Rules of Vengeance (13 page)

“But how did they find you?”

“It was you.”

“Me?”

“You called. It was in April. They had your phone in their system.”

“But that’s impossible. I bought that phone in Nairobi. No one called me except my colleagues at camp.”

“I told you. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But it was just the once…”

“That’s all they needed. They got my number, my GPS coordinates. They engineered a phony meet. They used the name of an old contact. Someone they knew I would trust. As I said, I broke every rule.”

“I’m sorry.” Jonathan sat down, crestfallen.

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should never have kept the phone. The fact is that I wanted you to call. I wanted you to tell me that you had to see me. The hard part about running is that after a while you get tired. You forget that they’re there even if you can’t see them. You get lazy. Or, worse, sentimental.”

“And him?”

“Blakemore? He’s dead.” Emma said the words without emotion. It was her agent’s voice, the one she used when she talked about her work, businesslike and matter-of-fact, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about a man putting a knife into your side and you killing him in the ensuing struggle.

Jonathan looked on as Emma rubbed a finger across the scar. He saw a faint smile trace her lips. Where the hell did that come from? he wondered. A sense of victory? Survival? Revenge?

“I can go somewhere,” he said. “I can hide. After a couple of years, they’ll give up.”

Emma shook her head but said nothing.

“There has to be a way,” he continued.

Emma walked to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. “Do you have any idea what it took to see you this evening? Can you even begin to imagine the risks I ran to get into this room tonight? Sure, I may know my way around a locked door, but I can’t outguess every goon in town. You know what the first thing is that they teach you? In every op, you only get one chance: your first and your last. I’ve used up my nine lives, Jonathan. I’m running on faith. What I did tonight was just plain stupid. The problem is that I knew it all along and still I did it. I had to see you. You’re dangerous, Jonathan. You’re my poison.” Emma let go of him and walked toward the window. She stood, framed by the dawn sky, the curtains billowing gently around her bare legs. She turned to look over her shoulder and smiled sadly. “Emma Ransom died tonight.”

Jonathan stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He had mourned her once. He knew the misery that came with the loss of a spouse. But somehow this was worse. The idea that Emma was out there alive somewhere and that he could not see her was too much. A profound sadness settled on him.

They stood that way for a long time, watching as the sun warmed the trees in Hyde Park and the horses and their riders appeared along the serpentine trails, listening as the impatient, mechanized sounds of the city rose around them.

Emma’s phone rang. Without a word, she freed herself from Jonathan’s arms and found her phone. She checked the incoming number, then looked up at him. In an instant her disposition had changed. Her eyes stared at him with abandon, as if he were a stranger or, worse, the enemy.

Emma turned away and walked into the bathroom. She did not answer the phone until she’d closed the door behind her. When she came out two minutes later, the transformation was complete. She was no longer Mrs. Jonathan Ransom. She was the woman he had discovered went by the call sign Nightingale, a former operative for the United States government, and now a fugitive at large.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, gathering up her clothes in her arms.

“Who was that?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

Emma sidestepped him, but Jonathan quickly blocked her path. “Where are you going when you leave here?” he demanded.

“Get out of my way.”

“In a second. First tell me where you’re going.”

Emma lowered her eyes and began to walk around him. Jonathan grasped her arm. “I asked you a question.”

“And I gave you an answer. It doesn’t concern you. Please, Jonathan—”

“You didn’t come here to say goodbye to me. You’re on assignment or whatever they call it. You have it written all over you. One second you’re Emma—I mean, my Emma—the next you belong to them. Who was that on the phone?”

“Let go of me, Jonathan.”

The words were spoken crisply and with an absence of emotion that angered him that much more. Jonathan yanked her toward him, causing her to drop her clothes to the floor. “I want to know where you’re going.”

Suddenly the world was in motion. His feet were rising, his head was rushing at the carpet, and his arms were searching for something to grab on to. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

Hastily Emma scooped up her clothing and walked into the bathroom. The door slammed and he heard the lock engage.

