Then she thought of the crimes committed against her, the individuals who had perpetrated them, and what they would do to others. She thought about Balfour and the money he owed her. Finally she thought about herself and the future.
With a grunt, she lifted the weapon and carried it through the snow toward the safety of the cave. She couldn’t help but look at the sky. The helicopters were so close she could feel the concussion of their rotors.
39
The Grand Hotel Park sat on a wooded knoll, a giant’s chalet built of dark pine with fairy lights dancing below its eaves and loaves of snow weighing down the roof. The Park was another of Gstaad’s five-star ultra-luxe hostelries. The nouveaux riches chose the Palace. The filthy rich chose the Park.
“You’re certain he’s alone?” Danni sat in the passenger seat of the van, staring at the hotel’s festive facade. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Marcus von Daniken handed her a copy of the registration form. “Dr. Michel Revy. Party of one. No wife. No consort. No dog.”
Danni pulled a black sweater over her dress and exchanged her heels for crepe-soled shoes. “You’re sure it will hold?” she said, slipping on a pair of climbing gloves.
Von Daniken shot her a glance.
A last flurry of activity as Danni tucked her hair beneath a watch cap. “Wait here.”
“I’m a policeman, not a taxi service.”
“Do as you’re told, Marcus. There’s a good boy.”
Without another word she climbed out of the van and ran through the woods toward the hotel. Security at luxury establishments was stringent. With only ninety-nine rooms, the Park’s clientele was not large. Staff members were trained to recognize their guests. Danni couldn’t risk being questioned.
Reaching the south side of the building, she grasped a drainpipe and gave it a tug for good measure. Solid. This was Switzerland. No doubt there was a federally licensed drainpipe inspector. She climbed to the first floor. There was no terrace, just a large twin window overlooking the forest. Von Daniken had promised it would be unlocked. Wedging a foot between the pipe and the building, she leaned to her right and slipped the blade of her work knife into the seam. The window swung open. With the grace of a gymnast, she reached a foot to the sill, then a hand, and a moment later she was standing safely inside the hotel.
“There are no cameras in the guest halls,” von Daniken had told her. “The clients like their privacy. But watch out for the cleaning staff. They’re like hawks.”
Danni found the emergency staircase and ran up two flights to the third floor. She ducked her head into the hall and observed that it was empty. Room 333 was a corner suite. She walked briskly to the door. Voices echoed in the hall behind her. Guests? Maids? She kept her head down and slid the card key through the reader. A woman laughed drunkenly. Guests-maids didn’t drink. The door opened and Danni stepped inside.
From her fanny pack she took a penlight and commenced a survey of Revy’s quarters. Turn-down service had been completed. A terrycloth robe lay on the plump duvet, a pair of slippers on the floor below it. Instead of a chocolate on the pillow, there was a trio of miniature pastries on the nightstand. Classical music played softly. She moved from dresser to closet to desk, searching for papers and personal documents. A laptop sat open on the desk. She hit Enter. The screen blazed to life, and she noted that the computer was connected to the Internet.
A check of the browsing history showed that Revy had been perusing the society pages for background information on his guests. Every man a spy, she thought. She continued past addresses for online poker, the Bellagio Hotel sports book, and English off-track wagering, stopping when she saw instructions for Web searches on “Ashok Armitraj” and “Lord Balfour” and “tourist risk in Pakistan.”
The last address was for Emirates Airlines.
Double-click.
A reservation for Dr. M. Revy from Zurich to Dubai. First class, seat 2A. Onward connection via Pakistan International Airlines to Islamabad. She memorized the details as her heart beat faster and a voice protested inside her head. Too soon.
Danni exited from the browser and surveyed the desktop screen. In the search window, she typed “Balfour Armitraj.” A list of files appeared, including one titled “Armitraj Medical History.” Slipping a flash drive into the laptop, she copied all files relating to the Indian arms merchant. She wasn’t done with Revy’s laptop yet.
The transfer completed, she opened a spyware program called Remora. Remora was the real reason for her late-night visit. Like the fish it was named after, Remora latched on to its host and followed it wherever it went. In this case, that meant piggybacking Revy’s every use of the computer-word processing, Web browsing, and, most important, e-mail-and transmitting the information via the computer’s wireless hardware to Division. Each time he wrote a letter or consulted a document, a record of the changes he made would travel to Washington. Each time he logged on to the Internet, Connor would know what sites he visited and for how long. Every time the good doctor wrote or received an e-mail, Connor would know that, too.
The program downloaded in ten seconds, and ten seconds after that, Danni ejected the flash drive and slipped it into her pocket.
She stood for a moment, listening. The hotel was as quiet as the grave. She checked her watch. She needed to hurry.
There was one paper she’d yet to find.
Danni returned to the closet and went through Revy’s jackets and pants. Nothing. She checked behind the bathroom door. Again nothing. She discovered his briefcase beneath the bed. She slid it toward her and defeated the spring locks without difficulty. The briefcase was filled with papers, files, and brochures, all arranged neatly. Revy’s passport peeked from a pocket. She slipped it out and laid it on the floor, open to the personal information page. She attached a biometric scanner to the power slot of her phone and ran the passport’s security strip through it, stealing Revy’s vital data, a nifty little trick known as “cloning.” Page by page, she photographed all the immigration stamps. Finished, she turned to the papers and files in the briefcase and reviewed them methodically as the clock ticked in her mind.
She found what she was looking for in a manila folder marked with a crisp white labeclass="underline" “Pakistan: Travel Documents.” Inside was a tourist visa with one passport-sized photograph attached. She slid it into her pocket.
She replaced the briefcase and stood, checking to make sure that she’d left no trace of her visit. Satisfied that the room was exactly as she’d found it, she went to the door and peered through the spyglass. The corridor was empty.
Three minutes later she was sitting next to von Daniken as he drove the van down the hill.
“Trouble,” she said.
“What is it?”
“He’s leaving sooner than we expected.”
“When?”
Danni told him and von Daniken frowned, understanding the problem instantly. “Is Ransom ready?” he asked, with skepticism.
Danni shrugged and gave him a look that professionals understood the world over. It said that there was never enough time for training. “Right now he needs a Swiss passport,” she said, handing him Revy’s Pakistani visa. “Schnell.”
“Einverstanden,” said von Daniken.
Understood.
40
The CH-47 Chinook helicopters navigated the narrow mountain corridor with difficulty, advancing side by side through snow and clouds like two lost brothers. Visibility was down to thirty meters, with intermittent whiteout. Traveling at a forward ground speed of 180 knots, the pilots were essentially flying blind. Night-vision goggles did not help. The pilots relied on their instruments and their training, and hoped to God that there was an angel on their shoulders.