Rules of Vengeance (17 page)

From London, Jonathan had been transported in a blacked-out ambulance. He’d ridden alone, except for the company of a police officer who’d told him to “shut it” every time he’d started to ask a question. Ten minutes before arriving, the ambulance had stopped and the driver had come into the rear bay and supervised the draping of a black hood over Jonathan’s head. Only when Jonathan had been installed in his bed had the hood been removed.

That was three hours ago.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Someplace quiet and out of the way,” said Graves. “Someplace where we can have a heart-to-heart discussion about this morning’s events without too many prying eyes and ears.”

“We need to make sure that this is getting through to you,” said Detective Chief Inspector Ford.

“Oh, it’s getting through,” said Graves, stepping closer. “Dr. Ransom is a clever man. No doubting that. Well, then, Dr. Ransom, let me begin by saying that there’s very little you can tell us that we do not already know. Namely, that you arrived yesterday morning on a Kenya Airways flight from Nairobi, that you’ve come to attend a medical conference and are staying at the Dorchester Hotel, and that you’re planning to leave in two days’ time.” He paused. “All we want from you is an honest accounting of what you were doing at Storey’s Gate this morning.”

“We have a tape of the bomb going off,” said Detective Chief Inspector Ford. “In fact, we have three or four views of it going off from a variety of angles.”

Graves propped a portable DVD player on Jonathan’s bedside table. He hit the play button and the screen filled with a long shot of Storey’s Gate. Directly in the center of the picture was the gray BMW Jonathan had followed from North London. A few seconds passed and the driver’s door opened. Emma stepped out and walked toward the intersection of Victoria Street. Jonathan watched as she took up position at the crosswalk and stayed there as the light changed and the pedestrians around her left her side. The motorcycle police escorts arrived and blocked traffic. The first SUV came into the picture and zoomed around the corner. Then the second, followed by the pack of Mercedeses. Suddenly there was a flash. When the screen came back into focus, it showed smoke and flames billowing from the BMW. One of the Mercedeses lay on its side; another had crashed into a lamppost. But Jonathan didn’t spend time studying the wreckage. He was too busy staring at the intersection, looking for Emma, wanting to be sure it was really she whom he’d seen.

“She’s gone,” said Graves, as if privy to his thoughts. “Your wife, I mean. Emma Rose Ransom. That is who you were looking for, isn’t it?”

Here it was, then, thought Jonathan. Truth or fiction. Confess or deny. The moment he had to decide whose team he was really on.
Tell them everything
, Emma had instructed, twelve hours and a thousand years ago.
They know it anyway
. If only it was that easy. He weighed the facts as he knew them. Emma had knowingly planned and executed a car bombing that had taken the lives of seven people and grievously wounded many more. She had lied to him about her purpose for being in England. She had made him an unwitting accomplice to her deeds. All this against the loyalty a husband owed his wife.

“My wife’s dead,” said Jonathan. “She died in a climbing accident in the Alps six months ago.”

“So we’ve heard. When we were checking you out, we found a warrant for your arrest issued by the Swiss Federal Police in February. They sent over your file. It contained a photograph of your wife, presumed dead in a climbing accident, February the eighth of this year. Which makes her turning up in London a few days ago doubly strange.”

Days ago?
Jonathan was unable to keep himself from reacting to the news. “That’s impossible,” he managed woodenly. “She’s dead.”

“Is that right? Why don’t we see about that? These pictures were taken in London thirty-six hours ago.” From a folder, Detective Chief Inspector Ford spread a series of photographs across the blanket covering his lap. They showed an elegantly dressed woman with auburn hair standing inside an elevator. In all of them, the woman’s face was lowered and it was hard to get a good read on her features. Still, it was glaringly obvious to Jonathan that the woman was Emma.

The police officer picked up one of the photographs and compared it to a picture blown up from one of the outdoor CCTV cameras on Victoria Street. “Is that or is that not your wife?”

“I’m not certain,” said Jonathan.

Ford set the pictures taken in London next to Emma’s passport picture, which had been provided by the Swiss authorities. There was no denying that it was the same woman. “And now?”

“It looks like her,” said Jonathan. His head throbbed. He was too fatigued to keep up the pretense.

“So we may assume that she is alive?”

