Rules of Deception

And the wife? The Englishwoman who had perished in a freak mountaineering accident? Might Ransom have killed her when she’d discovered that he was an agent?

Von Daniken scowled. He was grasping. Spi

Von Daniken’s phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

It was Myer, and he sounded worried. “In the garage. Come quickly.”

31

The garage was detached from the main house and accessible by a side entry. A late-model Mercedes sedan occupied one space. The other was empty, but a fresh oil stain and a set of muddy tire tracks testified to the fact that a vehicle-either a truck or a van by the width of its axle-had recently been parked there.

Myer skirted the Mercedes and made his way to a storage closet built into the rear wall. He opened the doors and stood back so von Daniken could have a clear view. Stacked on the shelves were bricks wrapped in white plastic and bound in groups of five by duct tape.

“Is it what I think it is?” said von Daniken.

“Thirty kilos of Semtex still in its factory wrapping,” said Myer. “Won’t be hard to find out where this came from.”

Plastic explosives were tagged with a special reactive chemical that identified not only the manufacturer, but the lot number. The practice allowed the explosives to be tracked, and in theory, at least, to defend against illegal sale and trafficking.

“Take one,” said von Daniken.

Myer didn’t hesitate before removing a brick and tossing it to Krajcek, who slipped it into his overcoat. As material evidence, the explosives officially belonged to the Tessin police, but von Daniken didn’t feel like filing a request and waiting a week for the evidence to be catalogued and then released. Plastic explosives were not passports.

“Check the car?” von Daniken asked.

“Just the trunk. It’s clean.”

Von Daniken climbed into the Mercedes and rummaged through its contents. The vehicle was registered to Blitz. His driver’s license was tucked into the flap alongside the door. As he removed it, a piece of blue paper fell into his lap.

An envelope. One of the flimsy old-fashioned ones marked “Air Mail.” He saw the writing and his heart skipped a beat. It was Arabic written in a fountain pen’s faded blue ink. The postmark read, “Dubai, U.A.E. 10.12.85.”

Von Daniken opened it. The letter itself was written in Arabic, too. One page, the script neat and precise. A laser printer could hardly do better. He couldn’t read a word of it, but that didn’t matter. The faded photograph tucked inside told him all he needed to know.

Staring into the camera was a strapping young soldier dressed in a green uniform complete with a Sam Browne belt and an officer’s oversized cap. Flanking him were his mother and father. Proud grins were the same the world over. Von Daniken had never been to Iran, but he recognized a picture of the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomenei when he saw it, and he knew that the giant, four-story painted portrait of the religious figure that dominated the photograph’s background could only have been taken in Teheran. Even so, his attention kept returning to the military man’s face and his strange blue eyes. A zealot’s eyes, he thought.

Just then, his cell phone rang. He checked the screen. A restricted number. “Von Daniken.”

“Marcus, it’s your American cousin.”

Von Daniken handed the letter to Myer and told him to find someone who spoke Arabic. Then he stepped outside the garage and resumed his conversation. “No more engine problems, I trust.”

“All taken care of.”

“I’m glad.”

“We talked to Walid Gassan.”

“I figured.” Von Daniken wondered where they’d hidden him on the plane. “When did you take him down?”

“Five days ago in Stockholm. One of our informants received word that Gassan had taken delivery of some plastic explosives up in Leipzig. We brought in a jump team to nab him, but he’d gotten rid of the stuff before we could arrest him.”

“Semtex?”

“How’d you know? He got it from that Ukrainian scumbag Shevchenko.”

“You’re certain?”

“Let’s just say that we had a heart-to-heart with him and he decided to come to Jesus.”

Von Daniken didn’t require any further details.

“Gassan was acting as a facilitator,” Palumbo continued. “He handed over the explosives to someone named Mahmoud Quitab. We ran the name through Langley and Interpol but didn’t get anything. Anyway, this Quitab character took delivery in a white Volkswagen work van with Swiss plates. We don’t have a number.”

Von Daniken had rounded the corner of the garage. As he listened, he noticed that a small chunk of concrete was chipped from the pillar separating the two bays. Visible to the naked eye was a streak of white paint. “A white van? You’re sure of the color?”

“The guy said white. The name Quitab mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing.” Von Daniken fought to keep the anxiety from his voice. “Anything else on this Quitab…phone, address, description?”

“His phone number belonged to a SIM card with a French prefix. We’ve got a request into France Telecom to run its numbers. We’re doing the same with all incoming and outgoing calls registered on Gassan’s phone. Nothing on Quitab’s address or his whereabouts so far, but we did get a description of him. Maybe fifty. Dark hair. Trim. Medium height. Sophisticated. Well dressed. One of them, but with blue eyes.”

One of them, meaning an Arab.

Von Daniken looked at the photo of Blitz. Dark hair. Medium height. A look of sophistication. And, of course, the diamond blue eyes.

Just then, Myer came back with a police officer in tow. Von Daniken asked Palumbo to hold a moment, then addressed the policeman. “Did you read the letter?” he asked.

The officer nodded and explained that it was a note to his parents about daily life. He added that there was no mention of any illegal activities.

Von Daniken took it all in. “And the name? Can you tell me who it was addressed to?”

“Why yes, of course.” The policeman told him the name.

It had to be, thought von Daniken. There was no such thing as coincidence in this game.

“Are you there, Marcus?” asked Palumbo.

“I’m here. Go on.”

“Apparently, this guy Quitab has a setup in your neck of the woods,” said Palumbo. “I called to give you a heads-up.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What do you mean you know?” Palumbo sounded a

“As a matter of fact, I’m at his home right now.”

“You mean you know about this operation?”

“It’s more complicated than that. Quitab is dead.”

“He’s dead? Quitab? How? I mean…great! Jesus Christ, that’s good news. I was worried for a minute. Thought you had a real white-knuckler on your hands. Did you find the explosives, too?”

“Yes, we did.”

“All fifty kilos? Thank God. You guys dodged a major bullet.”

Von Daniken hurried into the garage. He counted the bricks of explosive. Six bundles of five bricks. Thirty kilos at most. “What do you mean that we dodged a bullet, Phil? Do you have a line on what Quitab was pla

“I thought you did…” Reception weakened and Palumbo’s voice disappeared in a thicket of crackles. “…fuckin’ crazy bastard.”

“I’m losing you. Can I call you back on a land line?”

“No go. I’m in transit.”

Hoping for a better signal, von Daniken moved out of the garage and stood in the rain. “What did you mean when you said we dodged a bullet?”

“I said that Gassan told us that that fuckin’ crazy Iranian Quitab was going to Switzerland to take down a plane.”