Rules of Attack

by Christopher Reich

  Mr. Shah was Sultan Haq.

  “Michel, have you tried the wine?” asked Balfour. “In your honor, I chose a Swiss Dézaley.”

  “Excuse me?” Jonathan snapped his eyes away from the curling, yellowed fingernail.

  “The wine—a Dézaley. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Merveilleux,” said Jonathan after he drank from his glass. His accent was too thick, his response too exuberant. Any second, Haq would recognize him. He would spring from his seat and expose Jonathan as an American agent and execute him on the spot.

  Putting down the glass, Jonathan anxiously resumed his conversation with the striking Ukrainian girl. He had no real idea what they talked about. He was too busy snatching glances at Haq from the corner of his eye. It was nearly impossible to recognize him without his towering headdress and beard and the kohl smeared beneath his eyes. Time passed. Haq said nothing, but Jonathan felt no relief. He was certain that Haq had shared his initial flare of recognition and was struggling to place the dimly familiar face.

  “Michel, Shah recently lost his father,” said Balfour. “I told him that you were a doctor and that his countrymen would do well to train more physicians.”

  Jonathan had no choice but to gaze at Haq. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, seeking refuge behind his Swiss accent. “Where are you from?”

  “Afghanistan,” said Haq, in the same unaccented English that had so impressed him two weeks earlier. “Just across the mountains, actually. To tell you the truth, my faith in doctors does not match Mr. Armitraj’s.”

  “Oh?” said Jonathan, staring directly into Haq’s dark eyes. “Why is that?”

  “A doctor killed my father.”

  “I’m sure he did not do it intentionally.”

  “What else would you call a knife across the throat?”

  “Do you mean that there was an error during surgery?”

  “I mean that the doctor I trusted to care for my father cut his throat.”

  Jonathan looked to Balfour for support. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “My father was a warrior,” continued Haq, emphasizing the word so as to leave no question about whom he was fighting against. “The Americans wanted him dead. They sent a doctor to do their dirty work. You’ll excuse me if I don’t share Mr. Armitraj’s respect for the profession.”

  “I cannot comment on that, except to say again that I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Are you?” asked Haq, leaning closer, the eyes honing in on Jonathan’s. “You are Swiss. A European. I’m sure you have the same one-sided views of my people as the rest of the West.”

  “I try to keep out of politics,” said Jonathan.

  “Even worse,” said Haq, dripping with contempt. “You are without principles.”

  “I promise you that I have principles,” retorted Jonathan. “I simply choose not to force them on others. Especially those I’ve just met.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” said Balfour, a hand to either side to calm the waters.

  “It is all right, Ash,” said Jonathan. “Mr. Shah is entitled to his anger. Clearly he is still grieving for his father.”

  “My grief has nothing to do with my hatred for a people who have invaded my country on the pretext of guaranteeing their freedom when actually they seek to enslave my sisters and brothers.”

  “The only thing that enslaves your people is ignorance and poverty, which, from what I understand, are both conditions you promote enthusiastically.”

  “Really, Michel, must you …” said Balfour, pained.

  Haq threw down his napkin. “You, sir, do not know my country, and so you have no business commenting on our policies.”

  “I do know that until you build schools and educate your young, both boys and girls, your country will not progress from its current lamentable state.”

  Haq stood, glaring at Jonathan from behind a pointed finger. “My country’s welfare is none of your concern.”

  “Unfortunately, it is,” said Jonathan. “If your politics bring chaos and ruin to your neighbors and thus instability to the world, it is everyone’s con—”

  Somewhere outside there was an explosion and the house shook. The chandelier swung and the lights flickered. Balfour froze, his eyes wide. The sound of gunfire crackled from outdoors. There was a second explosion, this one either bigger or closer. A window shattered in the next room and a painting fell from the wall. A heavy machine gun opened up, assaulting the eardrums, and Yulia screamed. The assembled guests abandoned the table, some running toward the door, others dashing this way, then that, and still others just standing and staring. Jonathan was back on the hilltop in Tora Bora.

  “Bloody Indians,” said Balfour, calmly placing his napkin on the table. “They’ve finally come, the cheeky bastards.”

  “Is it safe?” Haq was on his feet, addressing his host from a distance too close to be anything but confrontational. Any interest he’d had in Jonathan was replaced by a more pressing concern.

  “It’s me they want,” said Balfour. “But if you’d like, I’ll have Mr. Singh accompany you to the maintenance building. You can keep watch yourself.”

  Mr. Singh led Haq from the room as a new cascade of gunfire broke out. Balfour’s two-way radio buzzed. “From Runnymede? You’re certain? How many are there? Five? Ten? What do you mean you don’t see anyone? Call me when you know.” He hung up and turned to Jonathan. “Dr. Revy, I suggest you go to your room and lock the door. Stay away from the windows. I’ll be in the security shed. Don’t worry. I’m sure this will all be over in time for us to enjoy our dessert.”

  Another explosion rocked the house, and the lights went out.

  57

  Now was the time.

