His feet touched the earth.
“I’m down,” he radioed to his crew.
In the dim light, she looked fragile and at peace. Blood had congealed in pools around her legs and her head. Removing his pack, he took out a body harness, several carabiners, and a balaclava with which to cover her face to avoid any scratches or contusions on the ascent to the surface. He arranged the equipment in a row next to the body. Then, as was his custom, he knelt and offered a prayer for the departed.
Slipping both hands under the woman’s torso, he lifted the corpse and flipped it onto its back. This way it would be easier to attach the harness. But immediately, he felt something odd. The long, tangled hair fell away. A load of rocks and snow spilled onto the ground. He stood up holding the empty parka in his hands, staring at the pants still lying on the ground.
A gasp fled Steiner’s mouth.
There was no body at all.
74
They were heading in the wrong direction.
Ten minutes had passed since he’d been locked in the trunk. He’d felt the first hairpin leading out of the city, but was still waiting for the downhill chicane that prefaced rejoining the main highway. If he wasn’t mistaken, the car was climbing, not descending. He was certain that Simone had a reason for disobeying his instructions. But what was it? Had she caught sight of a roadblock? Had the police closed the highway altogether?
Concerned, Jonathan ran through the functions on his wristwatch. The altimeter read 1,950 meters, then a minute later, 1,960. He was right. They were going uphill. He clicked over to the compass. The car was pointed due east. They were proceeding along the highway that led to Tiefencastel, and then on to St. Moritz. Instead of going toward Zurich and the U.S. consulate, they were heading away from it.
“Simone,” he yelled, banging on the roof of the trunk. “Stop the car!”
A few moments later, the car pulled to the side of the road. Jonathan rose on an elbow, his head brushing against the chassis. He felt claustrophobic and increasingly frightened. Footsteps crunched in the snow outside the car. A male voice said a few words. The police? Had they come to a checkpoint? Jonathan held his breath, straining to pick up the conversation.
Just then, a door opened and the car swayed as a passenger climbed in. The door slammed and the car pulled back onto the highway.
“Simone! Who’s in there with you?”
He banged harder.
“Simone! Answer me! Who is it?”
The radio began to play, the speakers positioned above his head thumping loudly in time to the bass. The car accelerated and he rolled onto his side.
Eyes open, Jonathan lay back and reviewed the past days’ events: Simone’s too-rapid arrival in Arosa, her pleas that he leave the country, her reluctance to track down the individual who’d sent Emma the bags, her frustration at his trying to save Blitz’s life. All had been ruses to lure him off the scent. When he resisted her imprecations, she’d passed him down the line to the scalp hunters. He tore the Saint Christopher medal from his neck. It had to be some kind of homing beacon. There was no other way to explain how the assassin had been able to follow him to Davos. It did not, however, explain how he’d obtained a pass to enter the green zone. Like Emma, Simone had allies.
Sunlight seeped through the outline of the trunk. With the help of his wristwatch’s Lumiglo dial, he found the trunk’s lock, concealed behind a fiberboard veneer. Using Emma’s keys, he dug at the fiberboard, fashioning a slot and then a hole. When the hole grew large enough, he rammed a finger through it and began to tear away at the veneer.
Finally, the hole grew big enough that he was able to touch the lock. He knew cars, and he was certain that there was a pushpin he could depress to free the catch. He wasn’t as certain what he’d do once he opened the trunk. It wouldn’t be any wiser to jump out of a car doing a hundred fifty kilometers an hour than to wait for a professional killer to fire a bullet into his skull at point-blank range.
He ran his fingers over the hook-shaped catch, wedged his thumb against it, and pressed for all he was worth. His fingers slipped off the metal. He tried again with the same result.
The car slowed and made a sharp turn to the right, leaving the pavement. They began a series of climbing switchbacks and he braced himself to keep from slamming into the chassis. The whine of the engine testified to the aggressive slope. The sharp turns and the constant speeding up and slowing down made him nauseous. Finally, the hairpin curves ended. He sucked down a deep breath, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
Sliding to the rear of the trunk, he pulled back the carpetlike padding beneath him and freed the repair kit stuffed inside the spare tire. The best he could come up with was the tire iron meant to be used with the jack. He tried whacking the lock, hoping that it might break and pop open. No such luck.
The car came to a halt and the engine died. He grasped the tire iron in his right hand. It felt light and ridiculous. Still, he readied himself as best he could to spring from the trunk. He heard a key slip into the lock. The trunk opened and the afternoon sun hit him full in the face, blinding him. Reflexively, he closed his eyes and raised a hand to ward off the glare.
“Get out,” said Simone.
Next to her stood a compact man with dark hair, a pale complexion, and dead eyes, holding a pistol at his side. Jonathan needed no introduction.
“If you please,” the man said with a quick flick of his pistol. “And don’t bother with whatever that is you’re holding.”
Jonathan dropped the tire iron and climbed out of the car. They had parked in a lay-by a few hundred feet from the top of the mountain. The vista was dramatic, a panorama of towering granite piers in every direction.
“I suppose it’s too late to say that I want to leave the country.” Jonathan’s throat was suddenly dry. He needed water.
“I tried to warn you off,” said Simone.
“Why didn’t you tell me you worked with Emma? That would have been enough.”
“I don’t. In fact, I’m as interested to learn what she was doing as you are.”
“Then who are you with?”
Simone just stared at him.
He took a step toward the edge of the lay-by and glimpsed a sheer rock face. He judged it to be a thousand-meter fall to the valley floor.
Simone stretched out her hand. “I need all the information Parvez Jinn gave you.”
“He didn’t give me anything,” said Jonathan.
“You came all this way to see Jinn and you didn’t even ask him what he’d smuggled out of the country? I’d have thought he’d have practically pressed it on you.”
“I went to see Jinn to ask him if he knew who Emma was working for, and possibly, if she’d told him her real name.”
“No, you didn’t. You came to Davos to get out of trouble. To get your proof.”
Jonathan said nothing.
“Why are you making this so hard?” she asked.
“You don’t have to do this, Simone.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But Ricardo, here, does.”
Ricardo, the assassin, sniffed the air. “Please, if you have any information, now is the time to give it to Mrs. Noiret.”
“What’s your game?” asked Jonathan, ignoring the man who had tried to shoot him in the tunnel and later stab him. “Did you have this guy kill Blitz, too?”
“My game is the same as everyone else’s in this business. This is not about playing doctor.”
Jonathan took the flash drive out of his pocket and held it in his palm. “Iran’s entire nuclear program is on this thing. Jinn thinks it’s enough to start a war.”
Simone glanced at the drive. “Does he? I don’t concern myself with those issues.”
“Tell me who you work for and why you wanted Emma so badly. Tell me that, and it’s yours.”
“I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m your friend. Believe me.”