Rules of Betrayal

by Christopher Reich

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Too long ago. In terms of satellite imagery, 1984 was the dark ages. We were transitioning from wet film to digital technology. Up to ’eighty-three, our birds would take pictures on good old Kodak film. There was no such thing as real time. The best you could hope for was a three-day lag. More realistically, you’d get your pictures in a week or longer. The pictures aren’t here anymore.”

  “But someone did keep them?” asked Connor, who knew a thing or two about bureaucratic incompetence.

  “Absolutely, but not here. We need to hit the archives. Time to get off that fat butt of yours, Frank, and do a little PT.”

  “Fantastic,” said Connor, groaning as he pushed himself out of the chair and lumbered after Malloy.

  Their destination was a suite of offices on the fifth floor. “Back in ’eighty-four, this place went by the name of Comirex—the Committee on Imagery Requirements and Exploitation,” said Malloy as he powered up a workstation. “It was a black organization. Totally off the books. Since then we’ve changed names too many times to count. Now that we’ve got it down to three initials, everyone’s happy. NGA sits at the top table with the CIA, DHS, FBI, NSA, and all the other big shots.” He hit Enter and sat back. “Okay, here we are … Looks like we had four birds covering Afghanistan. Two were push brooms—they flew over the area with their apertures open wide and snapped pictures of everything. They won’t help. We need to drill down further. This is better. The other two were in geostationary orbit, maintaining a static post above their targets twenty-four-seven.” Malloy punched in some more commands. “Here we go. This bird was in your area. Looks like it was taking pics of a supply route over the mountains.”

  The picture on the screen showed a section of earth from a high altitude. He saw a few black rectangles in one corner and lots and lots of mountains. Malloy refined the grid coordinates and the picture zoomed in on a section of mountainous terrain. “Bingo,” he said. “That’s where the flyboys were looking. No wonder they didn’t have any luck.”

  “And that photograph is from May thirtieth or thirty-first?”

  Malloy studied the screen, then scrunched up his nose. “Strange. I requested a pic from May thirtieth, but it shot back to the twenty-eighth. Let me try again.” Malloy repeated his commands and the same picture reappeared. He typed some more, then raised his hands over his head, blowing air through his teeth. “Every time I request a picture between May thirtieth and September thirtieth, it kicks me back to the twenty-eighth.”

  “Of May? Is that normal?”

  “Hell no, it’s not normal,” retorted Malloy. “If that satellite was up in the air, it should have been sending back pictures every minute of every goddamned day.”

  “When do the pictures go current again?”

  Malloy banged at the keyboard, his frustration mounting. “October first.”

  “October first? That’s a long time for a satellite to be out of operation.” Connor studied the image. Approximately 120 days’ worth of photographic evidence was missing. He reasoned it was during that period that the air force had found the plane, or its debris, and destroyed it. “Snow,” he said. “The crash site is entirely covered. I guess that somebody wanted to make sure that no one found that plane.”

  Malloy rolled back his chair. “Sorry, Frank. I can’t help.”

  “Don’t be,” said Connor. “Now we know where to look. An area twenty square miles shouldn’t be beyond our capabilities.”

  “But it’s November. There’s already a ton of snow up there. Even if the plane were still there, we wouldn’t be able to see it.”

  “I don’t expect to find the plane or the missile. I’m looking for the people trying to recover it.”

  Malloy turned to face him. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

  “It will only take an hour’s time.”

  “No, Frank. Absolutely not. I can’t task a bird to cover that area.”

  “Actually, you can. You’re the watch officer. You’re the only person who can override any of the flight programs.”

  “Every satellite has been tasked out months ahead of time. Every minute of every day for the next two years of their flight time has been reserved and accounted for. We have clients who depend on these images. You’re talking about compromising national security.”

  “I’d say my actions fall into the opposite category—ensuring our national security. Look, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “And what am I supposed to say to the boys at the CIA or CENTCOM or whoever I steal a bird from?”

  “Say it broke down. It does happen.”

