His eyes rose to the pool. The water had descended a full 2 meters from the lip of the tile. At most, another 2 meters of water covered the tips of the fuel rods. The blue glow radiated stronger, more malignant than ever.
He looked back at the bomb.
:45.
Jonathan removed the scissors from the body of the knife. He probed each wire, unsure what would happen if he cut any of them. Detonators functioned by delivering a charge to a blasting cap, which in turn ignited the explosive, resulting in a blast. The idea was to cut the wire that delivered that initial charge, thus rendering the blasting cap inert. He didn’t know if cutting any of them would result in an instantaneous detonation.
:20
He placed the scissors around the blue wire, then changed his mind and positioned them around the red wire.
:10
He snipped, but the wire did not cut. He pressed harder, but still the blades did not penetrate the plastic sheathing.
:05
Using both hands, he tried again, harnessing all his strength in his fingers. The wire began to give. He watched as the numbers ticked down, pressing the scissors harder still until the hard metal cut into his fingers. He glimpsed a filament of copper and mustered a final effort.
:00
The scissors sliced through the wire.
Jonathan collapsed on his haunches, staring at the LED’s glaring red digits, at the black metallic box that had not exploded. Or had he in fact beaten the clock? He was too lightheaded to know either way.
He looked at the pool. The crystal-clear water had descended below the level of the titanium holding racks to the very tips of the fuel rods. As if sensing the presence of oxygen, the rods appeared to pulsate.
And there the water stopped.
The water level fell below the jagged hole made by the first bomb. Thirty centimeters, no more, remained above the uranium rods, but 30 centimeters was enough. No more water could escape the cooling pond.
The door through which Emma had fled opened. Colonel Graves and DCI Ford entered the building, followed by a dozen commandos and the plant manager. Jonathan counted at least ten machine guns pointed directly at him and decided it might be wise to stay where he was.
Graves took in Jonathan and his bloody hands and the partially dismantled bomb situated between his knees. Then he extended a hand and helped Jonathan to his feet. “We saw everything from the monitors in the reactor control room.”
“I thought I could talk her out of it,” said Jonathan.
Graves considered this, but offered no comment.
Kate Ford stepped forward, put an arm across Jonathan’s back, and guided him toward the exit. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.
Jonathan halted. “Where is she?” he asked.
Graves looked at Ford, then back at him, and Jonathan braced himself for the news. But Graves just shook his head. “We haven’t found her yet. But don’t worry. We’re searching the complex. She can’t have gotten far.”
Jonathan nodded. She was gone, and they all knew it. He looked over his shoulder at the gaping hole torn out of the wall of the stainless steel pool. “It wasn’t low enough,” he said, almost to himself. “The water never exposed the rods.”
“What’s that?” asked Graves. “Didn’t catch what you said.”
But Jonathan didn’t answer. Suddenly he felt too tired to explain.
“Let’s go,” said Kate. “We have a plane to catch back to London.”
“Do I have a choice?” asked Jonathan.
“Hell, no,” said Graves. “If you think this clears you of anything, you’re sorely mistaken.”
76
One hour later, Sir Anthony Allam, director general of MI5, picked up the phone and called Frank Connor. “Your girl just turned up.”
“Where?”
“The La Reine nuclear power plant in Normandy. She tried to bring off some kind of incident to paralyze the country’s nuclear grid. Wanted to blow the place to the high heavens. Damn near succeeded, too.”
“Do you have her in custody?”
“No,” said Allam. “She escaped.”
“Dammit,” said Connor.
“The French police have issued a nationwide alert for her arrest. Interpol is cooperating as well.”
“Little good it’ll do them. She’s a ghost, that one. They’ll never find her.”
“Perhaps,” said Allam. “But we do know that she was working for Sergei Shvets of the FSB. Turns out she was Russian, but then, you must have known that all along.”
“Of course I knew. I brought her into the fold eight years ago. Hard to believe she went back to them.” Connor sighed. “The whole thing is my fault. If only my men hadn’t botched the job in Rome. I don’t like leaving a mess.”
“French intelligence has Shvets in custody. Apparently he was supervising the operation himself. We managed to track him to a safe house in Paris and nabbed him there. We’re keeping the news quiet until the prime minister speaks to the Kremlin.”
“I wouldn’t give two nickels for his chances back home.”
“Be that as it may,” continued Allam, “your actions these past days in London have been nothing short of disgraceful.”
“Emma Ransom betrayed Division,” said Connor. “I did what needed to be done. My apologies if I stepped on any toes. You don’t have to worry any longer. I’m flying out tonight.”
“Safe travels. I’ll let you know how things turn out in France.” Allam paused, staring at the clock on his wall. He’d been on an unscrambled line for over two minutes now. He hoped it would suffice. “Oh, Frank, any idea where she might have gone?”
“Who knows? Like I said, she’s a ghost.”
Frank Connor hung up the phone. The connection wasn’t bad, considering he was kilometers from the nearest tower. A wave lifted the schooner and he grabbed at the wheel to steady himself. One hand for the boat, his father had taught him. The cardinal rule of sailing. Off the port bow, the coast of France was still visible, and, far off in the haze, La Reine’s massive white dome.
