Rules of Deception

24

Marcus von Daniken paced inside the passenger terminal at Bern-Belp airport. A Sikorsky helicopter sat on the tarmac as a crew completed deicing the rotors. Word had come from the tower that the weather was clearing over the Alps and that they had a window of sixty minutes to get over the mountains to the Tessin before the next front arrived and effectively partitioned the country once again between north and south. Flying was not von Daniken’s cup of tea, but this morning there was no other choice. An eighteen-wheeler had overturned at the northern entrance to the Gotthard Tunnel and traffic was backed up twenty-five kilometers.

An announcement was made to board the helicopter. Reluctantly, he left the warm confines of the terminal, followed by Myer and Krajcek. “How long?” he asked the pilot as he climbed aboard.

“Ninety minutes…if the weather holds.” The response was accompanied by the offer of an air-sickness bag.

Von Daniken strapped himself in tightly. He looked at the white paper bag on his lap and muttered a short prayer.

The helicopter landed at an airfield on the outskirts of Ascona at 9:06. Throughout the flight, violent headwinds had buffeted the chopper like a ping-pong ball in a lottery machine. Twice the pilot had asked if von Daniken wished to turn back. Each time, von Daniken merely shook his head. Worse than his nausea was the suspicion that Blitz was at that very moment packing his bags and hightailing it across the Italian border.

The phone number listed on Lammers’s agenda had come back as belonging to one Gottfried Blitz, resident of the Villa Principessa in Ascona. A call had alerted the local police to von Daniken’s imminent arrival. Instructions were given that under no circumstances should anyone attempt to contact or arrest the suspect.

The engine moaned, then died altogether. The rotor blades slowed and bent under their weight. As von Daniken placed his foot onto solid ground, it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the tarmac. Come hell or high water, he was driving home in an automobile.

Lieutenant Mario Conti, chief of the Tessin police, stood at the edge of the helipad. “You will ride with me to Blitz’s house,” he said. “I believe your assistant is already there.”

Von Daniken made a beeline for the waiting automobile. The engine noise was still rife in his ears, and he wasn’t sure if he’d heard the lieutenant correctly. “My assistant? These are my men: Mr. Myer and Mr. Krajcek. No one else from my office is working this case.”

“But I received a call from Signor Orsini, the manager of the railway station, earlier this morning saying that he had been visited by an officer who had come to inquire about the bags. I assumed he was working on the same case as you.”

“Exactly what bags are you talking about?” asked von Daniken, pulling up sharply.

“The bags that were sent to Landquart,” Conti explained. “The officer informed Signor Orsini that they belonged to the suspect in the killing of the policeman yesterday.”

“I’m not investigating the killing of the policeman in Landquart. I didn’t send anyone to speak with the station manager.”

Conti shook his head, his cheeks losing their pallor. “But this policeman…he showed his identification. You’re certain you are not working together?”

Von Daniken ignored the question, driving to the heart of the matter. “What exactly did this man want?”

“The name and address of the man who had originally sent the bags.”

Von Daniken started walking toward the car. His pace quickened as it came to him. “And that man’s name was-”

“Blitz,” said the police chief, almost jogging to keep up. “The man you are looking for, of course. He lives in Ascona. Is something wrong?”

Von Daniken opened the passenger door. “How far is it to his home?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Get us there in ten.”