Rules of Attack

by Christopher Reich

  “I don’t want a medal.”

  “I know you don’t. I couldn’t give you one anyway. But so you know, Dr. Ransom, the man you led us to, Abdul Haq, was a first-class sonofabitch. We’d been trying to get at him for months without any luck. Drones. Informants. Rewards. Nothing worked. Then we got word he was sick and we saw our way in. You happened to be in that neck of the woods. You didn’t leave us much choice.”

  “So that’s how it goes? I don’t get a say in the matter.”

  “No, Dr. Ransom. Sometimes you don’t. Ain’t life a pile of shit?”

  “And Hamid?”

  “Hamid signed up. He grew up in Kabul, then emigrated to San Francisco. He joined the army to do some good for his country.”

  “And that’s when you stepped in?”

  “He possessed a unique skill set that was very much in demand. Hamid wanted us as badly as we wanted him. Afghanistan is a safer place without Mr. Abdul Haq.”

  Jonathan put the mug to his lips and drank down the warm, sweet tea. He thought of Hamid dropping from his grasp. It might as easily have been him. “You know, I’ve been wondering about something. How was it that you guys found me all that time ago?”

  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Of course you know,” said Jonathan. “A guy like you knows everything.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Jonathan stifled a nasty rebuke. “And Emma? How’d you get your hooks into her?”

  “I can’t tell you that either. ‘Need to know,’ Dr. Ransom. It’s the first rule of the game.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Like I said, I can’t discuss your wife’s past or present.” Connor paused and set down his coffee. “At least, not yet.”

  Jonathan felt something shift in the room, a change in the dynamic between them. If he weren’t mistaken, an offer had been made. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I came to talk to you about helping us.”

  “You mean Division?”

  Connor nodded.

  “You’re serious? You want me to work for you?”

  “We think you have certain skills that can—”

  “No,” said Jonathan.

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m finished. Done. Over.”

  “I’ve come an awfully long way—”

  “Well, that’s awfully tough shit.” Jonathan shoved himself away from the table, knocking his chair over as he stood. “Now you can get in your plane and fly an awfully long way back. Goodbye.”

  “Please, Dr. Ransom, I understand you’re upset. Just give me a—”

  “I said I’m finished.”

  Connor stared at Jonathan. “Fair enough,” he said. “It goes without saying that none of what happened in Tora Bora can ever be repeated. The intel boys aboard ship will give you some papers to sign. When you’re done, tell them where you want to go. They’ll make it happen. Ticket, passport, whatever you need. I’ve been authorized to pay you for your work. I’ve got a check for fourteen thousand dollars made out in your name. That’s two months’ hazardous duty pay at major’s rank.”

  “Keep it,” said Jonathan.

  “It’s yours. You earned it. If you want to give it to charity, that’s your business.”

  Connor set an envelope on the table, then gathered up his papers and replaced them in his briefcase. Jonathan noticed that he hadn’t written a word. It was a show, just like the lousy suit, the scuffed-up shoes, and the Joe Sixpack delivery. He was the voice of America.

  Connor stumbled as he rose to his feet and extended an uncertain hand for balance. Jonathan rushed around the table. “You okay?” he asked, grasping his arm for support.

  “It’s the leg.” Connor waved him off. “I told you already. Lousy circulation.”

  Jonathan took a better look at Connor, seeing him as a doctor would a patient. He took in the burst capillaries in his cheeks, the bags under the eyes, the air of dissipation. Up close, he could hear Connor’s breath, rapid and shallow. “Do you know where Emma is? Please. I just want to know if she’s all right.”

  Connor lifted his satchel onto the desk. “What if I were to tell you that everything you currently know about your wife is false?”

  Jonathan hesitated before answering, wondering if this was just another ploy to lure him in. “Like what? That she didn’t try to kill me in France?”

  “Among other things.”

  “I wouldn’t believe you,” said Jonathan, but his response was a reflex. There was something about Connor’s manner that bespoke honesty and earnestness. Or maybe it was something inside Jonathan. Maybe he just wanted to believe.

  “And if I told you that Emma was in danger—possibly grave danger—and that you were the only person who could help her?”

  Jonathan looked hard at Connor, trying to see past the artifice. He saw only a man who was fifty pounds overweight, with a bum leg and a heart condition, telling him the truth. “Sit down.”

  14

  “All right,” said Jonathan. “I’m listening.”

  “The first thing you need to know is that Emma never stopped working for us. By us, I mean Division, and by Division, I mean the United States of America. There was a time after the events in Switzerland when she struck out on her own. Days—weeks, even. She was frightened that we’d seek retribution. I won’t lie. There were some in the organization who wanted their pound of flesh. On the surface, Emma had betrayed us, and they wanted her punished. I was not of that opinion. I knew that Emma had done us an immeasurable service, and after things cooled down, everyone else began to see it my way. In fact, I realized that not only had her actions prevented a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions, but they’d presented us with a unique opportunity. Emma and I communicated, and I convinced her that she could be of more use to us staying out in the cold.”

  “But you tried to have her killed,” said Jonathan. “I saw the scar on her back. I read the hospital report in Rome. She almost died from loss of blood.”

