Rules of Vengeance (6 page)

“A don with a Browning semiautomatic in his desk? What does he teach—marksmanship?”

“History. The duke wanted me to know that his son took a first when he was there.”

“I’m sure we’re all suitably impressed. Did the duke say what he studied?”

“Oh yes.” Cleak picked up the pistol and admired it. “Russia.”

   “How the hell did he get to London without us knowing it?” asked Frank Connor, Division’s newly appointed acting director, as he studied the photograph of Jonathan Ransom taken at the Terminal 4 arrivals hall of Heathrow Airport exactly three hours earlier. “The last you told me he was still at that godforsaken camp in Kenya.”

“Turkana Refugee Camp. That’s correct.”

“Not looking very spry is he? I don’t know how anyone can survive in that hellhole. How long’s he been there? Five months?”

“He arrived in Kenya at the end of February,” said Peter Erskine, Connor’s number two. “He hasn’t left since. He suffered a bout of malaria two months back. Dropped twenty pounds.”

“When was our last sighting?”

“A week ago. One of our contacts with Save the Children reported seeing him at the camp.”

“Save the Children?” Connor flushed with anger. “Who will we be using next? The Make-a-Wish Foundation?”

He tossed the photo on top of Ransom’s file, a binder stuffed four inches thick. The material inside dated back eight years, to Ransom’s first assignment in Liberia. But Jonathan Ransom was not in any way affiliated with Division. He’d never received a U.S. government paycheck. In fact, until five months ago, he’d had no idea that he was working on its behalf. Ransom was what professionals in the trade call a pawn, a private individual manipulated to do the government’s work without being made aware of its intent. Frank Connor had another name for them: schmucks.

Sighing, Connor removed his bifocals and rose from his desk. He would turn fifty-eight in a month, and at 4:38 Eastern Standard Time this fine summer morning, he was feeling every bit his age. Four months had passed since he was appointed acting director of Division, and those months counted as the hardest, most frustrating of his life.

Division had been created prior to 9/11 in the wake of the Central Intelligence Agency’s failure to find and punish those responsible for the bombings of the Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia and the United States embassies in Nairobi and Dar-es-Salaam and numerous other attacks against American interests abroad. The fire-eaters in the Pentagon were upset and eager for revenge. They argued that the CIA had grown soft, that it had become an organization of paper-pushers content to hide behind their desks. Instead of developing flesh-and-blood sources inside hostile territory, they were satisfied to wait for the next download of satellite imagery to study beneath their microscopes. The CIA didn’t have a spy worth two cents on the ground in any of the world’s hot spots and hadn’t mounted a successful black op in ten years.

In short, the job of gathering intelligence could no longer be entrusted solely to the spooks in Langley.

It was the Pentagon’s turn.

The United States military had the resources and the culture to put men into the field capable of taking the offensive in the global war on terror, referred to in directives and white papers as “GWOT,” a name as ugly as the scourge it set out to defeat. “Proactive” was the watchword, and the former president liked the sound of it. One National Security Presidential Directive later, Division was created. A beast as secret as it was stealthy, to serve at his behest, and his behest only.

Division’s first successes came quickly. The assassination of a Bosnian general wanted for genocide. The targeted killing of a Colombian drug lord and the pillaging of his networks. The kidnapping, interrogation, and, later, execution of several Al-Qaeda supremos in Iraq and Pakistan. All were important victories, and Division’s reputation benefited accordingly. The operations it mounted grew in scope. More money. More operatives. More latitude to navigate the quicksilver currents of the gray world. Goals were no longer tactical but political. Removing a bad actor from the scene was not enough. Ideological factors were to be considered. Fostering democracy in Lebanon and kick-starting the Orange Revolution in Ukraine were but two examples.

But success bred hubris. Not content to implement policy, Division began to make it. “Proactive” took on a new meaning. It was Acton’s theorem all over again: power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. Inevitably Division went a step too far.

In Switzerland six months earlier, a plan to foment war between Iran and Israel was foiled at the last moment by a Division agent gone rogue, and an international incident was narrowly averted. Behind closed doors, the president was forced to admit American involvement. Part of his penance involved the sharp curtailing of Division’s mandate. Its operatives were recalled, its offices moved out of the Pentagon. Division’s budget was halved and its staff sent packing. The coup de grâce came when it was decided that congressional permission was henceforth required to mount an operation.

