Rules of Deception

“Excuse me, Zvi,” interrupted Collections. “What did the second set of orders say?”

“The second set?” Zvi Hirsch smiled sadly. “If fired upon, the commander was to immediately retreat and return the soldiers to the barracks. Essentially, it told him to cut and run at the first sign of conflict. The shame would have been too great for the country to endure. The government would have fallen. One shot and Hitler would have been forced out of office.”

“Are you saying we have to confront him?”

Hirsch turned and stared out the window. “I don’t think it will be that easy this time.”

33

Jonathan sat with knees drawn to his chest, his back against the wall. A nook in the corner opposite held a vase of fresh flowers. A crude iron crucifix hung above it. The shelter had been built into the hillside by the Swiss Alpine Club and resembled a grotto, its floor and walls fashioned from stone and mortar. From where he sat, he had a clear view of all paths converging to his position. One led from the east, a level track tracing the hillside’s contour. Another climbed from the lake, zigging and zagging in a series of switchbacks. A third track approached from the west. Beyond the hillocks that fell steeply away, through the torrential rain, the whipped gray crescent of Lago Maggiore filled the horizon.

Simone lay on her back on the rough flooring, her clothing drenched, her chest heaving. “Do you see anyone?” she asked, panting. “Anyone at all? Are they following us?”

“No,” said Jonathan. “There’s nobody out there.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” With a grunt, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “This is too much,” she said, cradling her head in her hands. “I’m terrified. That man…Blitz…I’ve never seen a man shot like that. What are we going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Abruptly, Simone lifted her head, as if seized by an idea. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said. “We’re going to get off this mountain. We’re going to take a bus into Lugano and find a place to dry off. Then we’ll buy you new clothes. A suit. Something professional. Then we’ll cut and dye your hair and put you on a train to Milan. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“I need a passport first,” said Jonathan. “Preferably one without my name or picture inside it.”

Simone waved off her initial plan. “Okay, forget the train. We’ll wait for a while, then go back and get the car. We’ll drive across the border. They wave everyone through. They won’t stop a banker in a Mercedes. I’ll come with you.”

As she spoke, her eyes bore into him. Christ, thought Jonathan, if I look as scared as she does, we’re in trouble.

“And then what?” he said. “Keep ru

“That’s why you need to leave the country.”

“That won’t solve anything.”

“But you’d be alive. You’d be safe.”

“For how long? They won’t stop looking for me just because I crossed the border. They’ll send my picture to every country in Europe.”

Jonathan crossed his arms, trying to imagine how it would play out if he left the country. Time and again, he came to a dead end. He couldn’t see it, partly because his mind wasn’t conditioned to cut and run. He’d spent years battling up impossible slopes in impossible conditions. After a while, he’d gotten to thinking that you could do anything if only you didn’t quit. You didn’t have to be great. You just had to keep going.

When he was young and brash and a little too cocksure, he used to say that he was against retreating on general principle. It was that tenacity that had gotten him through college and medical school in seven years, and had led him to stay in field medicine when, one by one, his colleagues had fallen away.

“They plumb broke and ran,” Emma used to say, after a shot or two of Jack Daniel’s. “Cowards, the lot of ’em. Hearts the size of mice, and their John Henry Thomas not much bigger.”

He heard her voice speaking the words as clearly as if she were sitting next to him. Suddenly, his eyes felt hot, irritated. He wanted to hold her hand. He yearned for her strength.

Simone looked at Jonathan from beneath a tangle of wet hair. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What was our girl involved in?”

“I don’t know.”

“She never told you? How could she keep something like this a secret? You must have had an idea. It’s why you keep going on with this…why you keep chasing her ghost. Tell me the truth, Jonathan. Were you in it with her? A team? I’ve heard of couples doing this type of thing together.”

“What type of thing is that?”

“I don’t know what to call it. Spying. Being an agent. I mean, that’s what this is, isn’t it? The fake driver’s license. The men after the bags. All that money. One hundred thousand francs. It wasn’t a thief who shot Blitz, was it?”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

The answer seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. Her shoulders slumped, as if weighed down by the sum of her accusations.

Jonathan slid across the floor and sat next to her. “I don’t know what Emma was involved in,” he said. “I wish to God I did.”

Simone held his gaze a moment too long. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

Jonathan looked away, ru

“I told you. We are going to find our way into Lugano and get you some new clothes. Then we’re going to change how you look. And afterward, we’re-”

“Simone, stop right there. You can’t stay with me. This whole thing is out of control.”

“You expect me to leave?”

“When we get down the mountain, we’re going to split up. You’re going to Davos to see Paul, and you’re going to forget that this ever happened.”

“And you?”

Jonathan made a decision. “I’m going to find out what she was doing.”

“Why? What good can it bring? You’ve got to look after yourself.”

“I am. Don’t you see?”

Nodding, Simone clawed in her bag for a cigarette. She lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke. He noticed that her hands weren’t shaking anymore. “At least let me help you with some clothes,” she said. “Before I go…”

Jonathan put his arm around Simone and hugged her. “That much you can do. Now, let’s see if we can make any sense out of this stuff I took from the office.”

He opened Blitz’s briefcase and began to rummage through the papers he’d grabbed from the desk. Most were bills, miscellaneous housekeeping items. He handed them to Simone, who cast a quick glance at each, then tossed them back into the briefcase. Neither of them found anything to shed light on who Blitz was or who he worked for.

In a side pocket, Jonathan discovered a Palm PDA: a phone, word processor, e-mail, and web browser all in one. He hit the on button. The unit lit up, activated to the phone function. In the upper corner, an asterisk appeared and began to blink, indicating an incoming message. He clicked on the asterisk. The unit demanded a password. He punched in 1-1-1-1, then 7-7-7-7. Access denied. He swore under his breath.

“What’s that?” asked Simone, sliding closer to him, her eyes focused on the screen.

“Blitz’s PDA. Everything’s password protected. I can’t access the software. Not e-mail, not Word, not the browser. What do you use for a password?”

“It depends. I’ve got a different password for each account. I used to use my mother’s birthday, and then the street address of my home in Alexandria where I grew up. These days, I’ve been sticking with 1-2-3-4. It’s easier that way.”