Rules of Deception (5 page)

8

It was only
at seven a.m. that the port turbine engine belonging to the Gulfstream IV was finally repaired and the jet made ready for takeoff from Bern-Belp airport. Despite Marcus von Daniken’s offer of lodging, Philip Palumbo had remained on board, choosing to sleep on a couch at the rear of the passenger compartment.

As the jet pushed back from the terminal, Palumbo left his seat and ducked through the aft hatch that led to the luggage compartment. The cargo area was a tight space with a sloping ceiling, absent windows. Three suitcases were stacked in one corner. Pushing them aside, he kneeled and slid back a panel in the floor that concealed a sturdy stainless steel handle. Giving a yank, he pulled a section of floor clear to reveal a seven-foot by four-foot compartment kitted out with a mattress and belt restraints.

Lying inside the compartment was a slim, olive-skinned man dressed in a white jumpsuit, his hands and feet bound by flexi-cuffs and connected by a perp chain. His beard had been shaved. His black hair cut to a soldier’s regulation length. The diaper he wore was also regulation. All were measures designed to depersonalize the prisoner and make him feel powerless and vulnerable.

He looked like a young man. With his wire-rimmed glasses he might have been a university student or a computer programmer. His name was Walid Gassan. He was thirty-one years of age, an avowed terrorist linked at one time or another to Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, and like every self-respecting Islamic fanatic, Al-Qaeda.

Palumbo hauled the prisoner to his feet and guided him into the passenger compartment, where he pushed him into a seat and attached the seat belt tight around his waist. He spent a moment daubing Mercurochrome on Gassan’s ruined fingers. He’d given up three fingernails before Palumbo had quit.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Gassan.

Palumbo didn’t answer. Leaning down, he unlocked the man’s foot restraints and spent a moment massaging the prisoner’s calves to keep his circulation active. He didn’t want Gassan to drop dead of deep vein thrombosis before they squeezed some information out of him.

“I am an American citizen,” Gassan went on defiantly. “I have rights. Where are you taking me? I demand to be told.”

There was a maxim that had sprung up about extraordinary rendition. If the CIA wanted to question someone, they sent him to Jordan. If they wanted to torture him, they sent him to Syria. If they wanted him to disappear off the face of the earth, they sent him to Egypt.

“Think of it as a surprise, Haji.”

“My name isn’t Haji!”

“You’re right,” said Palumbo with menace. “You know what? You don’t have a name. As far as the world is concerned, you no longer exist.” He snapped his fingers an inch from the prisoner’s nose. “You just disappeared into thin air.”

Palumbo buckled himself in as the jet lifted into the air. A screen at the head of the cabin showed the plane’s progress on a world map, along with updates about its speed, the outside temperature, and time to destination. After a few minutes heading north, the Gulfstream banked to the left until its nose pointed south by southeast. Toward the Mediterranean Sea.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” said Palumbo. “Talk now or later. I can promise you that the first option is the one you want to take.”

Gassan’s timid brown eyes darted toward him. “I have nothing to say.”

Palumbo sighed, shaking his head. Another hardcase. “What about the explosives you picked up in Germany? Let’s start there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He looked at Gassan, imagining the terrible things that the young man had done, the deaths he had caused, the families he had torn. And then he thought about what the man would face when they landed.

In four hours’ time, Mr. Walid Gassan would get his due.

9

A knock came
at the door.

“Moment, bitte.”
Jonathan pulled a worn Basque sweater over his T-shirt and slipped into a pair of moccasins as he walked to the door. “Yes?”

The hotel manager stood in the hallway. “On behalf of all the staff, may I offer our heartfelt condolences,” he said. “If there is anything I or any member of my staff can do…”

“Thank you,” said Jonathan. “But I’m alright for the moment.”

The manager nodded, but did not leave. Instead, he drew a buff envelope out of his jacket and extended it toward Jonathan. “Some mail. For your wife.”

Jonathan took the envelope and held it under the light. It was addressed to “Emma Ransom, Hotel Bellevue, Poststrasse, Arosa.” The script was large, bold, and meticulous. A man’s hand, he thought automatically. He turned the letter over. There was no name or return address.

“A day late, I’m afraid,” explained the hotelier. “The crew enlarging the railway tunnel near St. Peter-Molinas brought down an avalanche on the tracks. I explained it all to Mrs. Ransom. She was quite upset. I must apologize.”

“You talked to Emma about this?”

“Yes. Saturday evening before dinner.”

