62
Emma came to him in his sleep. He felt her warmth beside him and his body responded. He touched her and she moaned. Jonathan was dreaming, of course. It was only there that he could see her as she was, or perhaps as he wanted her to be. He ran his hands over his wife’s body, and he stirred as if discovering her for the first time. He saw her lying on the grass beneath him. It was night in the green hills of West Africa where they’d first met and he’d fallen irrevocably in love with her. He undid her belt buckle, yanking the leather strap free, and slid her jeans over her strong, eager hips. She parted her legs and whispered his name. Jonathan. Love me. A warm breath caressed his ear, his neck. His heartbeat quickened. He met her eyes, and as he entered her, she nodded to say it was all right. More than all right.
“Jonathan.”
He woke with a start. Emma sat on the bed beside him, her hair down, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. “Shhh,” she said as she removed her clothing.
She pulled back the sheets and climbed on top of him, back arched, eyes locked on his as he pushed into her. He gasped, and she covered his mouth with animal swiftness. She said nothing but shook her head, always watching him, her breath quickening. Light from the approaching dawn fell over her breasts, which appeared fuller than he remembered, her nipples exceptionally pert. Grasping her hips, he drove into her and she fought back, their tempo growing more rapid, more violent, Emma lowering her head, letting her hair fall on his chest, sweating now, her breathing labored, hard fought, her motions unrelenting, urging him on, demanding his attention, until he could match her no more and he surrendered and allowed himself release.
A moment later her body began to tremor and a languorous moan issued from her clenched teeth and she buried her face in his neck and expelled a long, hot breath.
“Come with me,” she said, still gasping. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I can get you out.”
“No.”
“You’ll die here.”
“Maybe.”
She pushed herself off him. “For me?”
“I’m not on your team, Emma.”
“And for your child?”
Jonathan pushed himself up on an elbow. “What? You’re—”
“I’m pregnant.”
“How far?”
“Four months.”
Jonathan sat up, stunned. “London?”
Emma nodded.
“You’re sure that’s when it happened?” The words came of their own volition, a reminder of his distrust. Emma slapped him very hard and slid to the edge of the bed. Jonathan stared out the window. His room faced east, and he saw the first sliver of the sun edge above the horizon. “Then why are you here? Why are you doing all this?”
“To save myself.”
Jonathan caught something in her voice, an intimation of a task yet to be accomplished. “What does that mean?”
Emma met his gaze and held it. “Come with me and you’ll find out. But you have to trust me.”
Jonathan looked at her belly and saw that it was round where before it had been flat. Her breasts were larger, fuller. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she clutched his hand and turned it away. Joy and sadness filled him in equal measure. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
And she rolled off the bed and left as silently as she had come.
63
It was eight a.m. and Blenheim was in full swing. In the motor court, the Range Rovers had been pulled from their garage bays and were being washed and waxed. The sound of horses being led to and from the stables carried in the sunlit air. The house trembled with the comings and goings of its many residents. Strangely, the area by the maintenance building was lacking any activity. There were no trucks nearby. No sign of the armed guards Jonathan had observed yesterday keeping watch on the entrance.
At first Jonathan surmised that the warhead had been moved. The previous evening’s attack had spooked Balfour, and he’d wasted no time in spiriting his crown jewel to a safer location. Then another idea came to him. It was precisely because the attack had spooked Balfour that he would not risk moving it. The calm was a facade, Balfour’s effort to avoid drawing attention to the shed. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and Jonathan gained proof that his hunch was correct. A pair of snipers lay flat on the garage roof, keeping an eye on the shed’s perimeter. Snipers did not guard an empty building.
All this Jonathan took in from his second-floor window. Freshly shaved and showered, and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for a morning run, he felt himself in the grip of a feeling unlike any he’d known. Part call to action, part thirst for revenge, a manic desire stirred inside him to do whatever was necessary to see his job through. His own safety and well-being did not come into play. He would pass along the information he had gathered to Frank Connor. It was that simple. He wasn’t sure if it was a fool’s courage or a father’s first and last duty to his unborn child. He knew only that actions defined a man, and that waiting was not an option.
