Open it.

Jonathan slipped a finger beneath the flap and tore open the envelope.

There was a single sheet of paper inside. Blank. No name. No heading. Not a mark. He turned the envelope upside down and gave a shake. Two slips of cardboard paper fell into his palm. They were identical in shape and size.

One edge was perforated, as if it had been torn from another piece. A six-digit number printed in red ink ran across the middle of each. To look at, it was a receipt. A claim ticket similar to what you received at a coat check.

Some letters were printed in a very small font in the bottom right-hand corner.

SBB.

Schweizerische Bundesbahn.

The Swiss Railway.

The tickets were baggage claims.

OceanofPDF.com

10

For the second time in twelve hours, Marcus von Daniken was back in Zurich. The sign above the entry read “Robotica AG” in meter-high letters colored a blazing blue. According to his dossier, Theo Lammers had founded the company in 1994 and was its sole owner and CEO. Its activity was referenced obscurely as “machine parts.”

A sturdy, officious-looking woman stood in the reception area, hands clasped behind her back as if awaiting a general on the parade ground.

“Michaela Menz,” she announced, approaching with two soldierly strides.

She was dressed in a sober two-piece suit, her brown hair cut short and parted on the side. Her business card noted that her doctorate was in mechanical engineering.

With honors.

In return, von Daniken offered her a look at his ID and a hardbitten smile.

Now they were equal.

“We’re still in a state of shock,” said Menz as she led the way to her office. “None of us can think of anyone who would wish to harm Mr.

Lammers. He was a wonderful man.”

“I have no reason to doubt it,” said von Daniken. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. We’re as anxious as you to find the murderer. Anything you can tell me will be of great help.”

Menz’s office was small and neatly furnished. There were no pictures of family, lovers, or friends. He spotted her as a work widow and realized she was probably sick with worry. Not for Lammers so much, but for the business and who would run it now that he was dead.

“Do you think it’s a colleague who’s responsible?” she asked in a tone of enthusiastic mourning.

“Someone abroad, perhaps?”

“I really couldn’t say at this point. It’s our policy not to comment on an investigation. Perhaps we can start with the company. What exactly is it that you do?”

The executive brought her chair closer to her desk. “Navigation systems.

Above ground, underwater, mobile terminal positioning.” Seeing the confused look in von Daniken’s eyes, she added, “We make instruments that plot the exact position of planes and boats and cars.”

“Like GPS?”

A frown indicated that he was off base. “We don’t like to rely on satellites. We recently patented a new terrain navigation system for aircraft utilizing a technology called sensor fusion. Our device combines measurements from inertial navigation systems, digital maps, and a radar altimeter. By measuring the terrain height variations along the aircraft flight path and comparing these with a digital terrain map, we’re able to establish the exact position of the aircraft within millimeters.”

“And who buys this type of device?”

“We have many clients. Boeing, General Electric, and Airbus, among others.”

Von Daniken raised his eyebrows, impressed. “So I have you to thank when my airliner doesn’t fly into a mountain?”

“Not just us…but, in a manner of speaking, yes.”

He leaned closer, as if eager to share a secret. “I imagine that kind of work has military applications. Do you have clients in the defense industry?

Aircraft manufacturers? Laser-guided munitions? That kind of thing?”

“None.”

“But some of the companies you mentioned have rather large defense-related businesses, don’t they?”

“They may, but they’re not clients. There are other companies that manufacture military navigation systems.”

To von Daniken’s ear, the answers were a shade too brisk. Lammers had, after all, been put on the watch list because of his involvement in the manufacture of large artillery pieces, including the “supergun” being made for Saddam Hussein. “Would it surprise you to learn that Mr.

Lammers designed artillery pieces when he was younger?” he asked.

“He was a brilliant man,” said Menz. “I imagine he had many interests he didn’t share with me. I can only state that as a firm, we’ve never had any involvement with weapons of any kind.” Her brow drew together. “Why?

Do you think that it has something to do with his death?”

“At this stage, anything is a possibility.”

“I see.” Menz looked away and he could see that she was playing with the idea. Her expression softened. Covering her face, she stifled a sob.

“Please, excuse me. Theo’s death has disturbed me terribly.”

Von Daniken busied himself jotting down notes. He was no Inspector Maigret, but it seemed apparent that Michaela Menz was telling the truth.

Or, at least, that if Lammers were involved in anything untoward, she didn’t know about it. He waited until the woman had calmed down, then asked,

“Did Mr. Lammers travel much for his work?”

Menz raised her head. “Travel? Good Lord, yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He was constantly on the road. Checking installations. Taking orders.

Keeping up goodwill.”

“And what countries did he visit primarily?”

“Ninety percent of our sales are within Europe. He was always bouncing between Düsseldorf, Paris, Milan, and London. The industrial hubs, mostly.”

“Ever get to the Middle East? Syria? Dubai?”

“Never.”

