Rules of Vengeance (25 page)

“MI” for Milano.

He had found his chariot.

Jonathan approached the truck at a confident clip. He climbed onto the passenger-side running board and pulled at the door. It was open, and he swung inside and slammed it behind him. No one was inside. Keys dangled from the ignition. A GPS monitor dominated the dashboard, and cigarettes overflowed from the ashtray. The radio was playing, filling the cabin with saccharine Italian pop.

There was a curtain behind the seats. He parted it to reveal two single beds side by side, unmade, with clothing strewn across the blankets. In place of girly mags, there was a pile of newspapers—French, Italian, and English, issues of
Der Spiegel
and
Il Tempo
, and a volume titled
History of Stoicism. Great
, he thought,
the truck driver as intellectual
. He glanced over his shoulder. The driver had emerged from the ticket office and was hurrying back to the truck, the phone still clamped to his ear.

Jonathan wedged himself between the seats and pulled the curtain closed. Gathering a ball of clothing, he lay down on the far bed, arranged the blankets over him, and covered himself with the wrinkled (and sweat-stained) garments. He’d just set his head down when the door opened and the cab rocked with the arrival of the driver.

The truck lurched ahead. There was the spark of flint, and then a hint of tobacco as the driver fired up a cigarette. All the while he talked. He was Italian, a southerner by his accent. He was speaking to a woman, probably his wife, and the subject was grave. She had spent too much for a new mattress when the family needed a new water heater. Civil war was imminent.

There was a thump, the truck descended a ramp, and then came a hollow knock as the truck advanced across the ferry deck. It drew to a halt. Jonathan waited for the driver to descend and avail himself of the myriad pleasures aboard ship. The travel time across the channel was one hour and thirty-three minutes, and the brochure he’d read mentioned plenty of duty-free shopping, several bars and restaurants, and even an Internet café.

But the driver didn’t budge. For the next ninety minutes he remained on the phone with his spouse, whose name, Jonathan learned, was Laura, and who apparently had at least three dimwitted brothers who owed the family a great deal of money. He did not stop smoking the entire time.

   The ferry docked according to schedule, at 8:30. Ten minutes passed before the truck moved an inch, and another ten before its wheels rolled onto solid ground. Again the rig stopped. This would be customs and immigration, Jonathan knew. He reminded himself that he was riding in a brand-new eighteen-wheeler with chrome pipes belonging to a worldwide freight company. It was the other guys that got searched: the independent contractors, the start-up freight companies, the drivers whose vehicles were in poor condition. Still, it wasn’t only his imagination that the line was moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Over and over the driver mumbled under his breath, “Come on. What the hell is the problem?”

Sixty minutes passed.

The truck advanced, only to stop yet again. But this time there was a bone-rattling shudder as the driver put on the air brake. The window was lowered and Jonathan overheard the exchange.

“Where are you coming from?” asked the customs inspector.

“Birmingham,” answered the driver, in respectable English.

“License and manifest, please.”

The driver handed both over. A few minutes passed as the paperwork was studied and returned.

“Pick up anybody on the way?”

“No. Against company rules.”

“See anyone trying to hitch a ride near the coast?”

“It was dark. I see no one.”

“You’re sure? Man about six feet tall, dark hair, maybe a little gray, an American?”

“I’m sure.”

“So you don’t have anyone back there in your cabin?”

“You want to look? Come on, then, I show you.”

The inspector did not respond to the offer. “And you never left the truck alone?”

“Never!”

The heartfelt lie boosted Jonathan’s hopes that he was with the right driver.

“Where you going to?” continued the inspector.

“Berlin, Prague, and Istanbul. It says so on the papers. Come on, mister. I’m in a hurry.”

A thwack on the door as the inspector patted the truck goodbye. “Off you go.”

Not daring to move, Jonathan listened from his blind bivouac as the truck gained speed and the ride smoothed out, and he was transported across the fertile plains of northern France toward Berlin and Istanbul.

