“Stop it.” Jonathan grabbed Emma by the shoulders. “Why are you still here?”
“It was part of our deal. He saved my life. In return I helped him bring down the warhead, and now I’m teaching him how to live under the radar. I’ve been doing that for almost ten years. Who better?”
“Balfour’s handing over the bomb tomorrow. We can’t let that happen. Where is the exchange taking place?”
Emma smiled coldly, eyeing him from across their personal no-man’s-land. “You’re out of your depth, Jonathan.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.”
“You could have said no.”
“That wasn’t a possibility.”
Emma stepped out of his grasp. “Go back to your room. Go to sleep. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’d better have a damned good reason for leaving. In fact, I’ll give you one. You don’t do well under gunfire. Your nerves are shot. All this excitement tonight got to you.”
“I can’t do that, Em.”
“You’re nothing to Connor. He knows you’ll never make it out alive. Do you really think Balfour’s going to let you walk away from here after you’ve altered his appearance? You—a Westerner? The color of your skin marks you as a permanent liability. You still have a chance if you go now.”
“There’s a nuclear warhead in that building right there. I’m not going anywhere until I get that information to Frank Connor. Where is Hangar 18? What does EPA stand for?”
Emma didn’t answer.
“We can do this together,” he said. “We can make it right.”
“I’m not on your team, Jonathan.”
At that moment he caught a look in her eye that frightened him. It was a fanatic’s regard, a militant anger that had never been there in the past. Once she’d been his lover, his wife, his confidante, and his closest friend. In the space of an instant, he realized he no longer knew her. She was a stranger, and if he wanted to live, he had to consider her the enemy.
“I won’t let you help him, Emma.”
Her eyes dropped to the knife in his hand. “Be careful,” she said. “You could hurt someone with that.”
“Where is the exchange taking place?”
Quick as a cobra, Emma locked her iron grip around his hand and raised the knife to her throat. “Did they teach you where to insert the blade so I won’t be able to scream? It’s right here. Just below the collarbone.” Jonathan tried to pull the knife away, but she was too strong. “One downward thrust,” she continued. “The blade pierces the heart. Do it quickly enough and there’s no time to react.” She dropped her hand and raised her jaw, leaving herself open and vulnerable. “There,” she said.
Jonathan yanked the knife away. In the dim light, her eyes shone like blown glass. He could smell her hair, see the beads of perspiration on her cheek. She raised her face to his and kissed him, her lips lingering on his. “Leave or I’ll tell Balfour who you really are.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Try me.”
“And if I tell him you’re my wife?”
Emma pushed her body against his. “You don’t have the balls.”
Jonathan stepped back, regarding her with horror. “What happened to you?”
Their eyes locked, and something in Emma softened. Her shoulders dropped, and she sighed. “I’m—”
The words were cut off by Balfour shouting from the motor court. “How could it be only one person?” he demanded as doors opened and slammed and boots pounded the bricks. “And we couldn’t even catch him! I should have all of you shot at dawn! No blindfolds. No last cigarettes. You’re all worthless! How are my guests?”
Emma glanced out the window. “He’s coming inside. Go back to your room. Do as I told you. It’s your only chance.”
Jonathan checked the motor court and saw that it was empty. He turned back to Emma. “You’re what?” he asked.
But that Emma had disappeared at the first sign of danger. Any trace of vulnerability had vanished as if it had never been. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d better be gone tomorrow or I’ll keep my promise. Do you understand?”
Jonathan threw a leg over the windowsill and found a foothold. Carefully he climbed down the wall.
It was only when he was back in his room and the window was closed and he was feverishly writing down all the information he’d gathered that he remembered he had left Connor’s flash drive on Balfour’s desk.
59
Balfour opened the door to Jonathan’s room without knocking. “You are all right?” he asked. “No phantom intruders came to snatch you?”
Jonathan rose from the desk, where he had been studying Balfour’s medical records. “I’m fine,” he said, the picture of overwrought concern. “Is it over? What exactly happened?”
Balfour entered the room with a reticent swagger, like a warden preparing to search a jail cell. His hair was mussed, his jacket open, and a pistol dangled from one hand. “That is what we are endeavoring to discover.”
“You said something about its being the Indians.”
“That was my first thought. I seem to have been wrong. They would never mount such a scattershot operation. Anyhow, my problems with the Indian government are not your concern. The compound is secure. Two of my men are dead, but I am safe. There is no need to change our plans.”
“Two dead? That is terrible. So it was an attack.”
“An attack, yes,” said Balfour. “Quite definitely an attack. We are still working out its aim.”
“And it is finished?”
“Do you hear any more gunfire?” asked Balfour sharply.
“No.”
“Then it is finished.”
“And the surgical suite is all right?”
“Intact,” said Balfour, making a slow, steady circuit of the room.
Mr. Singh entered the room behind him, his eyes locked on Jonathan.
Jonathan didn’t question the intrusion. He played the frightened guest who refused to be mollified. “But there were so many explosions. Isn’t this a matter for the police?”
“The explosions were only hand grenades and an RPG that took out my men on the roof. Mostly it was small-arms fire. The police do not intercede in this kind of thing. It is an army matter, but frankly, the army has no interest in protecting me these days.”
