Rules of Vengeance

by Christopher Reich

  Nearby, Graves stood with his phone to his ear, speaking entirely too calmly as he instructed his subordinates to get a bomb response team to Victoria Street and Storey’s Gate, and only as an afterthought to “send some ambulances. Plenty of them.” He hung up and looked at her, then at Cleak. “He’s dead. Help me secure the blast scene.”

  “You’re hurt.” She pointed to his cheek.

  Graves appeared peeved by the comment. He touched his hand to his face, and when it came away bloody he swore, then took a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. “Get on to SO15,” he said, referring to Special Office 15 of the Metropolitan Police. “Have them issue an evacuation notice for the area.”

  Kate rose, her ribs beginning to hurt in earnest. Gingerly she opened her jacket and saw a streak of blood on her blouse. The fabric was torn, and through it she could see a gash. Looking closer, she spotted a hole in her jacket where a bolt or a nail had passed, grazing her. A few centimeters to the right and she’d most probably be dead.

  She leaned against the car door, transfixed by the hellish tableau. The bomb had been detonated as the third and last Mercedes had driven by. It appeared that the blast had lifted the automobile into the air and driven it against the wall of the building. The car sat on all four tires, crumpled, ablaze, already a husk. Barely ten meters in front of it, the second Mercedes lay on its side. Two bodies lay half in, half out of the front windscreen. It was also on fire, and the flames darted like snakes’ tongues through hundreds of perforations in the car’s skin.

  Nails, thought Kate, glancing at Cleak, feeling the ache of her own wound. They had packed the car like a suicide bomber’s vest.

  The lead Mercedes had crashed into a lamppost. She noted that the airbags had deployed and that there was some motion inside. The rear door opened. A man crawled out and fell to the ground, his face bloody.

  Closer to her, the chassis of the two SUVs that had provided escort were also riddled with punctures, their tires exploded, windows blown out. All of their doors stood ajar, and big, barrel-chested men in dark suits were tumbling out, several brandishing compact machine guns, and rushing toward the lead Mercedes. Already two bodyguards were pulling a second man out of the rear seat.

  Graves ran across the intersection, past the Suburbans, and advanced on the lead sedan. He pushed his way past the bodyguards, calling out his name and identifying himself as a policeman. Kate followed close behind.

  “Who was in the motorcade?” Graves asked.

  “They wanted me,” said the bloodied man. He lay on the pavement, propped up on an elbow.

  Graves knelt down next to him. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Ivanov. Interior Minister Ivanov.”

  Kate knew the name, if not the face. Ivanov was one of a half-dozen men rumored to be candidates for the Russian presidency. “Stay there,” she counseled him. “An ambulance will be here shortly.”

  Ivanov lay down.

  The whine of approaching sirens filled the air. In the space of thirty seconds, Kate counted five cars approaching from all directions. Silence no more. Graves broke off from the Russian interior minister and walked toward the second Mercedes. Flames shot from the interior. Inside the inferno, the driver remained strapped in his seat. He had been beheaded by the blast. The two men who had been ejected through the windscreen appeared to be dead, too, as did a body slumped in the rear seat. It was difficult to be certain because of the fire.

  There was no question about the sedan having been the target of the blast. The interior seemed to have been obliterated. The chassis was grotesquely bent. There was little left inside it except the remnants of the seats.

  “Who was in the other cars?” Graves asked one of the Russian bodyguards.

  “Mr. Witte and Mr. Kerensky, Interior Minister Ivanov’s assistants. And Mr. Orlov, our ambassador to Great Britain.”

  “What about Mischa?” Kate asked, referencing Russell’s video message.

  “No Mischa.”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “He was part of the visiting party.”

  “No,” replied the bodyguard, more vehemently. “No one named Mischa is traveling with us.”

  The first police cars arrived. Officers ran to assist the injured, but Graves signaled for them to come to him. “Get tape around the perimeter. These buildings are being evacuated, and I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry to muddle the evidence. Once you’re done, you can tend to the injured.”