  “All the time,” said Malloy. “And afterward, about a dozen pencil-pushers from Lockheed Martin and DOD descend on the place like a bunch of screaming blue meanies to find out why. Listen to me, Frank. Every keystroke on every workstation in this place is recorded. It will take exactly five minutes for them to discover that it was me who issued the override commands and interrupted a defined surveillance program. This isn’t taking your daddy’s Ford out for a joyride. You’re talking about hijacking a billion-dollar piece of equipment. Why don’t you get a Predator and fly it up there? Hell, that’d be easier than this.”

  “I thought about it, but it wouldn’t go. Like you said. A needle in a haystack.”

  “Goddamn it, Frank. This is a total nonstarter.”

  Connor kept his voice low, his tone even. “You were a SEAL, Jim. You did what you did to save lives. I’m only asking you to do what you’ve already trained for. The only difference is that this time it’s without a gun.”

  “You’re not just asking me to risk losing my job. We’re talking possible jail time.” Malloy logged off the computer and stood up. “Sorry, Frank—look around you. This is bigger than me.”

  Connor sighed and lowered his head. He sat like that for a minute, monklike, disappointed, contemplative. And then he pulled the nub of misshapen lead from his pocket and tossed it to Malloy. “That’s the slug the doctors dug out of your back after my man rescued you.”

  Malloy examined the metal. “No, Frank … sorry.”

  “This isn’t about me or you or any debt between us,” Connor went on. “This is about what we swear to do every morning when we get out of bed. This is about protecting our nation. If there is a nuclear-tipped cruise missile somewhere in those mountains, I need to know about it. This is bigger than both of us. Bigger than this agency. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever come up against.”

  Malloy ran a hand over his mouth, all the while shaking his head. He muttered some choice words, and Connor knew what he was thinking. Why me, God? Finally he tossed back the old bullet and said, “Screw you, Frank.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Come back tonight. We have a bird due to make a pass at eleven. I can’t alter the satellite’s trajectory, but I can fiddle with the camera a little. You’ve got one chance—then we’re even.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy. You’re a good soul.”

  “Don’t give me that good-soul nonsense. I’m an American, whatever that means.”

  Connor picked up his satchel and put a hand on Malloy’s shoulder. “God bless.”

  Malloy shook his head. “And Frank,” he said. “Don’t ever ask me for a favor again.”

  26

  The day’s work was done. The countersurveillance exercises in downtown Tel Aviv had been followed by spatial recall and memorization drills. An abysmal beginning had been followed by a miserable second act and capped with a mediocre finale. Still, Jonathan could tell himself that his performances had improved over the course of the day. Progress was progress.

  Danni steered the BMW sedan along the curving road leading down to the Mediterranean with finesse. It was raining harder now, a downpour that blurred the windows and made it difficult to see outside. Seated so close to Danni, Jonathan had the impression of being in a cell, and felt the cellmate’s forced camaraderie.

  “How do you know him?” he
asked.

  Danni shot him a sidelong glance.

  “No one’s listening,” Jonathan went on. “It’s just you and me. I’m talking about Frank Connor.”

  “I know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well?” Jonathan’s tone was insistent, bordering on insubordinate. For the past seventy-two hours he had been on the move, following others’ instructions without question or complaint. To obey meant to survive. Connor’s arrival on the scene changed nothing. His proposal of service was an order concealed as a request. Emma was Division’s trump card, and Connor had waited to the end to play it. Jonathan had had no choice but to comply, as a husband and as a citizen singled out by his government as the sole individual capable of performing a service essential to his nation’s security. It was his role as the reluctant operative that rose up inside him now and demanded an explanation. Every minute in Danni’s company magnified the peril of his assignment. “Need to know” didn’t cut it anymore.

  “We worked together,” said Danni.

  “Are you Mossad?”

  “Names aren’t important. Let’s just say that most governments have their own equivalent of Division. I work for Israel’s.”

  “How did you get into it?”

  Danni looked at him, her blue eyes appraising him yet again. But instead of dodging the question, she smiled. It was Jonathan’s first victory of the day. “Now we’re getting personal?” she asked.

