The reporter was having a hard time keeping up with her interviewee. The subject of her focus, an impeccably dressed middle-aged man who hailed from Pakistan, was walking at a fast clip toward the diplomatsonly elevator inside the Davos Conference Center. The reporter was trying her best to get as many questions in as possible before Hamad Katchi disappeared into the elevator’s sanctuary—beyond the reach of the press.
Twenty feet ahead, Katchi’s executive assistant was holding the elevator door open for him.
“Mr. Katchi,” the reporter continued, “you were at one time one the world’s most notorious arms dealers. Supplying advanced weapons systems to a wide variety of countries, rogue nations, and terror groups—”
“Correction. I have never done business with terrorists,” Katchi retorted with a smile. Now at the elevator’s entrance, he paused, then turned. “Besides, I am now out of the weapons business completely—”
“I understand,” she replied. “Still, there are many who believe your decision to align yourself with the Society for Global Change, the organization you cofounded with Caesar Demas, was to camouflage your past—”
“I am now fully committed to building peace, rather than expanding war,” Katchi stated. “You may have heard the story already. How the death of my own brother was caused by one of the very same weapons systems that I had sold. Therefore, several years ago I chose to redirect my energies into humanitarian causes. Now, please, I am sorry, I have another commitment…”
Katchi turned again and, along with his aide, stepped into the empty elevator.
Both of them were quiet until the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors hissed open.
Waiting for them in the small hallway was Caesar Demas, flanked by two plainclothes security guards. Katchi and his aide stepped out to greet him.
“Let’s take a walk alone,” Demas insisted and motioned to Katchi to follow him down the hall while the aide stayed behind by the elevator. Demas waved a finger toward the door of a restroom. Then he blew through the door with Katchi close behind. The two bodyguards quickly took a position to block the entrance to the men’s room.
Demas and Katchi began perusing the bathroom, flinging open every stall door to make sure they were alone.
Then Demas walked over to the two hand dryers on the wall and punched them both on until the sound of their roaring filled the room.
He leaned over to Katchi and spoke directly into his ear.
“I have given the order for the messenger to stand down. At least temporarily.”
“Really? I would have waited. I know your reason. You are banking on the U.S. caving in. Well, maybe they will. And maybe not. I think you should have put the messenger securely in place first before delaying his mission—”
“Why? So he could be poised to grab the RTS information first? Then bypass us and sell the data directly to someone else? Hamad, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Even if the United States decides not to share the RTS specifications, then, per our plan, our man will still be able to get his hands on the designs anyway.”
“Yes,” Demas replied, “but by that time I will have my own people in place around him to make sure he doesn’t go rogue on us…”
At that same moment, on the other side of the Atlantic, cars were stacked up in a long line at the Canadian-U.S. border. Those wishing to cross from Lacolle, Quebec, to Champlain, New York, could expect delays of up to forty-five minutes. The U.S. customs officers were carefully checking passports of all incoming drivers.
Behind the steering wheel of his rental car, the Algerian took a few moments to examine himself in his rearview mirror. He had Yergi Banica’s passport open on the seat next to him. He glanced down at the passport photo and then up at his own face in the mirror.
It was a good match.
Zimler had grown a mustache to match Banica’s. He had accomplished that even before he had murdered him. Funny, Zimler thought, that Yergi never even noticed the similarity before the zip cord was looped around his neck. Despite his academic prowess, Banica had failed to realize that his executioner had actually taken great pains to create a close resemblance. To complete his transformation into the middle-aged Romanian professor, Zimler had obtained a pair of spectacles and had tinted portions of his hair just slightly.
Now, all that was left was to slip through the border station without incident. And if that went well, then one of the world’s deadliest assassins would be roaming free within the continental United States.
Zimler’s Allfone started ringing.
He glanced down and saw the word “Restricted,” but he didn’t answer it. He had more important business right now. No suspicious movements. He was in plain view of the border guards with only two cars between his and the checkpoint.
No message was left on his Allfone. He muted the ringer.
Now just one car remained between Zimler and the border stop.