  Jonathan stood with his back to the door, listening as footsteps pounded through the hallways and the jeeps peeled out of the motor court and the heavy machine gun he’d seen on the roof continued its basso profundo assault. He ran to the window in time to make out Balfour and Singh climbing into a Range Rover, machine guns in hand, and roaring through the portico. Balfour was no coward. Jonathan had to give him that.

  Jonathan opened the window and poked his head outside. The estate was cloaked in darkness. No lights burned in the main house or the maintenance shed. Even if the security system was operational, there were more pressing concerns than keeping tabs on the visiting doctor.

  And then he was moving. Jacket off. Shoes off. In the bathroom, he snapped the blade off his razor and slipped it into his pocket. Talcum powder for his hands, extra on the fingertips. He was out the window and standing on the sill thirty seconds later. The motor court was deserted. In the stables, the horses neighed frantically as the sound of small-arms fire punctured the night sky.

  Extending his right foot, he wedged his toes into the groove cut into the building’s stone facade. Testing his weight, he found he could support himself. He lifted his left knee and placed the ball of his foot on the lintel above the window. The lintel was ten centimeters wide, practically a stair step for someone of his skill. He stood tall and, reaching up, grasped the ledge outside Balfour’s office window.

  Another toehold. Right hand extended. Fingers on sill. He pulled himself higher until he could peer into Balfour’s office. His toes found the next groove and he was able to support himself as he checked whether Balfour’s window was open. It was not.

  Jonathan struggled to lift the sash, to no avail. The motor court remained deserted, but he couldn’t count on its staying that way. The next window was three meters to his left. He shimmied across the wall. This time the window opened easily.

  Relieved, he hauled himself inside the house. For a moment he remained stock-still, his shirt clinging to his back. The door to the hall was closed, and he sensed that the room was empty. He slid a penlight from his pocket and activated the beam.

  He was not in Balfour’s office but in a bedroom decorated similarly to his own. A suitcase stood open on a luggage stand near the armoire. Inside were men’s cl
othes—shirts, underwear, socks. On the ground was a pair of men’s loafers. Very large men’s loafers. He examined the clothing and noted that the labels were from foreign brands he did not know.

  A Quran sat on the desk, and below it a manila folder stuffed thick with papers. A ticket jacket for Ariana Airlines lay to one side. He opened it and saw a reservation from Kabul to Islamabad. He was standing in Sultan Haq’s room.

  Aware that he had little time, Jonathan rummaged through the folder. There were papers downloaded from Islamic websites and others written in Pashto. There was a map of Islamabad Airport, with some numbers and letters written across the top. A letter written in a child’s hand on pale blue paper demanded his attention. Though it was in Pashto, he was able to understand a few words here and there: “Dearest Father, I miss you already … I am sorry you will not see me grow up … I hope to make you proud … Your loving son, Khaled.”

  Peeking out from beneath it was a paper bearing some kind of logo: METRON, and below it HAR and NEWHA.

  Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Hurriedly Jonathan closed the folder and went to the door. The footsteps faded. After a moment he cracked the door. The hallway was empty. He stepped out of the room, walked to the door leading to Balfour’s office, opened it, and stepped inside.

  Back pressed to the door, he directed the penlight’s beam around the office. An imposing mahogany desk ran the length of one wall, with three monitors arrayed side by side taking pride of place. To one side was a rattan basket filled with used mobile phones, and above it shelves stacked with new ones still in their boxes. Cabinets occupied the other walls. And everywhere paper. Reams of paper, bundled and tied and stacked high. Balfour’s records, made ready for the shredder.

  Placing the penlight in his mouth, Jonathan studied the papers arrayed on Balfour’s desk. Connor had told him to act as if he were a reporter. He must look for the where, when, who, and how. Names, places, dates, times. Connor had suspected Balfour had the bomb, and Jonathan now knew that suspicion was correct. Somewhere there was information regarding the buyer and the time and place of the exchange. Was Sultan Haq the end user, or was he passing it along to someone else? Was the exchange to take place at the airport?

  One stack contained banking confirmations, another telephone bills, and a third credit card bills. The problem wasn’t too little information, it was too much. He remembered Danni’s instructions about opening his mind to see everything at once and trusting his memory to mine the valuable nuggets later. He scanned the information, committing accounts and phone numbers and transfer instructions to memory, assigning each an individual locker in his mind and ordering it to remain there until needed.

  An explosion lit the sky, rattling the windows and furniture. Jonathan crouched and protected his head instinctively. Rising, he spied a large blotter on a side table. The blotter was covered with notes, but they were written in Urdu and thus incomprehensible.

  He hit Enter on the computer keyboard. The monitor remained dark. Power was still out, and it seemed that the IT system did not benefit from its own auxiliary power supply. If he couldn’t find anything, he’d let Connor have a try. He slipped the blade he’d taken off his razor from his pocket and held it between his fingers. It wasn’t in fact a blade at all, but a flash drive encoded with the Remora spyware. The operating instructions were idiot-proof: insert the flash drive into a USB port for ten seconds and withdraw. Remora would copy the computer’s hard drive and send its contents via the computer’s own Ethernet connection to Division. There was only one problem. Jonathan could not find the computer’s central processing unit. Wires extending from the monitor dove behind the desk and disappeared beneath the carpet. He scanned the wall to both sides but saw nothing.