“So,” he said, handing Emma Ransom a towel. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet,” she answered, drying her hair. “It all depends on what happens now, doesn’t it?”
Connor patted her on the back. “Yes, Lara, I suppose it does.”
“My name is Emma,” she said. “Emma Ransom.”
Connor nodded. He knew better than to argue. It was natural for agents to grow emotional at the end of an assignment, and this one had been tougher than most. “You won’t try to reach him.”
Emma looked at Connor, then quickly away. “No, I won’t.”
“He can never know.”
“I understand.”
Connor smiled, and said some words about duty and country and the price that they in their profession had to pay. They were trite, and he’d said the same things a hundred times before, but still he believed them. Every word.
Emma Ransom shook her head and gazed at the distant shoreline. “Hey, Frank, shut up and drive the boat.”
77
It was late September and a chill wind swept down from the Arctic Circle, blanketing Moscow and sending temperatures plummeting into the thirties. Everywhere people donned heavy coats and wrapped their necks in woolen scarves. In Gorky Park, the ice rink froze and was opened two weeks ahead of schedule. Weather forecasters were quick to predict another long and bitter winter. But nowhere was it colder than in the basement of the Lubyanka, the century-old granite fortress that was home to the country’s most notorious political prisoners.
“You have left us in an embarrassing position, Sergei,” said the Russian president. “The evidence is compelling, and that is without taking into account your capture in Paris.”
Shvets sat at the bare wooden table, his head held high. “I expect it is,” he said. “After all, they planted it.”
“Ridiculous,” said Igor Ivanov. “Next you’ll be claiming that the Americans planne
d the operation. Tell me, was it Frank Connor who suggested you kill me?”
“That was my own idea,” said Shvets defiantly.
The three men sat in a small, dank room two floors belowground. There were no windows. Walls, ceiling, and floor were of the most rudimentary concrete and without adornment. A stuttering fluorescent bulb provided the sole light.
An immaculate leather dossier bearing MI5’s seal sat in the center of the table. With ceremony, the president untied it and examined the documents one by one. “A hospital bill for twenty-five thousand euros paid on behalf of one of your agents and traced back to an FSB shell company.
Five kilos of Semtex identical to that used in the London car bombing found in a Paris apartment loaned to the FSB by our Iranian allies. And the pièce de résistance, a laptop containing confidential files indicating ties to the same agent, as well as a step-by-step breakdown of the operation. It goes on and on.” The president replaced the documents and meticulously retied the dossier. Clasping his hands, he said, “You leave our government no choice but to admit to it all.”
Ivanov leveled his darkest glare at Shvets. “We’ll be kissing the Brits’ asses for a decade because of this.”
“You’re their man,” said Shvets, holding Ivanov’s eyes. “The whole thing was a plan to eliminate me. A setup. Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
“We have. Many times,” said the president. “I for one am convinced that Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova is telling the truth, and that she is a selfless, brave citizen. Viewing the circumstances of her recruitment, she had no choice but to show her loyalty to you. We have forgiven her and hope to make use of her many talents in the future.”
Shvets lowered his head. “My God,” he said. “They’ve done it.”
“That will be enough,” said the president. “Rise. We will accompany you back to your cell.”
Shvets stood, his knees strong, his posture that of the soldier he had once been. He left the table and opened the door to the corridor. As he walked, he kept his head held high.
He did not feel the barrel of the pistol touch the nape of his neck or the bullet crash into his skull. He saw a brief flash of light, and then there was nothing.
The president lowered the gun. “I told him that if I discovered that a Russian had tried to have you killed, I would personally execute him.”
Ivanov looked at the corpse. “Good riddance.”
The president suddenly cocked his head, eyeing Ivanov with suspicion. “You aren’t, are you?”
“What?” asked Ivanov.
“An American agent.”
Ivanov looked at the president. A smile broke on his lips and he began to laugh. A moment later the president joined him, and for a long time the laughter echoed off the cold stone walls.
“You know,” said the president, catching his breath, “it occurs to me that there is a sudden opening that requires filling. Would you have an interest in assuming the directorship of the FSB?”
Igor Ivanov swallowed. “It would be an honor.”
78
The call came at 6 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Alone in his bed, Frank Connor took the cell phone from beneath his pillow and studied the incoming number. At once he sat up, wide awake. “Yeah,” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s me,” responded Igor Ivanov. “I’m in.”
Epilogue
Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province
Afghanistan
It was close to sunset when the battered pickup arrived. Before the dust could settle, a half-dozen children ran from mud huts and sturdy stone dwellings and surrounded the truck. Massoud, the village’s three-legged mongrel, led the charge, barking madly and baring his teeth. Once Massoud had belonged to the United States Army, but the soldiers left him behind after a grenade claimed his leg and the valley was no longer friendly.
None of the twenty or so men seated around the communal fire made a move toward the truck. They continued to chew on naswar, the sticky brown powder blended from tobacco and opium, while keeping their eyes glued to the goat slow-roasting over the flames. It was their first meat in a week, and a good meal took precedence over a visit. No one of importance arrived at dusk and without prior warning.
