Emma grimaced as a tear sped down her cheek.
He touched her shoulder. “Alright, let’s get some help up here.” He took the two-way radio from his jacket. “Davos Rescue,” he said, turning out of the wind. “I need to report an emergency. Skier injured on the south side of the Furga at the base of Roman’s. Over.”
Silence greeted his call.
“Davos Rescue,” he repeated. “I have an emergency requiring immediate assistance. Come back.”
A blizzard of white noise answered. He tried again. Again, there was no response.
“It’s the weather,” said Emma. “Go to another channel.”
Jonathan flipped to the next channel. Years ago, he’d worked as an instructor and ski patrolman in the Alps, and he’d programmed the radio with the frequencies of every emergency rescue service in the area—Davos, Arosa, and Lenzerheide—as well as the Kantonspolizei, the Swiss Alpine Club, and Rega, the helicopter rescue outfit known to skiers and climbers as the meat wagon.
“Arosa Rescue. Skier injured on the south side of the Furga. Immediate assistance required.”
Again, there was no response. He brought the radio closer. The power light flickered weakly. He banged the radio against his leg. The light blinked and went dark. “It’s dead.”
“Dead? The radio? How’s that? I saw you try it last night.”
“It was fine then.” Jonathan clicked the instrument on and off several times, but it refused to come to life.
“Is it the batteries?”
“I don’t see how. I put in a fresh set yesterday.” Removing his mittens, he examined the inside of the set. “Not the batteries,” he said. “The wiring. The power unit’s not attached to the transmitter.”
“Attach it.”
“I can’t. Not here. I’m not sure I could even if I had the tools.” He tossed the two-way radio into his bag.
“What about the phone?” Emma asked.
“What about it? It’s a big-time dead zone up here.”
“Try it,” she commanded.
The signal icon on Jonathan’s cell phone showed a parabolic antenna cut through with a solid line. He dialed the number for Rega anyway. The call failed. “Nothing. It’s a black hole.”
Emma stared at him a moment and he could see that she was working hard to keep it together. “But we’ve
got
to talk to someone.”
“There’s no one to talk to.”
“Try the radio again.”
“What for? I told you, it’s broken.”
“Just do it!”
Jonathan kneeled beside her. “Look, everything’s going to be okay,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “I’m going to ski down and bring back help. As long as you have your avalanche transmitter, I won’t have any problem finding you.”
“You can’t leave me here. You’ll never find your way back, even with the beacon. You can’t see twenty feet in any direction. I’ll freeze. We can’t…
I can’t
…” Her words trailed off. She dropped her head onto the snow and turned her face so he wouldn’t see that she was crying. “I almost had it, you know…that last turn…I just was a little late…”
“Listen to me. You’re going to be fine.”
Emma looked up at him. “Am I?”
Jonathan brushed the tears from her cheek. “I promise,” he said.
Reaching into his rucksack, he found a thermos and poured his wife a cup of hot tea. While she drank, he gathered her skis and placed them in the snow behind her, forming an X so he could spot them from a distance. He removed his patrolman’s parka and laid it over her chest. He took off his cap and placed it over Emma’s, pulling it down so that it covered her neck. Finally, he fished the space blanket from the rucksack and gingerly slid it beneath her back and around her chest. The word “HELP” was spelled across it in large fluorescent orange letters, meant to aid in cases of air evacuation. But there would be no helicopter flying in today.
“Pour yourself some tea every fifteen minutes,” he said, taking her hand. “Keep eating and above all, don’t fall asleep.”
Emma nodded, her hand gripping his like a vise.
“Remember the tea,” he went on. “Every fifteen—”
“Shut up and get out of here,” she said. She gave his hand a last squeeze and released it. “Leave before you scare me to death.”
“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
Emma held his eyes. “And, Jonathan…don’t look so unsure of yourself. You’ve never broken a promise yet.”
2
Three hundred kilometers
to the west of Davos, at Bern-Belp airport outside the nation’s capital, snow had been falling since morning. Menacing Arctic CAT snowplows rumbled up and down the runways, making mountains out of the gathered snow, ugly parodies of the Alps, and depositing them at the head of the taxiway.
At the west end of runway one-four, a cluster of men stood huddled together, eyes trained to the sky. They were policemen waiting for a plane to land. They had come to make an arrest.