It was Emma, of course. Her visit had awakened feelings he’d thought dead. Or maybe he had preferred them that way. The ego’s almighty and seductive trickery. No matter the scope of her betrayal, the enormity of her crimes, he could not rid himself of his love for her. She was poison, yet he tasted her incautiously. He was a man of discipline, yet she defeated his will. Her essence tormented him. Her competence inspired him. And now he had learned that she was the mother of his child. For that, he swore allegiance to her forever. Allegiance, but not assistance. If he could not defeat her in love, he would defeat her in war.
Turning, Jonathan strode to the dressing area and removed a platinum American Express card from his wallet. The card bore Michel Revy’s name but it was not a credit card, nor had it ever belonged to him. The card was one of Frank Connor’s neatest tricks. Embedded in its skin was a powerful counterjamming device capable of defeating the wireless cage Balfour had erected over his estate.
Connor’s instructions were clear. As soon as Jonathan came into possession of information relating to the warhead’s location and its sale and transfer to Balfour’s client, he was to transmit it to Division. This could be done in one of three ways. If Jonathan was able to free himself from Balfour and get liberty outside Blenheim, he could simply call the secure line programmed into the phone. If that were not the case (and Connor had been plainspoken about his belief that Balfour would not permit Jonathan to leave the compound), Jonathan could transmit the encrypted information to a secure site via his laptop. As there was no wireless service and no Internet connection in his room, the laptop was also out.
The last option involved activating the counterjamming device in the credit card. Once activated, the card possessed sufficient power to defeat the most robust jamming system for five to eight minutes. During that time Jonathan would be able to place a call to Division, transmit his information, and receive instructions as to his further actions. There was only one catch. Connor had been up front in explaining that Balfour’s security team would immediately notice the disruption in the jamming system, and, as important, would be able to triangulate the location of the counterjamming device within sixty seconds. Use of the credit card meant certain detection, and thus certain death.
Jonathan slipped the card into his shorts along with his phone and quietly left his room. He paused in the hallway, looking left and right, and decided to use the back stairs, which passed adjacent to the kitchen. The hallway was empty, and with every step his confidence grew. Once outside, he would jog past the stables and across the meadow Balfour had named Runnymede to the farthest corner of the estate. The farther he was from the jamming signal, the greater the counterjamming device’s ability to defeat it. He passed the reproduction of Blue Boy and the framed collection of medieval fighting irons and wondered what was going to happen to all of Balfour’s possessions.
To his right a door opened and Mr. Singh stepped out, blocking his path. Jonathan offered a polite
good morning and walked around the man-mountain, not slowing his stride. Mr. Singh’s phone rang, and Jonathan heard him say in the queen’s English, “Good morning, m’ lord.”
Reaching the stairs, Jonathan put his hand in his pocket, fingering the credit card for reassurance. As he descended the stairs, he was met by the smell of sausage and eggs and all the wonderful scents of a country breakfast. The chef stood by the stairs, clutching a basket of muffins. Jonathan was forced to engage her in conversation, politely declining the offer of a muffin, French toast, and eggs Benedict. He secured his escape by accepting a red apple from the fruit bowl and promising to return after his run. Mollified, the chef attended to her stove and he crossed the last few meters to the door.
“Ransom.”
His name was spoken, not shouted, in a faultless American accent that he had once admired. Danni had trained him how to spot a tail and how to memorize a roomful of objects. But she hadn’t said a word about how to react when someone unexpectedly called your name and you were thousands of miles from home and surrounded by the enemy.
Jonathan froze, his shoulders stiffening, and at that moment he knew that all was lost. He looked over his shoulder. Sultan Haq stood at the opposite side of the kitchen. Their eyes met. The spark of recognition passed between them and an image flashed in Jonathan’s mind of Haq standing on the mountain plateau surrounded by flames, the Kentucky hunting rifle in his hands, crying out for revenge. Jonathan remembered Hamid and the brave soldiers who had died in the complex of caves at Tora Bora, and for a glorious moment he considered killing Haq then and there.
Footsteps approached from the stairs behind him. Mr. Singh and Balfour.
Jonathan bolted out the door and slammed it behind him. He ran past the line of Range Rovers, the car attendants shooting him confused looks, past the garage and toward the stables.