Jonathan struggled to his feet and lumbered toward the bathroom. If she thought the matter was finished, she was mistaken. He was through letting her dictate the terms of their relationship. She couldn’t just pop in and pop out of his life whenever she felt like it.

Emma’s cell phone lay on the carpet, half hidden beneath the sofa. Evidently it had fallen from her clothes when he’d boorishly tugged her toward him. He glanced at the bathroom door, picked it up, and hit the send button. The number of the incoming call appeared on the screen. A text message was attached and it read: “Package ready for pickup. ETA 11:15. Parking arranged. LT 52 OXC Vxhl. Meet WS 17:00.”

He accessed the call register and scrolled through the calls she’d received. He saw the same number again, and others listed as “restricted.” He thumbed to the second page and saw a familiar international country code: 33, for France. He didn’t recognize the city code. He scrolled down and saw that the call had been made a week ago.

A loud noise came from the bathroom. Hurriedly Jonathan returned the phone to the floor and busied himself dressing. Emma emerged a moment later, looking distressed. “Where is it? Where’s my phone?”

“I have no idea.”

“Bullshit. You took it.”

Jonathan repeated his denial, but Emma wasn’t listening. She marched past him and grabbed the phone from where he’d put it beneath the sofa. “Tell me you didn’t take this and I’ll believe you.”

“I didn’t take it,” lied Jonathan.

“Thank you,” said Emma, softening. “Believe me, it’s better this way.”

Jonathan stared at her, not answering.

“I’ve decided to tell you where I’m going,” she said.

“Why the change of heart?”

Emma approached him, cocking her head. “I don’t want us to part on bad terms. That was a friend who called me. Someone who’s helping keep me safe. He’s set it up for me to leave the country this morning. I’m catching a flight from City Airport at ten. I’m going to Dublin. I won’t be staying long. From there, I don’t even know myself.”

“I guess I’ll have to be happy with that.” But in his mind, he had a dozen other questions. What was “the package”? Whose estimated time of arrival was 11:15? What did LT S2 OXC mean? And finally, who was Emma supposed to meet “at WS at 17:00”?

Emma stared at him from beneath her brow. It was her way of showing that she wanted peace. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love you,” she said. “No matter what you may hear about me in the future, no matter what people say, you must always believe that.”

Jonathan put his arms around her and hugged her to him. Finally Emma pushed herself away.

In silence, he watched her gather her things and leave without saying goodbye.

   For eight years Jonathan had lived in the dark. For eight years he’d been married to a woman he’d loved and trusted but in fact didn’t know the first thing about. All too frequently he had watched as Emma left on last-minute trips with vague destinations. If Emma said she was taking a night train to Mombasa to pick up a load of quinine, that was what she was doing. If she needed two days in Venice for some R&R with a friend, she had his blessing. He never questioned her. His faith was absolute.

And then, five months ago, he had discovered that it was all a lie. Not only the trips to Mombasa and Venice, but all of it—her name, her past, her devotion to bringing medical care to those who needed it most. Since the day he met her, Emma had been working as an agent of the United States government, and Jonathan had been her unwitting, unsuspecting cover. Time did not heal this wound, even by degrees. If anything, time worsened it. Jonathan was not suspicious, but he was prideful. Standing with his back to the door, he decided that eight years was enough.

He waited a minute after Emma had left the room, then went into the hall and took the elevator downstairs. In the lobby, he immediately saw Dr. Blackburn—the real Dr. Blackburn—and Jamie Meadows and a host of other well-fed, prosperous physicians gathered by a coffee station in a far corner. If his watchers were also present, he saw no sign of them. There was no OBG in a blue tracksuit looking his way. No shady characters keeping a hand to their earpiece, monitoring his progress through dark sunglasses.

Even so, Jonathan skulked around the perimeter of the lobby, head down, keeping to the walls. He was due to give his speech in a little over two hours, and if anyone saw him, they’d be worried. He hadn’t shaved or showered. Dressed in jeans, desert boots, a navy blazer pulled over his old Basque sheepherder’s shirt, he looked like the kind of bad element the doormen were paid to keep out.

