Rules of Deception by Christopher Reich Page B

compartment. Car rental documents made out to one Oskar Studer. The car had been taken out that morning at ten and was due back in twenty-four hours.
    Pourris.
He knew precisely what the word meant.
    All thoughts of going to the police vanished.
    He put the papers back. “They knew I was an American,” he said. “They were waiting for me.”
    Simone nodded, her eyes meeting his, sharing his distress.
    He glanced at the leather bag and the neatly wrapped package.
    “Open them,” she said. “Let’s find out what this is about.”
             
    He chose the package first. Using his Swiss Army knife, he sawed through the twine. The paper peeled away easily, revealing a glossy black box. A golden sticker embossed with a designer name decorated the upper right-hand corner.
    “Bogner,” said Simone. “It must be a present.”
    “Looks like it,” said Jonathan, unconvinced, as he cut the ribbon encircling the box.
    Bogner made high-end clothing designed to keep jet-setters warm and chic on their trips to the Alps. On a lark, he and Emma had ducked into one of their shops while on a getaway to Chamonix last October. It was a sunny day, he remembered, a weekend between fall and winter when the nip in the air sharpens to a bite.
    “Which one do you fancy?” Emma had asked, under her breath as they prowled the aisles. They were raiders operating behind enemy lines. The “enemy” being the vain and wealthy. Those who ignored their “duty to interfere.”
    Jonathan pointed to a charcoal crewneck sweater. “I’ll take this one.”
    “Consider it yours.”
    “Really?” he said, playing along.
    “It suits you. We’ll take it,” she said to the hovering salesgirl.
    “We will?” said Jonathan, loud enough to risk blowing their cover.
    Emma nodded, threading an arm through his. “I have hidden resources,” she whispered in his ear, though not before giving it a nibble.
    “Does Madam have some Monopoly money hidden in a shoe box?”
    Emma didn’t answer. Instead, she continued speaking to the salesgirl as if he weren’t there. “An extra large. And wrap it, please. It’s a present for my husband.” Her tone was no longer subdued or surreptitious. And neither was the look in her eye.
    “Emma, come on,” he said. “Enough’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”
    “No,” she insisted. “You’ve earned it. Back pay.”
    “For what?”
    “I’m not telling.”
    At which point, Jonathan had seen the price tag, and after practically fainting, yanked her out of the store. Outside, they’d laughed at her impetuous behavior. But even then, she’d shot him a chilly look that said he’d committed a sin and was exiled to her bad graces until further notice.
    Jonathan recalled her expression as he removed the box cover. Gauze paper concealed a dark garment. Parting the wrapping, he lifted it partially out of the box. He’d forgotten how soft it was.
    “Lovely,” said Simone.
    It was the sweater from Chamonix. A simple charcoal crewneck. Well made and elegant, but at first sight, nothing out of the ordinary, which was precisely his style. He passed his fingers over the collar. Fourply cashmere. There was nothing softer on earth. It had cost sixteen hundred dollars. Half a month’s salary.
    “I have hidden resources.”
    Was this the birthday present she’d mentioned to the manager of the Bellevue?
    Jonathan laid the sweater back in the box. The balance of Dr. and Mrs. Ransom’s checking account presently stood at fifteen thousand some-odd Swiss francs. Roughly twelve thousand dollars. And that was before paying the hotel bill.
    Setting aside the box, he pulled the calfskin bag onto his lap. He had the unsettling feeling that he was never meant to see its contents, just as he was never supposed to have opened Emma’s letter. “Those who listen at closed doors rarely hear good of themselves,” his mother had warned him as an adolescent. But to Jonathan, there was no longer good or bad. There was only