  “Yesterday I was lying buck naked on the floor with your knee in my back and your mouth at my ear. I’d say we’ve gotten past the embarrassing part.”

  “In Israel, military service is compulsory for men and women. Turn eighteen and off you go. Two years in uniform. I guess I liked it more than most. Maybe I was just better at it. Does it surprise you to see a woman doing this?”

  “Are you serious?” Jonathan began, realizing only then that Danni knew nothing about Emma. “Need to know” went both ways. “No,” he said. “Not at all. I’ve climbed with lots of women who are stronger than me.”

  The blue eyes narrowed. “Only stronger?”

  “Okay,” said Jonathan. “Smarter, faster, safer. And stronger.”

  Danni nodded, her lips curling as if to say “That’s better.”

  “You climb?” he asked.

  “Me? No, thank you. I’m afraid of heights. It’s my one phobia. I washed out of jump school because of it. I made it as far as the doorway of the plane, looked down at the ground a thousand meters below me, and had an absolute fit. I wrestled the jumpmaster to the floor and nearly knocked him out. That’s when they decided I might have other skills they could use.”

  “Funny how things work out.”

  Danni chuckled, and for the first time all day, Jonathan felt as if he were seeing the real woman behind the carefully constructed facade. “My sport is orienteering,” she said. “You ever do it?”

  Jonathan said he hadn’t.

  “Map, GPS, running shoes, and off you go. It’s good fun.”

  “I think I’d like that.”

  “No one’s tailing you. You might just be good at it.”

  They both laughed. Jonathan allowed himself to look at her. For once, her mouth wasn’t so firmly closed, the jaw not so rock-solid. Her eyes had softened, and seemed a lighter shade of blue. She brought her left hand to the steering wheel and he saw that she did not wear a wedding band.

  “You’re not married?” he said.

  “No.”

  But when Jonathan was going to ask her why, he saw that the mouth had tightened and the jaw had resumed its combative stance. Her eyes were locked on the road ahead, as relentless as ever.

  Jonathan rolled down the window. A gust brought a fresh wave of rain into the car. The air smelled strongly of salt and brine. Danni said nothing.

  27

  The satellite was a Lockheed Martin KH-14, a next-generation reconnaissance unit the size of the Hubble Space Telescope (or, in layman’s terms, as big as a Chrysler Town & Country) weighing two tons and built at a cost to the American taxpayer of $1 billion. Recent advances in optical coatings applied to the satellite telescope’s lenses multiplied their resolution tenfold. The KH-14 could not only read a newspaper headline, it could tell you the name of the reporter who’d written the lead story.

  “We’re looking at an area five miles by five miles from an altitude of fifty thousand feet,” said Malloy, pointing at the monitor before him, which displayed an area on the Pakistani-Afghan border. “The broad, smooth swaths are the valleys, the sharper lines are the spines of the mountains.”

  “Take it down to a thousand feet,” said Connor. “Look for any signs of human activity. This time of year, there shouldn’t be any.”

  Malloy uploaded the commands. The camera zoomed in, and Connor was presented with a bird’s-eye view of a snow-covered landscape. White, white, and more white, a monotonous vista interrupted by shadow, rock, and fields of crumbling talus.

  “I’ll start a search program,” said Malloy. “It will break up the surveillance field into a search grid measuring five hundred feet by five hundred feet, roughly one city block. Every thirty seconds we move to the next location.”

  For fifty minutes they remained glued to the screen. Not once did they spot anything that might indicate human presence.

  “How many more grids?” asked Connor.

  “We’re halfway done.”

  “Keep it going.”

  “Ten minutes, Frank. Then you’re on your own.”

  Connor scooted closer to the screen, as if proximity to the picture might improve their chances of spotting Balfour or his associates. The grid moved over a particularly steep peak. A caption appeared giving the name as Tirich Mir (7708 m). The camera continued its sweep. More rock. More snow. A glacier.

  “Stop.” Connor’s voice was a whisper as he pointed to a smudge of gray against the white panorama. “What’s that?”

