Rules of Vengeance (47 page)

And then, louder than all that had gone before, silence.

Seven seconds had passed.

Graves walked to the woman. She was dead, effectively sawed in half by the shotgun’s vicious barrage. He noted that a single bullet had pierced the center of her forehead. It was not Emma Ransom.

He walked into the bedroom.

A man lay facedown on the floor, his hands cuffed behind him. He was dressed in a gray suit; his hair was the color of steel wool.
It’s him
, thought Graves.
Shvets
.

“Turn him over,” he said.

A policeman rolled the body over and Graves swore very loudly.

At first glance, the man was of Middle Eastern extraction. He let loose with a violent protest in the suddenly familiar language. It was Farsi.

“He says they’re Iranian diplomats,” translated Graves. “You can find their passports in the bedroom.”

A moment later another policeman emerged from the back room, clutching two diplomatic passports from the Islamic Republic of Iran. Graves opened the first. It identified the holder as Pasha Gozhi and stated that he was attached to the Foreign Ministry. “Mr. Gozhi,” he said, “what are you doing with a crate of machine guns and plastic explosives in your apartment?”

“I wish to see the ambassador,” he said. “I have diplomatic immunity.

You have no right to break in. Where is my wife? Anisha! Are you all right?”

Graves looked at Kate. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “We’re royally screwed.”

Kate placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe we’ll get that reading on the location of the phone call Emma Ransom placed last night.”

“Yeah,” said Graves, without hope. “Maybe.”

   From his flat on the fourth floor of a building half a block away, Sergei Shvets watched in horror as the Black Panthers of the French RAID prepared to assault the Iranian safe house he’d used two nights earlier. There was no time to wonder how they had found it. A leak. A slip-up. A spy nestled close to his breast. A postmortem of the operation would locate the source. Right now, there was only time to act. Time to ensure that his months of careful planning did not result in unmitigated disaster. Reaching for his phone, he dialed a number to be used by him and him alone.

“What is it, Papi?” asked Emma Ransom.

“Where are you?”

“Inside the CPF. We’re cutting it close. There was an extra security presence at the main gate.”

“We had to expect as much once the Brits discovered the real reason for the bombing.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with. Just hurry and get the job done as quickly as possible. I’ll be waiting at the airport.”

“Keep the engines running.”

“You have my word. Now go.”

Shvets hung up the phone and scrambled into the bedroom, where he gathered his clothing and stuffed it into his overnight bag. Using a damp cloth, he rubbed down the lamps, light switches, the television remote control, and any appliances in the kitchen he might have touched. Satisfied that the flat was clean, he put on his coat, slipped his pistol into his waist holster, and put on his jacket. He checked his watch. It was nearly six-thirty Just then there came an eruption of gunfire from outside, a succession of bangs that crackled like a cap gun. Shvets hurried to the window. The uniforms were nowhere in sight, and a crowd had gathered on the corner. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, and a window shattered on the upper floor of the apartment building. People screamed as the glass rained down. Smoke escaped the window and drifted into the sky. Picking up his bag in one hand and his phone in the other, he headed to the front door.

“Yuri,” he said, calling the pilot. “Get the plane fueled and ready for takeoff. I’ll be there in an hour… Yes, I know it’s early.” He opened the door. “There’s been a change of—” Shvets stopped in midsentence. “Jesus Christ,” he said, looking at the man standing a foot away and pointing a pistol squarely at his face. “What are you doing here?”

   “Hang up.”

Jonathan Ransom pressed the pistol against the heavyset man’s forehead and shoved him back into the apartment.

The man thumbed the off button hard enough to break it. “Where’s Alex?” he asked, with a heavy Russian accent.

“Dead.” Jonathan closed the door and put his back against it. “You’re Shvets?”

“Call me Papi. Lara does. Or would you prefer it if I called her Emma?”

“Call her whatever you want. I saw the file. Now turn around and walk into the living room. Sit down on the couch. Hands on your legs where I can see them.”

