Rules of Vengeance (12 page)

They backed up the disk and watched as Ken Laxton walked backward out of the elevator. The unknown woman remained inside, which meant that she was there when Laxton had gotten on. The frames went back further. Eleven seconds earlier, at 3:16:45, the door opened again and the woman retreated. “She got on in the basement,” said Kate.

Reg Cleak pursed his lips, as if he were uncomfortable accepting everything that went along with Kate’s conclusion. She thrust her hands in her pockets and turned away from the screen. “But how did she get in?”

The chief of security shook his head. “We checked our log and accounted for all visitors these last four days.”

Kate considered the information. “Get me the disks covering the garage.”

   It took them another hour, but they found what they were looking for. At two o’clock the previous afternoon, Russell had pulled his Aston Martin DB12 into the garage, parked in his reserved space, and walked to the elevator. Five minutes later the garage lights dimmed. And five minutes after that, the Aston Martin’s trunk sprang open. Out climbed a woman in fashionable attire, slinging a leather bag over a shoulder. The bag appeared to be the right size to heft the tools required to cut through the basement wall and patch it up again afterward. The light was too dim, however, to get a good view of the woman. She crossed the garage briskly, keeping her face angled away from the camera.

Kate studied the woman as she entered the elevator and rode up one floor to the basement. Never once did the intruder lift her face so that the camera might get a good look at her. A pro, Kate reminded herself. Maybe more than that.

“She’s our ‘man.’”

   Frank Connor did not like England. The food was lousy, the weather was dismal, and the place was more expensive than God. The English liked their beer warm and their roast beef cold. Worst of all, they insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road. Twice he’d nearly been run over after forgetting to look to his right before crossing the street. Draining the last of his Coke, he chomped on an ice cube and watched as the quilt of green pastures and rolling foothills rose up through the gathering dusk to greet him. It was only after the wheels touched down and the jet drew to a halt that it came to him why he disliked the country so. It wasn’t America.

A car and driver from the office waited on the tarmac at Stansted Airport, 48 kilometers northeast of London. Connor deplaned and handed his passport to a waiting official. The pilot had radioed Connor’s details ahead. A cursory check was made of his passport to confirm his identity and he was waved through. No one inspected his luggage.

“And so?” asked Connor as he climbed into the front seat.

“She’s here,” said the driver, a bluff, slope-shouldered Scot, steering the car onto the motorway.

“Did you get a visual?”

“No, but your boy Ransom’s up to something. He put the dodge on us.”

“Explain.”

“He checked in to the hotel at eight this morning. Took a run around the park at lunch, then spent the afternoon in his room. At six he came downstairs for a cocktail party. Did a little mingling. Had a few beers. He’s a civilian, and it shows. He didn’t give neither me nor Liam a look. After thirty minutes, he made a run to the WC. We couldn’t get too close, so as not to spook him. When he came out, he was with one of the docs at the conference. Tall gent. Distinguished. The two of them ducked into a conference room down the hall. We weren’t suspicious right off. After all, Ransom had been acting normally until that point.”

“And?” asked Connor.

“After about five minutes, the doc comes out, but Ransom doesn’t.”

Connor winced, then reminded himself that this was what he had wanted. A sign, even if he was unable to capitalize on it. “Where did he go?”

“The only way out of the room was a window that dropped him onto Park Lane. We got a man outside and around front in time to spot Ransom heading down Piccadilly. He was pretty far off by then. We caught him going into the Underground three blocks down the road. That’s where we lost him.”

“Where he ‘put the dodge on you’?”

“It’s a zoo in there,” the Scot protested. “It was rush hour. We’ve only got two warm bodies to do the job, not a saber squadron.”

Connor grunted. He could add another reason that he hated this country. They couldn’t follow anyone worth a damn. “It’s all right,” he said consolingly, because it was his policy always to encourage his men. “I’m sure you did your best.”

