Rules of Betrayal

by Christopher Reich

  “That’s it, captain,” said the pilot. “Time’s up. Shit or get off the pot.”

  The decision came more easily than Crockett expected. In the end, it was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk the lives of fourteen men or the downing of the two Chinooks.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. “Just got to snap some pics for the record. The boys in D.C. are going to want to see this. Mark these coordinates and call for another team to get up here ASAP.”

  Crockett hustled back into the tent and began firing off pictures with his digital camera. He concentrated on the missile itself, and was sure to get close-ups of the serial numbers on the tail and the belly. Finally he crawled back into the ditch and lay on his back staring into the guts of the missile.

  Inside, pressed to the wall, was a square packet the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in green plastic. A slim aluminum baton was inserted into the packet, with wires running to an LCD timer. He’d worked with similar devices before and knew at once what he was looking at, and that he was in danger. He hit his helmet light and twisted his head to read the display.

  The numbers on the LCD timer attached to the half-kilo charge of C4 plastic explosives read 0:00:06.

  Six seconds.

  “Evac immediately,” he radioed the pilot, amazed at how calm his voice sounded. “I’m fucked.”

  Captain Kyle Crockett did not try to get away. Eyes open, he watched the timer count down to zero. There was a flash, then darkness.

  He felt nothing.

  41

  Frank Connor took the news stoically and, except for a sudden and nearly unnoticed grimace, with no outward show of emotion. He was a veteran of too many campaigns to fear that all was lost. One battle did not a war win—or lose. Sitting in his office, Peter Erskine at his side, he listened dispassionately as the helicopter crew chief relayed the facts of the failed mission.

  “Captain Crockett radioed that he believed enemy combatants were in the vicinity just before he was killed by an explosion on the ground.”

  “Mine? IED? Grenade?” asked Connor. “Can you give me any more detail?”

  “It wasn’t no mine or grenade,” said the crew chief in a slow Texan drawl. “We were hovering directly above him, telling him to get his ass back into the wagon. The flight conditions were horrendous, Mr. Connor. Half the guys had already thrown up, and Major McMurphy, our pilot, wanted to get the hell out of there. We’d used up more than half our fuel just trying to find the bad guys. Anyway, there I was yelling for Crockett to exfil and suddenly he radios back for us to get the hell out of there. He must have seen what killed him, ’cause three seconds later the place went up. Ask me, it was C4. Had that bright orange color to it. The friggin’ blast nearly took us out of the sky, I kid you not.”

  “What do you mean, the place? Was he inside something?”

  “Yessir. A tent. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why he went down there in the first place. There was some dang tent right there on the mountainside.”

  Connor shot a glance at Erskine and said, “He found the damned thing.” Then, to the crew chief, “Did he tell you what was inside the tent?”

  “No, sir. Didn’t say anything, just that he was sure the bad guys were close by.”

  “Did you have any indication that the combatants were in the area beforehand?”

  “We caught a blip on the infrared screen for about twenty seconds, but when we got closer it was gone. We turned on the spotlight and Captain Crockett saw the tent flapping in all that wind.”

  “Were you able to confirm that the heat signature belonged to a human?” asked Erskine.

  “No, sir. Like I said, it was just a blip. Coulda been anything, but you tell me what kind of animal might be out in that kind of blizzard. Only a goddamned Marine’s crazy enough. I’ll tell you that for free.”

  Or my best operative, bent on retrieving a WMD, thought Connor. “Did you see anything on the ground afterward?”

  “Nothing but fire. Crockett was gone, too. But there must have been something inside that tent. Our helo took a hard shot on our belly. When we landed I found a piece of steel three inches square dug into our skin. If it had hit the rotor, we would’ve been toast.”

  “Shrapnel, maybe?” asked Erskine.

  “No, sir. Wasn’t shrapnel. This was heavy milled steel, least an inch thick. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Connor requested that the crew chief remove the steel and send it to Division by courier, then sat up in his chair. “How soon can you mount a mission to get back up that mountain?”

  “That’s up to Sergeant Major Robinson, but the weather has to clear first. Ask me, I don’t see the need. Whoever was up there is long gone by now.”