Balfour skimmed the desk with his pistol, pushing aside a copy of his medical records and tilting his head to read Jonathan’s notes on the pad of paper beneath it. Jonathan heard Emma telling him to find a good reason to leave. If he chose to follow her advice, the time was now. He could feign battle stress, admit that the tumult was too much for him. He could say he was a doctor, not a soldier, and ask to be put on the next plane home. Then he remembered that Revy had operated on a Chechen warlord in Grozny and a Corsican gangster under a death warrant from the national police. The Swiss doctor had logged too much time in stressful conditions for a few hand grenades and an RPG to shatter his nerves. But Revy’s history was beside the point. Jonathan had committed to the mission, and he never backed out on his word.
“And you stayed here the entire time?” asked Balfour, sliding open the closet door and admiring the suits.
“Of course,” said Jonathan. “I wasn’t about to leave.”
Balfour murmured, “Of course,” while Singh maintained his baleful glare.
“So we are still on for the morning after next?” said Jonathan.
“Certainly.” Balfour had moved into the bathroom and stood rifling through Jonathan’s shaving kit, pretending not to be interested in what he found. “I came to tell you that Yulia is quite distraught,” he called. “She will not be able to accommodate you. You would like another, perhaps?”
“No, no,” said Jonathan. “I’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.”
“No condoms,” said Balfour quizzically, poking his head into the bedroom.
“Excuse me?”
“I would think that a doctor would know well enough to bring sheaths.”
But Frank Connor was every bit as smart as Ashok Balfour Armitraj. He had read the correspondence between Revy and his client enough times to master the details of Jonathan’s cover. Sex, he knew, was foremost on the single male traveler’s agenda.
“If you need to borrow one,” said Jonathan, “look in the drawer.”
Balfour slid open the vanity’s drawer and picked up a silver packet.
“Help yourself,” said Jonathan. “I hope it’s not too big.”
For once, Balfour had no response.
“Good night, Ash,” said Jonathan. “I’m glad that you’re safe.”
Balfour dropped the condom back into the drawer and walked from the bathroom.
60
Peter Erskine greeted Connor as he walked through the door to Division. “Frank, am I glad to see you. The phone’s been ringing off the hook from Islamabad for the past hour. Where have you been?”
“Busy,” said Connor as he made a beeline through the operations center to his office. “What’s the big news?”
“The ISI is talking about a firefight at Balfour’s estate.”
“At Blenheim? Close the door behind you. Go on.”
Erskine shut the door to Connor’s office and leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. “The ISI has been keeping a man on Balfour even though it withdrew protective custody. He said all hell broke loose about forty-five minutes ago. Small-arms fire. Grenades. RPGs. He wasn’t inside the compound perimeter, but from what he saw, it was a fierce little battle.”
“Any clue that it was Indian intelligence trying to snatch Balfour? The RAW’s had a hard-on for him since that Mumbai thing. They probably got wind he was blowing town and finally got up the guts to make their move.”
“No word. It’s too early to tell.”
“So that’s it? Small-arms fire? A couple grenades? How long did this ‘fierce little battle’ last?”
“A short while, maybe twenty minutes.”
Connor set down his satchel on his desk. “Hell, it was probably Balfour showing off some of his weapons.”
“I don’t think so. Two ambulances reportedly went to the estate.”
Connor snapped to attention. “Oh? Well, did they or didn’t they?”
“It’s Pakistan. What looks like an ambulance might be a repair truck. Anyway, they didn’t leave in a hurry.”
“Meaning whoever they went to look after was dead.”
Erskine approached the desk. “Have you heard from Jonathan Ransom?”
“He only arrived at the compound eight hours ago. I told him to keep quiet until he has something concrete. Find Colonel al-Faris and get him on the line. If it’s our boy who was killed, I want to know it. Try him at his home, and if he’s not there, at his mistress’s place.”
“Do you have her number?”
“It’s on file,” said Connor. “She works for us.”
Erskine turned to go, pausing at the door. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. We got a response from the Brits about the picture of Prince Rashid’s associate we sent over to them—the creepy guy we couldn’t identify at Balfour’s hangar in Sharjah.”
Connor looked up sharply. “What about him?”
“They think he’s Massoud Haq. Sultan Haq’s older brother.”
“Can’t be. Massoud Haq is in Gitmo. They picked him up back at the beginning. He was a general in the Taliban army. Led a cavalry charge against a battalion from the 82nd Airborne Division. He’s a crazy one, all right. He’s as hardcore as they come.” Connor shook his head, shuddering at the possibility. “Nah, no way it’s him. He’s in custody for the duration.”
Erskine pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Massoud Haq was released six months ago,” he said. “I checked. The Department of Justice wrote a brief clearing him.”
“What?” Connor dropped into his chair, uttering a rare expletive. “Not another one. Half the guys we’re targeting these days spent time in Gitmo. Doesn’t anyone realize we’re fighting a war? Last time I checked, you didn’t release the enemy until they surrendered.” He paused and studied Erskine. “When exactly did you find this out, Pete?”