He passed through the revolving door and hit the street. He craned his head left and right, hoping for a glimpse of a woman dressed in black with her hair pulled back severely from her forehead and up in a pony-tail. He failed to see her, but he wasn’t disheartened. He didn’t imagine that she had walked through the front door when she had come to visit last night, and he didn’t imagine she’d left that way at the height of the morning rush. He headed to his left, circling the building, and came to the service area. Delivery trucks idled in the garage as workers unloaded crates of beer, boxes of fresh produce, and freshly laundered towels. A set of stairs led down to the employees’ entrance. He glanced over the railing. The door was shut. Wheeling, he studied the backstreets for the likely avenue Emma had taken. One road ran parallel to Park Lane and was flanked by mews houses. Another ran eastward into the heart of Mayfair, but dead-ended after a few blocks. Twenty-five meters to his right, an alley ran down toward Green Park. It was in this direction that he’d been instructed to walk last night. He jogged down the pavement, training his eye for swaths of black.

He stopped at the first corner. As he waited for a car to complete a left-hand turn in front of him, Emma materialized as if out of thin air a hundred meters up the street. On closer examination, he observed that she’d emerged from a boutique. Some instinct or reflex caused him to retreat into a doorway, and at that moment she turned and glanced behind her. He held his position. Waiting, he noticed that he was sweating and that his heart was beating faster than it should.

He counted to five, but before setting out, he shot a look up the street behind him.

One block back, a tan Ford Mondeo idled at the curb. The morning light struck the windshield full on and reflected off the driver’s shiny blue tracksuit. One official bodyguard licensed to carry firearms, according to Emma’s furious description. He caught another figure in the passenger seat and maybe one in the rear. Jonathan’s watchers in the flesh.

They’ll follow you to get to me
.

He returned his attention to Emma. She was keeping close to the storefronts, never looking back as she neared the intersection with New Bond Street.

It was then that he made a decision.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, he continued in his wife’s direction. At the next light he waited patiently for the signal to change. It wasn’t necessary to look over his shoulder to check if the Mondeo was there. The sideview mirror of a cab idling next to him did the job astonishingly well. Jonathan was picking up the tools of Emma’s trade.

The signal changed in his favor. He entered the intersection, but halfway across he darted to his right and regained the sidewalk. He looked for a store to duck into, somewhere he might disappear for a minute or two. But the street was lined with private residences. Door after door was locked. He checked behind him. Caught in traffic, the Mondeo hadn’t yet made the turn. Across the street, Jonathan spotted a newsagent’s shop. There might just be time…

He dashed into the oncoming traffic, dodging the fast-moving cars, ignoring the horns and the squeal of brakes. Reaching the far sidewalk, he flung open the door to the newsagent’s, setting a chain of bells tinkling madly. He bent low behind a wall of magazines. A moment later he spied the Mondeo speeding past. Still breathing hard, he watched until it disappeared from sight. Only then did he leave the store.

   “Where the hell is he?” shouted Frank Connor from his position in the backseat of the Mondeo.

“I don’t see him,” said the driver. “Do you, Liam?”

The rangy dark-haired man in the passenger seat shook his head.

“Turn around,” said Connor, shifting his considerable bulk so that he could peer out the rear window. “He’s in one of those shops. He couldn’t have gone anywhere else.”

“I can’t just yet,” said the driver, indicating the steady stream of oncoming traffic.

“Screw the traffic,” retorted Connor. “Make a U-turn.”

“It’ll cause an accident.”

“Just do it. Now! There’s a break!”

The driver whipped the car around, keeping one hand firmly pressed down on the horn. The sudden turn tossed Connor against the door. He glanced up in time to see a white van skidding toward them. There was a squeal of brakes, a cacophony of horns, followed by the sickening crunch of metal impacting metal. The collision threw Connor to the other side of the car, and he struck his head violently against the window. The Ford came to a halt and he pulled himself upright.