In the eyes of the intelligence community, Division had been castrated. Word went out that it was only a matter of time until it was shuttered altogether. In the meantime, Division needed an interim director. And this time he would not come from the ranks of the military.

Frank Connor fit the bill perfectly. He was not a professional soldier. In fact, he had never worn his country’s uniform. The closest he’d ever come to firing a weapon was blowing off an M-80 firecracker on the Fourth of July when he was a teenager. But, make no mistake, he was a fighter. Thirty years of toiling in the darkest corners of the Washington bureaucracy had honed survival skills a combat-hardened vet would envy. He’d worked at State, Treasury, and the Office of Management and Budget. He knew where the bodies were buried in every building in D.C. But for the past ten years he’d been a regular face inside the E-Ring of the Pentagon. He’d been at Division since the beginning.

Connor was the dumpy guy sitting in the corner with the wrinkled shirt and sweat rings under his arms who made sure all the
i’s
were dotted and the
t’s
were crossed. When Division needed a plane to ferry a team from friendly Kazakhstan into unfriendly Chechnya, Connor knew that only a Pilatus P-3 would do, and promptly made the arrangements. If an operative in Seoul required a dummy passport to cross into China, Connor could obtain one within twenty-four hours. (And you could be sure that it was clean, meaning that the number was duly registered in its home country and it would never raise a flag.) Need to bribe a corrupt dignitary? Connor would call an obliging banker at one of a dozen tax havens around the globe and the transaction would be taken care of. A shipment of Kalashnikovs to forces friendly to the cause in Colombia? Connor had the number of every arms dealer in both hemispheres memorized, and he probably knew their birthdays, too. The word was that Frank Connor made things happen. Quickly. Efficiently. And, best of all, secretly.

But equally important to his overseers at the Pentagon was what Connor didn’t do. He didn’t plan. He didn’t intrigue. And he didn’t dream. One look at his sagging cheeks, pouchy eyes, and lopsided gait, and you knew he was an inside man. Which was exactly what everyone wanted. An inside man to keep Division running until it could die a secret, clandestine death.

And Frank Connor wouldn’t have disagreed. At least, not out loud. But Connor had his own ideas about the disgraced agency’s future, and nowhere did they include a premature death. Despite the disaster in Switzerland, he was still a believer. And contrary to what his better-dressed, better-coifed, and better-informed bosses thought, Frank Connor
did
dream. He
did
intrigue. And he
did
plan. To his mind, Division was not dead. It was only resting. Gathering strength while waiting for a chance to reclaim its former glory.

Frank Connor’s chance
.

His days as an inside man were over.

“Did you get the information on the medical conference he’s supposedly attending?” he asked.

“They’ve posted a website on the Net,” said Erskine. “I downloaded the essentials. Take a look.”

Connor studied the cover sheet. “International Association of Internists—21st Annual Congress. What’s so important about a conference that it lures Ransom away from his beloved field hospital?”

“He’s a keynote speaker. He’s set to deliver a speech tomorrow morning.”

Connor found the schedule of events. “‘Treatment of Parasitic Diseases in Pediatric Patients.’ I think I’ll take a pass. Where’d they say he’s staying?”

“Dorchester Hotel.”

“Not bad,” said Connor, raising an eyebrow as he flipped through the pages. “How many men do we have over there?”

“In London? Four, but one of them is on leave.”

“Four? You’re kidding me.” Connor shook his head. London was the intelligence capital of Europe. A year ago, Division had boasted posh offices alongside the U.S. embassy in Grosvenor Square, with a staff of twenty full-time professionals and another twenty contract men on call. “Get that sonofabitch on leave back, and I mean now. Set up a twelve-hour rotation at Ransom’s hotel. Two men on, two men off. I want them on site and reporting back within the hour. And see what you can do about scaring up some more manpower. Get in touch with Berlin or Milan. They’ve got to have someone.”