“Ransom!” shouted Haq.
“Stop him!” ordered Balfour.
A security guard astride an ATV motored in his direction, standing tall on his pedals, trying to make sense of the situation.
Lowering a shoulder, Jonathan knocked him headlong off the four-wheel vehicle and jumped into his seat.
“Shoot him!” Balfour was saying.
Jonathan spun the ATV in a tight turn and accelerated out of the motor court and past the stables. There was a shot and the ATV jumped as a bullet struck the chassis. Jonathan hunkered low over the handlebars, keeping the throttle full out, building speed. Another bullet struck the fender. He bounded into the meadow, putting distance between himself and the main house. A look behind him showed that no one had followed. He slowed enough to pull the credit card out of his pocket and activate the counterjammer. Trading the credit card for his phone, he hit the speed-dial for Frank Connor. There was a hissing sound, and the call failed.
“Dammit.”
It was then that he saw a black shadow advancing over the terrain. Looking again, he saw that it was Sultan Haq on Inferno, the black stallion, galloping in his direction. Jonathan hit the speed-dial again. The hissing erupted and Jonathan swore. Abruptly the white noise died and the call went through. Jonathan revved the throttle and the ATV hurtled over the grass, rocking considerably, lifting him out of his seat. He could not control the vehicle and hold the phone at the same time.
Behind him, Haq was gaining ground. Jonathan returned his left hand to the grip, clutching the phone in his palm. An ATV appeared at the far end of the meadow, blocking his escape. Jonathan veered right, cutting a diagonal path away from it, then braked to a full stop.
“Frank, it’s me, Jonathan. Can you hear me?”
“Jonathan … yes, I can, just barely. What the hell are you doing?”
“Frank, it’s here. The warhead is at Blenheim. You have to get here fast. They’re moving it today. The buyer’s Sultan Haq.”
“Say again? You’re cutting out … can’t quite pick you up …”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. Haq was charging at him, the horse breathing furiously. Jonathan grabbed the handlebars and squeezed the throttle, steering the ATV toward a spot in the fence where he’d glimpsed a jeep and some workers. He willed the all-terrain vehicle faster, but it could not outpace Inferno. The black stallion neared, close enough for Jonathan to hear his hooves thudding the ground, to feel his presence. He looked over his shoulder. Haq was five meters behind and closing fast. Jonathan searched the field ahead, observed that there was a tear in the fence, and aimed the ATV toward it.
Suddenly Haq was beside him, leaning off the horse and striking him with an enormous fist. Jonathan yanked the handlebars to the right, but Haq stayed with him, one hand clutching the horse’s mane, his legs wrapped around the beast’s flanks. Again his fist connected with Jonathan’s cheek. Jonathan lashed out with his left arm, hitting the side of Haq’s head. The horse slowed, and Jonathan was clear.
Fifty meters separated him from the fence.
He leaned low over the handlebars, eking out every ounce of power from the throttle.
A blur appeared to his right. A jeep barreled in front of him, blocking the fence. Mr. Singh was at the wheel, and Balfour stood in the back, manning the .30 caliber machine gun.
Jonathan spun the ATV to avoid colliding with them. The ATV bucked at the violent change of direction, two wheels lifting off the ground. Jonathan shifted his weight, but he was traveling too rapidly and the meadow’s soil was too soft. The ATV flipped, and Jonathan tumbled headlong through the tall grass.
Spitting out a mouthful of turf, he pushed himself to his knees, only to see Balfour swing the machine gun around and cock the firing pin.
“Don’t shoot!” shouted Haq as he dismounted and approached Jonathan. “Hello, Dr. Ransom. I hoped that we would meet again, but didn’t dare believe it. This time I don’t think you can rely on the cavalry to rescue you.”
“Probably not,” said Jonathan.
Haq kicked him in the ribs, and Jonathan fell to his side. The tall Afghan reached into the grass and picked up Jonathan’s phone. He pressed several buttons but drew no satisfaction. “Who did you call?”
Jonathan remained silent.
Haq looked at Balfour.
