“He is a monster.”
“Say again?” asked Howe, taken aback by the vitriol in the woman’s voice.
“At home we call him the Black Devil.”
Howe put down the chart and took a closer look at the nurse’s name tag. Anna Bakareva.
“Where’s home?”
“Grozny, Chechnya,” she said. “I left many years ago, when I was eleven. But I remember Ivanov. He led the troops who sacked the city.”
Howe was a former military man himself, a surgeon attached to the Royal Scots Guards, and he remembered hearing about the atrocities inflicted by the Russian army during their attack on the Chechen capital in the mid-1990s. It was a grim business.
The nurse had large black eyes that never left Ivanov. “His soldiers came to my neighborhood looking for one of the resistance leaders. When they could not find him, they rounded up all the men from my building and the buildings up and down the street and took them to the soccer stadium. They took old men, young men. It didn’t matter. Seven hundred in all. They took my brother, too. He was ten years old.” She stopped and pointed at Ivanov. “He personally shot every one of them.”
“I’m sorry,” said Howe.
“Will he live?” the nurse inquired in a tone inappropriate for a care-giver.
“Too soon to tell. Not much damage apart from the cuts and bruises. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. It’s the brain I’m worried about. He got knocked around pretty well inside his car.”
Howe knew a few things about cerebral trauma. A few years back, he’d done a tour in Basra, in southern Iraq. Improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, were the most frequent cause of injury. During his time he’d seen over two hundred cases similar to Ivanov. So soon after the initial trauma, it was impossible to make an accurate prognosis. Some patients regained full control of all their faculties. Others persisted in a vegetative state for weeks or months. Others never woke again at all. Most, though, fell in between, suffering some form of lasting impairment, anything from a faulty short-term memory, to loss of their sense of taste and smell, to more serious neurological disorders.
“His MRI came back negative,” said Howe. “When the swelling goes down, we’ll know more.”
The nurse from Chechnya nodded. It was apparent that the news displeased her.
Howe left the room and walked directly to the aid station, where he made sure that Nurse Anna Bakareva would have nothing further to do with the care of Igor Ivanov, the Black Devil. He did not believe that she would do anything expressly to harm him. She might, however, forget to administer a painkiller or inadvertently dose him with the wrong medicine. It was not a risk he was prepared to take.
23
Hunched in the backseat of Colonel Charles Graves’s Rover, Jonathan watched as the country lanes of Hereford gave way to two-lane roads and the rolling hillocks yielded to asphalt plains. Finally they gained the M4 motorway and made a beeline for London. A police escort led the way lights flashing, siren muted. Another followed, practically riding their bumper. It was after six, but the fierce sun showed no signs of calming. Inside the car, the air conditioner blasted everyone with a torrent of humid, lukewarm air.
Technically Jonathan was a free man. Graves had said so, after all. But Jonathan had no illusions about the truth. He was a prisoner, and he would remain one until he brought them Emma’s head. If he dared think otherwise, all it took was a look at the uniformed policemen seated on either side of him or the electronic bracelet clamped around his left ankle.
“It’s a military model,” Graves had pointed out as he’d fixed it to Jonathan’s leg, purposefully notching it too tight. “We developed it for the bad boys in the tribal lands of Pakistan. Its signal can pinpoint you to within a meter of your position, no matter where you stand on God’s green earth. And if you try to take it off, it’ll snap your leg in two.”
At that, Graves had chuckled, but his eyes left Jonathan wondering whether he was joking or not.
The interrogation had begun in the hospital and continued as he’d had his skull X-rayed for a possible fracture or concussion (none), while he’d changed back into his street clothes, and up to the present moment. Graves and Ford rode up front and took turns peppering him with questions. What time had he gone to the cocktail party? When did the fake Blackburn make contact? Had Jonathan ever seen him before? (And here Graves was quick to insist that meant as long as he’d been with Emma.) What route did Jonathan take from the Dorchester to the tube? What was the address of the flat he visited on Edgware Road? Did he see anyone else before Emma arrived? What kind of car did she use to drive him back to the hotel? And, most important, did Jonathan have any clue whom Emma might be working for?
