Authors: Christopher Reich
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” asked Emma, her whisper strangled with rage.
“I should ask you the same question,” said Jonathan.
Emma tossed the flash drive onto the desk. “So Connor finally got to you. He must be very proud of himself. What did he tell you?”
“That you helped Balfour bring the cruise missile’s warhead down from the mountain. That was enough.”
“That must have surprised him.”
“Why, Emma?”
“You mean Frank forgot to tell you? He betrayed me, Jonathan. He wanted to have me killed.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Then what do you know?”
“I know that you’re helping a half-crazy arms dealer deliver a nuclear warhead into the hands of a very rational, very capable terrorist who will not hesitate to use it against the United States.”
“Then you really don’t know a damn thing at all.”
“I know that Prince Rashid tortured you.”
“Is that how Frank convinced you? ‘Save your poor wife’?”
Jonathan’s hand touched hers. “Are you all right?”
“I’m alive. Only a few new scars. Practically beauty marks in our trade,
darling
. Now, why don’t you mind your own business?”
“You are my business.”
“I was never your business,” she flared. “It was the opposite way around. Get that through your head once and for all.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you want,” she said, as if suddenly too tired to convince him otherwise. She shifted her weight, and her expression changed. On a dime she changed from beleaguered to ice-blooded operative. “I am curious as to how he got you inside Balfour’s armed camp.”
“The Pakistani government wants Balfour out. He hired a Swiss plastic surgeon to alter his features so he can disappear after he sells the warhead.”
“And Connor swapped you in for him?”
“Something like that.”
“So now you know what it’s like to be someone else. How does it feel?”
“I don’t like it much.”
“Neither did I.” Emma dug her chin into her throat and adopted Connor’s sincere baritone. “Buck up and take one for the team, Dr. Ransom.”
“Stop it.” Jonathan grabbed Emma by the shoulders. “Why are you still here?”
“It was part of our deal. He saved my life. In return I helped him bring down the warhead, and now I’m teaching him how to
live under the radar. I’ve been doing that for almost ten years. Who better?”
“Balfour’s handing over the bomb tomorrow. We can’t let that happen. Where is the exchange taking place?”
Emma smiled coldly, eyeing him from across their personal no-man’s-land. “You’re out of your depth, Jonathan.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.”
“You could have said no.”
“That wasn’t a possibility.”
Emma stepped out of his grasp. “Go back to your room. Go to sleep. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’d better have a damned good reason for leaving. In fact, I’ll give you one. You don’t do well under gunfire. Your nerves are shot. All this excitement tonight got to you.”
“I can’t do that, Em.”
“You’re nothing to Connor. He knows you’ll never make it out alive. Do you really think Balfour’s going to let you walk away from here after you’ve altered his appearance? You—a Westerner? The color of your skin marks you as a permanent liability. You still have a chance if you go now.”
“There’s a nuclear warhead in that building right there. I’m not going anywhere until I get that information to Frank Connor. Where is Hangar 18? What does EPA stand for?”
Emma didn’t answer.
“We can do this together,” he said. “We can make it right.”
“I’m not on your team, Jonathan.”
At that moment he caught a look in her eye that frightened him. It was a fanatic’s regard, a militant anger that had never been there in the past. Once she’d been his lover, his wife, his confidante, and his closest friend. In the space of an instant, he realized he no longer knew her. She was a stranger, and if he wanted to live, he had to consider her the enemy.
“I won’t let you help him, Emma.”
Her eyes dropped to the knife in his hand. “Be careful,” she said. “You could hurt someone with that.”
“Where is the exchange taking place?”
Quick as a cobra, Emma locked her iron grip around his hand and raised the knife to her throat. “Did they teach you where to insert the blade so I won’t be able to scream? It’s right here. Just below the collarbone.” Jonathan tried to pull the knife away, but she was too strong. “One downward thrust,” she continued. “The blade pierces the heart. Do it quickly enough and there’s no time to react.” She dropped her hand and raised her jaw, leaving herself open and vulnerable. “There,” she said.
Jonathan yanked the knife away. In the dim light, her eyes shone like blown glass. He could smell her hair, see the beads of perspiration on her cheek. She raised her face to his and kissed him, her lips lingering on his. “Leave or I’ll tell Balfour who you really are.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Try me.”