  Kate stepped away from Graves and began heading up Storey’s Gate, past the site of the explosion. Just before the blast she’d heard a man yelling some kind of warning. Strange, but she’d forgotten about it until Graves had mentioned the need to preserve evidence. She recalled seeing a cap of graying hair, a navy jacket.

  By now men and women were streaming out of the buildings on both sides of the road. In case of terrorist attack, city law called for the mandatory evacuation of all buildings and residences in the area. Many hurried up the street, anxious to escape. Others lingered, exhibiting a morbid curiosity about the blown-up vehicles and the fate of those inside.

  Kate walked against the tide. Victims of the blast lay on the sidewalk. Most seemed to have superficial wounds: bloody noses caused by the concussion of the blast, ruptured eardrums, cuts inflicted by flying glass, shock. She paused to let them know that help was on its way, then continued her search.

  Graying hair. Navy jacket. She saw no one who fit the bill.

  There was a crater where the bomb had gone off. The car itself sat twisted and in flames 3 meters away. As she passed it, she raised a hand to ward off the ferocious heat. Black smoke rose into the sky, mixing with dust and debris, burning her eyes and making it difficult to see. She held a hankie to her mouth, but even then the air was hot and choked with soot. She began to cough.

  Another Mercedes lay burning 10 meters up the street. Suddenly a man fell out of the vehicle and began to crawl away from it. A halo of flames surrounded his head. Clothing hung in tatters from his arms and chest, but his back appeared to be flayed to the bone. She heard a voice yell, “Lie down” and saw another man running to his assistance, throwing a jacket over his head and extinguishing the flames. The Samaritan had graying hair, and the jacket he’d used to put out the flames was a navy blazer.

  Kate radioed Graves. “I’m halfway down Storey’s Gate. Get over here. I’ve found the man I was looking for.”

  Within seconds Graves was by her side, two policemen in tow. “Where is he?”

  “That’s him. Kneeling next to the injured man.”

  Graves shouted instructions, and one of the policemen ran forward and threw the man to the ground.

  “Don’t touch him!” shouted the Samaritan, his words clear, the American accent pronounced. His face was covered in blood, but he sounded strong and in control of his wits. “He has third-degree burns all over his body. Get a poncho and cover him up. There’s too much debris in the air. You have to protect the burn or he’ll die of infection.”

  Kate knelt beside him. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Ransom. Jonathan Ransom. I’m a doctor.”

  “Why did you do this?” she demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “This. The bomb,” said the woman. “I saw you shouting at someone back there. Who was it?”

  “I don’t—” The man bit back his words.

  “You don’t what?”

  For a long moment, the man didn’t answer. He stared past her, and for a minute she thought he had fallen into a state of shock. Finally he looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said.

  Then he laid his head down on the pavement and closed his eyes.

  19

  From Division’s office in Lambeth, south of the Thames, Frank Connor heard the blast and immediately turned on the television. A bulletin cut into programming within five minutes. A still photograph of the Department of Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory Reform was displayed as a reporter offered the first sketchy details of a car bombin
g near Victoria Street, in the heart of London. A rattled eyewitness followed, describing the blast.

  Connor watched intently, popping open a can of Coca-Cola and sneaking glances out the window. It wasn’t long before he caught the plume of smoke drifting above the skyline. He knew about explosions, and this one was a monster.

  One of the desk girls entered the room. “I’ve tracked down Hubert Lorenz,” she said. “He’s available, but he’s asking for one hundred thousand pounds.”

  Lorenz was a German bounty hunter known in the trade for his precision and reliability.

  But Connor didn’t answer. If anything, he drew nearer the television, his eyes transfixed by the pictures now being beamed live from the scene. The camera panned over several mangled automobiles and lingered on bloody victims lying on the sidewalks. The reporter announced that seven people were confirmed dead and at least twenty injured. Connor was surprised the numbers weren’t higher.