Only Khan, the village elder, rose to greet the tall stranger who jumped from the rear of the truck. The visitor was dressed in native clothing, with the region’s white scarf bound around his head. A coarse black beard flecked with gray covered much of his face, yet even in the failing light one could not help but notice his dark, searching eyes. Over his shoulder, he carried a leather bag, and he approached with respect.
“Who are you?” asked Khan in Pashto, one Afghan to another.
“A doctor.”
Khan recognized the accent at once, but hid his surprise. It had been more than a year since the crusaders dared venture so far south. It would take only a word to have the man executed. Yet, there was something in his regard that begged attention. “What is your name, my friend?”
“Jonathan.”
Khan shook the visitor’s hand and held it in his grasp long enough to know that the man was good and to be trusted.
“My granddaughter is ill, Dr. Jonathan,” said Khan. “Can you help?”
Jonathan Ransom looked at the mud huts and the open fire and the faces of the children raised to him in expectation. High on the mountain, the sun’s dying rays cast a calming purple light over the rugged landscape. He was home.
“I will try.”
Acknowledgments
As always, I am indebted to a great many people for their efforts and assistance in bringing this book to life.
First, I would like to thank Detective Superintendent Charlie McMurdie of the London Metropolitan Police.
Also, at New Scotland Yard, I would like to thank Detective Chief Inspector Chris Nolan.
Other assistance in London was given by David Cleak and Ken Lax-ton, as well as by a former member of MI5, who wishes to remain nameless. Or else!
Thanks to my friend Thomas Sloan for making the introductions.
Back Stateside, my thanks to Dr. Doug Fischer, Special Agent with the California Department of Justice; to Dr. Andrew Kuchin at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, for his expertise in all matters Russian; and to Dr. Jon Shafqat, for his medical expertise and subsequent close reading of the manuscript. And to Tom Rouse at Qualcomm, who helped me take apart a cell phone and explain what was inside.
A certain individual gave tremendously of his time to offer a primer on the nuclear energy industry. I came away convinced that nuclear energy offers us a safe, sustainable, and clean path to energy independence. For the many hours we spent together, and the umpteen cups of Starbucks hot chocolate, I’m grateful.
At Doubleday, I offer my heartfelt thanks to every member of the Rules team: Bill Thomas, John Pitts, Todd Doughty, John Fontana, Alison Rich, Bette Alexander, and especially to my brilliant editor, Stacy Creamer. And now is a good time to welcome my new editor, Jason Kaufman. Last but not least, a special nod to the one and only Steve Rubin. It’s a privilege to work with such a tremendous group of professionals.
I reserve a special thanks for my agent, Richard Pine, and his talented and hardworking colleagues at Inkwell Management, notably Michael Carlisle, Elisa Petrini, Masie Cochran, and Charlie Olsen. Over the years, our relationship has grown from professional to personal. Inkwell is family. Richard, you’re my brother.
On a personal note, I’d like to thank the team at the Body Refinery in Encinitas, California, especially my trainer, Michael Barbanti, who goes the extra mile to find new and imaginative ways for me to work off my creative anxieties. Res firma, mitescere nescit.
Finally, I would like to give a “shout-out” to my family, who inspire me to give it my best day in, day out: to Noelle and Katja, who I love more every day, and to my wife, Sue, who is always my first and best critic.
This book is dedicated to James F. Sloan. I got to know Jim while researching The Devil’s Banker. Back
then, Jim headed up the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network (FinCEN). He and his team pulled out the stops to illustrate the varied ways and methods used to track terrorist finances. When I met with Jim in his office, I sensed right away that I was in the presence of an extraordinary individual. Jim possesses the quiet confidence and steely competence of the born leader. Prior to working at FinCEN, he put in over twenty years with the Secret Service, retiring as Special Agent-in-Charge of the Baltimore office. I’ll never forget the smile on his face when he showed me the photograph of him driving the Popemobile during John Paul II’s visit to the United States in 1979. The Irish Catholic boy from Springfield, Massachusetts, had made good!
Over the years, I never stopped in D.C. without paying Jim a visit. I followed his career ever upward as he left FinCEN and joined the Coast Guard as their first civilian Deputy Commandant for Intelligence. In that time he had several opportunities to leave government service for the far richer fields of private security. He turned them down, feeling (rightly) that he could make a greater contribution to the country and to our society by continuing to serve in the government.
Two years ago, Jim contracted ALS, better known as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” It was a bitter and incomprehensible blow. This was not supposed to happen to a healthy, vital man who had so much left to accomplish, so very much to live for. My initial reaction was disbelief and sadness. Then, I got mad. How dare this disease strike a man who exemplifies the best in the human spirit?
At this printing, Jim continues his valiant battle against this terrible illness. He is weakened in body, but not in mind. That same confidence, charisma, and steadfastness that I observed when we first met hasn’t deserted him.
It never will.
RULES OF BETRAYAL
BY CHRISTOPHER REICH
COMING FROM DOUBLEDAY
SUMMER 2010
Rules of Vengeance Page 40