Shvets turned and walked into a sparsely furnished corner room with large picture windows. “You’ve become quite the professional,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.
Spacibo.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Shvets lowered himself onto the couch, placing his hands squarely on his legs. “Happy?”

“Great,” said Jonathan distractedly, his attention drawn to the hive of police vehicles jamming the street four stories below and the swarm of uniforms buzzing among them. He’d jumped from one hornet’s nest to another. “Why are the police down there?” he asked.

“They think that your wife and I are in the building on the corner,” said Shvets.

“Where is she?”

“Not there. You needn’t worry.”

Jonathan looked back at Shvets, wincing as pain radiated across his upper back and neck. Once the police had started banging down the door in Èze, he’d quickly come to the conclusion that there was no other way out than to fake his own death. It had worked for Emma, he’d reasoned. Why not him?

Jury-rigging the Peugeot to drive without him wasn’t a problem. He’d set cruise control at a hundred, hauled the dead Russian’s body into his seat, then opened the door and bailed out. Landing on the macadam road was another matter. He’d done his best to drop and roll, but somewhere between the drop and the roll, he’d impacted squarely on his left shoulder, resulting in a partial dislocation and, he suspected, a hairline fracture of the collarbone. It was raw, undistilled anger that had driven him to his feet and propelled his first uncertain, excruciating steps down the hillside. It was over, he’d told himself again and again as his shoulder cried out and his elbows bled. He was done being screwed with.

Half an hour later he’d limped into the station in Monaco, where he’d cleaned himself up in the lavatory before boarding the local to Nice. From there, he’d connected to the 22:58 to Paris, a TGV or
train à grande vitesse
, and had arrived at the Gare de Lyon at 5:24.

“What’s La Reine?” he asked. The words had figured prominently in a series of dispatches he’d found on the laptop written by Shvets to an agent referred to only as “L.” The dispatches were written in a furious shorthand, full of euphemisms and monikers, few of which he could suss out. He was able to decipher enough, however, to learn the address of Shvets’s apartment in Paris and that Emma was involved in an operation that called for blowing up a well-guarded facility, which was set to take place today.

“La Reine,” Jonathan repeated. “What is it?”

Shvets didn’t respond. He sat massaging his bruised jaw, a confident, almost cheerful expression lifting his great jowls.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask them.” Jonathan nodded his head toward the police below.

“Go ahead. They’ll arrest you and throw you in jail before you can get two words out. From what I understand you’re looking at a lengthy stretch in a British prison.” Shvets spoke in a languorous monotone, as if he’d seen the worst the world could throw at him and he wasn’t impressed.

“Right now I’m not thinking about myself. I want to know about Emma.”

“If you like, I can arrange for you to see her. Tomorrow you can be together. Far from here.”

“Not tomorrow. Today. Where is she this minute?”

“You would do right to consider my offer. I can make sure that you’re safely away from here. Free. Without the risk of lifelong incarceration. What do you say?”

“No,” said Jonathan. “I’ll take a pass.”

From the street below came the whoop of a siren. Jonathan glanced out the window to see two ambulances parting the sea of police officers and first responders. He looked back at Shvets, trying to imagine that this tired gray man in a rumpled suit was the director of the FSB.

“Where did you find her?” asked Jonathan.

“Lara? She comes from a town in Siberia on the Kolymsky Peninsula. A bleak place. Her father was a deckhand on a fishing vessel and was absent eleven months of the year. Her mother worked in a fish-processing factory and drank. She beat Lara. It was after she’d broken her arm and leg that an agency intervened. Lara was seven. We have a unit that searches for people like her. Bright, rootless, in need of the state’s assistance. Diamonds in the rough, you might say. Lara was brought to our attention by the director of her school. At thirteen she was doing differential calculus and had taught herself Italian, French, and German. Her IQ was off the charts.” Shvets looked away, his eyes suddenly alive, illuminated by the past. “I brought her to Moscow myself. You should have seen her. Such desire. Such ambition. Such emotion. And, of course, such beauty. Without a trace of Western corruption. She was a little thin, perhaps, with terrible eczema, but a man could see that with the proper nutrition and medical care she would ripen into something special.”

