Rules of Vengeance (20 page)

“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is. I’ve got a terrible headache.” He gasped. “I’m having trouble with my sight. Could be dehydration or a concussion.”

“You’ll see fine soon as we get you some fresh air. Drink some water and you’ll be good as new.” Graves knelt at his feet and fumbled with the monitoring bracelet. “Give me your leg. Either one. Your choice.”

Jonathan moaned and extended his left leg. Graves slipped the metal cuff over his ankle and snapped it closed. He gave it a tug to make sure, then leaned back on his haunches. “There, now. Open your eyes. Can you see me all right?” He lifted his chin to look Jonathan straight in the eye.

And that was when Jonathan kicked him.

He kicked hard with his right foot, striking Graves’s jaw precisely where he’d aimed, an inch or so below the ear, where the mandible met the skull. Graves tumbled onto his back, stunned. Before he could react, Jonathan fell onto his chest, a forearm pinning his neck to the carpet, the fingers of his right hand pressing against Graves’s carotid, stanching the flow of blood to the brain. Graves thrashed. He threw a wild punch that glanced off Jonathan’s cheek. And then, like that, he was out. His eyes rolled back into his head. He expelled a breath of air and his body went limp.

Six seconds had passed.

Jonathan kept the artery blocked until he was certain that Graves was unconscious, then climbed to his feet. A mirror hung on the wall, and he found himself staring at a wild-eyed man fighting for breath.
There’s no other way
, he told himself.

Kneeling once more, he dug inside Graves’s jacket for the key to the ankle bracelet. He found it and unlocked the cuff. Then he removed Graves’s wallet and his phone. His hand brushed against the butt of Graves’s pistol, but he decided against taking it. A criminal takes a gun. An innocent man leaves it. Standing, he hurried to the door. A peek through the spy hole showed not one but two plainclothes officers standing to either side of it.

Just then Graves’s phone rang. Jonathan dashed into the bathroom and closed the door. The name on the screen read Director General Allam. He took it to mean the director of MI5. Yanking a towel off the rack, he stuffed the phone into its folds. Four interminable rings later, it went silent. He ran back to the door, but the guards had not budged. Graves still lay immobile. He would remain unconscious anywhere from three to ten minutes. There was nothing Jonathan could do to lengthen the period, save suffocate him. He disliked Graves enough to carefully consider the idea.

Jonathan crossed the room and opened the sliding doors that gave onto the balcony. He went to the railing and leaned his head over. He stood eight stories aboveground, approximately 60 meters above the hotel’s main entrance. Each balcony was protected by an awning. The one below was at most a meter beneath his terrace. Technically, it was not a difficult descent. He was an experienced alpinist. He’d down-climbed sheer faces offering holds the width of a table knife more times than he could remember. He reminded himself that he’d also had a rope and harness securing him in one form or another to the rock and that on any number of occasions he’d slipped. This time there was no margin for error.

Dusk was falling. The sky had tempered to a tame violet. Traffic on Park Lane was a dense, slow-moving braid. Below in the courtyard, a steady stream of taxis and automobiles passed beneath the porte cochere. There were too many heads milling about to count.
Just don’t look up
, he ordered them.

He slipped on the windbreaker and stuffed Graves’s wallet and phone into the pockets. As an afterthought, he raised Graves’s pants leg and cuffed the electronic bracelet around his ankle. The key went down the toilet. Then Jonathan returned to the balcony and deftly climbed over the railing.

He knelt.

He grasped the terrace with his fingertips.

He lowered one leg until it touched the top of the awning.

Then his actions grew fleet and agile. Freeing one hand, he reached down to locate the steel rods that constituted the awning’s support. Stretching, he slipped his fingers beneath the flap and wrapped them around the bar that formed the awning’s horizontal support. Then, as quickly as he could, he freed the other hand and did the same. All ten fingers now clutched the bar. At that instant, he kicked his legs free and swung out and down. The awning groaned, but held. He landed his feet on the narrow railing of the seventh-floor balcony.