   Frank Connor showed up at St. Mary’s Hospital, Praed Street, Paddington, at 11 a.m. sharp. To his credit, he brought a bouquet of flowers, a tin of chocolates from Fortnum and Mason, and the latest Jilly Cooper novel. He was dressed as befitted a visit to an ailing relative, in his gray Brooks Brothers suit that was loose around the shoulders, tight across his back, and didn’t stand a chance of covering his impressive gut. His coarse gray hair was combed neatly, even if the rabid humidity had made a wreck of it.

On the opposite side of the ledger, Connor had been drinking since the night before, when he had missed capturing Jonathan Ransom by a mere ninety seconds and learned that Prudence Meadows had shot and killed her husband in the bargain. Despite a shower, a change of clothes, and a handful of Aqua Velva for each mottled, sagging cheek, he still reeked of alcohol and cigars.

Connor took the elevator to the fourth floor. There was no air conditioning (another reason he detested England), and by the time he strode to the nurses’ station his shirt was soaked through. He gave his work name, Standish, and claimed to be a relative. The duty nurse confirmed that his name was on the family list and showed him past two officers of the Metropolitan Police waiting to interview Prudence Meadows as soon as she was able.

Once inside the private room, it didn’t take Connor long to lose his temper. He’d been on a short fuse since missing Ransom at the hotel two nights before, and the sight of his injured, feckless employee set him immediately on edge.

“Where is she?” he asked, tossing the flowers onto a side table and dumping the book on her patient’s tray.

“He doesn’t know,” Prudence Meadows said, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Bullshit,” said Connor, who by now had categorically abandoned his resolution against profanity and even forgotten that he’d ever had one. “He was with her for two hours the night before and they shacked up in his hotel room yesterday morning. What do you think they talked about—the weather?”

“All I know is that he wants to get to her before the police do.”

“So he’s going to track her down? How?” Prudence didn’t answer, and Connor slammed his hand down on her meal tray. “How?”

Prudence looked at Connor, but only for a moment. “Ask him. He did it before.”

“Where was he headed? He must have given you some clue.”

“I have no idea.”

“You sure? You haven’t gone soft on me because of your husband, have you? You still know where your allegiance lies, right?”

Prudence turned her face toward Connor, her cheeks flushed. “My allegiance ended three months ago, when you fired me!”

“You’re wrong there, sweetie,” Connor fired back. “We’re just like those assholes in Belfast. Once in, never out. I’d suggest you bear that in mind.”

Prudence turned away and stared out the grimy window.

Connor circled the bed and blocked her view. “How did the surgery go?”

“Successful, as far as I know.”

“Yeah, what’d they do?”

“Realigned some bones, repaired some nerves. I was too drugged up to get most of it.”

Connor reached over and grabbed her hand, lifting it up and examining it.

“Don’t!” said Prudence.

“Hurt much?”

“Stop! You’ll tear the stitches.”

Connor dropped the hand onto the bed. “I’ll do worse than that if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. And I mean the real version.”

Prudence clutched her hand to her chest, whimpering.

“Anytime you’re ready,” said Connor.

With a fearful glance, she took a drink of water, then related the events of the past evening as accurately as she could remember. She was an intelligent woman, and her account was close to verbatim.

“You’re forgetting one thing,” said Connor, when she’d finished. “If you shot your husband, why didn’t you shoot Ransom, too?”

“You told me that he had to be taken alive. I was following your instructions.”

“You qualified with that pistol. You could have shot him in the leg or taken off his big toe. Hell, I don’t know. Either way, we’d have Ransom. Instead you broke down and called an ambulance.”

“I was in shock,” she retorted.

“You failed your training,” said Connor, examining the IV and the machinery monitoring her respiration and blood pressure.

“My husband was dead. What did you want me to do?”

“I wanted you to follow orders. If you’d waited five more minutes, we could have cleaned everything up ourselves. I hope you have your story straight for the police.”

“I do.”

“You better.”

Connor moved closer to the bed, bending at the waist and bringing his face close to hers. “One slip-up—one mention of who you work for— and I’ll know. I’ll see to it that your British passport doesn’t hold up under too much scrutiny. I’ll make sure the authorities get a look at your past. You’ll be deported inside of ninety days, and I don’t think that your husband’s family will stand for your girls going with you. It’s not so nice in that shitty little republic you come from. There’s always one war or another going on there.”

