The Devil's Banker

Chapter 51

They would be waiting for him at the border, thought Marc Gabriel as he guided the year-old Mercedes S-class with Bern license plates along the curving country roads. It was an hour before daylight. Hills thick with heather, fields ripe with wheat, and glades of summer pines lay asleep beside him, but in his mind he was dreaming of yellow sand and blue skies, of the graceful curve of a windswept dune and the razor hush of an approaching storm.

By now, he could be sure George had talked. Genteel approaches had yielded to older, trusted methods. At the least, they had a description of him. Perhaps even a photograph, if George had been stupid enough to carry one. But what else? Gabriel had been meticulous in compartmentalizing information and sharing with each contact only what each one required to complete his assignment. George, like the others, knew only what he needed to know, and in his case, the basics.

He had not told them about Kahn or the meeting at Cléopatre. Gabriel could only guess that somehow, somewhere Kahn had slipped and that the Americans had gleaned the information from the Israelis.

The sun rose as he passed through Besançon, fifty kilometers from the Swiss border. The terrain grew mountainous. The road bordered gaping chasms and roaring cataracts. The dashboard clock read 6:55 as he spotted the red and white flag flapping in the morning breeze. Two lanes slimmed to one and led to a steel and glass booth sitting astride the highway. A black-and-white striped pole was raised to allow cars to pass. Five vehicles filled the lane ahead of him.

Gabriel turned off the radio and drummed his fingers against the wheel.

If they were waiting for him, it would be here.

Nonchalantly, he checked the rearview mirror. A Peugeot nosed close behind him, then a Volkswagen Kombi. Traffic leaving Switzerland was sparse, but steady. He saw no vehicles parked near the booth, or in the examination lanes beside it, that shouldn’t be there.

A guard left his post and began strolling down the line of vehicles. A longtime veteran; fifty, gray, serious. Not one of the young lions doing their annual military service.

Gabriel busied himself with formalities. He gathered his registration, driver’s license, and passport. He was a Belgian businessman returning to his home in Bern after a weeklong stay in Brussels. He rehearsed his home phone number, his address. Both would check out if confirmed. If they were looking for Omar al-Utaybi, they would be disappointed.

The guard met his eyes and motioned for him to roll down the window.

Gabriel’s spine stiffened.

They had him.

Rolling down his window, he extended his passport. “’Morning,” he said, as if bored.

The guard did not return the greeting. “Front tire needs air,” he said, not bothering to look at the passport.

“Vielen Dank,” said Gabriel, but the guard was out of earshot, pointing a finger at the driver of the VW Kombi and motioning him into the inspection lane.

A horn blared at Gabriel.

Ahead, a second guard was waving traffic through.

Raising an acknowledging hand, Gabriel shifted into drive and pumped the accelerator with a little muscle.

He was in Switzerland.

They met on the third floor of the parking structure at Geneva Cointrin Airport. They had not seen each other for over a year, but they did not kiss, offer to hug, or even shake hands. He was her controller, nothing more. He opened the trunk and lifted the panel to the spare tire. A compact titanium box lined with lead held the package.

“So small?” she asked, accepting the weapon, assaying its weight.

“Incredible, no?”

“Maybe the rot is not as pronounced as we believed.”

Gabriel’s instinct was to slap her, but he knew her too well. “Maybe not,” he agreed, and together they laughed.

The woman straightened and sighed. “I must go.”

“Yes,” he said, and lifting his hand, he touched her cheek. “Good-bye, sister.”

“Good-bye, brother.”

In the changing room of Terminal B, Marc Gabriel removed his jacket, pants, shirt, and tie for the last time. Opening his overnight bag, he withdrew the long white cotton shirt-dress known to Arabians as the dishdasha and slipped it over his head. The bisht came next, a loose-fitting black silk robe with a gold shawl collar and piping on the sleeves. He’d had the clothing tailor-made for him at Harrison’s off the Etoile. Finally, he folded the red-and-white-checked ghutra, or khaffiyeh, in a triangle and arranged it on his head, securing it in place with a sleek black agal, or headband, made from tightly woven goat hair and sheep’s wool. He spent a moment adjusting the clothing, enjoying the generous fit. When he looked in the mirror, he gasped. After twenty years, he was looking at his true self.

Emirates Flight 645 to Dubai was on final call when he presented his boarding pass to the flight attendant. “Seat 2A,” the pleasant woman said. Something in his expression stirred her concern. “Has it been a long trip, sir?”

Omar al-Utaybi shrugged tiredly. “You have no idea.”