospital bombing that had taken the life of a Lebanese police inspector involved with the investigation into the former Lebanese prime minister’s assassination.

In Geneva, Simone continued her work. It was only a month earlier that she’d identified Theo Lammers as a member of Emma’s new network. She passed word to Lafever, and this time Lafever did not hesitate to take action. She’d always figured that somewhere along the line killing might come into things. In her past assignments, it usually did. Part of her wondered if he’d somehow killed Emma, too.

Simone passed through the two checkpoints without incident. At each, she stopped and showed her identification. At each, she was sure to look the inspector in the eye, though not quite respectfully. And at each, she was quickly waved on.

Instead of turning right when she hit the crossroads for the highway that led westward to Landquart, and on to Zurich, she guided the car in an easterly direction, heading deeper into the valley. There were enough twists and turns in the road to convince her that Jonathan couldn’t possibly figure

out in which direction they were traveling. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The trunk was locked.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Poor lamb.

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72

Alphons Marti stood atop the hill overlooking the meadow, hands tucked at his side like a victorious general. “Did you think I wouldn’t look into who tipped off the CIA? You know how badly I wanted to nail the Americans. They’ve been using our airspace to ferry suspects to their secret prisons for far too long. It makes me sick to think of the innocent men they’ve captured, the lives they’ve destroyed.”

“Since when are they innocent?” asked von Daniken. “The Americans have stopped quite a few attacks. The system is working.”

“That’s what they’d have us believe. So high and mighty, yet always ready to step on a rule when it applies to them. We had them this time.

Gassan was on that plane. It was a golden opportunity to show the world what Switzerland stands for.”

“What’s that? Getting in the way of the war on terror?”

“‘The war on terror’? You have no idea how much I despise that phrase.

No, in fact I was referring to decency, honesty, and the rights of the common man. I think such things are the responsibilities of the world’s oldest functioning democracy. Don’t you?”

Von Daniken shuddered with disgust. “I don’t pretend to believe that anyone cares what I think about those kinds of things. All I know is that it was Gassan who told the CIA about the planned attack on our soil.”

“What about it? Are you any closer to finding the drone?”

“Considerably.”

The answer surprised Marti. “Oh?”

“The van used to transport the UAV was photographed by one of our surveillance cameras driving through Zurich last night. Right now I have the Zurich police force combing all the communities surrounding the airport, looking for any sign of it.”

“That’s against my orders.”

“Exactly,” said von Daniken. “I should have told you to go screw yourself two nights ago. I knew you were up to something then. Of course, I

didn’t know what kind of traitor you really were.”

“Traitor?” Marti reddened. “It wasn’t me who contacted the CIA.”

“No,” said von Daniken. “You did worse.”

“I think I’ve had just about enough. You’re finished, Marcus. You purposely betrayed my trust.

You gave secret information to a foreign government. Give your gun to my men.” Officers of the Federal Security Service charged with Marti’s protection stood to either side of him. Marti turned to one of his officers.

“Cuff him. It’s my opinion that he poses a flight risk.” He looked back at von Daniken. “Why don’t you call your friend Palumbo and see if he can get you out of this mess?”

“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.

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73

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.

Just then, the breeze softened. A cleft opened in the clouds directly above his head and an azure sky gazed down. He jogged the few steps to the weather station. The temperature read minus two. The high-pressure front had arrived.

Hurrying indoors, Steiner fired up his radio and alerted his men.

It was time to go back to Roman’s.

Three hours later, Steiner’s team reached the knoll where Emma Ransom was last seen. They had come by a secondary route used only in fine weather that was favored by alpinists and ice climbers. It was a shorter

trek but much steeper, presenting two separate vertical pitches of twenty meters each.

The last traces of the storm system that had sat over the entire country for the past five days had dissipated. Blue sky reigned and the afternoon sun shone fiercely. A vast field of snow glittered with the secrets of a thousand uncut diamonds.

Steiner gazed up the mountain. There was no sign of the life-and-death struggle that had taken place on this spot. Similarly, it was impossible to discern the location of the crevasse.

He ordered his men to spread out in a line. Each held a two-meter probing stick in front of him.

Step by step they advanced, jabbing their poles into the snow to test for solid ground. It was Steiner who discovered the crevasse when he thrust his pole into the snow and it kept right on going until he was bent to the knee.

A quarter of an hour later, his men had cleared a ten-meter swath that permitted them a clear path to the fissure. Flags were set in the snow demarcating the crevasse’s boundaries, as Steiner supervised the fixing of the ropes. He would be the one to descend into the chasm and retrieve the body. After a final check of his harness and knots, he turned on his miner’s light and called,

“On belay.” Allowing the rope to play through his fingers, he walked backward into the earth.

Inside the crevasse, the air was cooler. As he descended, the ice walls gave way to striated granite. All light from above dimmed. Soon he was stranded in an obscure paradise, his eyes trained on the halo of light emitted by the halogen bulb.

After he’d rappelled one length of rope—exactly forty meters—he saw the body. The woman was lying on her stomach, one arm stretched out above her head as if she were calling for help.