“No business with Israel or Egypt?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And who was responsible for booking his trips?”

“He did, I imagine.”

“Are you saying that Mr. Lammers didn’t have a secretary to make his reservations? Planes, hotels, rental cars…there’s so much that goes into planning a business trip these days.”

“He wouldn’t hear of it. Theo was a hands-on manager. He booked his travel on the Internet.”

Von Daniken scribbled the information on his pad. He didn’t buy the bit about his being a hands-on manager. Secretive was more like it. He didn’t want anyone looking over his shoulder when he booked his flights in the name of Jules Gaye or any other of his aliases. “Dr. Menz,” he asked with the promise of a smile. “Do you think I might see his office? It would help me get a better feel for him.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

In fact, von Daniken was already exceeding his brief. There hadn’t been time to apply for a warrant. In the eyes of the law, he had no right to snoop around the establishment. “I want to do everything possible to catch the man who killed him,” he said, challenging her with his gaze.

“Don’t you?”

Michaela Menz rose from the desk and beckoned von Daniken to follow her. Lammers’s office was next door. The space was the same size as Menz’s, the furnishings equally spare. Von Daniken’s eye immediately caught on an intriguing object displayed on the credenza. The device was a half meter in height, made of some kind of translucent plastic and shaped like a V. “And this? Is it one of your products?” he asked.

“It is an MAV,” said Dr. Menz. “A micro airborne vehicle.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the MAV. Menz nodded and he picked it up. The object weighed less than one kilogram. The wings were at once incredibly firm and strangely flexible.

“Does it actually fly?”

“Of course,” she responded, bristling as if insulted. “It has a range of fifty kilometers and can reach a top speed of over four hundred kilometers per hour.”

“Impossible!” declaimed von Daniken, playing the part of the yokel.

“And he built it here?”

Menz nodded approvingly. “With his own hands in our R and D lab. This one’s the smallest he’s produced. He was quite proud of it.”

Von Daniken memorized her every word. Range: fifty kilometers. Speed: four hundred kilometers an hour. Built with his own hands…the smallest

he’s produced. Which meant there were others. He studied the odd aircraft.

No doubt it was guided by a navigation system accurate to within centimeters. “Is it one of your products? Were you thinking of adding it to the line? Branching into toys?”

As hoped, Menz stiffened at the word. Stepping forward, she relieved him of the remote-controlled aircraft. “The MAV is no toy. It’s the lightest vehicle of its kind in the world. For your information, we built it for a very important client.”

“May I inquire who?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, but I can promise you that they have nothing to do with the military. Quite the opposite, in fact. You would recognize their name in an instant. We consider it an honor of the highest order.”

“It would be a tremendous help if you let me know who that client is.”

Menz shook her head. “I don’t see how that could be of any help in finding Theo’s killer.”

Von Daniken retreated gracefully. He thanked her for her time and asked her to call should she have anything else she wished to add. As he returned to his car, he was not thinking about robots.

He was thinking about the MAV.

Michaela Menz was right. It was no toy.

It was a weapon in drag.

OceanofPDF.com

11

Jonathan marched down the hill, carving his way past slower walkers.

He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers kneading the baggage receipts.

Were they for luggage? Skis and boots? Extra winter clothing? Upon finding them, he’d phoned Emma’s office, but no one there could recall sending her anything.

If not them, then who? he wondered. And why hadn’t there been a note, let alone a return address? The questions needled him mercilessly. Mostly, though, he asked himself why Emma had wanted to hide them from him.

The Poststrasse snaked pleasantly as it descended the mountain. Shops, cafés, and hotels lined either side of the street. Across Switzerland, the first week of February was “ski week,” a traditional school vacation. Families from St. Gallen to Geneva fled en masse to the mountains.

Today, however, the continued snowfall and gusty winds had shut down all lifts, including the Luftseilbahn. The sidewalks were crowded to bustling. There would be no going up the mountain. Not for Jonathan or anyone else.

Passing Lanz’s Uhren und Schmuck Boutique, he stopped abruptly. In the center window, flanked by glimmering wristwatches, stood an out-of-date meteorological station: a thermometer, hygrometer, and barometer all built into one. It had been in the same place eight years ago when he’d come here with Emma on their first trip to the mountains. The setup was the size of an old ham radio and was comprised of three pen-graphs that recorded the atmospheric conditions. In its center, a bulb burned red, indicating that the barometric pressure was falling. Poor weather would prevail. The snow would continue for some time yet.

Jonathan bent toward the glass to study the readings. Over the past thirty-six hours, the temperature had dropped from a high of three degrees Celsius to a low of minus eleven. Relative humidity had skyrocketed, while barometric pressure had plummeted from one thousand millibars to seven hundred, where it now stood.

“Why didn’t you check the weather?” the policeman had asked him the night before.

