“Paul sends his condolences,” she managed between sniffles. “He’s in Davos for the week. Mr. Bigshot is to deliver a speech on the corruption in Africa. Now there’s an original topic. He wanted you to know that he is devastated that he couldn’t come.”
Simone’s husband, Paul, was a French economist, a highly-placed paper pusher at the World Bank.
“It’s alright. I know he’d come if he could.”
“It’s not, and I told him so. These days we are all slaves to our ambition.” Simone caught a glimpse of herself in the shop window and winced. “Mais merde. Now I look like shit, too. What a pair we are.”
The Ransoms and the Noirets had met in Beirut two years before, neighbors in the same apartment building during Jonathan’s tour with DWB. At the time, Simone was teaching at the American School in Beirut. Learning that Emma was in the aid game, she’d used her contacts to secure cheap digs for the “mission,” which was what aid workers called their operational units. The act of kindness had cemented Emma’s loyalty forever.
Jonathan’s assignment to DWB headquarters in Geneva was greeted with joy, at least by the women. (Jonathan had dreaded the move…and with good reason, it turned out.) Paul Noiret was due to rotate back to Geneva two weeks earlier. The Noirets had once again come to the rescue, helping Jonathan and Emma find an affordable apartment at their upscale complex in Cologny. The couples dined together whenever their schedules permitted. Burgers at the Ransoms’ one month. Coq au vin at the Noirets’ the next. It was not, as Emma had liked to point out, exactly a fair trade.
Jonathan picked up Simone’s overnight bag. “Come with me,” he said, starting off down the hill.
“But I thought the hotel was in the other direction.”
“It is. We’re going to the train station.”
Simone hurried to catch up. “Getting rid of me already?”
“No. There’s something I have to check on.” He held up the receipts for her inspection.
“What are they?” asked Simone.
“I think they’re baggage claims. They came in a letter for Emma yesterday. The only thing inside was a blank piece of paper. No signature. No note. Just these things.”
Simone plucked them from his fingers. “SBB. That means the Schweizerische Bundesbahn. Is she missing any luggage?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“Who sent them?”
“No idea. There’s no name anywhere.” He took back the receipts. “Think it might be from a friend of hers?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You were with her in Paris.”
“Yes, I was. And so?”
Jonathan hesitated. “There was this emergency at work while you two were there. I tried to reach her for two days. When I couldn’t, I got upset. She said she’d camped out in your room at the hotel and didn’t bother going to her own.”
There it was then; his suspicions set out plain to see. Naked insecurities. In the light of day, they appeared petty and insubstantial.
“And you didn’t believe her?” Simone put her hand on his arm and gave a squeeze. “But it’s true. We stayed together the entire time. It was our ‘girls’ weekend.’ We didn’t even begin to talk until after midnight. That’s when the motors got going. That was our Emma. All or nothing. You know that.” She laughed wistfully, not so much recollecting the moment as to dispel his worry. “Emma wasn’t cheating on you. She wasn’t the type.”
“What about these bags? She never mentioned anything to you? A trip she had planned? A surprise of some kind?”
“A ‘lightning safari’?”
“Something like that.”
A “lightning safari” was the name they’d given Emma’s jaunts to secure supplies. At least once a month, she made unannounced dashes to points near and far to obtain type-A blood, penicillin, or even just vitamin C. Everything from the mundane to the miraculous.
Simone shook her head. “It must be something she ordered. Have you called her office?”
Jonathan said he had, and that they were quick to state that they hadn’t sent anything to her.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” said Simone, as she slipped her arm into his and they walked to the bottom of the hill.
At the main post office, they turned left, skirting the Obersee, a small lake, now frozen over and cordoned off by ropes to allow the new snow to settle. The Bahnhof was deserted. Two trains serviced Arosa each hour. The first, taking passengers down the mountain to Chur, departed at three minutes after the hour. The second, bringing passengers up, arrived at eight after.
Jonathan headed toward the luggage counter. The attendant took the tickets and returned after a minute, shaking his head. “Not here,” he said.
Jonathan stared into the recesses of the storage area where dozens of bags were stacked on a maze of iron shelves. “You’re sure you checked everything?”
“Try the ticket office. The station manager can tell you if the bags are in the system.”
The ticket office was likewise deserted. Jonathan stepped to the counter and slipped the receipts beneath the window. “Not here,” reported the station manager, his eyes locked on the monitor. “The bags are in Landquart. They arrived two days ago.”
Landquart was a small town on the Zurich-Chur line, best known as the terminus for Klosters, favored haunt of the British monarchy, and Davos, the fashionable ski resort.
“Do you know where they were sent from?” Jonathan inquired.
“Both items were sent from Ascona. Part of our drop-and-ship program. Put aboard the 13:57 to Zurich. Transferred onward to Landquart.”
Ascona was on Switzerland’s border with Italy. One of the palm-frocked resorts dotting the shores of Lago Maggiore. He had no friends who lived there. Apparently, Emma did.
Simone leaned her head toward the window. “Can you tell us who exactly sent the bags?”
The station manager shook his head. “I don’t have the authority to access that information from this terminal.”
“Who does?” she asked.
“Only the issuing station at Ascona.”
Jonathan reached for his wallet, but Simone beat him to the punch. She slipped her credit card across the counter. “Two tickets to Landquart,” she said. “First class.”
12
The compound was called Al-Azabar and it belonged to the Palestine branch of Far Falestin, a division of Syrian military intelligence. Philip Palumbo stepped inside the building and winced at the odor of ammonia permeating the main hall. It was not his first visit, not even his tenth, but the eye-watering smell and barren surroundings still got to him. Concrete floor. Concrete walls. Pictures of President Bashir Al-Assad (referred to by his countrymen as “the doctor” because of his training as an ophthalmologist) and his late father, the strongman Hafez Al-Assad, were the only decorations in sight. A desk manned by a lone officer occupied the center of the room. A German shepherd slept at his feet. Seeing Palumbo, the officer stood from the desk and saluted. “Welcome back, sir.”
Palumbo swept past him without answering. For the record, he was not present. If pressed, evidence could be produced to prove he’d never stepped foot on Syrian soil.
Philip Palumbo headed up the Special Removal Unit of the CIA. On paper, the Special Removal Unit belonged to the Counterterrorist Command Center. In truth, the SRU functioned as an autonomous unit, and Palumbo reported directly to the deputy director of operations, Admiral James Lafever, the second-ranking man in the Agency.
Palumbo’s job was simple enough. Locate suspected terrorists and abduct them for interrogation. To this end, he disposed of a fleet of three corporate jets, a team of operatives poised to travel to all four corners of the map with an hour’s notice, and the unwritten dispensation of Admiral Lafever, and behind him, the president of the United States, to do whatever needed to be done. There was only one caveat: Don’t get caught. It was a double-edged sword, to be sure.