  Connor ended the communication. It was late in the afternoon in northern Virginia. He looked out the window and noticed for the first time that it was a lovely day. He stood, thinking of Crockett and wondering what the Marine had found.

  “She’s got it,” he said.

  “You can’t be sure,” said Erskine. “We have no idea what was in that tent.”

  “I’m not in the mood for the devil’s advocate routine, Pete. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, and that boy’s death is weighing on my conscience. If there was a tent on that mountainside, then Emma put it there while she was retrieving the nuclear warhead from that missile. She blew the evidence to kingdom come, just as I expected she’d do. Sometimes I think we trained her too well.”

  “Would you like me to call the secretary?”

  Connor turned on Erskine. “And say what? One of our agents has been turned by terrorists and is in possession of a WMD? Because if I do, that is the day this agency ends. No, Pete, this is still our play. We made the decision to handle this thing. We’ll do it to the end or until someone takes it away from us. I don’t trust anyone else with this.”

  Erskine frowned sourly. “Frank, I think it’s time we took this to someone higher up. Someone with more resources.”

  “We already had this discussion,” said Connor. “Resources take time, and that’s the one commodity we do not possess.”

  “But—”

  Connor silenced Erskine with a liverish glance. “We can still get this done.”

  Erskine slumped in his chair. “So what’s the next move?”

  “Get me a plane to Zurich. I want to talk to Jonathan Ransom.”

  42

  Seated in the passenger seat of Chief Inspector Marcus von Daniken’s Audi sedan, Jonathan was immediately aware of a heightened tension in the air. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and von Daniken was driving out of Gstaad, down the valley toward Saanen. The sky was blue and cloudless. A bold sun turned snow-covered meadows into fields of sparkling diamonds. Yet one look at all the stony faces and Jonathan could be forgiven for believing he was headed to a funeral.

  Von Daniken was taciturn even by his usual curt standards. He spoke to Jonathan with looks, not words. Get in. Buckle up. Sit still and be quiet. A rainbow-striped hot-air balloon lifted off from the field next to them, joining two others drifting over the peaks. No one said a word. Jonathan glanced at the rear seat. Danni met his gaze, then looked away. Like him, she was dressed in jeans, a fleece jacket, and a parka. Her jewelry was a memory. The earrings, bracelets, and wedding rings had all been packed away and left at the hotel, along with the ghosts of Mr. and Mrs. John Robertson. It was just Danni and Jonathan again, teacher and pupil, and he wondered if he’d been incorrect about her and if the attraction was not mutual.

  The first indication of a change in the atmosphere had come upon her return to the restaurant the evening before. Jonathan had noticed immediately that her face was slightly drawn, her acting skills nowhere on display. Without explanation, she’d insisted they leave immediately, saying only that he needed his rest. Things were no better at the hotel. If anything, her demeanor cooled from icy to glacial. Attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. He’d woken at three a.m. to find an empty space in the bed next to him.
Rising, he’d found her at the salon window, staring at the crescent moon.

  The Audi left the highway and climbed a narrow country road into the forest. The asphalt gave way to hard-packed snow. Pine trees closed around them. Shadows replaced the sun. The interior of the car cooled immediately. Ahead, a steel barrier blocked the road. A sign next to it read, “No Trespassing. Property of Swiss Defense Department. Rifle Range and Storehouse.”

  Von Daniken left the engine idling and unlocked the barrier, needing both hands to push it out of the way. When he returned, he looked more morose than ever. For the first time that day, Jonathan felt anxious.

  “I’m supposed to be taking the place of a plastic surgeon,” he said. “What do I have to practice shooting for?”

  “Who said anything about shooting?” Von Daniken put the car in gear and drove another kilometer before stopping in a gravel parking lot fronting a long concrete building that resembled a barracks. Another car was parked close to the entry.

  “Out,” said von Daniken.

  Jonathan opened the door. “You coming?” he asked Danni, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “I know this part,” she said. Then, softening, “Go ahead, Jonathan. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  Two men stood inside a large multipurpose room. Fluorescent lights shone overhead. Some chairs were stacked in one corner. Gym mats covered half the floor. Someone had forgotten to turn on the heat. The room was chill and damp.