“So she was
expecting
this letter?”

“She whispered something about a birthday. She made me promise to hold it for her.”

A birthday? Jonathan’s thirty-eighth was March 13, more than a month off. “That must be it. Thank you.”

Closing the door, he walked to the bedroom, turning the envelope over in his hands.
Emma Ransom. Hotel Bellevue. Poststrasse, Arosa.
The postmark was smudged. While the date remained legible, the name of the town where the letter had been posted was blurred. The first letter was an “A,” unless, of course, it was an “R.” The second letter was a “c,” or an “o,” or maybe an “e.” The third an “l” or an “i.”

He gave up. It was useless.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap. Taken by the blue express stamp, he paused. It meant the letter had been mailed Friday for next-day delivery.

Again, he turned it over. No return address.

How long had he suspected? Six months? A year? Was it only after Emma’s trip to Paris, or had there been intimations before? Hints that he should have picked up on, but had been too busy to notice.

It was no exaggeration to say that he loved her madly. “Madly” was such a frightening word. It suggested carelessness and danger and abandon. Nothing like his feelings for Emma. His love for Emma had been based on an absolute absence of doubt. He saw her and he knew. The crooked grin that said, “Try me. I’m game.” The wild mane of auburn hair that she refused to tame. The torn jeans that cried out for mending. “There are more important things, Jonathan, than putting your hair in braids and wearing a clean frock.” The challenging gaze that demanded the best of him. It was as if she had been run up and made especially for him. He held nothing back, because she didn’t either.

Yes, he loved her madly. But he had not loved her blindly.

Over the past months, she’d shown a growing disinterest in work. Once routine fourteen-hour days were cut to twelve, and then to eight. As a regional director of logistics for Doctors Without Borders, Emma was in charge of coordinating relief operations for the Middle East. This meant she supervised the hiring and training of staff and volunteers, oversaw shipments of supplies, liaised with local government agencies, and kept a handle on finances needed to keep the operation up and running. It was a hectic job, to say the least.

At first, he attributed her slowing down to burnout. Emma had always been one to drive herself too hard. Her flame burned too brightly. “Incandescent” was not too strong a word. It was natural to need a rest.

But there were other signs. Headaches. Solitary walks. Protracted silences. He had felt the distance between them growing day by day.

All of it had begun after Paris.

Jonathan ran the envelope back and forth between his fingers. It weighed nothing. He guessed there was a single sheet of paper inside. He flipped the letter over and stared at the blank expanse where a return address belonged. A Swiss who didn’t put his name on an envelope was one step removed from a traitor. It was a national offense right up there with violating bank secrecy and filching the recipe for Lindt’s milk chocolate.

If not a traitor, then what?

A succession of four sonorous beeps emanated from the radio. An officious British voice announced: “It is twelve o’clock noon Greenwich Mean Time. This is the World Service of the BBC. The news read by…”

But in Jonathan’s mind, a different voice was speaking.
Open it,
it urged him.
Open it now and get it over with.

If only it were that simple, he mused.

The fact was, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to open it at all. Emma was dead. His memories of her were all that remained. He didn’t want to taint them. He brought the letter closer and his thoughts traveled to the one place he never wanted them to visit again.

Paris…where Emma had gone for a girls’ weekend to drown herself in culture and croissants and the new Chagall exhibit.

Paris…where Emma had disappeared for two days and two nights and not even his most fevered messages could reach her.

Paris…

Jonathan is asleep in his tent, lying on top of his cot in boxers and nothing else. At three in the morning, the heat is still oppressive. It has been a hot summer, even by the taxing standards of the Middle East. During the months he has lived and worked in the Bekaa Valley, he has learned to sleep and sweat at the same time.

The cot next to him is empty. Emma has left for a week’s visit to Europe. Four days at the agency headquarters in Geneva, then three days in Paris, where she will join her best friend, Simone, for a whirlwind tour of the City of Light. There will be an afternoon at the Jeu de Paume, an evening enjoying the Son et Lumière at Versailles. With her old exuberance, Emma has blocked out every minute of their days.

The sound of motors awakens him. The night growls with the approach of a mechanized invasion. Jonathan raises his head from his pillow. A gunshot shatters the darkness.