Jonathan spat out the answers dutifully but as the questions began to encroach on more private matters, he grew wary. Where did Emma grow up? Were her parents living? If so, where? And what about her schooling? Did she have friends in London? For these were matters that even he was unsure of.
Until five months earlier, he’d thought she’d been born and raised in Penzance, at the southwestern tip of England, and was a graduate of Brasenose College, Oxford. A richly embroidered childhood history fell in between, replete with loyal dogs, skinned elbows, deceased parents, and even a wayward older sister named Bea whom Jonathan had actually met on three occasions. All of which was a complete and utter fabrication. A Gobelin tapestry of falsehoods. A Potemkin life.
Emma hadn’t been born in Penzance but in Hoboken, New Jersey. Her father was not a schoolteacher who had perished in a fiery car crash but a colonel in the United States Air Force who had dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty. Her impeccable English accent came from the eight years her father had been stationed at Lakenheath Air Base in Suffolk. As for college, she’d managed three years at Long Beach State in California, which was about as far away from Oxford as you could get, both literally and figuratively. Her real name wasn’t even Emma, even though she’d decided to keep it because it was how Jonathan thought of her.
Still, he did his best to answer. He gave them what he knew, even if he knew it was incorrect.
But even as Jonathan complied, he was conducting his own private interrogation. He harbored no doubt about Emma’s fate should he succeed in finding her. In short order, she would be questioned by MI5, turned over to Division (in the guise of the CIA, the DIA, or any other overt intelligence agency), questioned again, and then “disappeared.” “Disappeared,” meaning shot, hanged, or, as Graves had so eloquently put it earlier, “drawn and quartered and left for the crows.” If Division had wanted Emma dead before, they’d be twice as firm in their intentions after the attempt on Igor Ivanov. There were only two sides in this game. If Emma wasn’t working for them, she was working for the enemy.
Outside, the sights grew familiar as they reentered London. They drove past the Victoria and Albert Museum and Harrods before making the turn onto Park Lane.
Despite the lies that had gone before, the dissembling and the duplicity, Jonathan knew that he still loved Emma. They had had eight years together. He believed that for the most part the woman with whom he’d shared his life and his love had reciprocated his feelings. He had no proof. Just his heart. In the end, that’s all there was anyway.
He looked at Graves, sitting so stiffly in the front seat. The enemy, Jonathan thought, with a viciousness that alarmed him.
He would not deliver her to the executioner.
On the other hand, Jonathan had no intention of spending the rest of his life inside a British jail. He would not play the martyr, either.
Not even for Emma.
At 6 p.m. sharp, the Rover pulled into the Dorchester’s drive and stopped in front of the entrance. A plainclothes officer opened the door and stood by as Jonathan was ushered out. There were more police in the lobby, effectively lining his route to the elevator. Graves led the way, with Ford one step behind.
“Quite a welcoming committee,” said Jonathan. “Where do you think I’m going to go?”<
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The elevator arrived. Graves took hold of his arm and guided him inside. “You’ll go where we tell you,” he said.
Outside his door, another plainclothes officer waited. Seeing Graves, he whispered a respectful “Sir.”
Jonathan’s suite was a hive of activity. It appeared as if a search of the room had been completed and everything was being put back as it had been. Graves dismissed the last officers and shut the door. Jonathan opened his wardrobe and noted that his clothes hung much more neatly than before. “Did you find anything?” he called over his shoulder.
“Take a shower and put on some clean clothes,” barked Graves. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out in due time.”
“I thought you wanted me to help you find Emma.”
“Oh, you will. Now do as you’re told.”