  “This is Mr. Amman and Mr. Schmid,” said von Daniken. “They’re going to teach you some useful skills.”

  Amman was slight and blond, and his ruddy, wind-burned skin marked him as an outdoorsman. Schmid was taller and more muscular, his head shaved, the circles under his eyes accentuated by his pale skin and heavy stubble.

  “He won’t have a gun?” said Amman, turning to face von Daniken.

  “No.”

  “Or a knife?” added Schmid.

  “Only if he finds one,” said von Daniken. “Otherwise he’s going in naked.”

  “It is more interesting this way.” Amman’s eyes darted to Jonathan, and Jonathan knew that his instincts had been accurate. He was right to be afraid.

  There was a table in a corner, and they had put the tricks of their trade on it. There was a ring of house keys, a ballpoint pen, a credit card, a hardback book, and several other equally innocuous objects. Jonathan looked at them and for a moment thought he’d been brought here to continue his memory work. But across the room, Schmid was pulling protective pads over his forearms, and Jonathan knew this had nothing to do with memorization.

  “Catch!”

  Jonathan spun, snatching the keys out of the air a split second before they struck him in the face.

  “What do you have in your hands?” asked Amman.

  “Keys.”

  “Incorrect. You are holding a deadly weapon. Take one and grip it between your index and middle finger so that the teeth extend away from your fist.”

  Jonathan looked down at the set of keys in his palm. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his gaze moving to von Daniken.

  “I would do as you’re told,” said the Swiss policeman.

  Jonathan gripped the key as instructed. Amman motioned him onto the mat. “You must always strike as if you have only one chance to inflict injury. One blow with maximum force. Klar?”

  “Klar,” said Jonathan.

  Schmid raised his padded forearms and circled Jonathan.

  “One blow,” repeated Amman.

  Jonathan tightened his grip on the key. He struck out tentatively, and Schmid batted his fist away, knocking the keys to the ground.

  “With a bit more oomph,” said Amman.

  “Er ist wie ein Mädchen,” said Schmid, cracking a smile.

  Jonathan picked up the keys and gripped the largest one between his fingers. Schmid left his arms at his sides and puffed out his chest. He shot his colleague a smug look that said, “What are we doing here with this turkey?”

  Amman shrugged, resigned to his task, the more professional of the two.

  Jonathan took all this in. Raising himself on the balls of his feet, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. Fair warning, he thought, as Schmid stepped closer, arms still dangling at his sides, chin lifted arrogantly.

  The first blow connected just under the ear, Jonathan turning the key vertically so as to shave as little skin as possible off Schmid’s cheek. Before the instructor could react, before he could raise his arms even halfway to his face, Jonathan sent a left crashing into his jaw. Schmid crumpled.

  “Wie ein Mädchen,” said Jonathan, standing over the dazed man. Like a little girl.

  “So you fight?” asked Amman as he helped his colleague to his feet. “Chief Inspector von Daniken neglected to inform us.”

  “You should have asked me, not him.”

  “You are right.” Amman spoke sharply to Schmid, who grudgingly handed over his pads, then hurried to the bathroom to stanch the blood flowing from his wound. “I think we are done with the keys. Pick up the pen.”

  Amman showed Jonathan how to hold the pen. “Not like a knife, but like a dagger.” And how to strike with it as an extension of his fist. “No slashing. Jabbing. In, out. In, out. The force coming from inside.” Amman pointed to his chest, meaning his core muscles.

  And when it was Jonathan’s turn, he jabbed so fast that only Amman’s reflexes saved him from having an eye poked out.

  The credit card became a razor to cut a throat. The book, an instrument to bludgeon the victim’s temple and cause irreparable brain damage.

  At some point Danni entered the room. Jonathan saw von Daniken speaking to her, and for a moment she nearly smiled.

  “I think it is Danni’s turn,” said Amman when they had finished working through the objects. “Good luck. We are amateurs. She is a pro. Be careful.”

