Authors: Christopher Reich
“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.”
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.
Balfour navigated a winding path through the stacks. A welcoming committee waited at the far side. Jonathan counted ten men dressed in traditional shalwar kameezes, and one, an older, darker figure, wearing
the black robes of an imam. Several vehicles were parked behind them: a Hilux pickup, two jeeps, and a van.
The Range Rover halted and Singh hauled Jonathan out of the car. At the same time Balfour’s men decamped from their vehicles and formed a perimeter. There were no fewer than twenty of them, all wearing identical tan suits, all carrying identical Kalashnikovs. Singh barked a command, and two of the men unloaded the crate and carried it to a large table.
Haq approached Jonathan and handed him a damp cloth. “Clean yourself up.”
Jonathan dabbed at his eye, and Haq patted him on the shoulder. It was the gesture of victor to vanquished, and Jonathan pushed his hand away. “I’m done,” he said, tossing the cloth back.
Haq walked to the man in the black robes and kissed him three times on the cheek. The men exchanged words and Haq pointed at Jonathan. The older man approached. “You are the healer who killed my father?”
Jonathan didn’t answer. The truth embarrassed him. He had been an unwitting pawn when he should have been an active participant. His fingers itched for a knife to plunge into the man’s gut.
“My name is Massoud Haq. I am the head of our clan. You will return with me to our tribal lands. We have a particular punishment for murderers. We bury them to the neck and allow the wronged family to cast stones until they are dead. I will cast the first in my father’s name.”
“I look forward to it,” said Jonathan, acidly.
“As do I.”
Two of the scientists Jonathan had seen at Blenheim supervised the removal of the warhead from the crate. The weapon did not resemble the pictures Connor had showed him. It had been reduced in size. Instead of an artillery shell, it resembled a larger version of a stainless-steel thermos. The scientists unscrewed one end of the device and performed a series of tests for the benefit of Haq and his brother. English was the lingua franca, and Jonathan heard the words “twelve kilotons,” “undetectable,” “timer,” and “detonation code.” Sultan
Haq carefully punched six digits into a keypad. The device was resealed and placed in a second crate. Looking closely, Jonathan noted the words “U.S. Department of Defense” stenciled on the side.
Massoud Haq placed a phone call and issued a succession of instructions in Pashto. Jonathan understood enough of the language to know that a bank was involved and the subject was the transfer of $10 million. Massoud Haq hung up, and immediately thereafter Balfour made a call to his banker, speaking an account number that Jonathan recognized as one he’d memorized the night before. Balfour smiled broadly, and Jonathan knew that the transfer had been successful.
Balfour walked to Jonathan and extended his hand. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know of a good plastic surgeon?” He laughed loudly, showing his perfect white teeth, his eyes smiling with the knowledge that even though his chosen surgeon had been exposed as a spy, no harm had come from it, and he could still take pleasure in knowing that his retirement was gilded and that surely it would not be too difficult to find another physician to provide him with a new face and a new identity.
“Bastard,” said Jonathan, ignoring the outstretched hand, at which Balfour cocked his head and laughed even louder.
There was a harsh, slapping sound, and Massoud Haq’s face dissolved in a miasma of gore. Like a rag doll, he collapsed to the ground.
Machine-gun fire broke out from all directions. There was a terrific explosion, and a pack of Humvees roared into the hangar.
The smile vanished from Balfour’s face. Cowering, he ran to a stack of crates draped with webbed netting and fell against them.
Jonathan hit the ground and crawled toward the safety of the nearest stack of crates. Looking to his left, he saw the word “Semtex” stenciled ten centimeters away.
The exchange of gunfire devolved into a pitched battle. Balfour’s men, along with Mr. Singh and Sultan Haq, held position at one end of the hangar, taking cover behind their vehicles. Soldiers in assault gear advanced from among the crates of guns and ammunition at the other end. Jonathan was caught in between.