Rules of Deception

It hadn’t been difficult to track John Austen down. Like all good spies, Austen lived his cover. A major general and director of the Defense Human Intelligence Agency, his whereabouts were a matter of record at all times. A call from Palumbo’s office at the CIA to Austen’s office at the Pentagon had revealed that Austen was on a tour of Western European capitals in order to liaise with the military attachés under his supervision. Earlier in the week, he’d visited the embassy in Bern and made day trips to Paris and Rome. At two p.m. Friday afternoon, he was scheduled to visit the American consulate in Zurich. The fact that military attachés were not assigned to consulates seemed to have been overlooked by everyone other than Palumbo. He knew that Austen had come to Zurich for a specific reason, and that reason was the drone. He also knew that Austen was scheduled to fly back to the States early the next morning. It was what he pla

He listened in on a half-dozen conversations before picking up a snatch of English.

“We’re just leaving. Everything ready?”

He recognized Austen’s smoke-cured Texan twang in an instant.

“Good to go, sir,” came the reply. “We’re sitting tight and waiting.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

The call ended. Palumbo mapped the GPS coordinates of the intercepted transmission. A red dot superimposed on a street map of Zurich showed the location of the primary, or initiating, call to be Dufourstrasse 47, the address of the U.S. consulate. The secondary, or receiving, party was sited in Glattbrugg, a town contiguous to Zurich. More interesting than the address was its location. The dot sat one hundred meters from the southernmost boundary of Zurich Airport. Bingo.

He looked in the rearview mirror as a column of men filed out of the building and climbed into the waiting Mercedes. The visit from the director of the Defense Human Intelligence Agency had concluded. The cars pulled onto the street and sped past Palumbo. He knew better than to try to follow them through the congested traffic and one-way streets of an unfamiliar European city. Either he’d lose them or he’d be spotted. Setting the laptop on the passenger seat, he started the engine. He knew exactly where Austen was going. The problem wasn’t strategy, but execution. Palumbo had to get there first.

He drove aggressively, dodging trams, beating yellow lights, taking the car up to a hundred and eighty kilometers an hour on the autobahn. All the while, he listened in on a constant stream of calls made from Austen’s phone. Most were official and dealt with problems experienced by the attachés under his supervision. But several were more cryptic in nature. No names were spoken. The conversations ran to abbreviated bursts with mentions of “locking down the command center,” “moving to the main house,” and most frightening, “the guest’s right on time.”

Palumbo reached Glattbrugg in eighteen minutes. The address was located in a quiet residential district with plenty of trees and homes spaced twenty meters apart. He parked behind a line of modest automobiles. He’d hardly turned off the engine when he saw the black Mercedes with diplomatic plates approach in his rearview. As expected, it was alone. Austen had abandoned his cover. He was acting in his capacity as director of Division.

As the Mercedes passed, Palumbo got a glimpse of the man in the front seat. A wisp of graying hair, a noble profile, the skin of his face too tight, oddly shiny and furrowed.

The burn. Austen’s badge of honor.

Palumbo started the car and pulled in behind the Mercedes. It turned into a driveway a hundred meters up the street. Palumbo brought his car to a halt behind it, blocking Austen’s retreat. He was out in a flash, storming the driver’s door, pressing his badge against the window. The badge was a fake, but it bought him a few seconds.

The driver opened the door, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm. Palumbo pulled him to his feet and jabbed the Taser into his neck. Ten thousand volts turned the driver’s knees to Jell-O. He fell to the ground, unconscious. Palumbo slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Hello, General,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” asked John Austen.

Palumbo had no time for explanations. “It’s over,” he said. “We’re shutting down this op right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

Palumbo dropped the Taser and pulled the Walther pistol from his jacket. “What plane are you targeting?” he demanded.

“Whoever the hell you are, you’d better have a damned good excuse for assaulting my aide.”

“What flight are you going after?”

“Get out of my car!”

Palumbo jabbed his thumb into the crease between Austen’s jaw and his ear and held the pressure point. The general’s mouth froze in a silent, paralyzed scream, the sensation of the grip akin to having a sword rammed through the top of his skull. “What aircraft are you pla

“Who sent you?” Austen gasped. “Lafever? Are you the one who killed Lammers and Blitz?”

Palumbo pressed the pistol to Austen’s cheek. Up close, his face had the sheen of day-old floor wax and was pulled as tight as a drum. “Where’s the drone? I’m going to put a bullet in your skull if you don’t tell me.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Go ahead. It won’t change a thing.”

“Yes, it will. You’ll be dead, and that drone won’t be up there blowing a plane full of i

“No one is i

“Speak for yourself. Where’s the main house? I heard you say that you were moving to the main house.”

Austen closed his eyes. “‘Oh, the joy of having nothing and being nothing,’” he recited. “‘Seeing nothing but a Living Christ in glory, and being careful for nothing but His interests down here.’”

Palumbo glanced out the window. The driver was still out cold. There was some motion behind the curtains of a picture window above the garage. He found the pressure point again and held it, longer this time. “Where’s the drone? Is it here? Is this the main house?”

He released his grip.

Austen gazed at him. There were tears in his eyes, but whether they were from pain or some perverted sense of sacrifice, Palumbo couldn’t tell.

“Thank you,” said Austen.

“For what?”

“Christ had his test. He persevered and was delivered. Now, it’s my turn.”

“Christ was no murderer.”

“Don’t you see? All the conditions are as prophesied in Revelation. The Israelites hold Jerusalem. The Lord is ready to return. You can’t do a thing to stop it. None of us can. We can only help it on its way.”

He’s raving, thought Palumbo. “What flight are you going after? I know it’s tonight.”

But Austen wasn’t listening anymore, except to his own voice. “The Lord spoke to me. He told me that I am the vessel of His will. You can’t stop me. He won’t allow it.”

“It’s nobody’s will but your own.”

Outside, a door slammed. Two men appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the house. Palumbo put his hand to the ignition, but the keys weren’t there. He looked at Austen, and Austen stared back, as defiant as ever. Palumbo knew then that Austen was the one. He was the man who was going to pilot the drone.

Palumbo raised the gun to Austen’s temple. “I can’t allow you to kill all those people.”

A shadow to his left blotted out the sun. The window shattered, spraying glass across the cabin. A hand reached in and grabbed him. Palumbo knocked it away. Austen was flailing at the gun. Palumbo elbowed him in the face, knocking him back into his seat. Then he raised his gun. As he did, someone took hold of his collar and yanked him backward. He fired the weapon. The bullet blew out the passenger window. A fist pounded his temple and he dropped the weapon. The door was flung open and he felt himself being dragged out of the car and onto the driveway. It couldn’t end this way, he thought, kicking and struggling.