One man stood slightly apart from the others. Marcus von Daniken was fifty, a short, hawkish man with black hair shorn to a grenadier’s stubble and a grim, downturned mouth. For the past six years, he’d headed up the Service for Analysis and Prevention, better known as SAP. It was SAP’s job to safeguard the country’s domestic security against extremists, terrorists, and spies. The same role was performed in the United States by the FBI and in the United Kingdom by MI5. At that moment, von Daniken was shivering. He hoped the plane would land soon.
“How are conditions holding?” he asked the man next to him, a major from the Border Guard.
“Another ten minutes and they’re closing down the field. Visibility’s for shit.”
“What’s the plane’s status?”
“One engine down,” the major said. “The other’s overheating. The aircraft just turned onto final approach.”
Von Daniken searched the sky. Low above the runway a set of yellow landing lights blinked in and out of the mist. Moments later, the plane dropped out of the clouds and into view. The aircraft was a Gulfstream IV flying out of Stockholm, Sweden. Its tail number, N415GB, was known to the intelligence agencies of every Western nation. The same aircraft had transported Abu Omar, the radical Muslim cleric spirited off the streets of Milan, in February 2003, from Italy to Germany, and finally to Egypt, to undergo interrogation at the hands of his countrymen.
It had also carried a German citizen of Lebanese descent, one Khaled El-Masri, arrested in Macedonia, to the “Salt Pit” prison at Bagram Air Force Base, outside Kabul, Afghanistan, where it was eventually discovered that he was not, in fact, the same Khaled El-Masri who was sought in connection with terrorist activities.
One success. One failure. It was the going rate these days, thought von Daniken. The important thing was that you stayed at the table and kept playing.
The aircraft hit the tarmac hard. Ice and water sprayed from its tires. The engine roared as its bafflers moved into place.
“Smug bastards,” said a thin, nearly gaunt man with longish red hair and a professor’s round spectacles. “I can’t wait to see their faces. It’s about time that we taught them a lesson.” His name was Alphons Marti, and he was Switzerland’s minister of justice.
Marti had represented Switzerland as a marathoner in the Seoul Olympics in 1988. He’d come into the stadium dead last, legs rubbery from the heat, bobbing and weaving like a drunk on a three-day bender. The emergency medical personnel had tried to stop him, but somehow he’d pushed them away. One step past the finish line, he collapsed and was immediately transported to the hospital. To this day, there were those who viewed him as a hero. Others had a different view, and whispered about an amateur masquerading as a professional.
“No mistakes now,” Marti continued, gripping von Daniken’s arm. “Our reputation is on the line. Switzerland does not permit this kind of thing. We are a neutral country. It’s time that we take a stand and prove it. Don’t you agree?”
Von Daniken was old enough and wise enough not to answer. He brought the radio to his mouth. “No one hit their lights until I give the order,” he said.
One hundred feet away, hidden behind a checkered barrier, a minor fleet of police vehicles waited for the signal to move in. Von Daniken glanced to his left. Another barricade concealed an armored personnel carrier holding ten heavily armed border guards. He had argued against a show of force, but Marti would have none of it. The justice minister had waited a long time for this day.
“Pilot has requested to deplane,” said the major from the Border Guard. “The tower is directing him to the customs ramp.”
Von Daniken and Marti climbed into an unmarked sedan and drove to the designated parking spot. The others followed in a second vehicle. The Gulfstream veered off the runway and approached the customs ramp. Von Daniken waited until the plane had come to a complete halt. “All units. Go.”
Blue and white strobes lit the slate sky. The police cruisers sped from their hiding places and surrounded the plane. The personnel carrier lumbered into position, a soldier bringing the .50-caliber turret gun to bear. Commandos in assault gear spilled out of the vehicles and formed a semicircle around the plane, submachine guns raised to their chests and aimed at the doorway.
All this circus because of a simple telefax, thought von Daniken, as he climbed out of the sedan and checked his pistol to ensure that there was no bullet in the chamber and that the safety was in the on position.
Three hours earlier, Onyx, Switzerland’s proprietary satellite eavesdropping system, had intercepted a telefax sent from the Syrian embassy in Stockholm to its counterpart in Damascus giving the passenger manifest of a certain aircraft bound for the Middle East. Four persons were aboard: the pilot, the copilot, and two passengers. One an agent of the United States government, the other a terrorist wanted by the law enforcement authorities of twelve Western nations. The news was passed up the chain of command within minutes of receipt. One copy was e-mailed to von Daniken, another to Marti.