Jonathan said nothing.

Ford picked up the photographs. “Does the name Robert Russell mean anything to you?”

“No,” said Jonathan. “Should it?”

“He was murdered yesterday morning. The first picture we showed you of your wife came from a surveillance camera in his building. We have evidence implicating her in Russell’s killing.”

The DVD was still playing, showing the BMW exploding from a different position up the street.

“One second she’s there,” said Graves, pointing a finger at the screen. “Bang goes the car, and the next, she’s gone. A bit spooky, actually. Where’d she go? She was too far away to get vaporized by the blast. Look closely. DCI Ford is just across the intersection. You can see her before and after. But your wife’s disappeared. We still can’t figure it.” He turned off the machine. “So what were you trying to do, Dr. Ransom, running down the street like that?”

Jonathan didn’t answer.

“What?” demanded Graves.

“I was trying to stop her.”

“So you knew there was a bomb?”

“No, I just—”

“Admit it,” said Graves. “You just said that you were trying to stop her. What happened? Have a last-second change of heart? That it? New to this kind of thing, are we?”

Jonathan stared at Graves. “I didn’t know anything about the bomb,” he said.

Graves came closer. “We have reports that you were extremely anxious upon your arrival at Heathrow. Set off all kinds of bells and whistles. Sounds to me as if you knew exactly what she had planned.”

“That’s not true,” said Jonathan. “I only found out Emma was in London last night.”

“Come on,” said Graves, suddenly assuming a comradely manner. “Stop lying to us. Surely you knew about it. You were helping her at every turn. Did you smuggle in the explosives? Swipe some plastique from your rebel buddies in Africa? Was that your part of the job? Later you can tell us how you managed to sneak it past our boys. Right now we’re more interested in why you and your wife wanted to blow up the Russian interior minister. Who exactly are you working for, Dr. Ransom?”

Jonathan recalled the white, red, and blue flag flying from the car’s antenna. The interior minister could count himself lucky to be alive. Emma didn’t fail often. “I don’t know anything about the Russian or about the bomb. I was invited to London to give a speech at a medical conference. I’m not working for anyone.”

“Then what were you doing at the exact location where the attack took place?”

“I already told you. I was trying to stop her.”

“Stop a dead woman from carrying out an attack you didn’t know was going to take place?” Graves continued relentlessly. “Please, Dr. Ransom, listen to yourself. Don’t insult our intelligence.”

Just then Jonathan heard a boom far in the distance and its echo drifting over the countryside. He was familiar with the sound of heavy artillery. He fingered the rough wool blanket. They had him tucked away at an army base. He was outside the system, and he knew all too well the kinds of things that happened there. If he ever wanted to get out of here, he was going to have to cooperate. Emma had been right. He must tell them everything.

“Emma worked for the U.S. government,” he said. “She was an operative for an organization called Division. It’s part of the Defense Department, but don’t bother looking it up. It doesn’t exist. At least, not officially. Something happened in Switzerland last February. A mission that went wrong… Actually, Emma made it go wrong. Several of Division’s men were killed, including its leader. It was better that we pretended she was dead.”

“Why’s that?” asked Graves.

“Emma knew that Division would come after her. She had to hide. I only found out that she was in London last night. I was at a reception in my hotel for the conference and Emma sent someone to tell me she was here. She arranged for us to meet at an apartment on Edgware Road.”

Kate Ford asked for the address, then shared a look with Graves. “And why did she wish to see you?”

“To say goodbye. She wanted to let me know that it was getting too dangerous for her. She couldn’t risk making contact with me in the future. She came to my hotel at four this morning. She got a call before she left my room. I sensed something wasn’t right. You know, that she was up to something. I asked her why she was really here and she told me to mind my own business. I didn’t know it was an operation, or that it had anything to do with any Russians. I thought it was something to do with her keeping safe. Staying one step ahead of them. Anyway, it didn’t matter one way or the other. All I cared about was that she was leaving. I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing her again. When she left the room this morning, I followed her. She went to a house in Hampstead and picked up the car there.”

“Do you have an address?” asked Ford.

“No, but if you take me there, I can probably find the place.”

Graves shot Ford a disbelieving glance. “Go on,” he said.