Jonathan scrambles from his bed and rushes outside. Rashid, a young Palestinian, stands in front of the hospital, arms outstretched, blocking entry. Two mud-encrusted pickups are parked nearby. Music blares from their speakers. A minor-key melody with a sledgehammer beat. A squad of armed militiamen encircles the boy, prodding at him with the barrels of their machine guns, shouting at him to unlock the doors. Jonathan forces his way into their midst. “What do you want?” he asks in rudimentary Arabic.

“You are in charge?” says the leader, a sallow youth of twenty with a wispy beard and catlike eyes. “You are the doctor?”

“I’m the doctor,” Jonathan answers.

“We need medicine. Tell this boy to get out of the way.”

“Never,” shouts Rashid. He is an angry youth, fifteen years old and fiercely independent. Since Jonathan and Emma’s arrival, he has been at their side constantly. Jonathan is his idol and mentor, his patron saint and most sacred charge. Rashid plans on studying medicine, if only to care for his numerous relatives. The hospital belongs to him as much as the aid workers.

“Please,” says Jonathan, with a smile to soothe raw nerves. “Let me help. Are you ill? Is one of your men hurt?”

“It is my father,” says the rabble’s leader. “His heart. He requires medicine.”

“Bring him here,” says Jonathan. “We’ll be happy to treat him.” He notes the boy’s glazed eyes, his dreamy smile. Is he drunk? High? On what? Raki? Hash? Meth?

“He doesn’t have the time.”

“Have you tried the hospital at El Ain? If your father has a heart ailment, I recommend that he go to Beirut.”

But Beirut is an eight-hour drive and the road to El Ain is impassable due to flash floods.

“Out of the way,” says the leader, pushing past Rashid. Rashid pushes back. Before Jonathan can react, before he can warn the boy to yield, the leader raises his rifle and fires a bullet into Rashid’s face.

“My father requires nitroglycerine for his heart,” the leader says, stepping over the body. “And we”—he gestures to his men—“We require something for our souls.”

One look at Rashid tells Jonathan that there is nothing to be done. He leads the militiamen to the dispensary. It is a raiding party. Greedy hands clear the shelves of morphine, Vicodin, and codeine. In minutes, the dispensary is bare. It is over as quickly as it began. Wishing the Prophet’s blessing upon him, the militiamen climb into their trucks and drive away.

A minute later, Jonathan has the phone to his ear, frantically hoping to reach Paris. Emma must fly to Geneva and go directly to DWB headquarters. He will telephone ahead to arrange a money order that she must take with her so he can resupply the hospital.

It is three-thirty in Lebanon. One hour earlier in Paris. He calls the Hôtel les Trois Couronnes, but she does not answer. Her cell is likewise out of service. He phones the hotel again and requests that a message be delivered to her room. But Emma does not call back. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even the next afternoon, after Jonathan has driven into Beirut and used the last of his personal savings to purchase the needed medicines from a black market supplier.

His wife is missing.

Every man’s patience has its limits. Sadly, he discovers that faith is not an inexhaustible commodity. At six the following morning, he calls the hotel yet again and asks to speak to the manager. “Are you sure you left the messages in the correct room?” he demands.

“I am certain, Monsieur Ransom. I personally delivered the last note.”

“Would you mind checking if my wife is in her room?”

“But, of course. I will transfer the call to my cellular. If I find your wife, you may speak with her immediately.”

Like a phantom, Jonathan accompanies the manager up to the third floor. Over the line, he hears the gates of the old-fashioned elevator bang closed; the plodding of well-shod feet down the carpeted hallway; the sharp knock on the door. “Bonjour, madame. It is Henri Gauthier. I am the hotel manager. I would like to ask if you are alright.”

There is no response. Time passes. Gauthier enters the room.

“Monsieur Ransom?” comes the urbane French voice. “The messages are all here.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are lying on the floor. None has been opened. In fact, it does not look like your wife is here at all.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The bed has not been slept in. I see no suitcases or belongings of any kind.” Gauthier paused, and Jonathan envisions the man’s defeated shrug as if it were his own. “The room has not been touched.”

Open it.

Jonathan slipped a finger beneath the flap and tore open the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside. Blank. No name. No heading. Not a mark. He turned the envelope upside down and gave a shake. Two slips of cardboard paper fell into his palm. They were identical in shape and size. One edge was perforated, as if it had been torn from another piece. A six-digit number printed in red ink ran across the middle of each. To look at, it was a receipt. A claim ticket similar to what you received at a coat check. Some letters were printed in a very small font in the bottom right-hand corner.

SBB.

Schweizerische Bundesbahn.

The Swiss Railway.

The tickets were baggage claims.