Rules of Deception

And before Darfur, Kosovo. Page two of the National Gazette: “An explosion has claimed the life of retired General Vladimir Drakic, known familiarly as ‘Drako,’ and twenty-eight others. At the time, Drakic, 55, was attending a secret meeting of the outlawed right-wing Patriots Party, of which he was rumored to be a top leader. The subject of an international manhunt for over ten years, Drakic was wanted by the United Nations War Crimes Commission in co

The three attacks bore similar hallmarks. All involved targeting a highly placed, well-protected individual. All were the product of meticulous pla

But what finally convinced von Daniken of Ransom’s participation was the timing of the three incidents. The bombing in Beirut took place four days before Ransom left Lebanon for Jordan. The downing of the Sudanese jet occurred two days before Ransom left the country. And the attack in Kosovo just one day before Ransom returned to Geneva.

Still, he was at a loss as to who would gain most from the attacks. Cui bono? Who would benefit? Motive was the investigator’s touchstone, and none was readily apparent.

Von Daniken pushed his chair away from the computer, the words of the director ringing in his ears.

“We have an immediate opening in Lahore. I was hoping he could fly out this Sunday.”

53

A two-man patrol responded to the report of an intruder at Waldhoheweg 30. The officers rang the caller’s bell and were admitted to the building. They were not unduly concerned. A CrimeStat analysis ranked the street and neighborhood as one of the safest in the city. Only two burglaries had been reported in the last ninety days. There had been no reported instances of armed robbery, rape, or murder in the past year.

“He’s inside,” said the aggrieved tenant, after shepherding the policemen into her apartment. “I’ve been watching since I called. He hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“And what makes you think he’s a burglar?”

“I didn’t say he was a burglar. I said he was an intruder. He shouldn’t be in the building. First he said he was waiting for Eva Kruger. He wanted to come inside. But he was bleeding here…” She pointed at her neck. “I told him that since I didn’t know him it would be better if he waited outside for his sister-in-law. A minute later, I heard him on the landing. He had a key to her apartment. I watched him enter.”

“His sister-in-law is Miss Kruger?”

“That’s what he said. He could be lying. I’ve never seen him here before.”

The police took turns asking her questions. “Did you see the woman who normally lives there…this Miss Kruger?”

“No.”

“Did you ask him about his injury?”

“He said it was an accident. He said he was a doctor and would take care of it once he was inside the apartment.”

Exasperation was writ clear on the policemen’s faces. “Did this doctor threaten you in any way?”

“No. He was polite…but he shouldn’t be here if Miss Kruger isn’t here. I’ve never seen him before. He frightened me.”

The policemen exchanged glances. Another snoop with too much time on her hands. “We’ll have a word with the gentleman. Did he, by any chance, give you his name?”

The woman frowned.

“Stay here, ma’am.”

Jonathan stood in the bathroom, chin raised high, studying his neck. The gash had begun to congeal, the torn flesh slowly hardening into place. In the field, he saw injuries like this on a daily basis. The only way to repair it without permanent scarring was to reopen the wound and stitch it closed when the hurt was fresh, but that wasn’t an option today.

He poured himself a shot of the buffalo grass vodka and drank it for courage.

“Keep still,” he whispered to himself, bringing needle and thread to his throat.

Drawing a breath, he set to work. The needle wasn’t bad for something he’d found in a sewing kit. Reasonably sharp. Reasonably sterile. He’d worked with worse. Using the fingers of his left hand to hold the folds of the cut close together, he drew the stitch.

It had been a lie from the very begi

Who was it? he wondered. Who put her up to this?

He drew the third stitch. The thread chafed, making his eyes water. He tugged the needle and drew the suture clear.

Angry. That’s what he was. Angry at Emma. Angry at Hoffma

And the rest of it? The part of his life that was just the two of them. Was that an act, too? He was tempted to anoint their private moments as special, divorced from Emma’s higher duty. Their lovemaking. The secret glances. The touch of her hand and the moments of unspoken co

Eight years…how was it possible?

He lowered the needle, throwing a hand onto the sink for support.

He lifted his eyes to the mirror. You just don’t get it. She never told you her real name. She saw to it that they moved around Africa, Europe, and the Middle East, so she could do her job. She had an entire secret life. Look at this apartment. Look at that itty-bitty dress. She brought men here. She drank vodka with them. She seduced them.

He looked deep into his own eyes and faced the truth.

Numb to the pain, he completed his work quickly and diligently, tying off the thread and cutting it with the vanity scissors he’d found in the sewing kit. It was a good job, all things considered. He dabbed the sutures with alcohol, then put a Band-Aid over the wound. Picking up his shirt, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself another shot of vodka. He made a mental note to look for the brand in the future. Zubrowka. Polish for “dumb trusting asshole.”

He threw on his overcoat and dropped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. His right hand came up with the wedding ring. He made a promise to carry it at all times as a reminder. He turned off the kitchen lights and strolled into the living room. He turned a circle, surveying the apartment. All of it was an illusion. No more than a stage.

Just then, a fist pounded on the door. “Police. We’d like to speak with you.”

Jonathan froze. It was the woman from downstairs. She must have raised the alarm. He imagined how events would unfold. A request for identification. A routine check for outstanding warrants. The response would be immediate: Dr. Jonathan Ransom wanted for the murder of two police officers. Suspect to be considered armed and dangerous. They’d have him cuffed and spread-eagled on the ground in the blink of an eye.

More pounding on the door.

“Police. Please, Herr Doktor, we know you are inside. We’d like to speak with you about your sister-in-law, Miss Kruger.”

Jonathan had come too far to give up. If he was in it, he might as well be in it all the way.

Ru