Rules of Betrayal

43

The kidnapping of Dr. Michel Revy took place at two in the afternoon on that same picture-postcard day and was orchestrated and executed by Chief Inspector Marcus von Daniken, with assistance from members of his own Service of Analysis and Prevention, the wing of the federal police concerned with counterterrorism and the monitoring of all espionage activities within Switzerland’s borders.

The operation was hurried from the start, but this was nothing new. Time was rarely a policeman’s ally, and von Daniken had long ago made his peace with rushed operations. Perfection was not a word in his vocabulary. He’d had twelve hours to draw up his plan, assemble a team, and put them into position. He would have liked another day in order to stage at least one rehearsal, but Michel Revy’s schedule forbade it. In von Daniken’s business, you worked with what you were given, not with what you wished for.

“Mobile One, pull off. Mobile Two, get in position.”

Von Daniken sat parked in a shaded lay-by in the densely forested foothills on the outskirts of Bern. An insistent breeze was blowing from the north, kicking snow off the hillsides and sending it spinning and twirling in the fractured light. On his lap was a handheld tracking monitor, and he kept his eyes glued to the red dot moving along the A1 motorway in his direction. The red dot was Revy (transmitted from the homing beacon von Daniken himself had installed in the bumper of Revy’s Porsche Panamera, the outrageously expensive, outrageously beautiful sports sedan for which the surgeon owed three months’ back lease payments). The three blue dots trailing the Panamera belonged to von Daniken’s men. He was running a standard “three-car swing,” slotting a new driver behind Revy in a seven-minute rotation.

“He’s exiting the motorway,” said Mobile One.

“Hang back until he gets through the village. Once he turns on Dorfstrasse, set up the roadblock. No one gets through.”

In fact, the surveillance was a precaution. An e-mail sent from Revy’s computer the night before and intercepted by the Remora software indicated that he was planning to drive to his mother’s home that afternoon for a short visit prior to boarding a jet later that evening for Pakistan. There had been discussion about how and where to abduct him and what to do with him afterward: whether to grab him at his mother’s house, whisk him from the hotel before he checked out, or, finally, kidnap him somewhere en route between the two. Some suggested drugging him and placing him in an induced coma for the duration of his captivity, others locking him in a safe house near the Gornergrat where only the crows would see him. Any option had to meet two imperatives. No one could witness the capture, and Revy could never know who had kidnapped him or where he’d been held.

In the end, they decided on the third alternative-kidnapping Revy en route to his mother’s home-after field reconnaissance located a stretch of road von Daniken could commandeer and ever so briefly make his own. Afterward, Revy would be taken to an abandoned air-raid shelter in the Engadine above the town of Pontresina and be looked after by a revolving team of two guards. The coma was deemed too risky.

Von Daniken rolled down the window and turned his head toward the van with Swiss Telecom markings parked next to him. “Five minutes,” he called.

The driver flicked the ash from his cigarillo to the ground, then started the van and drove up the road.

Von Daniken shifted in his seat. As was his habit before a takedown, he was suffering from a case of nerves. The fact was, he was no field man. He’d made his name investigating financial crimes before moving laterally to counterterrorism and espionage. Despite his dislike of guns and violence and all things martial, he’d found that he had a propensity for the work. It turned out that he was a sneaky bastard who could outthink and outmaneuver even the best-trained agents. But thinking was one thing and acting another. At this moment, von Daniken would have much preferred to be seated at his desk, sipping his second espresso of the afternoon and listening to his department chiefs deliver their daily reports.

The red dot veered right at the fork of Lindenstrasse and Dorfstrasse. Dorfstrasse was a two-lane road winding through forest and foothills for exactly 3.8 kilometers before reaching the nearest intersection.

“Mobile One, what’s the status of your roadblock?”

“Roadblock up,” said Mobile One.

“Mobile Four,” radioed von Daniken to the driver of the Swiss Telecom van. “Any traffic?” Mobile Four was charged with blocking traffic coming from the far end of Dorfstrasse and placing a repair crew in the middle of the road. The goal was to force Revy to stop without making him suspicious.

“No one in sight.”

