Rules of Vengeance (37 page)

“So our phone was sold at Heathrow,” said Baxter.

“Five days ago, to be precise,” said Evans. “A cash transaction, I’m sorry to say.”

“The name? Was there a name?” He knew the answer. There had to be. Law required people to supply a name and identification when purchasing a mobile phone.

“Total nonsense, as was the address.”

“Dammit.” Baxter’s heart sank.

“Still, we do have some news that might be of use,” continued Evans.

“A number?” declared Baxter, rising out of his chair, fists clenched. “They sold the bloody phone with a SIM card, didn’t they?”

“SIM” stood for Subscriber Identity Module. It was the SIM card that gave a mobile phone its number as well as recording all information about calls placed to and from that handset.

“Not one SIM card, Mr. Baxter. Three.” Evans handed him a typed sheet.

Den Baxter grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. He thanked Evans profusely, then turned his attention to McKenzie. But instead of appearing happy, Baxter wrinkled his face in disgust. “We’re done here, lad. Get home now and take a shower. You smell like a rubbish bin.”

   Jonathan ducked into the kiosk across the street from the Hotel De La Ville and purchased two newspapers, the
Corriere della Sera
and the
International Herald Tribune
. On its front page, the English-language paper carried a follow-up article about the London bombing. Jonathan was mentioned as an accomplice to the attack, but thankfully, there was no picture. The Italian paper carried a shorter article about the attack on an interior page. The latest Italian political shenanigans generated more than enough scandal to fill the headlines. Finished checking the papers, he tossed them into a trash can and headed down the main street, the Largo Plebiscito.

In the short time he’d been inside the hotel, the seaside town had sprung to life. Besides drawing visitors to view its ruins, Civitavecchia functioned as the main port of call for Mediterranean cruise ships visiting Rome. Earlier he’d counted no fewer than four liners docked in the harbor, and another three anchored at sea. It seemed that half the men and women crowding the street carried travel bags emblazoned with the name of one cruise line or another. Like mice fleeing a fire, they spilled out of hotels and tour buses and taxis and scurried toward the docks.

Threading his way through their ranks, Jonathan kept a sharp eye out for police. It was likely that Lazio had supplied them with a copy of Emma’s hospital admittance form. A savvy investigator would surmise Jonathan’s course of action and send men to scour the area. Jonathan paused, scanning the street. But it was far too busy to tell if anything was askance.

Ahead he saw the sign for the Hotel Rondo. Passing the hotel, he closed his fingers around the paper bearing the address of the man from France who’d rescued Emma from a Roman hospital and paid her hotel bill. VOR S.A. of Èze. But who was the man? And was he the same person Jonathan had glimpsed in the Rondo years ago? Jonathan had no doubt but that their relationship was professional. Why else would he foot her astronomical bills?

Apart from the address in France, Jonathan knew nothing more about him than that he was older, gray-haired, and spoke English with either a British or a German accent. Was he the person who had contracted her to carry out the car bombing? And if so, had Division’s attempt on her life been an effort to stop her? Jonathan could assume that if he was the “friend” Emma had come to visit in the first place, then he, too, must be an enemy of Division’s.

Still, one question held a key to all the others.

Who was Lara?

Somewhere in the distance he heard a tire squeal. A door slam. He stopped on a dime and searched up and down the street. He saw nothing to disturb him. Nerves. He wiped his forehead. Ahead, a sign pointed to the railway station. The nearest terminus to Èze was Nice, a seven-hour ride by train. He could not risk being cooped up in an enclosed space for so long. There had to be another way.

He continued walking down the hill, hoping to lose himself in the throngs along the docks. Rental cars were out. Hitchhiking was off the list. The only way would be to—

It was then that he heard the siren drawing near. It was close enough to make him jump, but before he could mark its distance, it cut off in midwail. He looked over his shoulder and noted a commotion two blocks down a side road. A man in a dark blue uniform and navy jodhpurs was pushing his way through the pedestrians. Two men followed him, hoisting a riot-control barrier. The men were carabinieri. Behind them came a squad of officers, moving authoritatively, submachine guns strapped to their chests, peaked caps pulled down low over the eyes.

Jonathan cut to the side of the street, taking up position near a coffeehouse. A line extended out the door, and he slid behind the waiting customers. He looked on helplessly as policemen positioned the barriers across the street. Their leader was speaking into a walkie-talkie, and it was apparent that he was coordinating his actions with someone else. Jonathan retreated along the street, hugging the storefronts.

Again he heard them before he saw them. A man’s shrill voice barking commands. Then, the sighting of the blue uniforms.

Panic rose in his throat. Jonathan hesitated, not knowing which way to go. Finally he turned and began to jog back down the hill. Instinct told him to get to the docks, where he might lose himself in the masses. As he neared the bottom, a navy Alfa Romeo marked with police insignia drew to a halt 20 meters away. Several more police cars pulled in behind it. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and saw a line of uniforms advancing toward him. Retreat was no longer an option.