He gazed into the window. No one was there. Drawing a breath, he lowered himself to the terrace and repeated the motions until he reached the sixth floor. Sweat burned his eyes and creased his palms. It wasn’t the heat so much or the exertion, but the mental stamina required to guard against the smallest mistake. He felt no anxiety, nothing that he could label as fear. The world had shrunk to the 2 meters above him and the 2 meters below.

Stretch. Grip. Drop your legs. Land just there. Breathe
.

Jonathan’s every energy focused itself on the calculus of coordinating mind and body to hoodwink gravity. As he gained confidence, he moved more rapidly. He made it to the fifth floor, then the fourth, and then he was standing on the pebble-strewn roof of the porte cochere. Four minutes had passed. He ran to the side of the rooftop, bounded the waist-high rail, lowered himself off the edge, and dropped to the ground.

He landed next to one of the frock-coated doormen, who jumped in surprise. Flushed, Jonathan patted him on the shoulder. “I’m a hotel guest. Can you get me a taxi?”

“Certainly, sir. Where to?”

“Heathrow.”

A two-pound coin secured the bargain. The doorman blew his whistle and waved up the next taxi in line.

“Heathrow, sir?” asked the driver.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Jonathan. He chose the busiest place in London at this time of night. “Piccadilly Circus. Take me to the bottom of Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“Right-o.” The taxi peeled out of the drive and turned down Park Lane. They’d gone half a mile when Graves’s phone rang. This time Jonathan answered. “Yes?” he said.

“Ransom,” said Graves softly, “you’ve made a serious mistake.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll give you one chance. Come back this second and our deal’s still on. Help us find your wife and you’ll go free. Otherwise, all bets are off.”

“How is that a deal? I wasn’t involved in the bombing. What you’re talking about is blackmail.”

“Call it what you like. It is what it has to be.”

“You said you heard about Division. Then you know what I said about her is true.”

“I heard a rumor. It doesn’t change a thing.”

“Who told you? Was it someone named Connor? Frank Connor?”

“I can’t reveal that.”

“If you want my help, you’d better.”

Graves pounced on the invitation. “So you do know where she is?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A pause. “And I already told you. It was my oppo at the FBI. Sorry, no names, but it wasn’t Connor. What exactly did your wife do?”

“Division used to be headed by Major General John Austen. You might have read about him. The American general killed in a car crash in Switzerland last February.”

“I recall something about that. Not just Austen, but several officials with him. There was some hint that it might have been a terrorist plot.”

“It wasn’t any plot and it wasn’t a crash. Austen wanted to bring down an El Al jet to fire up tensions in the Middle East. Emma stopped him.”

“You mean she killed him.”

“I mean she saved five hundred lives.” Jonathan didn’t elaborate. It had been his finger on the trigger that had ended Austen’s life. “Her actions prevented a war, but no one cares about that now. All they care about is the fact that Emma disobeyed orders. That she broke ranks. Nobody in Washington wants to congratulate her. They want to kill her.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

For once, Graves was silent.

“What my wife did today was terrible. I can’t make an excuse for her, except to say that we both know she’s acting on someone else’s orders. But I’m sorry, Colonel Graves, I’m not going to help you find her.”

“What can I do to entice you? Money—is that what you want?”

“Nothing…” Jonathan bit back his words. Graves had to know he wouldn’t betray his wife for money. The offer was as ridiculous as it was insulting. Graves was trying to distract him, to keep him on the line.

Jonathan glanced out the rear window. One hundred meters back, he caught sight of a police car. As he entered Piccadilly Circus he saw another, this one approaching from Regent Street, lights flashing, but no siren. Suddenly its strobes died. In Jonathan’s anxious state, he was certain that the policeman had been told not to draw attention to himself. And if there were two so far, there had to be more on the way. It was Graves’s phone. Jonathan had forgotten that MI5 would be able to track it just as easily as his ankle bracelet. He had set his own trap.

He slapped his palm over the phone. “Pull over here,” he ordered the cabbie.

“I thought you wanted to go to Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“Right here!”

“You still there, Ransom?” asked Graves in his silky voice.

“Goodbye, Colonel.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“Not yet.”