In his mind, Jonathan was back on the mountain with the snow and the wind and the menacing cold. He felt his arm around Emma’s waist as she crested that final ridge and collapsed against him. He remembered the look of accomplishment in her eyes; the swell of pride and the quicksilver certainty that they could do anything together.

“Jonathan!”

Far off, someone was calling his name. A gravelly voice with a French accent. He paid it no heed. He continued to stare at the red light, until it burned a corona into his vision. Emma had checked the weather. But she’d been too determined to make the climb to tell him that the forecast wasn’t good.

Just then, a hand gripped his shoulder. “What’s this?” asked the French-accented voice. “I have to track down my own welcoming committee?”

Jonathan spun and looked into the face of a tall, attractive woman with wavy dark hair.

“Simone…you made it.”

Simone Noiret dropped her overnight bag and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan hugged her back, closing his eyes and clamping his jaw. Fight as he might, he was powerless against the emotion that came with seeing a familiar face. After a moment, she eased her grip and held him at arm’s length. “And so,” she asked. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” he said. “Not okay. I don’t know. More numb than anything else.”

“You look like shit. Stopped shaving, showering, and eating? This is not good.”

He forced a smile, wiping at his cheek. “Not hungry, I guess.”

“We’re going to have to do something about that.”

“I guess so,” he said.

Simone forced him to meet her eye. “You guess so?”

Jonathan pulled himself together. “Yes, Simone, we’re going to do something about that.”

“That’s better.” She folded her arms and shook her head as if she were castigating one of her fourth-grade pupils.

Simone Noiret was Egyptian by birth, French by marriage, and a teacher by profession. Recently turned forty, she looked ten years younger, a fact which she attributed to her Arab heritage. Her Levantine blood was evident in her hair, which was black and thick as Nile straw and cascaded elegantly to her shoulders, and her eyes, which were dark and untrusting and made the more imposing by liberal use of mascara. She carried an expensive leather handbag over one shoulder.

She dug in it for a cigarette—a Gauloise—one of the sixty or so she smoked each day. So far, the cigarettes had confined their damage to her voice, which was as scratched as one of the old Brel records she carted around with her from one city to the next.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I needed to have someone around…

someone who knew Emma.”

Simone began to speak, then caught herself, turning away from him and throwing her cigarette to the ground. “All during the train ride, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said. “I told myself that you needed someone strong. Someone to cheer you up. To look after you. But, of course, you’re the strong one. Our Jonathan. Look at me. Like a baby.”

Tears ran from the corners of her eyes, smearing her cheek with mascara.

Jonathan pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the smudges.

“Paul sends his condolences,” she managed between sniffles. “He’s in Davos for the week. Mr. Bigshot is to deliver a speech on the corruption in Africa. Now there’s an original topic. He wanted you to know that he is devastated that he couldn’t come.”

Simone’s husband, Paul, was a French economist, a highly-placed paper pusher at the World Bank.

“It’s alright. I know he’d come if he could.”

“It’s not, and I told him so. These days we are all slaves to our ambition.”

Simone caught a glimpse of herself in the shop window and winced. “Mais

merde. Now I look like shit, too. What a pair we are.”

The Ransoms and the Noirets had met in Beirut two years before, neighbors in the same apartment building during Jonathan’s tour with DWB. At the time, Simone was teaching at the American School in Beirut.

Learning that Emma was in the aid game, she’d used her contacts to secure cheap digs for the “mission,” which was what aid workers called their operational units.

The act of kindness had cemented Emma’s loyalty forever.

Jonathan’s assignment to DWB headquarters in Geneva was greeted with joy, at least by the women. (Jonathan had dreaded the move…and with good reason, it turned out.) Paul Noiret was due to rotate back to Geneva two weeks earlier. The Noirets had once again come to the rescue, helping Jonathan and Emma find an affordable apartment at their upscale complex in Cologny.

The couples dined together whenever their schedules permitted. Burgers at the Ransoms’ one month. Coq au vin at the Noirets’ the next. It was not, as Emma had liked to point out, exactly a fair trade.

Jonathan picked up Simone’s overnight bag. “Come with me,” he said, starting off down the hill.

“But I thought the hotel was in the other direction.”

“It is. We’re going to the train station.”

Simone hurried to catch up. “Getting rid of me already?”

“No. There’s something I have to check on.” He held up the receipts for her inspection.

“What are they?” asked Simone.

“I think they’re baggage claims. They came in a letter for Emma yesterday. The only thing inside was a blank piece of paper. No signature.

No note. Just these things.”

Simone plucked them from his fingers. “SBB. That means the Schweizerische Bundesbahn. Is she missing any luggage?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

“Who sent them?”

“No idea. There’s no name anywhere.” He took back the receipts. “Think it might be from a friend of hers?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You were with her in Paris.”

“Yes, I was. And so?”

Jonathan hesitated. “There was this emergency at work while you two were there. I tried to reach her for two days. When I couldn’t, I got upset.

She said she’d camped out in your room at the hotel and didn’t bother going to her own.”