Jonathan walked into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the room. He took off his shirt, then gazed down at the bracelet on his ankle. He opened the door to Graves and Ford standing a few feet away, engaged in a heated discussion.
“Now what?” asked Graves, looking his way.
Jonathan pointed to the bracelet. “Is this thing waterproof?”
Graves shook his head, then approached. “I should make you shower with one foot out the door.” He fiddled in his pocket for a key, then, kneeling, unlocked the bracelet. “I hear if you keep it on long enough the epidermis begins to fuse with the steel. The docs have to cut it away from the leg. You know anything about that?”
“I don’t.”
Graves stood, bracelet in one hand. “This is the last time it comes off until we bring your wife into custody. Are we clear?”
“Thank you.” Jonathan began to close the door, but stopped halfway. “Colonel Graves, just what makes you so sure Emma’s still in England?”
Graves looked at Ford, then back at Jonathan. “All in due time, Dr. Ransom. Now get cleaned up.”
24
“Emma Ransom is our prime suspect in Lord Robert Russell’s murder,” said Kate Ford. “We have evidence that she was at the scene of the crime. No other person could have gained access to his apartment. This case belongs to homicide.”
“It’s a counterterror matter now, DCI Ford,” replied Graves. “Foreign nationals have been killed, including several high-ranking diplomats. The Russians are screaming their bloody heads off for us to take action. Igor Ivanov is a prime contender for the presidency in two years’ time. If he dies, it will sour relations between our countries for years to come. This isn’t a simple murder. It’s a national incident.”
“Be that as it may homicide needs to stay involved.”
“Out of the question. If you don’t like it, take it up with the PM. The Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms are sitting right now. Because the bomb went off so close to Whitehall, they’re trying to decide if it was an attack against government or simply a one-off to take out Ivanov. The home secretary is considering asking for an evacuation of all government offices in Westminster. It’s far beyond homicide.”
“I brought this case to you,” said Kate, slowly and clearly. “I have every right to stay involved.”
“As I recall, I contacted you. It was me was standing in your kitchen this morning.”
“Because of the work my team had accomplished. You knew I was onto something and you wanted my help.”
“I’d say things have changed considerably in the past twelve hours.”
“But Jonathan Ransom can’t help you. Can’t you see that he was telling the truth?”
“Actually, I can’t. All the plastic explosives residue we found on his clothing must be blinding me. After Ransom gets cleaned up, we’re going to make a tour of the spots where he claimed to have met his wife. If he isn’t more forthcoming, I’m taking him back to Hereford to have a full and frank exchange of views with some of the lads from the regiment.”
“You’re going to beat it out of him? That will get you precisely nowhere.”
“We would never touch him, and you know it. But we might do our best to scare him.” Graves peeled back the window sheers. “You see, DCI Ford, I think our doctor is lying,” he said, gazing out over Hyde Park. “I’m convinced that he knows precisely where his wife has run to. I’ve got this theory: the reason Ransom was running toward his wife wasn’t to stop her from blowing the bomb. It was to make her blow it more quickly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ivanov was in the first Mercedes, not the third. Ransom saw him as he passed by and was trying to warn his wife to blow the device earlier.”
“The windows on those cars were dark as night,” retorted Kate. “No one could see through them. Ransom couldn’t have known who was in what car.”
Graves turned, his arms crossed. “I think we’re finished here.”
But Kate stood her ground. “It’s the murder angle that will get you to Emma Ransom before Ransom and all of your intelligence snooping.”
“Will it?” Graves spoke over her shoulder as he walked to the door.
“We must find the woman who sent Russell the video transmission. It was her source that tipped off Russell about Victoria Street. That means her information came from within the organization that was planning the attack. I’d wager somewhere close to the top. It’s all that nonsense about TINs, trusted information networks. If we can find out where she got the tip, we’ll know who gave Emma Ransom her marching orders. The woman holds the key to this.”