  Another dead end.

  More footsteps sounded in the hall. The same pairs of boots. Two men, at least. Jonathan froze, and the footsteps continued past. He breathed again.

  He moved back to the desk. The top drawer was locked, but a side drawer was not. In it he found a brochure for Revy’s surgical practice, a matchbook from Dubai, pens, a calculator, and little else of interest. He tried the top drawer again, but it still didn’t budge. The desk was old enough to have a conventional lock. No doubt Mahatma Gandhi himself had signed the declaration of India’s freedom on it. He looked around for a key but found nothing. He tried a letter opener, but the blade was too wide. He trained the light across the desk. Something glimmered. It was a pair of surgical scissors. Inserting the pincers into the lock, he felt for the tumbler. This was one class Danni had forgotten. He angled the scissors up and down. Feeling resistance, he pressed harder and the tumbler fell.

  Gingerly he slid the drawer open. An agenda lay on top of a raft of papers. A ribbon marked today’s date. He opened to the page and read, in English, “M. Revy—Emirates Air 12:00.” And on the next line, “Haq arrives. Prepare for transport to EPA. H18.” He turned the page. “UAE6171. 2000. PARDF Pasha.” A phone number followed with the initials M.H. He recognized the country code as Afghanistan.

  He turned the page and read more details, this time about flights to Paris and onward to St. Barts. He read names and places: hotels and banks, government officials and corporate bigwigs, the entire itinerary of Balfour’s new life.

  His eyes strayed, and the trained observer saw something else in the drawer. A knife. Dull and gray as a shark’s skin. He picked it up. An army issue KA-BAR, one side of the blade honed, the other serrated.

  Another explosion shook the windows, and for an instant the office lit up. In that moment he spotted the computer tower behind a glass cabinet door. He returned the agenda to its place and closed the drawer just as an engine roared into the motor court. Car doors opened and closed. He looked out the window to see Balfour and Singh climbing out of the Range Rover.

  “They can’t be phantoms,” Balfour was saying. “Someone is shooting at us. If it’s not Indian intelligence, it’s the ISI trying to scare me into leaving. Don’t tell me no one’s there. I want them found, do you understand?”

  Jonathan rushed to the computer and, falling to a knee, ran his hand behind the unit. One USB slot remained empty. Fingering the flash drive, he struggled to slip it into the slot, but the space behind the tower was too narrow. He set the drive on the table, then leaned over and dragged the tower away from the wall.

  Still kneeling, he ran a hand blindly across the table.

  The flash drive was gone.

  “Looking for this?”

  Jonathan froze.

  The voice.

  It was her.

  Slowly he rose from his knees and turned to face his wife. “Hello, Emma.”

  58

  They stood face-to-face in the dark. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Jonathan needed the time to take her in. He noticed the hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the windburned cheeks, the chapped lips. There was a scar on her jaw that hadn’t been there before—a laceration that had required stitches. She wore a loose-fitting black blouse and jeans, and he knew they were not her clothes. He met her eyes, and the shock of seeing her hit him like a gale-force wind. Yet there was no surge of lost love, no overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. Some time ago he had forbidden himself to consider her his wife. He loved her, no question, maybe something deeper than that. Even now, her outlaw beauty thrilled him. With no distance separating them, the sound of her breathing slow and shallow, the warm smell of sandalwood rising from her skin, he was as overwhelmed by the animal force of her personality as he had been the day he met her.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” asked Emma, her whisper strangled with rage.

  “I should ask you the same question,” said Jonathan.

  Emma tossed the flash drive onto the desk. “So Connor finally got to you. He must be very proud of himself. What did he tell you?”

  “That you helped Balfour bring the cruise missile’s warhead down from the mountain. That was enough.”

  “That must have surprise
d him.”

  “Why, Emma?”

  “You mean Frank forgot to tell you? He betrayed me, Jonathan. He wanted to have me killed.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “I know that you’re helping a half-crazy arms dealer deliver a nuclear warhead into the hands of a very rational, very capable terrorist who will not hesitate to use it against the United States.”

  “Then you really don’t know a damn thing at all.”

  “I know that Prince Rashid tortured you.”

  “Is that how Frank convinced you? ‘Save your poor wife’?”

  Jonathan’s hand touched hers. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m alive. Only a few new scars. Practically beauty marks in our trade, darling. Now, why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “You are my business.”

  “I was never your business,” she flared. “It was the opposite way around. Get that through your head once and for all.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe what you want,” she said, as if suddenly too tired to convince him otherwise. She shifted her weight, and her expression changed. On a dime she changed from beleaguered to ice-blooded operative. “I am curious as to how he got you inside Balfour’s armed camp.”

  “The Pakistani government wants Balfour out. He hired a Swiss plastic surgeon to alter his features so he can disappear after he sells the warhead.”

  “And Connor swapped you in for him?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So now you know what it’s like to be someone else. How does it feel?”

  “I don’t like it much.”

  “Neither did I.” Emma dug her chin into her throat and adopted Connor’s sincere baritone. “Buck up and take one for the team, Dr. Ransom.”