There it was then; his suspicions set out plain to see. Naked insecurities.

In the light of day, they appeared petty and insubstantial.

“And you didn’t believe her?” Simone put her hand on his arm and gave a squeeze. “But it’s true. We stayed together the entire time. It was our

‘girls’ weekend.’ We didn’t even begin to talk until after midnight. That’s when the motors got going. That was our Emma. All or nothing.

You know that.” She laughed wistfully, not so much recollecting the moment as to dispel his worry. “Emma wasn’t cheating on you. She wasn’t the type.”

“What about these bags? She never mentioned anything to you? A trip she had planned? A surprise of some kind?”

“A ‘lightning safari’?”

“Something like that.”

A “lightning safari” was the name they’d given Emma’s jaunts to secure supplies. At least once a month, she made unannounced dashes to points near and far to obtain type-A blood, penicillin, or even just vitamin C.

Everything from the mundane to the miraculous.

Simone shook her head. “It must be something she ordered. Have you called her office?”

Jonathan said he had, and that they were quick to state that they hadn’t sent anything to her.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” said Simone, as she slipped her arm into his and they walked to the bottom of the hill.

At the main post office, they turned left, skirting the Obersee, a small lake, now frozen over and cordoned off by ropes to allow the new snow to settle. The Bahnhof was deserted. Two trains serviced Arosa each hour. The first, taking passengers down the mountain to Chur, departed at three minutes after the hour. The second, bringing passengers up, arrived at eight after.

Jonathan headed toward the luggage counter. The attendant took the tickets and returned after a minute, shaking his head. “Not here,” he said.

Jonathan stared into the recesses of the storage area where dozens of bags were stacked on a maze of iron shelves. “You’re sure you checked everything?”

“Try the ticket office. The station manager can tell you if the bags are in the system.”

The ticket office was likewise deserted. Jonathan stepped to the counter and slipped the receipts beneath the window. “Not here,” reported the station manager, his eyes locked on the monitor.

“The bags are in Landquart. They arrived two days ago.”

Landquart was a small town on the Zurich–Chur line, best known as the terminus for Klosters, favored haunt of the British monarchy, and Davos, the fashionable ski resort.

“Do you know where they were sent from?” Jonathan inquired.

“Both items were sent from Ascona. Part of our drop-and-ship program.

Put aboard the 13:57 to Zurich. Transferred onward to Landquart.”

Ascona was on Switzerland’s border with Italy. One of the palm-frocked resorts dotting the shores of Lago Maggiore. He had no friends who lived there. Apparently, Emma did.

Simone leaned her head toward the window. “Can you tell us who exactly sent the bags?”

The station manager shook his head. “I don’t have the authority to access that information from this terminal.”

“Who does?” she asked.

“Only the issuing station at Ascona.”

Jonathan reached for his wallet, but Simone beat him to the punch. She slipped her credit card across the counter. “Two tickets to Landquart,” she said. “First class.”

OceanofPDF.com

12

The compound was called Al-Azabar and it belonged to the Palestine branch of Far Falestin, a division of Syrian military intelligence. Philip Palumbo stepped inside the building and winced at the odor of ammonia permeating the main hall. It was not his first visit, not even his tenth, but the eye-watering smell and barren surroundings still got to him. Concrete floor.

Concrete walls.

Pictures of President Bashir Al-Assad (referred to by his countrymen as

“the doctor” because of his training as an ophthalmologist) and his late father, the strongman Hafez Al-Assad, were the only decorations in sight. A desk manned by a lone officer occupied the center of the room. A German shepherd slept at his feet. Seeing Palumbo, the officer stood from the desk and saluted.

“Welcome back, sir.”

Palumbo swept past him without answering. For the record, he was not present. If pressed, evidence could be produced to prove he’d never stepped foot on Syrian soil.

Philip Palumbo headed up the Special Removal Unit of the CIA. On paper, the Special Removal Unit belonged to the Counterterrorist Command Center. In truth, the SRU functioned as an autonomous unit, and Palumbo reported directly to the deputy director of operations, Admiral James Lafever, the second-ranking man in the Agency.

Palumbo’s job was simple enough. Locate suspected terrorists and abduct them for interrogation.

To this end, he disposed of a fleet of three corporate jets, a team of operatives poised to travel to all four corners of the map with an hour’s notice, and the unwritten dispensation of Admiral Lafever, and behind him, the president of the United States, to do whatever needed to be done.

There was only one caveat: Don’t get caught. It was a double-edged sword, to be sure.

The plane had touched down in Damascus at 1:55 p.m. local time. His first act was to transfer custody of the prisoner to the Syrian authorities. The papers he had signed in triplicate made Prisoner 88891Z a ward of the

Syrian penal system. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, Walid Gassan had ceased to exist. He had been officially “disappeared.”