Division’s agents were drawn from all four corners of the intelligence world. Some came out of the Army’s Special Operations Command and had previously qualified as Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, and the like. Others transferred laterally from the Defense Intelligence Agency, from the Office of Consular Operations at State, or even from the Secret Service. Finally, there were those who drifted in from foreign shores. One of Division’s best-kept secrets was that it contracted international operatives off the freelance market: foreign-trained intelligence agents who had lost their billets by dint of budget cuts, ideological disagreements, misbehavior, or any combination of the above.

“Where is he now?”

“He strolled back into the lobby without a by-your-leave at eight o’clock. But it was like we were watching a different man. Before he’d been calm, real loosey-goosey. This Ransom was very jittery indeed. Kept looking over his shoulder as if someone were about to sneak up behind him and put a round into the back of his head. I overheard him tell another doc that he’d gone for a walk in the park because he was jet-lagged. For two hours? Load of crap. Something had him spooked.”

Or someone
.

It was after ten when Frank Connor passed Marble Arch and drove down Park Lane. He craned his neck as they passed the Dorchester. “Did you find the other doctor?” he asked. “The one who led him to the conference room?”

“Negative. He disappeared into thin air. He was
not
a civilian.”

“So she’s working a team.”

“It looks that way boss.” The driver glanced sidelong at Connor. “But for who?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Connor stared at the glittering lights of the porte cochere, the richly liveried doormen, and the succession of beautiful people parading in and out of the revolving doors. He pulled a crumpled notepad from his jacket and wrote, “Nightingale in London.” “Nightingale” being the last operational designation for Emma Ransom.

“Where to, Mr. Connor?”

“Notting Hill. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

   Ka-tink.

Jonathan heard the noise and awakened instantly.

He bolted upright in bed, eyes open, ears straining to pick out the slightest sound. It was his habit to sleep with window and curtains open. Light from the full moon dusted the room with a silvery hue, casting sinister, elongated shadows. He saw nothing to alarm him and heard no further sounds. Throwing back the covers, he slid out of bed and walked to the door. It was closed, the lock secured, but the brass chain he’d fastened before going to sleep was dangling free, swaying ever so gently.

He turned back toward the bed, his senses pinched taut. He was not sure if someone had actually entered the room or if he’d tried to gain entry and failed. Jonathan turned on the lights. The bedroom was empty, so he walked toward the salon and ducked his head into the spacious sitting room. Again he saw no one. A warm breeze blew into the room, ruffling the curtains.

Ka-tink
.

His glance fell to a side table where the curtain had harmlessly knocked a cut-glass vase against the wall. He moved the vase out of the way of the offending curtain. Relaxing, he put a hand to his chin and asked himself if he really had fastened the chain earlier. Maybe. Maybe not. He’d been tired, and more than a little stressed.

Just then, from close by came the hollow ring of a glass being set on a hard surface. He felt a presence behind him. Immediately he reached for the vase. He heard a footstep and thought,
This is it. They know I’ve seen Emma. They’ve come for me
. But before he could raise the vase, before he could spin to see who was behind him, a firm hand cupped his mouth and drew his head forcefully back.

“Ssshhhh. I’m not here.” She spoke in the lowest of whispers.

Familiar lips lingered against his ear. The hand lessened its grip. Jonathan turned, seeing Emma standing with her fingers to her mouth. He signaled his understanding and waited, motionless, as she circled the room, waving a small rectangular instrument close to the walls, the lamps, the television, and the telephone. She found what she was looking for behind an equestrian print, and in the bathroom attached to the back of a vanity mirror. She dropped the electronic listening devices into a glass and filled the glass with water from the sink. Then she closed the bathroom door and crossed the room to him.

She was dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a black T, and black flats. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail, her cheeks flushed, her face unadorned with makeup. She ran her hand across his bare chest. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this.”

“Do what?”

She kissed him with her eyes open, then stepped back and peeled off her shirt. Never dropping her gaze, she unfastened her brassiere and let it fall to the ground, then stepped out of her jeans.