“And if I tell him you’re my wife?”
Emma pushed her body against his. “You don’t have the balls.”
Jonathan stepped back, regarding her with horror. “What happened to you?”
Their eyes locked, and something in Emma softened. Her shoulders dropped, and she sighed. “I’m—”
The words were cut off by Balfour shouting from the motor court. “How could it be only one person?” he demanded as doors opened and slammed and boots pounded the bricks. “And we couldn’t even catch him! I should have all of you shot at dawn! No blindfolds. No last cigarettes. You’re all worthless! How are my guests?”
Emma glanced out the window. “He’s coming inside. Go back to your room. Do as I told you. It’s your only chance.”
Jonathan checked the motor court and saw that it was empty. He turned back to Emma. “You’re what?” he asked.
But that Emma had disappeared at the first sign of danger. Any trace of vulnerability had vanished as if it had never been. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d better be gone tomorrow or I’ll keep my promise. Do you understand?”
Jonathan threw a leg over the windowsill and found a foothold. Carefully he climbed down the wall.
It was only when he was back in his room and the window was closed and he was feverishly writing down all the information he’d gathered that he remembered he had left Connor’s flash drive on Balfour’s desk.
Balfour opened the door to
Jonathan’s room without knocking. “You are all right?” he asked. “No phantom intruders came to snatch you?”
Jonathan rose from the desk, where he had been studying Balfour’s medical records. “I’m fine,” he said, the picture of overwrought concern. “Is it over? What exactly happened?”
Balfour entered the room with a reticent swagger, like a warden preparing to search a jail cell. His hair was mussed, his jacket open, and a pistol dangled from one hand. “That is what we are endeavoring to discover.”
“You said something about its being the Indians.”
“That was my first thought. I seem to have been wrong. They would never mount such a scattershot operation. Anyhow, my problems with the Indian government are not your concern. The compound is secure. Two of my men are dead, but I am safe. There is no need to change our plans.”
“Two dead? That is terrible. So it was an attack.”
“An attack, yes,” said Balfour. “Quite definitely an attack. We are still working out its aim.”
“And it is finished?”
“Do you hear any more gunfire?” asked Balfour sharply.
“No.”
“Then it is finished.”
“And the surgical suite is all right?”
“Intact,” said Balfour, making a slow, steady circuit of the room.
Mr. Singh entered the room behind him, his eyes locked on Jonathan.
Jonathan didn’t question the intrusion. He played the frightened
guest who refused to be mollified. “But there were so many explosions. Isn’t this a matter for the police?”
“The explosions were only hand grenades and an RPG that took out my men on the roof. Mostly it was small-arms fire. The police do not intercede in this kind of thing. It is an army matter, but frankly, the army has no interest in protecting me these days.”
Balfour skimmed the desk with his pistol, pushing aside a copy of his medical records and tilting his head to read Jonathan’s notes on the pad of paper beneath it. Jonathan heard Emma telling him to find a good reason to leave. If he chose to follow her advice, the time was now. He could feign battle stress, admit that the tumult was too much for him. He could say he was a doctor, not a soldier, and ask to be put on the next plane home. Then he remembered that Revy had operated on a Chechen warlord in Grozny and a Corsican gangster under a death warrant from the national police. The Swiss doctor had logged too much time in stressful conditions for a few hand grenades and an RPG to shatter his nerves. But Revy’s history was beside the point. Jonathan had committed to the mission, and he never backed out on his word.
“And you stayed here the entire time?” asked Balfour, sliding open the closet door and admiring the suits.
“Of course,” said Jonathan. “I wasn’t about to leave.”
Balfour murmured, “Of course,” while Singh maintained his baleful glare.
“So we are still on for the morning after next?” said Jonathan.
“Certainly.” Balfour had moved into the bathroom and stood rifling through Jonathan’s shaving kit, pretending not to be interested in what he found. “I came to tell you that Yulia is quite distraught,” he called. “She will not be able to accommodate you. You would like another, perhaps?”
“No, no,” said Jonathan. “I’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.”