“Did you bother to ask her if she wanted to join the KGB?”

“We didn’t have to. It was her idea from the start. She was born to it. One of the rare few. She’s like a shark that will die if it stops swimming. Except in place of oxygen, she requires adrenaline. Don’t fool yourself, Dr. Ransom. She was never a nice girl.”

Jonathan stepped closer to the Russian. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. Closing his fingers more tightly around the grip, he thumbed the hammer into the cocked position. He’d killed before. He’d put the barrel of a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger. He had felt nothing. No remorse, no recrimination. Only a dull rumble somewhere deep inside that he’d done what was necessary. He decided that he despised Shvets. It would be easy to kill him. “Where is she?”

Shvets shook his head, staring at Jonathan as if he were an object worthy of pity. “I know why you’re here. You think you’ve come to stop her, but that isn’t really the truth. The truth is that you still love her. You think that somehow she will listen to you and abandon her mission. You’re wrong.”

“Be quiet.”

“Let me ask you something.”

“What is it?”

Shvets looked into Jonathan’s eyes. “Do you really think she betrayed Division just because she wanted to stop a jet full of civilians from being shot down?”

Jonathan didn’t answer.

Shvets continued. “The same woman who without the slightest qualm detonated a bomb on a busy street at midday in central London? Did they tell you how she killed Robert Russell? She broke his neck with her own hands, then pushed his body off the fifth floor.”

“The plane was different,” said Jonathan. “There were too many passengers. Too many innocent lives. She differentiated between people in her business and people out of it.”

“And what about all the others in her past? Do you even know how many operations she undertook on behalf of Division? How many innocents did she kill then?”

Jonathan fought to find an answer, but his mouth was suddenly dry. “What are you trying to say?”

Shvets rubbed his cheek, his steadfast gaze conveying a comradely understanding, some fraternal bond, as if he didn’t want Jonathan to suffer any more than he already had.

“No,” said Jonathan, without prompting. “I don’t believe you.”

“Surely you’ve suspected as much,” said Shvets. “You’re a smart man. You must have asked yourself why the sudden change of heart.”

“The plane was full of innocent civilians. Division had gone too far. She refused to allow it.”

“No, Jonathan, that isn’t the reason, and you know it.”

Jonathan shook his head, not wanting to hear what he knew in his heart to be true. What he’d suspected ever since he’d seen Emma in London.

“Emma has been working for me longer than you know,” said Shvets. “It was I who ordered her to stop Division from bringing down that jet.”

“You’re lying.” The words were weak, a rote response to an unimaginable treason. “I don’t believe you.”

“But you do. I can see it. I ordered her to thwart the attack on the El Al jet, not because I cared about the passengers, but because I intended to destroy Division.” Shvets scooted to the edge of the couch. “And you, Jonathan, helped me. It was you who killed General Austen. It was you who stopped the drone even when your precious Emma was too injured to complete her mission. The way I see it, she isn’t the only one working for me. You are, too.”

Jonathan sat down. Suddenly he was exhausted, the weight of too many hours awake and too few hours of sleep overcoming him. He knew that Shvets was telling the truth. Not because he felt it, or because he could see it in his eyes. But because nothing else made sense. In the end, there was no other logical explanation for Emma’s actions.

Jonathan turned and stared out the window. The police had come back down out of the building and he watched as someone was stretchered through the front door. He recognized a familiar face and looked closer. It was Graves, and behind him, DCI Ford. Jonathan had come so far. And now to learn this…

Jonathan caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun in time to see Shvets leveling a pistol at him. He threw himself to the floor, raising his own pistol and firing. He saw a spit of flame and felt something cut the air close to his ear. Landing on his side, he cried out as his injured shoulder gave way, but somehow he kept pulling the trigger, the pistol bucking in his hand, the shots wild, undisciplined. Rolling to his feet, he brought the gun to bear, the sight centered squarely on Shvets’s chest. He pulled the trigger, but the clip was empty. He fired dry.