  Malloy zoomed in and the gray smudge gained definition. There was a sharp line, and the line became a long metallic plane. The surface led to a larger, tube-shaped object.

  “It’s a chopper hidden beneath camouflage netting,” said Malloy.

  “At that altitude?”

  Malloy manipulated the camera and the helicopter’s tail numbers were visible. “Looks like it’s a private aircraft. I make it an Aérospatiale Ecureuil.”

  Suddenly a figure appeared from beneath the netting. A man carrying a backpack walked twenty paces before disappearing.

  “They’ve got shelters set up,” said Connor. “How much closer can you get?”

  Malloy took the camera down further, so that it was possible to see tracks in the snow. Transfixed, they studied the screen. Another figure emerged from the shelter. Someone slimmer, walking briskly. The figure stopped and lifted its head as if to study the sky.

  “Closer,” said Connor.

  The camera zoomed in. The figure’s face remained tilted toward the sky. Then it took off its cap and shook loose a mane of tangled auburn hair. Connor felt the world slip from beneath him. “My God,” he said. “Emma.”

  28

  “He’s leaving the West Tower building now,” said the man seated behind the wheel of the maroon Buick sedan.

  “How long was he inside?” asked a voice in his earpiece.

  The man watched Frank Connor walk across the dark parking lot and unlock the front door of his battered Volvo station wagon.

  “Two hours.”

  “Same contact as earlier?”

  “Security desk has him signed in to see James Malloy, watch officer, operations center.” The man slid lower in his seat as Connor backed out of his space and drove directly past him. “Target is mobile. Permission to pursue?”

  “Negative. Proceed to 3624 S Street, Northwest. Malloy residence. Have a heart-to-heart with Mr. Malloy when he gets home. Find out what Connor was so interested in. And be advised, Malloy was a SEAL. You can expect him to have firearms in the house.”

  The man, whose name was Ja
ke Taylor, took note. He was ex-military himself. He’d enlisted in the army at seventeen and over a ten-year career had served with the 82nd Airborne Division, the first Ranger battalion, and the Green Berets in Iraq.

  Faced with the prospect of returning stateside, First Sergeant Taylor put in his papers and signed up with a private contractor. He was back in Baghdad inside a month. The pay was outstanding, the chow well above army standards, and, best of all, he was back doing what he did best: killing.

  Every night after his official duty was completed, he left the safety of his compound and trawled the back alleys of Baghdad. There was no part of the city he didn’t frequent. With his wiry black hair, olive skin, and two-day stubble, he hardly looked different from a native. His targets were insurgents whose names had been posted on the watch list. He would locate them, track them, then gain entry to their homes and slay them, often as they lay in their beds asleep. He used his knife, because it was quieter and because he liked the taste of blood. News of the executions spread. The frightened citizens gave the stealthy killer a name. They called him “the Ripper” because of his propensity to cut open his victims’ bodies from stem to stern.

  In the course of three years, he executed 461 men and 37 women.

  Jake Taylor had left Iraq. “Jake the Ripper” had come home.

  “What’s his status?” asked the Ripper.

  “Married. Wife is thirty-five years old. A nonprofessional. No children. Be sure to clean up afterward. We don’t want Connor knowing we’re interested in him.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Ripper started the Buick and left the parking lot, driving north past Arlington National Cemetery and crossing Key Bridge into the District of Columbia thirty minutes later. He passed Georgetown University, turned onto Reservoir Road, and found a parking spot in the quiet residential neighborhood north of campus. During the drive over, photographs of Malloy’s home as well as a floor plan of the residence had been sent to his phone, and he spent ten minutes committing them to memory.

  At two a.m., he slipped on a pair of leather gloves and pulled a balaclava over his face. He retrieved a P40 semiautomatic pistol from his glove compartment and screwed on a silencer. He set the gun on the seat beside him while he stuffed several pairs of flexicuffs and a roll of duct tape into his pocket. He checked his calf to make sure the KA-BAR knife was in its sheath. His only other tool was a pair of needle-nosed pliers. He’d learned long ago that simplest was best. Fingernails were very sensitive.