A trim, businesslike officer in a starched olive uniform emerged from a brightly lit corridor. His name was Colonel Majid Malouf—or “Colonel Mike,” as he insisted on being called—and he would be handling the interrogation. Colonel Mike was an unattractive man, his face haggard, his cheeks and neck violently pockmarked. He greeted the American with a kiss on each cheek, a hug, and a handshake as powerful as a bear trap. The two men retreated to Colonel Mike’s office where Palumbo spent an hour going over the details of the case, concentrating on the holes they needed Gassan to fill.

The Syrian lit a cigarette and studied his notes. “What’s the time frame?”

“We think the threat is imminent,” said Palumbo. “Days maybe. A couple of weeks at the most.”

“A rush job, then.”

“I’m afraid so.”

The Syrian picked a loose shard of tobacco from his tongue. “Will we have time to bring in any relatives?”

A proven interrogation technique involved producing a suspect’s mother or sister. The mere threat of physical harm to either was usually sufficient to secure a full confession.

“No way,” said Palumbo. “We need something actionable now.”

The Syrian shrugged. “Understood, my friend.”

Officially, Syria still figured on the United States’ list of state sponsors of terrorism. Though it had not been directly linked to any terrorist operations since 1986 and it actively forbade any domestic groups from launching attacks from its own soil or attacks targeting Westerners, it was known to provide “passive support” to various hard-line groups calling for Palestinian independence. Islamic Jihad based their headquarters in Damascus, and both Hamas and the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine kept offices in the city.

Despite this, and Syria’s abysmal record of human rights, the American government viewed the Syrians as partners in the war on terror. After 9/11, the Syrian president had shared intelligence regarding the whereabouts of certain Al-Qaeda operatives with the United States and had condemned the attacks. During the Iraq war, the Syrian military had worked to staunch the cross-border flow of insurgents into Iraq. A secular dictatorship, Syria wanted no part of the Islamic fundamentalist revolution sweeping the Arab world. Extremism was not tolerated.

The interrogation cell was a narrow, dank room with a barred window high on the wall and a drain in the center of the floor. A guard led the prisoner into the room. A moment later, a second guard dragged in a schoolboy’s wooden desk, the kind with the chair and writing table attached to one another. Gassan was made to sit down. One of the guards removed the black hood covering his head.

“So, Mr. Gassan,” began Colonel Mike, speaking Arabic. “Welcome to Damascus. If you cooperate and answer our questions, your stay will be brief and we will transfer you back to the custody of our American friends.

Do you understand?”

Gassan made no reply.

“Would you like a cigarette? Some water? Anything at all?”

“Go fuck yourself,” muttered Gassan, but his bravado was ruined by the nervous glances he threw over his shoulders.

Colonel Mike gave a signal and the guards fell on Gassan. One wrenched his left arm behind his back, while the other extended the right arm, landing a knee on his forearm and flattening his palm on the table. The fingers twitched as if stimulated with an electric current.

“I am an American citizen,” shouted Gassan as he writhed and struggled.

“I have rights. You are to free me at once. I wish to call a lawyer. I demand to be repatriated.”

Colonel Mike took a pearl-handled penknife from his breast pocket and freed the blade.

Carefully, he separated Gassan’s pinky from the other fingers, slipping a wine cork in the hollow to prevent it from moving.

“I demand to see the ambassador! You have no authority! I am an American citizen. You have no right—”

Colonel Mike laid the blade at the base of the finger and severed the digit as if he were chopping a carrot. Gassan screamed, then screamed louder when Colonel Mike applied a bandage moistened with disinfectant to the stump.

Palumbo looked on, showing no emotion.

“Now then, my friend,” said Colonel Mike, lowering himself on his haunches so he was face to face with Gassan. “On January tenth, you were in Leipzig, Germany. You met with Dimitri Shevchenko, an arms dealer who was in possession of fifty kilos of plastic explosives. Ah, you are surprised! Don’t be, my friend. We know what we’re talking about. Your colleagues in Germany have been most generous with their information. It is pointless to keep your silence. So much aggravation. So much pain. You know what they say. ‘In the end, you will talk anyway.’

Come, habibi, let us be civilized.”

Gassan grimaced, his eyes locked on his ruined hand.

Colonel Mike sighed and went on. “You paid Shevchenko ten thousand dollars and transferred three boxes containing the trophies into a white Volkswagen van. This much we know. You will tell us the rest. Namely, to whom you delivered the explosives, and what they plan to do with them. I can promise that you will not leave before giving us this information. And if you think you can lie, I must add that we will wait to learn if it is true. Let us begin. Tell us about the explosives. To whom did you deliver them?”

Palumbo studied his shoes. It was at this point that they discovered a man’s mettle.

Gassan spat in his interrogator’s face.

A fighter, then.

Palumbo left the room. It was time to get some coffee. It was going to be a long night.

OceanofPDF.com

13

Fangs of ice hung from the railway clock at the Landquart station.