  “No, Dr. Ransom, she didn’t. A very fine surgeon like yourself cut her and sewed her back up. The rest was smoke and mirrors. It’s what we do.”

  Jonathan resisted speaking. His mind had come alive with the events of the past July, when Emma had visited him in London and he’d witnessed her detonating a car bomb that had left several people dead and numerous more wounded. He knew he should be sifting through the steps he’d taken afterward to track her down, but he couldn’t get past the night they’d spent together at the Dorchester Hotel. The night before all hell had broken loose.

  He had a vision of them making love on the floor of the hotel room. Emma was an active and passionate lover, but never before had she given herself to him so completely. Their hours together affirmed his love for his wife, and even deepened it. She’d risked all to be with him.

  The memory was wonderful, but all too short-lived. Her subsequent unveiling as an operative in the employ of the Russian Federal Security Service had revealed her true reasons for coming to London. Visiting her husband for a romantic tryst figured far down the list. What he’d taken to be an expression of love was artifice or, worse, simple convenience. The realization had wrecked him.

  “But why?” asked Jonathan, even as the pieces began to fall into place.

  “Once we decided to run Emma as a double—to reintegrate her into the FSB—it was imperative that all doubts about where her loyalty lay be erased from the Russians’ minds. The Russians are paranoid to a fault, and no one more than Sergei Shvets, at the time director of the FSB, the man who was Emma’s first controller as well as her first lover. Emma had worked for us a long time by then.”

  “Eight years,” said Jonathan.

  “Longer,” said Connor. “There was no way Shvets was going to take her back unless we gave him a reason. If we wanted her dead, he could only assume it was because she had betrayed us. Nothing less would have convinced him.”

  “And the r
est? I mean, the explosives in the nuclear plant in Normandy? The car bomb in London? What about that?”

  “That is none of your business.” Connor raised a hand before Jonathan could protest. “You already know much too much about what happened last summer. I only told you this much because you’re her husband and I figure we owe it to you.”

  “So you weren’t aware that she was going to visit me in London?”

  Connor laughed gruffly. “Do you think that’s the kind of thing she’d clear with me?”

  Jonathan looked away. “And so …”

  “If she saw you, it was because she wanted to. You do the math. I will say this, however: it was a stupid, rash decision in contravention of every last tenet of her training. She risked her life and the mission by doing so, and you’d better believe I chewed her ass out about it when I found out.”

  Jonathan grabbed his mug of tea and drank it down. A steady hum reverberated through the carrier’s hull. There was a loud whoosh from above their heads, and the boat shuddered as if it had taken a body blow.

  “Flight ops,” said Connor. “That’s the catapult launching a plane off the deck.”

  The boat stilled, and Jonathan noted the pervasive scent of diesel fuel that hung in the air. “You said that Emma was in danger. How can I help her?”

  “By finishing what she started.”

  “I think you have the wrong person. I’m a doctor, not an operative.”

  “Precisely. As it so happens, that’s exactly what I’m in the market for.” Connor laid his meaty fists on the table. “First off, I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. No bullshit. What you went through in those mountains is enough to derail a strong man. I’ve seen soldiers with twenty years’ experience lose it after something like that.”

  “I’m okay,” said Jonathan.

  “Nightmares? Sweats?”

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on. Stick it out straight in front of you. Hold your hand flat, fingers as straight as you can keep ’em.”

  Jonathan extended his right arm. His hand shook visibly. He balled his fingers into a fist, and when he released them, the fingers were steadier. Connor eyed him, unsure.

  “When I was younger, I lost a few friends climbing,” said Jonathan. “We were up high in dangerous spots, where things can happen quickly. Someone is there and then they’re not. It’s too fast to register what happened and what it means to you. I feel the same now. I’m freaked. Maybe I’m even in some kind of delayed shock. Part of me wants to give in to that, but there’s too much going on. I have to take care of the now, now, or else I’m not going to get down alive. Does that make sense to you?”

  Connor considered this. “Yes, Dr. Ransom. It does.”

  “Do me a favor. Would you stop calling me Dr. Ransom? My name is Jonathan.”

  “All right, Jonathan.” One of the meaty hands rose from the table for a shake. “Frank Connor.”

  “And that’s your real name?” asked Jonathan as he tried to match Connor’s grip.

  “As far as my mother told me.” Connor laughed and loosened the knot of his tie. “Okay then, Jonathan, this is where we start. Everything I’m going to tell you from this moment on is classified, or a helluva lot higher than that. I don’t have any papers for you to sign. That can wait. But make no mistake, from here on out, you work for me, and by that I mean the United States government. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah, but you can leave that military bullshit at the door. Are we clear?”

  Connor’s eyes narrowed and a hint of red flushed his cheeks. “There’s something else I should tell you. The job I’m asking you to take is extremely dangerous. You will be going into the belly of the beast, and there is not going to be anybody there to hold your hand. You will be alone behind enemy lines, and I mean that in the real sense of the word. There is every chance in the world that you will be caught. And if you are, I can’t do a damn thing about it. The good news is that you won’t have to rot for fifty years in a Pakistani cell. The bad news is that you’ll be summarily executed.”