“It came in while you were gone.”
Connor considered the answer evasive but said nothing. He signaled that they were done, and Erskine left the room. Connor watched him return to his desk, wondering just how long ago that had really been. Demoralized and thoroughly pissed off, he opened his satchel and took out his legal pad and his BlackBerry. He scrolled through his messages but saw nothing from Danni. He called Mossad headquarters in Herzliya and this time demanded to speak to the director of the service.
“Frank, if I knew where Danni was, I’d tell you. She’s on leave. She could be anywhere. She has lots of miles racked up, you know what I mean? She’s due back in six days. The girl needs her rest.”
Connor hung up the phone, then placed a call to a closer destination: Fort Meade, Maryland, home of the National Security Agency, or NSA. The NSA was responsible for gathering signals intelligence from around the world. Essentially, this meant eavesdropping on every known mode of telecommunications, both terrestrial and satellite-based. His conversation was brief. He read off four telephone numbers and requested a log of all calls made to and from them for the past thirty days. The numbers belonged to Peter Erskine’s private cell phone, his company BlackBerry, his home landline, and his home fax.
Treason was a serious matter, and Connor was not about to point any fingers before marshaling his evidence. Until then, he’d have to do his utmost to restrict Erskine’s access to any and all information relating to Ransom’s search for the warhead. There was more to it than that. Erskine was only a pawn, a single node in a larger operation. Connor was more interested in discovering whom he worked for and breaking down the entire operation. Arrest Erskine now and his handlers would shut down and go into hiding. In six months’ time they’d be back, using new names and new aliases, with the same devilish intent of corrupting Division and its sister agencies within the intelligence community.
Connor followed the call to the NSA with one to an organization on his side of the Potomac, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, or FinCEN. FinCEN was one of the unsung heroes in the fight against terrorism. Created to investigate financial misdeeds within the United States, it had seen its portfolio increase significantly since 9/11 and was now the foremost actor in the international battle against terrorist finance.
Connor greeted his contact, supplied Erskine’s Social Security number, and requested a full workup on his financial history. He was most interested in Erskine’s bank accounts and asked that statements from the past six months be scrutinized with a view toward determining the identity of any person or party who might have transferred monies into the accounts. Requests like this were FinCEN’s bread and butter. Information would be forthcoming within twenty-four hours.
The office phone rang. Connor finished with FinCEN and picked up. “Yeah?”
“I’ve found Colonel al-Faris.”
“Thanks, Pete,” he said. “Put him through.”
A pause as the call was transferred.
“Frank—it is Nasser. It is very late here. Please tell me how I can be of assistance to my American friends.”
“Hello, Nasser,” began Connor. “I was interested in—” He stopped speaking in midsentence. Something had caught his attention.
A red cursor flashed on the screen of his computer monitor. A window opened, and a prompt read, “Remora 575 Active. Currently downloading 1 of 2,575 files.” An IP address followed. “Time remaining: two minutes.”
“Frank … are you there?”
“Holy mother of God,” said Connor, his eyes glued to the screen. “I gotta call you back.”
Remora 575 belonged to Jonathan Ransom. With amazement verging on disbelief, Connor stood motionless, watching as the files from Lord Balfour’s hard drive were copied and transferred onto his own.
And sometimes your prayers are answered even as
the world is falling apart around you.
61
Sultan Haq woke, alarmed.
Bolting upright, he stared into the darkness. A face stared back. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Heavy black-rimmed glasses. It was Revy, the Swiss doctor who had so freely insulted him and his country this evening.
Haq met the man’s regard, despising him, as he viscerally despised all men of the West. For his privilege and arrogance, but mostly for his false, ingrained superiority. The face stared back, saying nothing, yet demanding something of him nonetheless. Haq looked more closely at him, frustration welling up inside him. And more—a nagging certainty that he was being deceived. He looked past the glasses and studied the blue eyes.
His chief interrogator at Camp X-Ray had had blue eyes, and the same blond hair. Looking into Revy’s face, Haq felt himself drawn back into the interrogation room. He remembered the fluorescent lights, his captors’ greedy, dissatisfied faces, the rank breath and insistent questioning, and then the hood, the abrupt tilting of his head, the last desperate breath before the torrent of water. Water in place of breath. Water in place of light. Water coming as death to carry him away on its fluid, relentless waves.
And there, high in the corner, taunting him when the hood was removed and he could breathe again, the undying television, blaring on and on, playing the same dreadful images, the dancing sailors crossing New York City, belting out cheery, hopeful songs. American songs.
Haq closed his eyes to ward off the memories, but they persisted. Images from a different world. A barbarous, deceitful world. A world Haq swore to end.
The interrogator was a soft, weak man, but the blue eyes staring back at him in the darkness were neither soft nor weak. They were formidable adversary’s eyes. And so Haq asked what it was that Revy demanded of him. For what purpose had he lured him from his sleep?
Haq believed in the power of dreams.
Revy didn’t answer, and Haq knew he was baiting him, daring him to guess his secret.
Sultan Haq stared into the darkness until the face receded and there was nothing but black, and a terrible gnawing settled on his soul.
Rules of Attack Page 28
