The radio crackled to life.
“Inspector von Daniken, this is base security.”
“What is it?”
“A Kruger already arrived. First name: Evan. Passed through the valley checkpoint at eleven-oh-seven. A new identification was issued at eleven thirty-one at the Main Security Outpost.”
“Did you say that you issued the man a new identification?”
“According to the report entered by the officer on the ground, Kruger’s ID was defective. It lists the cause as a faulty chip. There was also an instance of erroneous data.”
“What does that mean?”
“The name was originally Eva Kruger, but the guest was a male. He was slated to deliver a Mercedes-Benz sedan to Parvez Jinn, a member of the Iranian delegation.”
Jinn, the Iranian firebrand. Von Daniken remembered the note that had been attached to the wire transfer of one hundred thousand Swiss francs to Gottfried Blitz, a.k.a. Mahmoud Quitab. “Gift for P.J.” Now he knew beyond a reasonable doubt who the money was intended for, though the nature of the tie between the two men remained to be seen.
Von Daniken’s mind fixed on the newspaper articles he’d read concerning the assassinations of the Bosnian warlord and the Lebanese police inspector. Did Ransom have another murder in mind? If so, why had he given the man one hundred thousand francs and a new automobile worth twice that amount?
“Where is Evan Kruger?”
“One second, sir. I need to check.”
Waiting, von Daniken swore under his breath.
“He’s inside the red zone. He passed through the Hotel Belvedere’s grounds eight minutes ago.”
“Get your men to the hotel,” said von Daniken. “I want it surrounded as quickly as possible. Don’t worry about making a fuss. You have my authority. I’ll be landing at the southern helipad in four minutes. Have one of your men there to pick me up.”
66
Formed in 1291, the nation of Switzerland considers itself the oldest continually functioning democracy in the world. The government is based on the bicameral parliamentary tradition and draws heavily from the American and British constitutions. The lower house, or National Council, is comprised of two hundred representatives, elected proportionally from the nation’s twenty-six cantons. The upper house, called the Council of Cantons, counts two members from twenty of the cantons, and one each from the remaining six half-cantons. Instead of electing a prime minister from the majority ruling party to serve as head of the executive branch, members of both houses convene every four years to elect seven members to a governing federal council, the seats being split proportionally according to each political party’s representation. Each councilor is assigned a department or ministry to run, with the president selected on a rotating basis for a one-year term.
Though at forty-five, Alphons Marti was the most junior member of the Federal Council, he had no intention of waiting six years until filling the president’s seat. He’d made his name as a crusader, first in his home canton of Geneva, where he’d cleaned up whatever organized crime was there, and more recently, at the international level, where he’d campaigned against the Americans’ practice of extraordinary rendition.
Sitting at his expansive desk that frigid Friday morning, he looked at the papers in his hand and knew beyond any doubt that the information they contained constituted his ticket to the presidency.
The papers had come from Swisscom ten minutes earlier and they held a list of all phone calls made to and from numbers belonging to Marcus von Daniken. There were a total of thirty-eight calls. Most of the numbers belonged to von Daniken’s colleagues in the Federal Police. Marti spotted his own number on three occasions; at 8:50, when Onyx’s intercept detailing the passenger manifest of the CIA charter was distributed; at 12:15, when the American jet requested permission to touch down on Swiss soil; and at 1:50, when von Daniken called to coordinate the drive to the airport.
Running a finger down the list of phone numbers, he stopped at a 001 country code. The United States. Area code 703-for Langley, Virginia. The number belonged to the United States Central Intelligence Agency.
Marti had his proof.
Setting the papers down, he called Hardenberg, the investigator he’d spoken with the night before. “Where’s von Daniken? I need to speak to him.”
“A helicopter picked him up in Zurich fifteen minutes ago,” Hardenberg replied. “He’s headed to Davos with Kurt Myer.”
“Davos?” Marti’s face fell. “What for?”
“We have a line on Jonathan Ransom. Apparently, he’s delivering an automobile to Parvez Jinn, the Iranian minister of technology.”
Marti pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. “Have you alerted security in Davos?”
“I believe so.”
“If you learn anything else, call me immediately.”
Marti hung up, then immediately dialed the number of the chief of the Federal Police across town. “Yes, Herr Direktor,” he began. “We have a grave problem. A man high in your organization has been identified as acting on behalf of a foreign power. The man we’re looking for is Marcus von Daniken. Yes, I was surprised, too. One never knows who one can trust.”
He lifted his eyes from the incriminating list and stared out the window. He was gazing east toward the mountains.
“How quickly can you get your men to Davos?”
67
“Who are you?”
Parvez Jinn sat stiff-backed in the passenger seat, his eyes appraising Jonathan.
“A friend of Eva’s.”
“You work together?”
“For eight years.”
“Ah,” said Jinn, trying to play down his discomfort at the unannounced change of plans. “So you know her well?”
“You might say that.” Jonathan could only offer so much without giving away his ignorance. Fifty meters farther on, a policeman stood in the center of the road, directing traffic.
“What happened to her? Why couldn’t she come?”
Jonathan shifted his gaze to Jinn. “She’s dead.”
The news hit the man like a sledgehammer. “Dead? When? How? I can’t believe it.”
“Monday. She was climbing with her husband. It was an accident.”
“Her husband? Of course. She was married. Frau Kruger.” He looked into his lap and Jonathan saw that he was pressing his lips tightly together.
“Are you alright?”
Jinn looked up sharply. “Of course. I don’t know why I should feel sad after what she did to me.”
The Iranian looked straight ahead. His lips moved for a moment, but no words came out. His hand had assumed a death grip on the armrest, his knuckles white as chalk. He was experiencing mild shock. Jonathan stared at the man, hating him. He had a strong urge to hit Jinn in the jaw and slam his shocked, undeserving face into the window. He had no right to mourn Emma.
Jonathan looked away, somehow gaining control over his emotions. It was crucial that he get Jinn’s mind off Eva Kruger-off Emma-before he suffered a breakdown. He called to mind the information he’d discovered on Intelink. Invoices. Packing statements. Customs declarations. “You’ve received the last shipments, haven’t you?” he asked.
Jinn nodded, but it took him a moment longer to find his voice. “The Chalus facility is up and running,” he said weakly. “Four hundred cascades. Fifty-five thousand centrifuges. We shut down all our other facilities and moved everything there to reach our goal.”