Gstaad, Switzerland
It was called the Chalet Edelweiss, and what the name lacked in originality, it made up for in splendor. Sitting atop a grassy hillock and framed by a wooded mountainside, the Chalet Edelweiss was three stories high, as wide as a European city block, and built in the traditional Swiss style with extended eaves, painted shutters, and window boxes filled to overflowing with geraniums. A flagstone terrace circled the home. The red field and white cross of the Helvetic Confederation flew on a pole in the garden, snapping in the fresh breeze. The only thing missing, thought Danni Pine as she gazed up at the house, was Heidi, Peter the Goatherd, and Grandpapa blowing his alphorn.
It was 9:15.
She was late.
But then, when had an Arab ever been on time?
Danni continued on her walk up the road. She was dressed to“go wandere,”as the Swiss called hiking—in knee-length shorts; a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows; sturdy boots with conspicuous red woolen socks; wraparound sunglasses to shield her eyes from the sun; and a knit watch cap to conceal her black hair. She walked with her hands dug into her pockets, a rucksack dangling casually from one shoulder. As she walked, she whistled tunelessly if only to distract herself from her fatigue.
It had taken Avi Hirsch and his unsleeping team less than thirty minutes to identify the name, occupation, and approximate location of Luca Borgia’s correspondent. The phone belonged to the vile personage of Abdul Al-Obeidi, deputy chief of the Mabahith, the Saudi Arabian secret police, and the call had been placed in or near the town of Gstaad, high in the Bernese Oberland. Hirsch had required an additional thirty minutes to scour Al-Obeidi’s file and discover that his family owned property in Switzerland in or around the same location. Namely, the Chalet Edelweiss, purchased for five million Swiss francs in 1989, currently valued at twenty-one million.
A private jet was commandeered from the air force and lifted off with Danni, its sole passenger, at 4:25 a.m. local time, landing at the Gstaad regional airport, the Flugplatz Gstaad-Saanen, at 8:20. She had with her a change of clothing and a bag of tricks Hirsch had provided for the occasion.
Danni continued another two hundred paces until well out of sight, then cut through a cherry orchard separating two homes and circled to the rear of the chalet. She sidestepped down the hillside, taking care to move from one tree to the next. She saw no indication of activity. The windows were closed, some shuttered. Every few steps, she stopped and listened. Only the chirping of the birds and distant roar of cars zooming along the Schönriedstrasse marred the calm.
Slipping off her rucksack, she opened the top pouch and removed a matte black Glock 18, making sure the extended thirty-three-round magazine was in place, slipping a second mag into her pocket. The pistol was capable of firing in fully automatic mode at twenty-rounds per second. She wasn’t the most accurate shot. She flicked the fire selector toFULL AUTO. Better safe than sorry.
Next she removed a handheld TPD—a trace particulate detector—to check the air for explosive isotopes or chemical taggants emitted by all plastic explosives. She turned it on, checked that it was functioning properly, and stuffed it into her pocket.
She wore an earpiece and a mike on her collar, and via secure phone spoke to Hirsch, who was in the ops center in Jerusalem. “Going in.”
“Careful.”
She folded down the brim of her cap, revealing a miniature GoPro camera. “Getting it?”
“Clear as a bell.”
Ten steps took her to the back door. A lightning glance through its paned windows. No one. She tried the handle. Locked. She kneeled. Out came the electric lockpick. She tucked the pistol into the waist of her pants, inserted the pick into the jagged opening, hit the charger. The lock yielded.
She freed her pistol and entered the house.
Stop. Listen.
Silence.
A long hallway. Wood floors. Doors on each side. Open one. The next. Pleading for the planks not to creak. The rooms empty.
Into a great hall. A stairway hugging one wall. One step, then stop. Across the hall, a door standing ajar. A light burning behind it.
Danni dashed to the door. Another stairway, this one leading to the basement. Concrete stairs. Thank goodness. The smell of damp earth, closed quarters. And then something else. Men’s cologne. Danni held the pistol tighter, her finger resting on the trigger.
Down the stairs. Another corridor, a string of bare bulbs burning overhead. A great steel door at its end, one meter thick at least, and standing ajar. She drew out the TPD. The readout flickered, red numerals climbing steadily:600…700…800. The isotope count was off the charts. Plastique for sure. Semtex or C-4.
She entered the bunker. A worktable set on wooden sawhorses. Fragments of wire, batteries, and little slabs of putty. No, not putty. Plastic explosives. Orange, meaning Semtex. Her boot sent something skittering across the floor. Nuts, bolts, nails, ball bearings. A plastic garbage bin lay on its side.
“He was here,” she said, so quietly as not to be heard at all.
“Careful,” said Hirsch, his voice scratchy, distant, reception weakening.“Langsam.”
Danni came closer, scouring the bits and pieces of bomb-making materiel, and picked up a small circuit board, hardly the size of a playing card. She recognized it as a component from a cellphone. It was used to detonate an IED or a vest by placing a phone call to initiate the charge, usually in cases the bomber might lose his or her nerve. She slipped her own phone from her pocket and snapped a picture of it, sending it to Avi Hirsch and the boys at the office. A navy-blue plasticine wrapper lay by her foot. She bent to pick it up. A label read,SEMTEX. PRODUIT DE LIBYE.Product of Libya.
She took a picture of this, too.
Across the floor, a toolbox sat, still open, and in disarray, not yet straightened up by its owner. Danni froze, her every nerve on edge.You left trash behind. You left tidbits of wire and electronics behind, even explosives.But no one ever left his toolbox behind.
She turned and there he was. An older man with a bit of gray hair, half-moon spectacles, and wearing a cardigan vest. Ten steps separated them. The pistol in his hand was pointed squarely at her chest.