Balfour said, “I have the world’s most sophisticated jamming system. No one can make a wireless call from anywhere within five kilometers unless I clear the number beforehand. This man—Revy, Ransom … whatever his name is—could not have placed a call.”
Haq appeared unconvinced. With mounting anger, he turned toward Jonathan. “Who were you calling?”
“I was trying to reach your father in hell. I wanted to tell him I was sorry I didn’t cut his throat myself.”
“I’ll let you deliver the message personally, but first I must know if you are telling me the truth. Mr. Singh, hold him.”
The Sikh wrenched Jonathan to his feet and locked his arms around his chest, imprisoning him.
Haq pulled an instrument from his pocket. It was a knife, but no ordinary one. A short, crescent-shaped blade extended from a scarred bulbous wooden handle. It was a poppy knife, used by farmers to slice grooves into the ripe poppy bulbs from which the precious opium could flow. “You have dark eyes,” he said. “I remember.”
Jonathan blinked several times, realizing then that the fall had knocked the colored lenses from his eyes. Haq raised the blade to the soft flesh just beneath his eye. “A surgeon cannot perform his duties if blind.”
The cold metal pressed harder.
Jonathan struggled to break free, but Singh only tightened his grip.
“So, my friend,” said Haq, moving the blade slowly back and forth, “as we do not have enough time for you to answer all my questions, I shall ask you to answer only one. Tell me the truth, or it will cost you an eye. And if you think I will kill you afterward, you’re mistaken. I have other plans. Did you tell your masters about our plans?”
“The call didn’t go through.”
A flick of the wrist and the blade ripped his skin. Jonathan flinched but did not cry out.
“I will ask one more time, and then I will feed your eye to the horse.”
Jonathan steeled himself. Emma, he knew, would not yield.
If not in love, then in war.
“Did you speak to your masters about our plans?” asked Haq.
“I did not.”
Haq looked at Balfour, who offered no expression. “I’m sorry,” said Haq, pushing the blade into the fold of skin. “But I can’t believe you. Not yet.”
“Try it,” gasped Jonathan. “Try the phone yourself. Hit the number seven and press Call. You’ll see.”
Haq lowered the knife. He thumbed the seven and called, bringing the phone to his ear. Jonathan watched, asking himself feverishly if five minutes had passed since he had activated the counterjamming device. Haq’s eyes opened wider, and Jonathan’s heart sank. But a moment later the Afghan put the phone into his pocket.
“Well?” asked Balfour.
“The call could not go through. Your jamming system was effective.”
“Move away, then,” said Balfour. “I’ll finish him.”
Haq stretched out a hand to stop him. “Not yet. I would like to take him to my brother. Dr. Ransom has much to answer for.”
Balfour considered this, then aimed the barrel of the machine gun toward the sky. “As you wish. I will make him my gift to you.”
64
H18.
Slumped in the rear of Balfour’s Range Rover, Jonathan read the large white letters painted on the wall of the hangar at Islamabad Airport and knew that they had arrived. Mr. Singh sat next to him. Ever-vigilant, the Sikh had not shifted his eyes off Jonathan for a moment during the hour’s drive from Blenheim. Sultan Haq occupied the front seat, while Balfour himself drove. Another vehicle led the way. Two followed behind. But the most important cargo sat in the rear compartment, barely an arm’s length from Jonathan. It was an unmarked olive-drab crate the size of the footlocker he’d taken to Boy Scout camp, inside which rested a nuclear warhead.
Built to accommodate large jets, Hangar 18 sat alone at the far corner of the airport. The words “East Pakistan Airways” ran above the closed doors. EPA. Another clue from his visit to Balfour’s office. There was no sign of activity, but as Balfour approached, a door built into the hangar slid open. Balfour didn’t slow as he maneuvered the car over the steel tracks. Shadow replaced the sun. There were no planes, but there were crates. Mountain after mountain of olive-drab crates piled to the sky. Stenciled on the sides in English, Cyrillic, and Arabic were words like “Ammunition: .45 caliber. 5,000 rounds. Grenades: Antipersonnel. Rifles: Kalashnikov AK-47.” And there were other words, like “Semtex” and “C4” and “Bofors” and “Glock.” It was the United Nations of weapons.
Rules of Betrayal Page 29