“After that I followed her to Storey’s Gate. She stayed in the car for a while, and that confused me. But as soon as I saw the motorcade I knew. With Emma there aren’t any maybes. That’s why I was shouting at her. I didn’t want her to go through with it.”

“So it’s your word that you didn’t know anything about her plan to assassinate Igor Ivanov until you reached Storey’s Gate?” Ford pressed.

“Of course I didn’t know,” said Jonathan more confidently, now that the truth was in the open.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Graves, snorting as if he wasn’t having any of it. “The Americans have never heard of your wife. We checked with Langley first thing. We wanted to give them a chance to ’fess up, as it were. You being an American. They denied it absolutely. Never heard of Emma Ransom. Don’t know a thing about a plot to kill Ivanov. Shocked. Angered. Offered their help, and I believe them. They’d never even consider carrying out that kind of an attack on our soil. I’ve got contacts at the FBI, too. Your wife’s name drew a blank again. The only vaguely truthful thing you’ve told us so far is that she was in Switzerland last February, but you want to know something? The British passport she was traveling on was a phony. And now you want me to believe that she worked for some secret spy shop you called…” Graves prompted Jonathan for the name.

“Division,” said Jonathan.

“Division,” repeated Graves, “that either is or isn’t a part of the United States Department of Defense. And that she was some sort of operative traipsing around Europe and pulling jobs. I’m sorry, Dr. Ransom, but we have a word over here for that kind of story. Bollocks.”

“Believe what you want,” said Jonathan. “I’m sick of this.”

Graves shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t throw you to the wolves.”

Jonathan sat up, ignoring his pounding head. “Because I am not involved. Can you get that through your thick head?”

Graves stepped closer to the bed. “We put that shirt you were wearing through one of our fancy machines. It said that there was enough explosives residue on it to set off a dozen scanners. At some point in the past twenty-four hours you’ve been in direct contact with plastic explosives.”

“That’s impossible.” But even as Jonathan said the words he knew that it
was
possible—that somehow it was Emma’s doing.

Graves went on. “As it stands, you’re an accomplice to murder and guilty of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act. You’ve admitted that it was your wife we saw on the tape. We have pictures of you at the scene moments before the attack. Add to that the explosives residue on your shirt and you won’t last a morning at the Old Bailey. The only pity is that we don’t execute scum like you anymore. We just let them rot in prison. Now tell us where we can find your wife.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I don’t know any more than you.”

Jonathan sank back onto the bed. It was over. He was going to jail for a very long time.

   The policemen came back into the room an hour later. It was evident from the start that their demeanor had changed. Not the woman. She was as stiff and upright as ever. But Graves appeared more relaxed, determined as ever, but looser, as if he’d come upon a new and guaranteed way to make Jonathan talk.

“Listen closely,” said the man from MI5. “I’m not saying I believe one word of what you told us. However, I made it a point to speak with a man you might know. Actually, he’s an old friend of mine. Marcus von Daniken, from the Swiss Service of Analysis and Prevention. I see the name rings a bell. Anyhow, seeing as how he and I both do more or less the same job, I gave him a shout and asked if he knew anything about your wife. Told him she was involved in today’s business and that I had you in custody. He might have let slip a few things that I’m fairly certain others wouldn’t want to get out. I’m not saying I know anything about an attack on an El Al jetliner or an organization called Division. For the record, I don’t, and that will never change. But von Daniken did tell me one thing. Do you know what that is?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“He told me that you were a tenacious SOB. And that you moved hell and high water to discover what your wife was up to. Given those facts, and given some other complexities that we are not at liberty to reveal, I’m going to ask you to do something for us.”

“What’s that?”

Graves sat down on the edge of the bed and took his time crossing his arms and getting comfortable. “There’s a reason that we’re out here in the country at Hereford instead of downtown at Scotland Yard,” he said. “Once you’re named as a suspect, I can’t come within a mile of you. A criminal act has taken place. Innocent people are dead. Someone has to pay, and you were involved. It’s an enforcement matter, pure and simple. Even as we speak, my friends over at SO15 are baying for your blood. But I’ve talked to my boss, and he’s talked to theirs, and all things considered, we’ve decided it’s best that this part of the investigation remain under my purview a little longer. For now, there are to be no charges filed against you. Technically, you’re a free man.”