“Sure thing.” Peter Erskine was thirty, pale, and runner lean, with black hair kept in place by a fistful of gel and shifty blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He was third-generation spook. Deerfield, Yale, a Fulbright scholar, and a Bonesman to boot. His grandfather had worked with Allen Dulles in Switzerland during the Second World War and his father had been George H. W Bush’s deputy director of operations when “Forty-one” had occupied the director’s chair at Langley in the mid-seventies. Erskine was the silk to Connor’s sandpaper. The glimpse of ermine to reassure visiting dignitaries from the Hill that Division could be trusted.

Connor dropped the papers on the desk. “So he comes all the way from deepest, darkest Africa just to deliver a speech about tropical parasites to a bunch of wealthy doctors. I don’t buy it. He must know that we’re keeping an eye on him. She’d have warned him of that. Why would he compromise himself? He’s there for another reason.”

“I checked with the conference organizers,” said Erskine. “Ransom was invited three months ago. They’re paying his plane fare and his hotel expenses.”

“No,” said Connor, crossing his arms over his barrel chest and glaring at his deputy. “It’s her.”

There was no need to mention a name. “Her” was Emma Ransom.

Connor walked to the window. Division’s offices had been moved to a nondescript office building in Tysons Corner, an “edge city” complex 15 miles southeast of Washington. It shared the building with the IRS and the Bureau of Weights and Measures. From his perch on the second floor, he looked across a forlorn stretch of Virginian asphalt and an auto repair shop. It wasn’t exactly the Lincoln Memorial and the Reflecting Pool.

“She’s there, Pete. It wasn’t his idea to go to some highfalutin conference in London. He hates that kind of thing. It was Emma’s doing.”

“With all due respect, sir, I can understand her wanting to see her husband, but why would she choose London? It’s the most heavily watched city on earth. They have over fifty thousand closed-circuit television cameras set up around the city, and those are just the ones belonging to the government. The average Joe gets his picture taken fifty times just walking along Oxford Street. It’d be like going into a shark tank with a bloody nose.”

“Sounds just like her,” said Connor.

It was Emma Ransom who’d blown the operation in Switzerland and all but brought down Division. She figured number one on Connor’s list of VIPs. There would be no going forward for Division or for Frank Connor until she was taken care of.

“What about Ransom’s phone?” he asked.

“His cell? The number we have on file is registered to Vodafone.”

Vodafone was the largest cellular phone carrier in Europe.

“We know anybody in their London office?”

“Not anymore.”

Connor barely managed to suppress an expletive. He was Irish and Catholic and still went to mass twice a week. If he no longer quite believed, he still prayed with the fervor of a new convert. He was a man who believed in covering his bets. “When’s Ransom’s return flight?”

“Three days from now.”

“Three days? So he’s keeping a day free.”

“Technically, yes, but…”

“But nothing. She’s contacted him. She wants a meet.”

“But why?” persisted Erskine. “She’d never risk a meet. Not there. Not now. Not after what happened in Italy in April. She knows we’ll spot her husband coming into the country. She’s better than that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Connor placed his elbows on the table and cradled his meaty chin in his hands. His bloodshot brown eyes stared out the window, and when he spoke, it was as if he had forgotten that Erskine was in the room and was talking to himself. Rousing himself for the job to come. “We had a chance to take her out in Rome. We set the bait, we reeled her in, and then we muffed the job. Now, by the grace of God, we’ve been given another opportunity. She’s in London. She’s come to see her husband. I know it. And this time we’re going to get her.”

   Connor placed two calls before going. The first went to an unsleeping suite of offices on the first floor of the Pentagon called the Defense Logistics Agency.

“I need a jet.”

“Sorry, Frank. No can do. You’re not on the list anymore.”

“Forget about the list. This one’s off the books.” Connor tucked the phone under his chin while he rummaged through his desk for a passport. Canada. Australia. Belgium. He scooped up a Namibian passport under his work name of Standish and checked that the visas were intact. “So?”

“Is this about her?”

“One-way to London,” Connor went on, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I believe you have a Lear on standby for the secretary. He won’t be going anywhere today. The Saudis are going to press for an emergency meeting this morning. They want those F-22s bad.”