“But we’ll never find her. The odds of tracing the message back to its source are nil. I’m sticking with Ransom. You know the saying, A Yank in the hand …’” Graves paused, his fingers curled around the doorknob.
“In the meantime, you’re free to pursue the case as you wish, but it will be independent of my office. We run Jonathan Ransom ourselves.” He opened the door to the hall. Two plainclothes officers ducked their heads around the corner. Graves waved the all-clear.
“What about Reg Cleak?” asked Kate.
“Who?” Suddenly Graves remembered, and his face hardened. “Oh yes, I’m sorry about your partner.”
“When I leave here, I am going to his home. I plan on telling his wife that I’m personally assuming responsibility for finding the individuals and the organization or government responsible for his death. It would help my investigation immeasurably if I could add Five’s resources to my own.”
“Goodnight, DCI Ford.”
“For Reg’s sake,” argued Kate.
Graves moved his face closer to her, so that she could see the brown flecks in his blue eyes, and the conviction behind them. “This is the black world, DCI Ford. We don’t do favors.”
25
Jonathan stayed in the shower until Graves threw open the door and told him to get the hell out. The intelligence officer stood a body’s length away, watching Jonathan dress, murmuring “Hurry it up” and tossing the monitoring bracelet from one hand to the other. Jonathan took his time, resisting the proffered underwear and pants until he was good and ready. He shaved and combed his hair, then left the bathroom to find a clean shirt.
But all the while he was sending himself the same message. Emma wasn’t finished. The bombing was just another step along the way. It didn’t matter whom she was working for, or why, or whether their objectives were justified. He knew, and that was enough. Her acts of crime had become his. In the eyes of the law and his own, he was Emma’s lifelong accomplice. There was only one way to clear his name. He must stop her. He must find Emma before the authorities did.
It was then that he noticed that the suite was empty but for the two of them.
“Where’s Detective Ford?” Jonathan asked, unsettled by the silence and isolation.
“Detective Chief Inspector Ford was called away.”
“So I can get changed out here?”
“And about time,” muttered Graves. “Get a shirt and a jacket. Come on, then.”
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“Will I be coming back?”
“That depends on you.”
Jonathan looked at Graves, at the bulge under his left arm that was undoubtedly a pistol, at the electronic bracelet clutched in his hand. He noticed for the first time that Graves was actually smaller than he, and thinner without the armor of his suit. His hands were slim and manicured, almost ladylike. He also noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the slackening of his earlier ramrod posture. It was a look Jonathan recognized all too well. He’d seen it countless times glancing in the mirror after a day and a night in surgery. Graves was exhausted.
Jonathan went about his business with a newfound alacrity. It was just the two of them. Outside there were more. There’d been two on the door when he’d entered. No doubt there were a half-dozen posted downstairs, too. There would be more joining the group wherever he might travel. But for now … for these next few minutes, there were just the two of them.
Jonathan grabbed a button-down from the closet and put it on. He took a windbreaker, too, and threw it over the back of a chair. It was still warm outside, but he wasn’t thinking about now. He was thinking about six hours from now, or twelve, or, if there was any luck remaining on his side of the ledger, longer. He snatched his wallet off the dresser and slipped it into his back pocket, then grabbed a pair of socks out of the drawer.
Graves was pacing like a guard dog, cell phone to his ear. “And what did the ERT find in Hampstead? Nothing? Impossible! My man said the car was parked there. Saw it with his very eyes. Check again. There’s got to be some residue inside the garage. Any cameras on the street? Then ask the neighbors—someone had to see them going in and out of the house. The owners were on vacation. In Immingham? No one takes a vacation in Immingham.”
He snapped the phone closed and glared at Jonathan. “Seems to be a hole in your story, Doc. Problem with that residence north of town where you claim to have seen your wife grab the car. I’m wondering whether I should deliver you forthwith to the Inquisition or if I should follow my hallowed rule book and offer you a second chance to come to Jesus.”
Rules of Vengeance Page 15