   “How did you get in?” he asked.

“I have a room key.”

Somehow the notion didn’t surprise him. “And the chain?”

“That’s a parlor trick. I’ll show you someday.”

“I’ll bet,” he said. A parlor trick, just like her ability to field-strip a pistol blindfolded. “I thought we were going to see each other tomorrow.”

“Lack of discipline. No excuses, sir.” Emma lay on the bed, entangled in the sheets. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“What is?”

“What I have to tell you.”

Jonathan turned on his side. He looked into his wife’s eyes, cataloguing the flecks of amber in green. “Here I am,” he whispered. “Tell me.”

Emma ran a finger across his cheek. “I’m leaving.”

“You mean for another five months?”

“Longer.”

“You’re sure? How do you know?”

“Because I have to go away.”

“You already went away,” he said. “You said you were going to work things out and that we’d see each other when it was safe.”

“I hoped it might work that way.”

“How long are you talking?”

“I can’t say…”

“A year? Two?”

“Yes… I mean, I don’t know. A year, at least. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.”

Jonathan studied her features, seeking out the secret places where she hid her doubt. But he saw only steadfastness: the same resolute, stubborn woman he’d fallen in love with. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t. We both know that.”

“Stop talking as if I have a say in this. It’s your decision. It’s your damned life.” He threw back the sheets and left the bed.

“Not anymore it’s not,” said Emma. “I traded it in ten years ago.”

“For what?”

“Duty. A sense of belonging. The need to contribute. The same thing we all sign up for.”

“You did all that,” he said, turning, approaching her with a hand extended. “You did more than that. The government should be grateful.”

Emma lowered her gaze. “Division caught hell for the operation. Congress wanted to shut them down, but the president’s given them one last chance.”

“Another chance? Is he crazy?”

“I told you,” said Emma. “Division is like the Hydra. Cut off its head and ten more grow in its place. Division has its uses. The president knows better than to limit his options.”

“Have you spoken with them? With Division?”

“You’re joking.”

“I just mean—”

“What do you mean?”

“With all your contacts, I thought you might find a way to explain why you had to disobey your orders. They’d have to understand.”

“I’m rogue, Jonathan. I didn’t just disobey orders, I went completely off the reservation. I tried to take down the whole ship. That makes me the enemy.”

“But you stopped a passenger jet from being shot down.”

“But nothing. Besides,
you
saved the plane. The first time I show my face, I’ll get a bullet in the head. I thought I’d explained that to you. You think I’m living like a war criminal for the fun of it?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure I don’t know half of what you’ve been through.”

“No, you don’t.” Emma drew a breath. “Look, the new man running Division is a complete bastard. His name is Frank Connor. He’s not one of us. I mean, not trained in the field or any of that. His whole career he’s been behind a desk, and now he’s making up for lost time. God knows how they chose him. He’s smart enough to realize that his overseers won’t let him lift a pinkie until he takes care of me.”

“Are those his guys downstairs?”

“Probably.”

Jonathan sensed that there was more. “What happened, Em? Has he already tried? That scar on your back—what’s it really from?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

Emma stood and faced him. “Then, yes, Jonathan, he’s already tried. It’s what we do, remember? We target enemies. We find them, we follow them, and when we’re good and ready, we take them out. The only difference is that this time it’s me wearing the bull’s-eye.”

Jonathan nodded. He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew better. “Where were you?”

“Rome.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Seeing old friends, Jonathan. At least, I thought they were my friends. I was wrong. Anyway, there I was in the Borghese Gardens, standing on a corner, waiting for a ride to dinner. I broke every rule in the book. I was alone without backup in a city I didn’t know well. For ten minutes my guard was down. And that’s when they came at me.”

“Jesus Christ, Emma.”

“Blakemore likes his knife,” she said offhandedly as she fingered the livid scar. “He forgot I knew that. I got away with twenty-seven stitches and a lacerated kidney. Guess I’m lucky.”