And there it stopped. One more piece of intelligence to be digested and graded “No Further Action.” Until, that is, the flight in question radioed Swiss air traffic control reporting an engine malfunction and requesting emergency clearance to land.
The jet’s forward door swung outward and a stairwell unbuckled from the fuselage. Marti hurried up the steps, with von Daniken behind him. The pilot appeared in the doorway. The Justizminister produced a warrant and offered it for examination. “We have information indicating that you are transporting a prisoner in contravention of the Geneva Convention on Human Rights.”
The pilot barely glanced at the legal document. “You’re mistaken,” he said. “We haven’t got a soul on board besides my copilot and Mr. Palumbo.”
“No mistake,” said Marti, shouldering past the pilot and entering the aircraft. “Swiss soil will not be used for the practice of extraordinary rendition. Chief Inspector von Daniken, search the plane.”
Von Daniken walked down the aisle of the aircraft. A lone passenger was seated in one of the broad leather seats. A white male, about forty years old, head shaved, with a bull’s shoulders and cold gray eyes. At first glance, he looked like an experienced man, someone who could handle himself. From his window, he had a clear view of the storm troopers surrounding the plane. He didn’t appear unduly concerned.
“Good afternoon,” said von Daniken, in good but accented English. “You are Mr. Palumbo?”
“And you are?”
Von Daniken introduced himself and offered his identification. “We have reason to suspect you are transporting a prisoner named Walid Gassan aboard this flight. Am I correct?”
“No, sir, you are not.” Palumbo crossed his legs and von Daniken noted that he was wearing boots with a sturdy toecap.
“You don’t mind, then, if we search the aircraft?”
“This is Swiss soil. You can do what you please.”
Von Daniken directed the passenger to stay in his seat until the search was completed, then he continued to the rear of the plane. Plates and glasses were stacked in the galley sink. He counted four settings. Pilot. Copilot. Palumbo. Someone was missing. He checked the lavatory, then opened the aft hatch and inspected the baggage hold.
“No one,” he radioed to Marti. “The passenger compartment and cargo area are clear.”
“What do you mean ‘clear’?” demanded Marti. “That can’t be.”
“Unless they have him stuffed inside a suitcase, he’s not aboard the plane.”
“Keep looking.”
Von Daniken made a second circuit through the cargo area, testing for hollow compartments. Finding nothing, he closed the aft door and returned to the passenger compartment.
“You’ve checked the entire plane?” asked Marti, standing with his arms crossed next to the captain.
“Top to bottom. There are no other passengers aboard besides Mr. Palumbo.”
“Impossible.” Marti shot an accusing glance at von Daniken. “We have proof that the prisoner is on board.”
“And what proof is that?” asked Palumbo.
“Don’t play games with me,” said Marti. “We know who you are, who you work for.”
“You do, do you? Then I guess I can go ahead and tell you.”
“Tell us what?” demanded Marti.
“The guy you’re looking for…we let him off thirty minutes back over those big mountains of yours. He said he’d always wanted to see the Alps.”
Marti’s eyes widened. “You didn’t?”
“Might have been what jammed up the engine. Either that or a goose.” Palumbo looked out his window, shaking his head in amusement.
Von Daniken pulled Marti aside. “It appears that our information was incorrect, Herr Justizminister. There’s no prisoner aboard.”
Marti stared back, white with anger. A current passed through him, rattling his shoulders. With a nod to the passenger, he left the aircraft.
A lone commando remained at the door. Von Daniken waved him off. He waited until the soldier had disappeared down the stairs before returning his attention to Palumbo. “I’m sure our mechanics will be able to repair your engine with the shortest possible delay. In case the weather continues and the airport remains closed, you’ll find the Hotel Rossli just down the road to be quite comfortable. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience.”
“Apology accepted,” said Palumbo.
“Oh, and by the way,” said von Daniken. “I happened to find this on the floor.” Leaning closer, he dropped something small and hard into the CIA officer’s hand. “I trust you’ll pass along any information that concerns us.”
Palumbo waited until von Daniken had left the aircraft before opening his hand.
In his palm was a man’s torn and bloody thumbnail.