Interestingly enough, Nadia’s building was the toughest to crack, and her father had probably had a hand in that. What Fisher found curious was why she’d opted for a penthouse in a five-story building instead of a private villa. The place was, after all, known as the “Monte Carlo of Switzerland,” situated in the south of the country on the shores of Lake Lugano, with the city’s waterfront forming a crescent around the bay between the Brè and the San Salvatore mountains. Fisher had read that Lugano was the largest Italian-speaking city outside of Italy, with an economy bolstered by business, finance, and tourism. It was one of the most popular tourist cities in Switzerland, as well as home to several universities and institutes, including Nadia’s. A lakeside villa would’ve afforded her direct access to the waterfront and the collection of cafés and bistros that were crowded day and night. Perhaps she’d wanted to be closer to her colleagues, pretend to live a somewhat normal life. Grim had mentioned that several of her classmates lived in the building, and the SVR team had, according to the surveillance camera video, gone to their apartments to question them.
Fisher slipped away from the sedan behind the Volkswagen and worked his way along the line of cars. The sun was rising, the street and pedestrian traffic beginning to increase as the locals headed off to work. He darted across the street to the back of a public parking garage facing Nadia’s complex. He vaulted over a four-foot-tall concrete wall, then hit the stairwell, heading up to the second level. He jogged across the garage, then reached another barrier wall. Keeping low, he eased up to the wall and glanced down. Cousin Ivan was directly below him, standing on the sidewalk and lighting up another cigarette.
Fisher set up his rappelling line, attaching its carabiner clip to the fitting of an electrical conduit spanning the ceiling. Given the fact that most pedestrians and drivers wouldn’t necessarily be looking up at the side of the garage, and the fact that Ivan was pretty far from the nearest door, Fisher had devised a plan to make the agent disappear with minimal risk. A large oak tree on the corner provided additional cover.
“Briggs, you with me?” he asked.
“I’m here. You’re clear.”
“Okay, here we go.”
Fisher eased himself headfirst over the wall, hooking one leg around his rappelling line that was paying out from the custom-designed mechanical descender box attached to his chest via a nylon harness. He slid down the side of the parking garage like an arachnid, using his weak hand to brake. The Australians called rappelling headfirst “Geneva” style, but Fisher had first experienced the technique while cross-training with the Israeli Hostage-Rescue Rappelling and Climbing Sections, also known as the “Terror Monkeys.” They were acknowledged experts in climbing and conducting assaults from above, and they’d urged him to try the inverted drop in order to peek in windows and limit exposure. His trial efforts had resulted in a few mild concussions, but as he perfected his skills, he became so adept at the technique that he could do it unconsciously, focusing entirely on his target.
Just as Fisher neared Cousin Ivan, the agent glanced up. Fisher’s descent was smooth and controlled, but it was well-nigh impossible to remain perfectly silent.
That didn’t matter, though. In that second when Ivan saw him, Fisher gripped the man in a windpipe-crushing choke hold. At the same time, he thumbed a remote jutting from his sleeve, and the line began spooling back up, lifting him and Ivan into the air. Fisher carried Ivan all the way to the second floor, over the barrier wall, then waited until the man went limp. He deposited Ivan’s body onto the floor and detached himself from the line. The entire process took the better part of six seconds. Fisher dragged the body over to some plastic barriers cordoning off an area in the process of being repaved. He shoved the body between two of the barriers, where he’d lie temporarily out of sight until the construction workers found him later in the morning.
“Sam, the loop’s up,” Charlie said. “You’re clear for the roof.”
“Thanks, Charlie. On my way.” The private security guard in the building’s garage, along with the man posted at the desk in the foyer, were watching a video loop and would never see Fisher’s approach to the building.
Fisher hit the stairwell and double-timed his way to the roof, eight stories above. He eased open the door to find a middle-aged businessman walking across the lot to his car, briefcase in hand.
“Hang on a second, Briggs, I’ve got a guy up here.”
“Standing by.”
The businessman got in his vehicle and drove off. The second he vanished down the ramp, Fisher sprinted to the opposite wall and gazed out across the street to the apartment’s rooftop, where Cousin Drago stood near a vine-covered wall within the private garden. The agent stared down at the street through a pair of binoculars. Beyond him were the flickering lights of the city and a rather breathtaking view of the lake beyond, walled in by those deep-brown mountains.
Fisher slid down his trifocals and studied the terrace. He had a direct line on the rooftop door and the nearby palm tree, as he’d planned. “Okay, Briggs, got the target marked for my line. You’re clear for the shot.”
“Gotcha, Sam. Stand by…”
Fisher zoomed in on Drago, anticipating a round blasting through his skull and dropping him.
Tensing, Fisher detected the slightest crack from Briggs’s suppressed sniper rifle from across the street.
But something had gone wrong. Drago jerked, lowered his binoculars, and was immediately on his cell phone.
“Missed the shot!” cried Briggs.
“Fire again!” Fisher ordered.
Losing his breath, Fisher watched as Drago darted for the back door.
He reached out for the doorknob, then slumped before ever applying pressure.
“Jesus, Briggs, you’re giving me a heart attack,” Fisher said.
“Wind shifted on me.”
“It’s cool, Sam,” said Charlie. “Drago didn’t call out. He only tried to dial Uncle Harry.”
“Roger that. Heading over now.”
Fisher fired a line and grappling hook across the street. The hook struck one of three palm trees growing from enormous pots. The hook jammed between the heavy branches, and Fisher attached it to the undercarriage of the nearest car behind him. Next he slapped the ball-bearing guide belt over the line and zipped across, thumping softly onto the terrace. He turned back, thumbed another remote, and the carabiner attached to the line back at the garage automatically released the rope so he could retrieve it, leaving no evidence of how he’d entered the building. With that done and Drago’s body dragged out of sight behind some shrubs, Fisher was prepared to pick the rooftop door’s lock, but Drago was a fine lad and had left the door open. Fisher simply walked inside and reported that to Grim.
“At the next landing come out and make a left,” she instructed him. “Her penthouse suite’s door is at the end of the hall, straight ahead.”
“I see it,” said Fisher. He jogged quickly to the end of the hall, noting the security camera’s light from the ceiling.
“Okay, we see you at the door,” said Charlie.
“And the alarm?” Fisher asked.
“What about it?” asked Charlie. “I’ve gotten us into Gitmo. You don’t think I can get us in here?”
“Right.”
“So the alarm’s yesterday’s news. Completely bypassed and powered off so the monitoring company gets no call.”
Fisher reached into his breast pocket and produced his lock-picking tools; they included a hook pick, a half diamond with steep angles, a snake rake, a half diamond with shallow angles, an S-rake pick, a double round pick, and a long double ended pick.