   Piccadilly Circus at 8 p.m. on a warm summer’s evening was as crowded as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Giant neon signs clung to the surrounding buildings, bathing the street in a glowing iridescent light. Jonathan paid the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk. The fast-moving crowd engulfed him instantly. He moved with the throng, crossing at Coventry Street and heading north, all the while watching the two police cars converging on the congested square. At that moment another police car drew up alongside him. Its window was down and he could hear the hiss and crackle of its radio and a voice blaring orders. “Suspect has left the cab and is on foot. Set up emergency blocks at Coventry, Piccadilly, and Shaftesbury. All available officers to Piccadilly Circus. Subject is a white male, thirty-eight years of age, six foot tall, graying hair, last reported wearing a white shirt, jeans…”

Jonathan didn’t wait to hear any more. He slunk into the crowd, turned, and walked in the opposite direction. He ducked into the first store he came to, a tourist emporium selling everything from T-shirts to Princess Di bobbing heads. Racks of clothing filled the store. He selected a black T-shirt and a
Les Mis
baseball cap. He paid and immediately put on both the shirt and the cap. There was nothing to be done about his blue jeans.

In the short time he’d spent in the store, the police had moved in en masse. Roadblocks were in the course of being set up at all arteries emptying into Piccadilly Circus. A van had appeared at Regent Street and was disgorging uniformed officers. Horns blared. Traffic ground to a halt.

Back on the sidewalk, Jonathan kept close to buildings, attaching himself to knots of pedestrians. He slipped from group to group, searching for an escape route. As if taking its cue from the stationary auto mobiles, the pedestrian traffic slowed. An anxious mood stirred the crowd.

Jonathan spotted a pair of policemen, fluorescent orange bibs on their chests, coming toward him, their eyes searching every face they passed. He looked over his shoulder and counted no less than four peaked caps. Not knowing what else to do, he stopped where he was and turned his attention to the nearest store window. It belonged to a currency exchange firm. The teller was open for business. A line extended from the customer window. He stood at the back, hands in his pockets, eyes to the fore. He imagined the policemen coming closer and felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.

A slight older man stood in front of him, counting coins from a change purse. Jonathan took a step forward, bumping into him forcefully, causing him to drop his change. Coins tinkled onto the pavement.

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan as he crouched down to help the elderly man pick up his change. “That was clumsy of me. Let me help you.”

“Thank you,” mumbled the man in accented English.

Jonathan trained his eyes on the pavement as he picked up the stray pound coins. From the corner of his eye, he observed two pairs of polished black boots stride past. When the policemen had gone, he stood and handed the man his change. “Did we find it all?”

The man counted his coins and nodded.

The line moved forward. Jonathan stepped to the window and exchanged one hundred dollars for pounds. After completing his transaction, he continued down the street, hugging the buildings.

A few feet ahead he spotted the sign for the Underground. He descended the steps into the station. If anything, it was more congested than the street. The depot spanned the width of the intersection above them. Two officers scouted the turnstiles, searching for the six-foot male in white shirt and jeans, with graying hair. He bought a ticket, then timed his passage until the policemen were busy on the far side of the station.

He passed through the turnstile and made a beeline for the nearest tunnel. Bakerloo Line north. It was the same train he’d taken the night before. As he progressed through the tiled passageways, the foot traffic grew sparse. Suddenly he was alone, with only the echo of his heels for company. He descended a last flight of stairs to the platform. The train arrived ninety seconds later.

Five minutes after that, Jonathan got off at Marylebone station.

He was a free man.

   Twenty-five Notting Hill Lane was an Edwardian two-story town home painted robin’s-egg blue, with dormer windows upstairs and a black lacquered front door replete with a brass knocker. It was nine-thirty, and night had fallen as Jonathan climbed the short flight of stairs and struck the heavy ball three times. Almost immediately the door opened, causing Jonathan to start.

“Hello,” said a little girl with black hair done in pigtails.

“Is your daddy home?”

“Jenny, whatever are you doing? You’re supposed to be upstairs in bed.” A plain, dark-haired woman in sweatpants and a cardigan sweater hurried to the door. Jonathan recognized Prudence Meadows from the cocktail party the evening before. “Hello,” he said. “Is Jamie here?”