  “Hey, Frank, don’t sugarcoat it. Tell how it’s really going to be.”

  Connor didn’t appreciate the joke. “I will steer you where you need to go. I will tell you everything you have to do. Follow my instructions and you’ll make out just fine. The most important thing is to keep your wits about you. Are we cl—” Connor caught himself. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan. “I get it. It’s dangerous. Go ahead. If it’s something to help Emma, I’ll do it.”

  “All right, then let me read you in on your wife’s activities. For the past two months—since September—Emma’s been stationed at the FSB’s residence in Damascus, doing penance for her role in the attempt to assassinate Igor Ivanov. They have her doing menial tasks—running Arab diplomats, low-level sneak-’n’-peeks, the occasional theft of corporate secrets. These days industrial espionage is a state activity, especially if you’re as far behind the eight ball as Russia. One of her jobs is handling Ashok Armitraj, a big-time gunrunner working out of South Asia. Armitraj is half Indian, half British and calls himself Lord Balfour. Ever heard of him?”

  Jonathan said he hadn’t.

  “Soon you’re going to know every goddamn thing there is to know about him. He’s going to be your bestest and closest friend. Anyway, a month back Balfour contacted Emma with a shopping list he wanted for a client. Usually no one cares who the end user is. Balfour gives us a country and we put that on the export documentation.”

  “Us? America sells to this guy, too?”

  Connor nodded. “We have a lot of fine companies to keep in business. Anyhow, the Russians don’t mind who the end user is. They’re shipping this stuff out the back door as it is.”

  “What do you mean, the back door?”

  “Think of them like the Mob. The stuff Balfour buys from the Russians has all fallen off the back of a truck. In this case, the truck is a government arms factory controlled by the FSB. There’s legit production and there’s the back door. Legit sales go on the books. The back door goes into the generals’ pockets.”

  “So who was Balfour’s client—the end user?”

  “We don’t know. What we do know, and what opened our eyes, was Prince Rashid’s involvement in the deal. According to Balfour, Rashid was brokering the sale and guaranteeing payment on his client’s behalf.”

  “Prince Rashid from the Gulf? He’s a benefactor of Doctors Without Borders. He’s a good guy.”

  “Oh?” Connor’s eyes darted away and he shook his head, as if somewhere there had been a gross misunderstanding. “Maybe we’re talking about two different people. The Prince Rashid I know is one of the world’s notorious terrorist financiers. He funnels money to Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, Laskar-e-Taiba, and any other Islamic organization bent on destroying the West, to the tune of two hundred million dollars a year.”

  Jonathan sat back, chastised. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Of course you hadn’t. You’re too busy being wowed by his good works and his blond wife and his beautiful blue-eyed children. Rashid wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “If you know all this, why haven’t you made it public?”

  “Think of what you’re saying. The prince’s family is the United States’ staunchest ally in the Gulf. The accusation alone would sour relations for years. This isn’t the kind of thing you air in public.” Connor leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “This is the kind of thing we take care of privately.”

  “So you used Emma to get at Rashid through Balfour?”

  “No comment.” Connor pursed his lips, as if struggling to decide what he might or might not say. His expression made it all too evident that something had gone terribly wrong. “All we know is that she disappeared while overseeing the transfer of weapons from Balfour to Rashid.”

  Jonathan envisioned the scenario without difficulty: Emma acting as a
Russian agent to get close to Rashid and kill him. She’d pulled off similar feats in Lebanon and Bosnia and too many other places to name, let alone remember. It was not an occupation without risk. “Is she dead?”

  “We have good reason to believe that she’s not.”

  To Jonathan’s ear, “good reason” sounded like spy-speak for a fifty-fifty chance at best. “So Rashid was onto her?”

  “We don’t know. But before I tell you what we do know, I want you to get a grip on yourself. A temper isn’t going to help anyone, especially Emma.”

  Jonathan drew a breath, tamping down his nerves. “I understand,” he said.

  “Prince Rashid has a thing he does to people he thinks screwed him. Business, politics, whatever. He likes to take them into the desert and put the hurt on them. I’m not going to go into detail. It’s nasty stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Like what, Frank?”

  Connor set his forearms on the table and sighed, as if he were going against his better instincts. “Chains,” he said. “Cattle prods. Cigarettes. Sometimes he drags them behind his car.”

  “And he did this to Emma?”

  Connor nodded.

  Jonathan looked away, an ungovernable rage building inside him. The thought came to him that he would stop at nothing to punish the animal who had inflicted such punishment on his wife.

  A steady ringing filled his ears, but he wasn’t sure whether it came from inside him or from the carrier. “You just said you had good reason to believe that she isn’t dead.”

  “We have evidence that indicates she survived the beating.”

  “Did someone see her?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? This is my wife you’re talking about. ‘Good reason’ doesn’t cut it.”

  “We found what we believe to be her footprints walking away from the spot where she was left. It appears she was driven from the scene. At this point, that’s all we know.”

  “Cattle prods? He dragged her behind his car across the desert?”