Rules of Deception

“Execute Test One,” he said, after completing a circuit of the valley.

The Pilot studied his radar. A moment passed and a blip appeared. The target was six kilometers away, gaining in altitude. He hit the contact button and designated the blip as “Alpha 1.” The onboard computer charted a direct path to the target.

“Initiating target run. Contact in two minutes ten seconds.”

“Two minutes ten and counting,” said ground control.

The Pilot brought the aircraft in line behind the target. The blip moved closer to the center of the monitor. It was just a kilometer away and two hundred meters below him. Just then, the plane entered a bank of cloud. His vision disappeared. He checked a second monitor, offering infrared vision. There was no heat signature visible. A violent gust forced the nose down. A buzzer sounded. The stall warning. A bolt of panic ran along his spine. It was like the night in the desert all those years ago. He felt as if he were once again caught in the haboob.

Trust your instruments. It was a pilot’s cardinal rule.

He remembered the collision. The jet fuel spraying over his body, incinerating his copilot. The horrid scent of burning flesh. His flesh.

Trust your instruments.

This time it was another voice speaking to him. A calm, unimpeachable voice. Rely on me, it said.

He pulled the joystick toward him and eased the throttle forward. Airspeed three hundred knots. The nose rose. Suddenly, he was through the cloud. Stars twinkled above him. His pulse eased, but he could feel the sweat sliding the length of his spine.

Once again, he took up position behind the target. At five hundred meters he armed the nacelle. The target came into view, looming like a great whale. He increased his airspeed and closed for the kill.

Three…Two…One.

The aircraft struck the target. On the monitor, the blip designated Alpha 1 disappeared.

“Direct hit. Target destroyed,” a

A cheer went up from the crew. This time the target had been a simulation generated by the computer.

The Pilot circled the valley and brought the aircraft in for a smooth landing. Climbing out of the cockpit, he crossed the control room and pulled back the curtains of a broad picture window. Outside on the road, the drone he had piloted by remote control sat on the tarmac. A team of men surrounded the aircraft and began to disassemble it.

The Pilot lowered his eyes and gave thanks.

Next time, it would be the real thing.

23

The clock read 4:41 a.m. when Jonathan drew the car to the side of the road and killed the motor. Rain pounded the windshield. In front of him, a three-story stone and terra-cotta building sat cloaked in mist.

“But it’s not even open,” said Simone. “There’s no one here.”

Jonathan pointed out a pair of laundry lines strung from the second floor window. “The station manager lives above the office.” He put out an open palm. “You have it?”

Simone fished Sergeant Oskar Studer’s identification out of her purse. “What if he doesn’t believe you?”

“It’s five in the morning. The last thing in the world he’s going to do is question a cop who comes to his door. Besides, I can’t go flashing that ID in broad daylight unless I put on forty pounds, shave my head, and break my nose a couple times. Take a look. What do you see?” Jonathan held the ID next to his face. Simone moved her head backward and forward, squinting to focus on the thumbnail-sized picture. He gave her three seconds, then flapped the wallet closed. “So?”

“It’s too dark. I couldn’t see anything.”

“Exactly.”

Simone, however, was not so easily convinced. “But how do you know you’ll find something?”

Jonathan slipped the receipts from his pocket and tucked them into the ID holder. “No one sends that kind of money without a way of getting it back.”

Simone shook her head. Arms crossed, shorn of her earlier bravado, she appeared smaller, older, no longer his willing accomplice. “Really, Jon, I think we should wait.”

“Get in the driver’s seat. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, take off.”

He opened the door and stepped into the rain.

“Sì?”

An unshaven man dressed in fla

Orsini snatched the identification from Jonathan’s hand and brought it near his face. His eyes snapped into focus. “What is it that it can’t wait until morning?” he asked, his gaze going back and forth between the ID and the man standing in front of him.

“It is morning,” said Jonathan, grabbing the ID right back. He crowded the doorway, forcing the station superintendent to step back into his home. “A murder. A fellow officer. My partner, in fact. You may have heard about it on the news.”

He waited for Orsini to comment on the photograph, but Orsini only looked peeved. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “No one called me about this.”

Jonathan barreled on, as if he couldn’t be bothered by who had or hadn’t called. “A few hours ago we discovered that bags belonging to the suspect were sent on a train originating from your station. We have the baggage receipts. We need the name of the individual who left them with you.”

“You have written authorization?” asked Orsini.

“Of course not. There wasn’t time. The murderer is headed in this direction.”

The news didn’t affect Orsini one way or the other. “Where’s Mario? Lieutenant Conti?”

“He asked that I come directly to the station.”

Orsini considered this, as he sniffed and hitched up his pajama bottoms. “Give me a minute.” The door closed.

Orsini emerged five minutes later, hair neatly combed, face washed, dressed for the day in gray trousers and a porter’s sturdy blue jacket. Jonathan followed him around the outside of the building to the ticket office.

A minute later, Orsini was seated at his desk, tapping the numbers of the baggage receipts into his computer. “Let’s see…sent to Landquart…bags picked up yesterday afternoon. Basta! Too late. Once the bags are picked up, the file is automatically deleted. I can’t help you.”

Orsini’s look of resignation infuriated Jonathan. “Is there another record of the transaction?” he demanded. “Maybe when the customer purchased the ticket? This is a murder we’re talking about. Not a stolen purse. Get me that name!” He slammed his palm against the table.

Orsini recoiled, but a moment later he was banging at the keyboard like a madman. “Tickets were paid in cash…had to fill out a receipt…hold on…” Standing, he pushed past Jonathan to a row of filing cabinets. Humming nervously, he pulled out sheaf after sheaf of bundled receipts, examining each in turn before tossing them onto the table next to him. Suddenly, he slapped his fingers against a chosen receipt. “Got him!”

Jonathan stood at his shoulder. “Who is it?”

“Blitz. Gottfried Blitz. Villa Principessa. Via della No

But when he turned around, he found his office empty.

Jonathan had already left.