“No condoms,” said Balfour quizzically, poking his head into the bedroom.
“Excuse me?”
“I would think that a doctor would know well enough to bring sheaths.”
But Frank Connor was every bit as smart as Ashok Balfour Armitraj. He had read the correspondence between Revy and his client enough times to master the details of Jonathan’s cover. Sex, he knew, was foremost on the single male traveler’s agenda.
“If you need to borrow one,” said Jonathan, “look in the drawer.”
Balfour slid open the vanity’s drawer and picked up a silver packet.
“Help yourself,” said Jonathan. “I hope it’s not too big.”
For once, Balfour had no response.
“Good night, Ash,” said Jonathan. “I’m glad that you’re safe.”
Balfour dropped the condom back into the drawer and walked from the bathroom.
Peter Erskine greeted Connor as
he walked through the door to Division. “Frank, am I glad to see you. The phone’s been ringing off the hook from Islamabad for the past hour. Where have you been?”
“Busy,” said Connor as he made a beeline through the operations center to his office. “What’s the big news?”
“The ISI is talking about a firefight at Balfour’s estate.”
“At Blenheim? Close the door behind you. Go on.”
Erskine shut the door to Connor’s office and leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. “The ISI has been keeping a man on Balfour even though it withdrew protective custody. He said all hell broke loose about forty-five minutes ago. Small-arms fire. Grenades. RPGs. He wasn’t inside the compound perimeter, but from what he saw, it was a fierce little battle.”
“Any clue that it was Indian intelligence trying to snatch Balfour? The RAW’s had a hard-on for him since that Mumbai thing. They probably got wind he was blowing town and finally got up the guts to make their move.”
“No word. It’s too early to tell.”
“So that’s it? Small-arms fire? A couple grenades? How long did this ‘fierce little battle’ last?”
“A short while, maybe twenty minutes.”
Connor set down his satchel on his desk. “Hell, it was probably Balfour showing off some of his weapons.”
“I don’t think so. Two ambulances reportedly went to the estate.”
Connor snapped to attention. “Oh? Well, did they or didn’t they?”
“It’s Pakistan. What looks like an ambulance might be a repair truck. Anyway, they didn’t leave in a hurry.”
“Meaning whoever they went to look after was dead.”
Erskine approached the desk. “Have you heard from Jonathan Ransom?”
“He only arrived at the compound eight hours ago. I told him to keep quiet until he has something concrete. Find Colonel al-Faris and get him on the line. If it’s our boy who was killed, I want to know it. Try him at his home, and if he’s not there, at his mistress’s place.”
“Do you have her number?”
“It’s on file,” said Connor. “She works for us.”
Erskine turned to go, pausing at the door. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. We got a response from the Brits about the picture of Prince Rashid’s associate we sent over to them—the creepy guy we couldn’t identify at Balfour’s hangar in Sharjah.”
Connor looked up sharply. “What about him?”
“They think he’s Massoud Haq. Sultan Haq’s older brother.”
“Can’t be. Massoud Haq is in Gitmo. They picked him up back at the beginning. He was a general in the Taliban army. Led a cavalry charge against a battalion from the 82nd Airborne Division. He’s a crazy one, all right. He’s as hardcore as they come.” Connor shook his head, shuddering at the possibility. “Nah, no way it’s him. He’s in custody for the duration.”
Erskine pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Massoud Haq was released six months ago,” he said. “I checked. The Department of Justice wrote a brief clearing him.”
“What?” Connor dropped into his chair, uttering a rare expletive. “Not another one. Half the guys we’re targeting these days spent time in Gitmo. Doesn’t anyone realize we’re fighting a war? Last time I checked, you didn’t release the enemy until they surrendered.” He paused and studied Erskine. “When exactly did you find this out, Pete?”
“It came in while you were gone.”
Connor considered the answer evasive but said nothing. He signaled that they were done, and Erskine left the room. Connor watched him return to his desk, wondering just how long ago that had really been. Demoralized and thoroughly pissed off, he opened his
satchel and took out his legal pad and his BlackBerry. He scrolled through his messages but saw nothing from Danni. He called Mossad headquarters in Herzliya and this time demanded to speak to the director of the service.