  “I’ve got him on the line,” continued the assistant in her aggravating north-of-England accent. “He’s not someone who likes to be kept waiting.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just hold on.” Connor turned up the volume. The reporter announced that the target of the attack was thought to have been Igor Ivanov, the Russian interior minister, and added that Ivanov had been taken to a nearby hospital, where news of his condition was expected at any minute. “And?” Connor whispered to himself, like a bettor with an interest in the game. “Is he dead or alive?”

  “Mr. Connor, what do I do about Mr. Lorenz?”

  Connor spun in his chair. “Tell him to fuck off! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Get out. I’m fuckin’ occupied!”

  The assistant beat a quick retreat.

  Connor rose and opened the window. By now the smoke had spread into an ominous black pall that enveloped Big Ben and covered a good portion of the sky. Helicopters flitted low over the skyline. The wail of sirens sounded from every direction. Once again London was under attack.

  And Frank Connor knew who was responsible.

  Seated alone in the former linen closet that served as her office, Connor’s assistant hung up the phone and crossed the German’s name off the list of surveillance experts she had prepared for her boss. Suddenly she noticed that her hand was shaking and she put down her pen. Never once in five years had she heard Mr. Connor swear. At all times he’d been respectful, polite, and decent. In her diary she had called him a “nice bloke,” which to a working-class girl was high regard indeed. The outburst had shaken her. But it wasn’t the epithets that left her stunned and feeling weak in the knees; it was the savagery of his tone and the rage in his eyes. For a moment she’d felt certain he was going to harm her. Overcome, she sobbed and rushed to the ladies’ room.

  20

  “How many people?” asked Jonathan.

  “Seven dead, so far,” said the woman, whose name was Kate Ford, a detective chief inspector for the Metropolitan Police. “Two dozen wounded, several critically. You’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

  “Actually, you’re in more than that,” said Graves, who’d introduced himself as being from the counterterrorism wing of MI5. “As it happens, you are currently being viewed as an accomplice to seven counts of murder, as well as conspiracy to commit a terrorist act on British soil.”

  Jonathan stared into the hard, expectant faces. He lay in a camp bed with metal rails at his feet, rough sheets, and a green woolen blanket. A portable sphygmomanometer sat near his head, next to an IV drip delivering a clear solution that he guessed to be either glucose or saline into his left arm. There was no television, no second bed. Just a guard at the door dressed in army greens, with a submachine gun hugged to his chest.

  From London, Jonathan had been transported in a blacked-out ambulance. He’d ridden alone, except for the company of a police officer who’d told him to “shut it” every time he’d started to ask a question. Ten minutes before arriving, the ambulance had stopped and the driver had come into the rear bay and supervised the draping of a black hood over Jonathan’s head. Only when Jonathan had been installed in his bed had the hood been removed.

  That was three hours ago.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Someplace quiet and out of the way,” said Graves. “Someplace where we can have a heart-to-heart discussion about this morning’s events without too many prying eyes and ears.”

  “We need to make sure that this is getting through to you,” said Detective Chief Inspector Ford.

  “Oh, it’s getting through,” said Graves, stepping closer. “Dr. Ransom is a clever man. No doubting that. Well, then, Dr. Ransom, let me begin by saying that there’s very little you can tell us that we do not already know. Namely, that you arrived yesterday morning on a Kenya Airways flight from Nairobi, that you’ve come to attend a medical conference and are staying at the Dorchester Hotel, and that you’re planning to leave in two days’ time.” He paused. “All we want from you is an honest accounting of what you were doing at Storey’s Gate this morning.”

  “We have a tape of the bomb going off,” said Detective Chief Inspector Ford. “In fact, we have three or four views of it going off from a variety of angles.”