“Close down the road.”

The red dot glided around a turn, with the first of the blue dots a short distance behind. Craning his neck out the window, von Daniken caught the silky howl of Revy’s Porsche.

“Get on his tail,” he said. “I don’t want him thinking he has any place to run if he gets nervous.”

Von Daniken’s vantage point offered a view of the road as it curved and climbed through the forest. He caught a patch of silver among the trees and knew it was Revy.

“Mobile Four, are your men in place?”

“Road closed. No one in sight.”

Von Daniken tightened his fingers around the steering wheel. Now it was up to Revy to follow the script.

The Porsche rounded the nearest bend and von Daniken was granted an unobstructed view of his prey. He was happy to observe Mobile One directly on his tail. Von Daniken started the engine and edged toward the road. Revy whipped past, followed by Mobile One. Von Daniken was astounded by how fast Revy was driving. Then again, he reminded himself, Revy knew the road perfectly. Von Daniken gunned the engine and shot into the road.

“Thirty seconds,” he radioed.

“Thirty seconds,” confirmed Mobile Four.

Von Daniken watched the Panamera pass the first of a series of orange cones running down the center of the road. He waited for the Porsche’s brake lights to flare, the car to slow. If anything, the Porsche seemed to accelerate, its tail sliding to the left as it negotiated the sharp curve. Verglas, thought von Daniken. Black ice. A thin sheet of impossibly slick ice invisible to the eye. A second later, Revy had disappeared round the bend.

Von Daniken hurried to catch up. He knew what lay a few hundred meters ahead. A three-man crew dressed as laborers in grimy pants and orange safety vests gathered in the center of the road. A fourth man directed traffic. The Telecom van blocked the oncoming lane. In a country obsessed by the condition of its roads, it was a sight every Swiss could count on seeing once a day.

He came around the bend, but Revy was already out of sight, and he saw only the rear of Mobile One’s sedan. You’re driving too fast, von Daniken admonished Revy from afar, as if the doctor were purposefully disobeying his instructions in an effort to defeat his planning. Slow down. That’s an order!

Von Daniken rounded the next curve in time to witness the accident. There were some things one could not plan for, or for that matter even foresee. And in that never-ending instant, as he watched the disaster unfold and saw his carefully wrought plan quite literally go up in flames, he knew that later, when they would meet at headquarters in Bern, some smart-ass would say that he should have known that the area was a wilderness preserve and that all kinds of animals were roaming the woods.

But for that moment, all he could do was watch.

The stag was the biggest he’d seen since he was a child in the mountains near Zinal. The deer bounded off the hillside and into the center of the road not ten meters in front of Revy’s 200,000-franc sports sedan. Seeing the oncoming car, the animal froze, its head raised proudly, its magnificent rack (eighteen points at least) silhouetted against the waning afternoon sun. It was a testament to Revy’s reflexes that he did not hit the buck. The Porsche veered crazily to the left, and von Daniken was certain he did not see the faintest glimmer of its brake lights as it careened off the hillside and seemingly took flight before slamming nose first into the trunk of a century-old pine and plummeting twenty meters to the stream below.

Revy didn’t stand a chance, even with airbags and a safety belt. The Porsche landed flat on its back, buckling the roof. Von Daniken was out of his car in time to hear the shattered windshield tinkle onto the rocks, watch the splintered treetop spear the wreck, and spy the first flames lick from the gas tank. The explosion came a second later, enveloping the automobile. He prayed that the fall had broken Revy’s neck.

Von Daniken looked on for ten seconds as the flames danced in and out of the passenger compartment. He lamented Revy’s death. Maybe he even felt sorry for him. By now his men had gathered beside him. They stood like mourners gazing into the ravine, their pale, impassive faces shadowed by the specter of death. In a few minutes a police car would arrive, then a fire truck, and afterward an ambulance. Someone would call a reporter from the local newspaper. The crash was spectacular enough to merit a half-page article with color photographs in Blick, the country’s daily tabloid. Von Daniken could not allow that to happen.

“Keep the roads blocked,” he said to his colleague. “Get a cleanup crew over here on the double. This never happened.”