The power.

Von Daniken lay in the snow, beyond cold, beyond feeling. During the briefing two days earlier, he’d learned that the control apparatus for a drone consumed an enormous amount of electricity.

If he cut the power to the house, the drone would be incapacitated. It might fly, but it would be rudderless. Sooner or later, it would run out of gas. Odds were that it would fall to earth and explode harmlessly in the countryside. Regardless of where it fell, it would not take six hundred lives.

Rolling onto his belly, he raised his head and searched the hillside.

Bullets struck the ground in front of him, spraying ice and dirt into his eyes.

He ducked, eating a mouthful of snow, but not before seeing the rectangular metal casing that governed electricity to the neighborhood.

The junction box sat a few meters away on a flat plot carved into the slope. A section of the ancient citadel wall occupied the ground above it.

The large stone blocks would provide a measure of protection.

He pulled himself up the hill, burrowing through the deep snow. He was shivering uncontrollably. He rested after a few meters and lifted his head, ready to throw himself back down at any moment. Gunfire was more or less constant, but the shots were no longer aimed at him. They were coming from the other side of the hill. A different caliber, too. It was Ransom and his wife.

The sound of a jet engine came to life. He thought it impossible that a small aircraft could generate such a deafening noise. The noise changed pitch, growing higher, straining. The drone was taking off. He turned onto his side and looked into sky. For a moment, he caught sight of a silver blade whisking over the treetops.

Pushing himself to a crouch, von Daniken scuttled up the hillside. He didn’t give a damn about seeking any kind of protection. He knew that he made an easy target, but the absence of gunfire spurred an irrational confidence within him. The house loomed ahead, looking like a concrete bunker. And then, suddenly, he was there.

He fell against the side of the box, panting. A padlock held it closed. He distanced himself from it, took aim with his pistol, and fired. The lock was obliterated. The junction box opened like a clamshell. He looked inside. A sticker warned him not to touch anything for fear of electrocution. A skull-and-bones decal drove the point home. He was confronted with a maze of wires, some woven together in dense, multicolored braids, others bound by protective rubber housing. It all looked terribly complex. He had expected there to be some kind of master switch he might throw. He craned his neck to get a better view.

The bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him around. Before he knew what had hit him, he was lying facedown in the snow. He turned over, stunned, breathless, robbed of purpose. He lay there for a few seconds, while the circuitry in his own mind got itself sorted out.

Forcing himself to a knee, he aimed his pistol at the house and got off a few wild shots. The pistol’s kick made him feel powerful and optimistic. He aimed at the junction box and emptied the clip into it. Nothing happened.

He tottered, and in his fuzzy mind, decided that the situation was absurd.

The first time he’d fired his weapon in thirty years, and it was at a giant metal box. He eased himself to the ground. The snow at his feet was red. He tried to move his left arm, but it was frozen and had no feeling whatsoever.

Suddenly, he found himself fixated by the snow.

Water, he thought.

He didn’t need a gun to do the job.

Reaching into the box with both hands, he grabbed a bundle of wires and yanked them free. A flurry of sparks drizzled to the ground. One wire in particular fired a steady blue pulse. He picked up a handful of snow with his good hand and lobbed it into the junction box. The wire sizzled, then continued to spark. He didn’t know what to expect, but surely that wasn’t it.

He felt around inside the box until his hand came to a larger bundle, a tube the size of a police baton. He pulled at it repeatedly. Finally, it tore loose, exposing a fountain of frayed copper wiring.

As he stared at the wires, he thought of the drone and the plane from Israel. He knew that the plane had no chance of escaping the drone, just as a

man, however frightened, could not outswim a shark. Then he thought of Philip Palumbo, lying there in the dark, riddled with holes.

Von Daniken scooped up more snow. This time, however, he pushed it onto the exposed wires and packed it down. There was a smart, crackling noise, then silence.

For a moment, he was sure that he’d failed, but then a surge ran up his arms and into his chest.

His back arched in spasm. He opened his mouth to scream, but his throat was paralyzed by the voltage coursing through his body. With a last effort, he yanked his hands clear of the snow.

Something exploded in his chest and he was flung violently backward through the air.