  Graves propped a portable DVD player on Jonathan’s bedside table. He hit the play button and the screen filled with a long shot of Storey’s Gate. Directly in the center of the picture was the gray BMW Jonathan had followed from North London. A few seconds passed and the driver’s door opened. Emma stepped out and walked toward the intersection of Victoria Street. Jonathan watched as she took up position at the crosswalk and stayed there as the light changed and the pedestrians around her left her side. The motorcycle police escorts arrived and blocked traffic. The first SUV came into the picture and zoomed around the corner. Then the second, followed by the pack of Mercedeses. Suddenly there was a flash. When the screen came back into focus, it showed smoke and flames billowing from the BMW. One of the Mercedeses lay on its side; another had crashed into a lamppost. But Jonathan didn’t spend time studying the wreckage. He was too busy staring at the intersection, looking for Emma, wanting to be sure it was really she whom he’d seen.

  “She’s gone,” said Graves, as if privy to his thoughts. “Your wife, I mean. Emma Rose Ransom. That is who you were looking for, isn’t it?”

  Here it was, then, thought Jonathan. Truth or fiction. Confess or deny. The moment he had to decide whose team he was really on. Tell them everything, Emma had instructed, twelve hours and a thousand years ago. They know it anyway. If only it was that easy. He weighed the facts as he knew them. Emma had knowingly planned and executed a car bombing that had taken the lives of seven people and grievously wounded many more. She had lied to him about her purpose for being in England. She had made him an unwitting accomplice to her deeds. All this against the loyalty a husband owed his wife.

  “My wife’s dead,” said Jonathan. “She died in a climbing accident in the Alps six months ago.”

  “So we’ve heard. When we were checking you out, we found a warrant for your arrest issued by the Swiss Federal Police in February. They sent over your file. It contained a photograph of your wife, presumed dead in a climbing accident, February the eighth of this year. Which makes her turning up in London a few days ago doubly strange.”

  Days ago? Jonathan was unable to keep himself from reacting to the news. “That’s impossible,” he managed woodenly. “She’s dead.”

  “Is that right? Why don’t we see about that? These pictures were taken in London thirty-six hours ago.” From a folder, Detective Chief Inspector Ford spread a series of photographs across the blanket covering his lap. They showed an elegantly dressed woman with auburn hair standing inside an elevator. In all of them, the woman’s face was lowered and it was hard to get a good read on her features. Still, it was glaringly obvious to Jonathan that the woman was Emma.

  The police officer picked up one of the photographs and compared it to a pictu
re blown up from one of the outdoor CCTV cameras on Victoria Street. “Is that or is that not your wife?”

  “I’m not certain,” said Jonathan.

  Ford set the pictures taken in London next to Emma’s passport picture, which had been provided by the Swiss authorities. There was no denying that it was the same woman. “And now?”

  “It looks like her,” said Jonathan. His head throbbed. He was too fatigued to keep up the pretense.

  “So we may assume that she is alive?”

  Jonathan said nothing.

  Ford picked up the photographs. “Does the name Robert Russell mean anything to you?”

  “No,” said Jonathan. “Should it?”

  “He was murdered yesterday morning. The first picture we showed you of your wife came from a surveillance camera in his building. We have evidence implicating her in Russell’s killing.”

  The DVD was still playing, showing the BMW exploding from a different position up the street.

  “One second she’s there,” said Graves, pointing a finger at the screen. “Bang goes the car, and the next, she’s gone. A bit spooky, actually. Where’d she go? She was too far away to get vaporized by the blast. Look closely. DCI Ford is just across the intersection. You can see her before and after. But your wife’s disappeared. We still can’t figure it.” He turned off the machine. “So what were you trying to do, Dr. Ransom, running down the street like that?”

  Jonathan didn’t answer.

  “What?” demanded Graves.

  “I was trying to stop her.”

  “So you knew there was a bomb?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Admit it,” said Graves. “You just said that you were trying to stop her. What happened? Have a last-second change of heart? That it? New to this kind of thing, are we?”

  Jonathan stared at Graves. “I didn’t know anything about the bomb,” he said.

  Graves came closer. “We have reports that you were extremely anxious upon your arrival at Heathrow. Set off all kinds of bells and whistles. Sounds to me as if you knew exactly what she had planned.”