“So you know when it’s going to happen?”
“In a few hours, more or less.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
For the first time, Emma met his gaze full-on. “I’m still your wife.”
She reached out her hand and Jonathan slipped his fingers into hers.
“We have to tell von Daniken,” he said.
Emma glanced at him, her eyes wet with tears. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
76
The official in the Passport Control booth at Zurich Kloten Airport looked out at the long line of arrivals. The flight was just in from Washington Dulles. He checked his monitor for any passenger warnings. The screen was blank. He gazed out over the procession of well-fed faces and ample girths. Not a suspicious character in the lot.
“Next,” he called.
A tall, portly gentleman approached and laid his passport on the counter. The official opened the passport and slid the data stripe through the scanner. Name: Leonard Blake. Home: Palm Beach. Date of birth: January 1, 1955.
“The purpose of your visit, Mr. Blake?”
“Business.”
He checked the man against the photograph. Gray hair cropped close. Tan. A trim mustache. Expensive sunglasses. Gold Rolex. And a polyester tracksuit. When would Americans learn how to dress?
“How long will you be staying?”
“Just a day or two.”
The official checked his monitor. Blake’s name hadn’t raised any flags. Just another rich American without a shred of taste. He brought the stamp down hard. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Danke schön.”
The passport official winced at the man’s accent. He waved to the woman at the head of the line. “Next!”
Mr. Leonard Blake collected his bags, then proceeded to the car rental desk, where he had reserved a midsize sedan. After filling out the necessary paperwork, he walked into the parking garage and located the car. He put his bags in the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. He spent a moment adjusting the mirrors and the seat. All the while, he surveyed the lot. The place was still as a grave. He unzipped the tracksuit and peeled off the prosthetic padding that added twenty pounds to his weight and eight inches to his midsection. He set the padding in the backseat, then started the ignition and drove out of the garage.
He headed south on the highway. In twenty minutes, he was in the city center. He found a parking space on Talstrasse and strolled the two blocks to the Bahnhofstrasse, the famed artery that ran from the Lake of Zurich to the main train station. Along the way, he passed several fashionable boutiques. Chanel. Cartier. Louis Vuitton. It was said that the two kilometers of Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse constituted the most expensive real estate on earth. Leonard Blake had not come to Zurich to shop, however.
He continued south, walking toward the lake, then turned up a narrow street. He made good use of the many shop windows, slowing long enough to use their reflections to observe the pedestrians behind him. Seeing nothing of worry, he quickened his pace.
He stopped at the third entrance on the right. The baroque wooden doors were unmarked, except for a discreet plate engraved with an intertwined “G” and “B.” The letters stood for the Gessler Bank.
Inside, a porter in a frock coat greeted him. Blake wrote his name and account number on a slip of paper. The porter placed a hushed phone call. A minute passed, and a bank officer emerged from a long hallway. “Good morning, Mr. Blake,” he said in impeccable English. “How may we be of service?”
“I’d like to access my safety deposit box.”
“Please follow me.”
The two men entered an elevator and descended three floors beneath street level. The elevator opened and the official led Blake into a floor-to-ceiling vault, whose open door was policed by two armed guards. Blake was shown into a private viewing room, where he offered the banker his key. A minute later, the banker returned, carrying a large safety deposit box. “Ring for me when you’re ready.”
Blake closed the door. Though there was no need, he locked it, then took off his sunglasses and sat down.
You could never be too safe, thought Philip Palumbo as he opened the safety deposit box. He removed a manila envelope containing valid Brazilian passports for himself and each member of his family, identified as the Perreras. Also in the box were packets of Swiss francs, U.S. dollars, and euros, amounting to one hundred thousand dollars. The money was legally earned and fully taxed. It was his runaway money. A man in his line of work made serious enemies. One day, he was certain, they would come for him. And when they did, he would be ready. He picked up a packet of ten thousand dollars. He could take the money and disappear. He had rabbit holes at five spots around the globe where he might hide. It would take years to find him.
He dropped the money back into the box.
He wasn’t built to run.
By his calculations, he had thirty-six hours to accomplish his mission and return home. An hour from now, at approximately 0700 Eastern Standard Time, Admiral Lafever’s body would be discovered by his driver. He would find the house burgled, the admiral dead in his study, shot while confronting the thief. The police would arrive soon after. Word would hit Langley by nine. News of the murder would be hushed up until the director could verify all the facts and put together a plausible story. Palumbo was well aware that, despite his best efforts, no one would buy the burglary story.
It would be another three hours before an official declaration was made. Noon in D.C., six p.m. in Zurich. Inquiries would begin in earnest, Lafever’s agenda scoured, his closest associates questioned. At some point-probably not until late in the afternoon, or even tomorrow-Joe Leahy would come forward and mention the conversation he’d had with Palumbo in the cafeteria the day before. Palumbo’s interest in Lafever and Operation Mourning Dove would be duly noted. Still, there would be many similar threads to trace. A man did not get to be the deputy director of operations-the nation’s top spymaster, as it were-without having rivals, both inside the Agency and outside of it. In the event that the Agency phoned his home, Palumbo’s wife knew what to say. She would contact her husband on his cell phone and he would call back promptly. An interview with Palumbo would not be a priority.
At some point, though, the Virginia police department’s forensic squad would discover traces of Lafever’s brains in the backyard and realize that the body had been moved. Then things would get seriously crazy.
Thirty-six hours was the max.
Palumbo picked up a second large envelope from the box. This one was considerably heavier than the first. He opened it and slid the contents onto the table. The Walther PPK hadn’t been touched in three years. He checked the magazine and the slide, and was pleased to find it in perfect condition. The envelope also contained a silencer, but he didn’t think he’d need it today.
He closed the box, locked it, and rang for the banker.
Five minutes later, he was back on the street.
It was after two p.m. local time when he drove across the Limmatbrucke and headed into the bustling Seefeld district. His destination was a drab commercial building one block from the lakeside. Soldiers dressed in olive utilities and Kevlar vests, brandishing the regulation M16A1 machine gun of the United States Army, patrolled the street in front of Dufourstrasse 47, home to the American consulate. A pair of uniformed city police kept them company.
Three black Mercedes sedans crowded the sidewalk in front of the building. The cars all bore diplomatic plates with small American flags pasted to the upper right-hand corner. They were all the proof he needed to be certain that Major General John Austen, founder and director of the covert spy agency known as Division, was in the house.