Jonathan ran in a line perpendicular to the car, dodging through the trees. The snow was deep and uneven, making the going difficult. Twice he tumbled to his knees and had to struggle to pull himself clear. After fifty meters, he veered to his right along a track parallel to the road. He quickly found the remains of the Roman-era wall that had once protected the city.

He hopped over it and, crouching, followed it to the rear of the house.

The home was cantilevered over the slope. Twin steel pylons anchored in the mountainside rose at a forty-five-degree angle to support the structure.

Reaching the pylons, he stopped and cocked his head. The gunfire had ceased. The silence that took its place was just as ominous. From the crest of the hill, he heard several motors turning over, and at least one car leave some rubber behind.

The pylons were slick and wet and deadly cold. They were hard enough to hold on to, let alone climb. Wrapping his arms around one, he shimmied up the incline. By the time he reached the top, his hands burned with cold and his clothing was soaking wet. Wedging his knee into the gap between the foundation and the pylon, he stood and extended his hand onto the balcony. With a breath and a prayer, he swung clear and reached up with his other hand and pulled himself onto the terrace.

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.

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88

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.

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EPILOGUE

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.

Inside the prime minister’s office, the relief was palpable, if temporary.

The state of Israel no longer had to worry about being annihilated without warning. The threat to its existence had been quelled, its borders secured.

For the moment.

In the wake of the attack, evidence about the true nature of Iran’s nuclear enrichment program was made public. World leaders roundly condemned the Islamic Republic and called for an immediate cessation of its nuclear enrichment program. The United States went a step further and issued an ultimatum calling on Teheran to turn over all of its weapons-grade uranium within seventy-two hours or else risk a military reprisal. The government in Teheran waffled, but finally acceded to the demands rather than risk a repeated embarrassment.

Only Zvi Hirsch knew the identity of the person who had provided his country the detailed information about Iran’s entire nuclear program and caused the raid to be diverted from Chalus to Karshun. And he wasn’t telling.

As he crossed the street from the prime minister’s residence, he tossed the small flash drive in his hand.

It was amazing what these computer wizards could do.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A number of individuals gave generously of their time to help with the writing of this book. In particular, I would like to thank Dr. Doug Fischer, Special Agent with the California Department of Justice, Andreas Tobler and Andreas Janka of the Graubunden Kantonspolizei, Juerg Siegfried Buehler of the Swiss Federal Police, Hansueli Brunner, the finest mountain guide in Switzerland (and, I’m proud to say, my cousin), Gary Schroen, Nick Paumgarten, Jack Shaw, Arnaud de Borchgrave, and others in the intelligence community who because of their positions do not wish to be named.

At Doubleday, I would like to thank my editor, Stacy Creamer, for her enthusiasm, insight, and support. Also, my thanks go to Bill Thomas, John Pitts, Todd Doughty, Alison Rich, Suzanne Herz, and Janet Cooke. Finally, I want to give a special thank-you to Steve Rubin, who sets the standard for class in the publishing industry.

There are several persons who deserve a longer mention. Foremost is my agent, Richard Pine, who stood by me every step of the way during the writing of this book. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for his devotion to the manuscript, his criticism and suggestions, and, mostly, his tireless encouragement. It’s not an exaggeration to say that an author is only as good as his agent, and I am blessed to be represented by the very best.

Richard, thank you.

Elisa Petrini of InkWell Management was another key member of the Rules “team.” Elisa is a fantastic reader and editor. I can’t thank her enough for her many invaluable insights during the shaping of the manuscript.

Also at InkWell, I’d like to thank Susan Hobson, Libby O’Neill, and of course, Michael Carlisle and Kim Witherspoon.

In England, my thanks go to Peter Robinson.

Last, and most important, I want to thank my wife, Sue, and my daughters, Noelle and Katja, for their love and support. You make it all worthwhile. I have to point out that Sue is an early reader of all my work. I rely heavily on her judgment about whether a book works or not (and frankly on just about everything). If I don’t say it enough at home, “Thank you, sweetheart, for showing the interest and taking the time.”

ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER REICH

The Patriots Club

The Devil’s Banker

The First Billion

The Runner

Numbered Account

Copyright © 2008 by Christopher Reich

All Rights Reserved

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