Rules of Deception

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.

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 ma

“The next train back to Chur leaves in forty minutes,” a

“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.