Jonathan and Simone walked the length of the platform, heads bowed against the gusting wind. A group of skiers were clustered around the baggage depot, glumly checking in their equipment. There would be no skiing today. Jonathan took his place at the rear of the line, patting his leg impatiently, claim checks out and ready.

Simone nudged him with her shoulder. “Have you called Emma’s relatives?”

“There’s only her sister, Beatrice. She’s in Bern.”

“The architect? I thought Emma disliked her.”

“She did, but Bea’s her only family. You know how it is. It was one of the reasons Emma wanted to come to Switzerland. I tried to phone her this morning, but only got the machine. I couldn’t leave a message saying that Emma was…I just couldn’t.”

“What about a service?”

“We’ll have one when we recover the body.”

“When will that be?”

“Hard to tell. A few days, maybe. It all depends when we can go back up the mountain.”

“Will you have it here or in England?”

“England, I imagine. It was her home.”

The line crept a pace forward.

“And your brothers?” Simone asked.

“I’ll call them when I have something to say. I’m not in the mood for sympathy.”

The line advanced and Jonathan found himself facing the baggage clerk.

He handed over the receipts. The clerk returned carrying a black overnight bag and a medium-sized rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper.

The black bag was made from supple calfskin and sported a gold zipper secured by a gold lock.

It was unquestionably expensive. A bag to take on a weekend trip to your country home. A bag to place on the front seat of your Range Rover. No name tag. Just a receipt attached to the grip.

Jonathan turned his attention to the package. A shirt box, he thought absently. It was tied with twine, but likewise unmarked except for the receipt. He picked it up and was surprised to find it so light. He took out his pocketknife, eager to sever the coarse string.

“Is it what you expected?” Simone asked. “I mean, are they Emma’s?”

“They must be,” said Jonathan shortly. “Someone sent them to her.”

“Next, please,” the clerk called over his head.

The line pushed forward. The man behind Jonathan shouldered his way to the counter. So much for Swiss manners. Jonathan put away the knife, hauled the bags off the counter, and headed down the platform, looking left and right for a place where he could open the bags. He was surprised to find the Bahnhof buffet packed and a queue of those waiting for a table curling out the door.

“The next train back to Chur leaves in forty minutes,” announced Simone, gazing at the monitors displaying arrival and departure information. “There’s a tearoom across the street. Shall we get a coffee?”

“Why not?” said Jonathan. “Maybe we can get a little privacy there.”

They waited until there was a break in traffic, then jogged across the street. As they neared the opposite side, a silver sedan rounded the curve driving rapidly.

“Watch out!” Jonathan grabbed Simone and dragged her onto the sidewalk.

The car swung into the slow lane, its tires jumping the curb. With a screech, it came to a halt, its front bumper barely a foot away. The doors opened. From either side, a man emerged and started toward them.

Jonathan looked from one man to the other. The man circling from the driver’s side was short and muscular, clad in a leather jacket and

wraparound sunglasses, hair shorn to the scalp. The other was taller and heavyset, dressed in jeans and a roll-neck sweater, with ice blond hair and eyes too narrow to betray their color. The men moved nimbly, advancing with obvious aggression. It was equally obvious that he, Jonathan Ransom, was their target. Before he could react—before he could warn Simone or get a hand up to protect himself—the blond in the fisherman’s sweater slugged him in the face. Knuckles to the cheek. Jonathan fell to a knee, dropping the box and the bag.

“Jonathan…my God!” Simone uttered the words weakly, retreating a step.

The blond man bent over Jonathan and picked up Emma’s calfskin bag and the brown-paper-wrapped package. “Los,” he said to his partner, with a tilt of the head.

If they had left then, Jonathan would have done nothing. His face throbbed terribly. His vision was blurred; his mouth brassy with the taste of blood. He’d had his share of brawls and dustups.

He knew when to push back and when not to.

But then the crewcut man shoved Simone to the ground. She cried out.

And something in that cry summoned all the terrors of the past twenty-four hours—the onset of the storm, Emma’s fall, the discovery of her body in the crevasse—making them barbed and raw, and somehow more painful than ever.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet running toward the blond-haired man.

Only one thing mattered: he’d stolen Emma’s belongings and Jonathan wanted them back.

With a cry, he hurled himself onto the thief’s back. Throwing an arm around his neck, he grabbed him in a headlock and tried to bring him down to the ground. Immediately, an elbow pounded Jonathan’s ribs. A roundhouse to the jaw followed a second later. Jonathan collapsed to the ground, winded and shaken.

The blond man tossed the black bag into the car. He regarded Jonathan with a victor’s disdain and let go a low sweeping kick aimed for the face.

But this time Jonathan saw it coming. Deflecting the boot with one hand, he grasped the man’s foot and wrenched it violently, snapping the ankle and toppling his assailant. The man had hardly hit the ground before Jonathan was on him, pounding him about the eyes and nose with a blunt fist.

Cartilage gave way. Blood squirted from his nostrils.