“Get out,” said Prudence Meadows.

But Connor didn’t budge. “I wonder what your girls will do when they find out that it was you who killed him.”

“Get out!” she screamed.

A nurse entered the room. Seeing the patient’s agitated state, she ordered Connor from the room. He made a show of resisting, yanking his arm clear and calling the nurse a few choice names before allowing himself to be escorted to the elevator. The policemen were on their feet at once, asking if they could be of assistance. But by then Connor had quieted down. Still, they’d noticed and made a point of referring the incident to their superiors, a report of which landed on Charles Graves’s desk the next morning.

The nurse, too, filed a detailed report in the hospital log.

On the street, Connor’s belligerence vanished. He had done what was needed. No more, no less.

   Before earning her promotion to detective chief inspector, Kate Ford spent three years with the Flying Squad, the elite undercover unit of the Metropolitan Police charged with preventing armed robberies. The Flying Squad took its name from the cars originally assigned to the unit in 1918, two Crossley Tenders that had belonged to the Royal Flying Corps. Cockney rhyming slang transformed “Flying Squad” to “Sweeney Todd,” and today everyone on the force simply called it the Sweeney.

It was an exciting time. Nights spent lying in wait for armed criminals, days staking out banks and jewelry shops. High-speed chases. Lots of banging heads and plenty of arrests. There was even the occasional gunplay though Kate had never actually shot anyone herself. But one thing she’d witnessed time and time again was the criminal’s habit when cornered of climbing to the top of whatever house or building he was hiding out in, in the hope of escaping. Some hid in the attic. Others made it all the way to the roof. It didn’t really matter where they went, just that they kept moving up. Motion lent them the momentary and illusory notion that they still had a chance of getting away. Hope died hard.

“That Skye?” said Graves, seated next to her in the twin-engine Hawker business jet. “Never been here. Now I know why.”

“Me neither,” said Kate. “Bit bleak. Don’t you think?”

Graves didn’t respond. He was too busy playing with his cell phone. All during the flight he’d been waiting for an update on Ransom’s whereabouts, striding to the cockpit every ten minutes to inquire if Thames House had radioed in. Now, with the landing strip in sight, he could find out for himself.

As the plane made its final approach, Kate stared out the window at the desolate landscape. The land was flat, scarred, and windswept. Little grew except gorse and heather. Away to the north there was a flat, sandy beach, and beyond that nothing but the sea stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

Isabelle Lauren was just like the others. Instead of cowering beneath the eaves of her home in Hull, she’d fled north, to the roof of her country. The Isle of Skye, off the northwestern coast of Scotland.

Poor Isabelle, thought Kate. Even here there was nowhere to hide.

The plane dropped and the wheels struck the tarmac. As soon as the ladder had been lowered, Graves rushed down the stairs, phone to his ear. Following a step behind, Kate was treated to a string of profanities. “What is it?” she asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

Graves raised a hand, signaling for quiet. “Have you gotten on to the French police?” he asked. “And send a note to Interpol while you’re at it. Have them blast an e-mail to every federal, state, and local police force on the continent. He can’t get far.” He ended the call and turned to Kate. “They found the car Ransom stole from the Meadowses’ place parked in a long-term garage near the Dover ferry. They’re canvassing the dock, but so far no luck. No one matching his description bought a ticket. We’re taking the CCTV films into custody to have a look for ourselves.”

“How many destinations do ferries out of Dover serve?”

“Too many,” said Graves. “Boulogne, Calais, Dunkirk. Boats left to all three before nine this morning.”

“It’s a quick drive from London. If I were Ransom, I wouldn’t want to hang around too long. What’s the first boat of the day?”

“P&O to Calais at six-fifteen,” said Graves. “Next one to Boulogne at seven. Have you ever ridden on one? It’s quite a show. Hundreds of trucks and private vehicles. He could have hitched a ride with any one of them. Who knows where he’s going?”