Zimler tuned the car radio to a French station playing classical music. He listened for a few moments, keeping the level down to a soothing volume. Had he heard this piece before? He thought it might be Debussy, one of his favorite composers. Perhaps it was the Estampes for piano. It was a pity, he thought, that the business of his “professional life” had frequently kept him from enjoying the truly finer things in life. Like the beauty and complexity of music.
But the music was not merely for pleasure. It would also help him focus. Lower his heart rate. Help loosen the facial muscles, creating a relaxed expression. Everything had to look normal.
His car was next. He pulled up to the window.
“Good afternoon,” Zimler announced, confidently holding out the stolen passport to the U.S. border official.
The official smiled. Then studied the passport. Then he looked hard at Zimler. “What brings you to the United States?”
“I have always wanted to visit America,” Zimler said in a polished Romanian accent. “Now is my chance. Business mostly. I will be studying some documents at Library of Congress for my research.”
The border guard smiled but didn’t take his eyes off Zimler. “May I ask why you didn’t fly directly into the United States from Romania, Mr. Banica?”
“Well,” Zimler said with a slight laugh, “the flight into Quebec was cheaper, of course, than direct flight to Washington. But if you want to know secret…I have always wanted to see New England. I can catch a little of it coming in from northern part of state of New York while I drive. I just hope now I’m able to find gas station that has petrol…you know, with your president’s rationing plan…”
The border guard smiled back and then handed the passport back to Zimler. “Have a good trip, Mr. Banica.”
Zimler pulled ahead, through the U.S. border crossing station, leaving Quebec behind. He turned up the music on the radio.
I’m in.
A few miles down the highway his Allfone vibrated. Again, it said, “Restricted.”
He turned down the music and clicked on the cell.
“I would like to speak to the messenger,” Petri announced from the other end of the line.
In his Europoort office in Rotterdam, Petri Feditzch was flicking the end of another cigarette he’d just lit. He was looking out of the greasestreaked window toward the junction of the Rhine and Meuse rivers. He had decided to wait awhile before connecting with Zimler. Just in case Petri’s superiors changed their minds and decided not to delay the project after all. Such an occurrence would have required making multiple contacts with Zimler rather than one. And that was something Petri wanted to avoid. His days with the KGB had taught him a few things about the more perverse side of human nature. Dangerous, unpredictable people must be managed in a simple manner. Unnecessary complexity, well, that was not a good thing—especially when negotiating with a sociopath like Zimler. Keep things straightforward. Predictable.
“Please, I must speak with the messenger,” Petri repeated.
“Talk,” Zimler responded.
“Is this the messenger?”
“If you are the exporter, then I am the messenger.”
“Good,” Petri said. “In that case I have a message for you.”
There was silence.
“My superiors want you to delay the project.”
There was more silence…then an exhale of disgust.
“I don’t like delays. I rarely tolerate them.”
“I understand. But in this case, it is critical, I’m afraid.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure.”
There was another pause. The former KGB agent knew Zimler’s seething anger was about to be directed at him.
“I am on a very strict timeline,” Zimler snapped. “Cretans like you can’t appreciate that.”
Petri took another drag on his cigarette, then simply replied, “I was to deliver the message. I have done that. Your instructions are unequivocal. You must halt the project until you receive further instructions from me.”
Zimler did not respond. Instead, he disconnected the call and turned the volume knob up on the radio.
As he drove, Zimler reached over to his briefcase and pulled out a file with one hand and laid it on the seat next to him. He flipped it open. Joshua Jordan’s picture was there. Along with the other documents he had been given by the late Yergi Banica. There were also several new clippings about Joshua and the RTS controversy.
Zimler didn’t need much time to ruminate on Petri’s call. He would not delay his mission. He refused to be treated like a schoolboy waiting for the teacher to give him his next assignment. Who did they think they were dealing with?
He already knew exactly what he was going to do and how he would do it. Zimler glanced again at the picture of his target.
As he drove on, listening to the piano piece nearing its conclusion, a satisfied smile broke over his face.
Yes. He was right. It was Debussy after all.