  Amman and Schmid left the room. Von Daniken exited immediately afterward. Danni kicked off her shoes and walked onto the mat. “So, anything else you’re hiding from us?” she asked as she pulled her hair behind her head and bound it in a ponytail. “You’re a natural.”

  “Hardly,” said Jonathan. “There was a while way back when I liked to mix it up a little. I got pretty good with my fists. The one benefit of a troubled youth.”

  “You, troubled? I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, well, luckily, we all grow up.” Jonathan sat down cross-legged and wiped his forehead with a towel. “So what’s next? Arm wrestling?”

  “Not exactly.” Danni sat down next to him. “All these techniques that Mr. Amman and Mr. Schmid were showing you were primarily for self-defense. Ways to protect yourself when nothing else is at hand. That’s not my specialty.”

  Jonathan was caught off-guard by her reticent tone. “What is?”

  Danni stared straight ahead. “It turns out that I’m very good at killing.”

  “Killing? Like an assassin? For real?”

  “We don’t use that word,” she said coldly, looking him in the eye. “I can do the things I trained you for. I can make dead drops and spot a tail and pick just about any lock on the planet in under two minutes. But that’s not how my government chooses to use me.”

  “And that’s not why we’re the only ones in the room?”

  “No.”

  “You’re here to …” Jonathan allowed her to finish the sentence.

  “I’m here to teach you how to kill quickly and silently.”

  “I’m going to Pakistan to gather information. Connor never said anything about killing.”

  “It wasn’t an issue at that point.”

  “And now it is?” asked Jonathan.

  “Think of it as a precaution,” said Danni, but something in her eyes told him the lesson was more than that.

  “Has he found out something about my wife? Is she being held against her will? Is she in danger?”

  “I don’t know anything about your wife.”

  “Then what? Come on, Danni. I mean, get rea
l. Connor can’t ask me to kill somebody. Self-defense is one thing. This is another ball-game.”

  Jonathan jumped to his feet and strode across the room. Danni was by his side in an instant, stopping him, taking him by the hands. “Just listen to me.”

  “What’s there to say? The whole notion is ridiculous. I’m a doctor. I don’t take lives. I save them.”

  “You’ve done it before. Connor told me.”

  “To protect myself.”

  “And in Zurich? General Austen? You shot two men dead. That wasn’t just self-defense.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “And what if you don’t have one now?”

  “It was different. There was a plane. They were going to kill hundreds of innocent people. It was happening at that instant.”

  “It’s easier that way, isn’t it? Not having time to think.”

  Jonathan dropped her hands and walked to the far side of the room. He needed space. Room to figure things out. He rubbed his forehead, feeling as if he were seeing things clearly for the first time. “What was I thinking? Why did I even tell Connor that I would help? I must have been out of my mind. PTSD or something. All of this—the training in Israel, the marching up and down the streets looking over my shoulder for you and your buddies, the memory games, shadowing Dr. Revy. Who am I kidding? I’m not one of you. I’m not an operative or a spy or whatever it is that you call yourselves.”

  Danni approached in measured paces, her eyes locked on his. She was no longer pleading. Her speech to convince had ended. She spoke slowly and calmly, as if he were a criminal who needed to be talked out of his gun. “What if we’re talking about more than that? Not hundreds but thousands.”

  “I don’t care how many people you’re talking about. If he thinks I’m going to kill someone, he’s lost his mind.”

  “And if there is no one else?”

  “That’s not my concern.”

  “Isn’t it all of ours?” asked Danni. “You think this is something I like to do? I felt the same as you when I first learned my trade. I was a twenty-one-year-old woman. I knew how to shoot machine guns and run an obstacle course. But killing? The only thing I’d ever harmed in my life was a duck I shot hunting with my uncle, and I felt sick to my stomach for a week afterward. I thought, How dare they ask me to do such a thing? I’m not evil. But my teachers saw something in me. Not something bad, just something unyielding—maybe something rather cold and uncompromising. I always completed a task, no matter how difficult. I was able to remove myself from the equation and do what needed to be done. Too often it’s your mind that gets in the way. You’re the same as me, Jonathan. You can’t leave a job undone. It’s why you’re here.”