By now, the other thug was halfway round the hood of the car. He was half a foot shorter, with sloping shoulders and a lineman’s grotesque neck.

He came at Jonathan like a bull across the ring. Dragging himself to his feet, Jonathan raised his hands in a boxer’s stance.

The attacker neared and Jonathan threw a jab, then another. The assailant knocked both aside easily. Taking hold of Jonathan’s parka, he flung him onto the hood of the sedan, pinning an arm with one hand and seizing his throat with the other. Fingers dug into Jonathan’s neck, collapsing his larynx.

With his free hand, Jonathan struck the man repeatedly, but the blows landed weakly and with little effect. Wrapping his fingers around the automobile antenna, he struggled to pull himself clear of the assailant. The antenna snapped, and he held it limply in his hand.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed overhead. Simone raised her hand high in the air and beat the man with a chunk of cobblestone. “Stop!” she cried.

“Let him go!”

The attacker loosed a hand and clubbed Simone across the face. She tumbled to the ground, her head striking the pavement with a resonant thud.

A second later, the hand was back at Jonathan’s throat, the grip stronger than ever.

Jonathan’s field of vision shrunk to the face glowering inches from his own. The odor of beer, onions, and cigarettes assaulted his nostrils. The attacker slid him down the hood and brought his other hand to Jonathan’s neck, fingers taking hold like steel claws. The pressure increased and Jonathan felt his esophagus giving way.

It came to him that it was no longer just a question of escaping, but of surviving. He would have to kill the man on top of him. His consciousness ebbed and he thought of Emma. He saw her broken form lying in the ice.

Alone. Abandoned. He knew that it was his fault and that he couldn’t leave her there. Someone had to bring her down from the mountain.

The thought galvanized him.

His fingers tightened around the antenna. He searched the man’s face—

eyes, nose, mouth—looking for the proper spot. Summoning the last of his strength, he sat up. In the same motion, he brought the antenna to the attacker’s head in a vicious, stabbing arc.

Instantly, the hands weakened.

Jonathan rammed the antenna home.

The attacker staggered from the car, sunglasses dangling from one ear.

Turning in a circle, he frantically gulped down air. One half of the antenna protruded from the man’s ear. Repeatedly, he tried to grasp the rod, but his fingers went wide every time.

Dazed, Jonathan slid off the hood of the car, his eyes never straying from his assailant. A clinical voice informed him that after piercing the eardrum, the antenna had entered the cerebellum, where it had scrambled the motor reflexes, the autonomic nervous system, and God only knew what else.

The attacker sank down to his knees. His chin fell to his chest. Eyes open, he went as still as a toy whose batteries had run out.

Simone pushed herself to her feet. The side of her face was red and swollen. “Is he dead?”

Jonathan placed his fingers on the assailant’s neck. He nodded. He stood, kicked loose a chunk of ice, and pressed it to her cheek.

“Who is he?” Simone asked.

“No idea. I’ve never seen either of them before in my life.”

The attacker’s jacket had fallen open. A silver badge was visible on his belt, and next to it, a pistol. Jonathan knelt to examine the badge. Engraved across the top were the words “Graubünden Kantonspolizei.” His stomach dropped. He slipped his hand into the man’s jacket and came up with an ID

case. Sergeant Oskar Studer. The photograph matched.

“A cop.” Jonathan tossed the ID to Simone.

“Go,” she whispered. “Get out of here.”

“I can’t leave. I have to tell the police what happened.”

“They are the police.”

Jonathan had trouble accepting the notion. “What were they doing? They didn’t even say anything.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Simone. “I grew up in a country where you couldn’t trust the police. They took my father. They took my uncle. Never an explanation. I know what the authorities are capable of.”

“Be serious. This isn’t Egypt.”

Simone looked at him as if he were a jackass. “And so? Is that badge fake?”

“I don’t know…I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s not right. I can’t run away.

The guy’s dead. I killed him. I just can’t do—”

“You! Amerikaner. Stay where you are.” Ten feet away, the heavyset blond man rose on all fours. If his carriage was unsteady, the voice was anything but. One hand held a pistol and he was pointing it in their direction.

Amerikaner, thought Jonathan, incredulously. He’d never seen this man before. How could he possibly know anything about him?

The blond man leveled his gun and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Gazing confusedly at the pistol, he struggled to free the safety.

Jonathan looked from Simone to the corpse in the road to the bloodied man fighting to his feet and pointing a pistol at him. “Get in the car!” he shouted. “Move! Now!”

The driver’s door was open. He flung himself into the car and started the engine. Simone landed in the passenger’s seat and slammed the door, her eyes wild.

A millisecond later, the rear window exploded, pelting their backs and necks with glass.

Simone screamed.

Jonathan threw the car into reverse and rammed his foot on the accelerator. The automobile struck the gunman and there was a solid thwack as he hit the pavement.

