A customs inspector banged the hood of the car and motioned for him to pass through the portico. Khan offered an Italian passport, but it was waved away.

"Drive. Don't look," said the customs official before moving off down the line of stalled automobiles.

Khan ignored his instructions, slowing the car to a crawl as he passed the flaming wreckage. A circle of policemen had surrounded a lone man lying prostrate on the ground. The man was injured. Blood poured from his nose. His clothing was torn, his face blackened by smoke. It was Joseph. He was alive. Inshallah! God is great! A gangly man wearing the green jacket of the customs inspectors broke through the circle of policemen. He bent himself upon one knee and spoke to Joseph.

Khan leaned over the passenger seat to look closer.

Thorne. The American agent. There was no mistaking it. The hair. The gaunt face. The DEA had intercepted Al-Mevlevi's shipment.

And then something strange happened. Thorne offered a hand to Joseph and hoisted him to his feet. He gave Joseph a pat on the shoulder, then leaned his head back and laughed. All the policemen were smiling, too. Their guns were lowered. Even Joseph was grinning.

Khan pulled the gold pendant from his shirt and kissed it.

Joseph is an informant.

Khan accelerated madly, driving for two minutes before pulling to the shoulder of the highway and stopping the car. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed the number Mevlevi had given him in case of emergency. Three rings passed. Finally, a voice answered.

Khan pressed the phone to his mouth. He drew in several sharp breaths, not knowing where to begin. Only one phrase came to mind.

"Joseph is one of them."

CHAPTER 64

Ali Mevlevi was angry. He'd been cooped up with this snit of a bureaucrat for far too long answering inane questions. Did he wish to establish his business in Switzerland? If so, how many employees would he be hiring? Would he avail himself of the tax credit offered to newly registered corporations? Would his relatives be coming to live with him? Now he had had enough. For whatever sum Kaiser was paying him, Wenker could fill out the forms himself. Let him invent the goddamned answers.

Mevlevi stood from the couch and buttoned his jacket. "I thank you for your help in this matter, but I'm afraid I'm the victim of a rather pressing schedule. I had been led to believe that this meeting was but a formality."

"You were misinformed," snapped Wenker. He waded through a stack of papers on the table, then turned his attention to a leather satchel lying next to him on the sofa. Giving a sigh of relief, he produced a thick manila envelope and handed it to Mevlevi. "A short history of our country. As a Swiss citizen, you will be expected to respect our long democratic tradition. The country was founded in 1291 when three forest cantons, Uri, Schwyz, and Unter-"

"Thank you very kindly," Mevlevi said brusquely, accepting the sealed envelope and sliding it into his briefcase. Did this jackass actually think he had time for a history lesson? "If we are finished, I must take my leave. Perhaps I can hear the fascinating history of this land at another date."

"Encore un instant. Not so quickly, Mr. Malvinas. I have one last paper that you must sign- a release from military service. It's obligatory, I'm afraid."

Mevlevi threw back his head and sighed. "Please hurry it up."

Just then, a shy chirp emanated from his briefcase. Thank God, thought Mevlevi. Gino Makdisi calling to tell me everything is going according to schedule. He took the cellular phone out of his briefcase and walked to the far side of the salon before answering. "Yes."

"Joseph is one of them," came the harried voice. "I watched it all. The truck was surrounded by police. The driver attempted to escape. He had no chance. Only Joseph lived. Everything is in flames."

Mevlevi placed a finger in his ear, as if the connection were poor and he could not make out his correspondent's words. But the connection was clear. And so were the words.

"Calm yourself, Khan," Mevlevi said in Arabic, checking to see if Wenker was listening. The bureaucrat appeared disinterested. "Repeat that again."

"The shipment was intercepted at the Chiasso border. As soon as the truck pulled into the inspection bay, it was surrounded by police. They were expecting it."

Mevlevi felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand tall. The sum of his life rested in the voice at the other end of the telephone. "You said the shipment was destroyed, not captured. Make yourself clear."

"The driver, Remo, made a run for it. He did not get far. He lost control of the lorry and it exploded. The merchandise was destroyed. More than that I don't know. I am sorry."

"And what of Joseph?"

"He survived. I saw him on the ground. The police, they helped him to his feet. I saw an officer hug him. It was he, the informant."

Not Joseph, Mevlevi screamed mutely. It was Lina. She was the Makdisis' contact. She helped the Makdisis set him up with the American DEA. Joseph, my desert hawk, is ever loyal. He alone can be trusted.

Khan said, "You must leave the country immediately. If the DEA knows about the shipment, they certainly are aware that you are in Switzerland. Joseph would not tell them one thing without the other. Who knows when they will spring?"

Mevlevi could not speak. Joseph was an informant for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration.

"Did you hear me, Al-Mevlevi? We must secure you safe passage out of the country. Get to Brissago. On the Italian border, outside of Locarno. Be there in one hour. The main square."

"Yes, Brissago. Main square. One hour." He hung up the phone.

Wenker was staring at him unabashedly, a look of keen revulsion souring the bureaucrat's features. Mevlevi followed his gaze to the floor. To his own feet.

A pool of blood was growing steadily on the ivory Berber carpet.

Downstairs, a forest-green Range Rover drew into the circular forecourt of the hotel. The car's tires squealed painfully as it negotiated a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and slid to a halt in front of the main entry. The passenger door swung open, and an imposing man in a three-piece charcoal suit descended. Wolfgang Kaiser straightened his jacket and smoothed his bristly black mustache. He checked his reflection in the passenger window and satisfied as to his appearance, marched into the lobby.

"Time?" he called over his shoulder.

"Eleven-fifteen," answered Reto Feller, rushing to join him.

"Fifteen minutes late," complained Kaiser. "No doubt the count will be impressed. For that I can thank you, Mr. Feller. And your new automobile." The fucking car had gotten a flat tire in the middle of the St. Gotthard tunnel. It was a miracle they hadn't choked to death on the exhaust fumes.

Feller scurried ahead to the front desk, where he rang the arrival bell twice. "We are looking for the Count Languenjoux," he announced breathlessly. "What room can we find him in?"

A hotelier in black morning coat delivered himself to the polished walnut counter. "Whom may I announce?"

Kaiser presented his business card. "We are expected."

The hotelier discreetly read the card. "Thank you, Herr Kaiser. The count is in Room 407." He leaned closer, and in a gesture of implied intimacy, spoke softly from beneath a furrowed brow. "We've received a number of calls for you this morning. All extremely urgent. The caller insisted on waiting on the line until you arrived."

Kaiser arched an eyebrow. He glanced over his shoulder. Feller stood three paces behind him, taking in every word.

"A woman from your office in Zurich," said the hotelier. "Shall I check if she is still on hold?"