Jonathan braked, and shoved the gearshift into first. He let out the clutch too quickly and the car lurched before accelerating down the street.

In a minute, they were out of town doing a hundred eighty kilometers along the highway.

OceanofPDF.com

14

Marcus von Daniken stood beneath the awning of the Sterngold outdoor café at Bellevueplatz, a cell phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, Frank,” he said, speaking loudly to drown out the voices of the diners around him. “Did you get anything on the passport?”

It was one o’clock. A malicious wind screamed across the lake, snatching bits of flume off the whitecaps, swirling them through the air, and slapping the foam against von Daniken’s cheek.

“An interesting question,” said Frank Vincent of the Belgian Federal Police. “Tell me, Marcus, is there anything you forgot to mention about Lammers? I mean, any ties to us?”

“What kind of ties?” asked von Daniken.

“With our country. With Belgium.”

“No. Lammers worked in Brussels for a year or two, but that was in 1987, twenty years ago. What have you got?”

Vincent grunted, disappointedly. “You see, we tracked down the original passport holder, Jules Gaye. We located his application and ran through his home address, birth certificate, even checked his tax records. He’s an international businessman, if you’re interested. Owns a dozen companies all over the world. Clothing was his line. Traveled quite a lot. Dubai. Delhi.

Hong Kong.”

Von Daniken thought of all the stamps in Lammers’s passports. Lammers traveled frequently, too. “So he’s a real man?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Vincent. “Wife. Kids. House on the Avenue Tervuren.

He’s real, alright.”

“What are you saying? That Lammers was leading a double existence?

One family in Zurich, one in Brussels?”

“No. That much we can rule out. Lammers and Gaye are definitely two different people.”

Only then did von Daniken catch the noise of a car honking in the background. “Frank, where are you?”

“At a pay phone,” said Vincent. “The last one in Brussels.”

“A pay phone? What the hell are you doing there?”

“You’ll know well enough in a second.”

“Frank, did you find Gaye or not?”

“Of course I found him.” Vincent paused, and his voice lost its serrated edge. “Gaye’s passport was a replacement job. He lost his old one while he was traveling and needed a new one on the spot. He showed up at our consulate in Amman.”

“Amman? What was he doing there?”

“Visiting a textile factory. All strictly legit. I called our boys out there and they remembered the case. In fact, it’s safe to say they’ll never forget it.”

Von Daniken pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear Vincent over the ambient traffic noise. He was wondering what was so memorable about issuing a new passport to a tourist.

“Happened two years ago, August,” Vincent went on. “Gaye showed up with a story that his passport had been stolen from his hotel room, along with his wallet and some other belongings.

He offered his driver’s license as proof of identity. A nice gentleman, by all accounts. The passport was issued on the spot. About two weeks afterward, the body of a European man and his wife were found in a wadi halfway to nowhere. The local gendarmes said the couple had been killed by bandits, but it was hard to tell. They’d been dead a long time. Weeks.

Maybe months.

You can imagine the condition of the bodies in that heat, not to mention the desert jackals, the flies. The thieves had made off with their belongings, so identification was impossible.

Eventually, the police traced the rental car back to a small hotel. They hauled the manager into the morgue and he was able to confirm that the corpses in the jeep had been his guests. He recognized the man’s shirt.

According to him, it was Gaye.”

“But it was never proved…”

“Sure it was. His family asked for a DNA test. It took three months, but the hotel manager was right. It was Gaye sure enough.”

“Are you saying that it was Lammers who applied for the replacement passport?”

“You tell me. Was Lammers one meter eighty tall, eighty-five kilos, fair hair going to gray, blue eyes?”

Von Daniken drew up an image of the prostrate corpse lying in the snow.

“Close enough.”

“You know what I’m thinking, Marcus? That job out there in the desert…

it was also professional.”

One point still bothered von Daniken. “But that was two years ago.

Surely you blocked the passport.”

“Of course we did. We blocked it immediately.”

“So what’s the big deal? Why are you calling me from a pay phone?”

“Because a month later, someone unblocked it.”

“Who?” demanded von Daniken.

There was a moment of silence. Far away, on a crowded boulevard in Brussels, a truck blared its horn. “Someone high up, Marcus. Very high up.”

OceanofPDF.com

15

“Bastards! Espèce de salopards!” Simone Noiret banged the dashboard with every epithet. “He was trying to kill you! Why?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jonathan, in a faraway voice. The heater was blasting him with a torrent of warm air, yet he couldn’t keep from shivering.

The image of the policeman lamely grasping at the antenna protruding from his skull played front and center in his mind.

“But you must,” Simone insisted.

“They wanted the bags. That’s all I can think of. The guy lost his cool when I fought back.”

“The bags? That’s all? There must be more to it than that. Surely—”

“What do you want me to say?” Jonathan protested, turning toward her.

“I’ve never seen those men before in my life. I’m just as frightened as you are. Arguing about it won’t help. We have to figure out what to do.”