There were no side streets branching off to his right or left, either. He looked down the hill. The main coastal highway ran directly behind the police cars. And across the four-lane motorway began the embarcadero, which skirted the sea as far as the eye could see to the north and south. Traffic was congested, a stuttering procession of automobiles and buses belching exhaust into the humid morning air. He stood frozen as policemen piled out of the cars and milled about. All the while the tide of tourists and pedestrians flowed around and past him.

What would Emma do?

Jonathan knew the answer immediately. There was really no other way.

Drawing a breath, he continued toward the police. He didn’t lower his head. He didn’t look away. He was wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and that was it. The front door of the Alfa Romeo opened and a svelte blond woman stepped out. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and white T, and she wore dark aviator sunglasses, but he knew her the moment he laid eyes on her. DCI Ford.

He watched as she scanned the crowd, flying right past him. Her head stopped and shot right back. She took off her sunglasses and, with less than 20 meters between them, locked eyes with Jonathan.

Jonathan darted a glance over his shoulder and saw a forest of blue uniforms, then he looked at Kate Ford and started to run. He ran straight at her, straight toward the Alfa Romeo, where at least three policemen were huddled in conversation, none of them paying either him or Ford the least attention.

“Ransom,” she called, but her voice was weak, too full of surprise to elicit shock, let alone attention.

Jonathan brushed past her. And as he did, an ungoverned lick of anger flared inside him. He was incensed at the sight of her, enraged by her unexpected presence, unable to comprehend the reason for her tenacity. He’d told her he had nothing to do with the bombing. Why did she persist in thinking otherwise? Rashly, he tossed a solid forearm that caught her square in the chest and sent her tumbling onto the hood of the automobile.

He could only guess what happened next. He wasn’t going to stop and find out. Concerned about her well-being, the other police would gather around her solicitously, granting him a precious few seconds, a precious few meters. He did know that the jab had felt damned good.

“Ransom!” The voice was louder now.

Accelerating, he jumped the concrete barrier and ran onto the motorway, dodging the slow-moving vehicles and dashing to the far side. A long line of cars and trucks waited to pass through a manned gate and be granted admittance to the sprawling dockyard complex. He made to his right, skirting the line of cars and running past a guardhouse. A ship’s horn blared long and loud. A hundred meters ahead, a jumble of passengers had begun disembarking from a liner. At the next dock, a platoon of cars was thundering up a loading ramp and into the belly of a ferry. Farther on, a train rolled on slowly, piled high with containers. Everywhere delivery trucks, mopeds, and taxis zipped back and forth.

By now sirens were wailing. In front of him. Behind him. He was breathing too hard to make sense of where anything was except the heart pounding madly in his chest. He caught a shadow behind him, a flicker of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a policeman running close behind. A blue uniform where no blue uniform should be. It was a younger man, thinner, fitter—a sprinter, judging by his hollow cheeks and perfect stride. Jonathan pushed harder, and for a few strides he was able to lengthen the distance between them, but that was no answer. Sooner or later the faster man would catch him.

Sooner was better.

Jonathan faltered and the officer was at his shoulder, an arm stretched to grab his collar. Jonathan leaned forward as if to get away, but the next instant he arched his back and threw an elbow behind him. The elbow caught the Italian squarely in the throat. The policeman flailed to a halt, clutching his neck before falling headlong to the asphalt.

Far ahead, two police cars mounted the curb and drove directly onto the embarcadero. The cars stopped, effectively barring his passage. Officers stood at the doors, guns drawn. Jonathan dodged left, legs and arms pumping, threading his way through the busy walkway and onto the broad quai that separated two cruise ships. As if in the eye of a storm, he’d reached a barren patch of dock, meaning that there were few people. Behind him was a mass of a hundred or so. Ahead were even more. But for once there were no blue uniforms anywhere.

Walk and no one looks twice at you
, Emma had told him.
Run and you’re a target
.

Against every instinct, Jonathan slowed to a walk. To his left, a gangway descended from a boat, and men and women were streaming onto the landing. To his right, stevedores pulled bags from the hold and arranged them in a neat row. A forklift honked and trundled past, carrying a large crate.

Jonathan headed to the edge of the quai. As he’d expected, a second landing about two meters down ran its length, accessed at intervals by ladders. This landing, he knew, was used by longshoremen and dock-workers to service the boats. Putting a hand to the dock, he hopped onto the landing and ducked his head beneath the foundations. A latticework of wood supported the quai. Water lapped at the barnacle-encrusted beams. Somewhere in the darkness, a rat stared at him. He started to run again, constantly checking behind him.

Then he saw it, and he knew it was what he needed.

Acting as cushions to protect the ocean liners’ hulls when they docked were great man-sized buoys made from the same heavy black rubber as automobile tires. The buoys were 6 meters long, 3 meters tall, perfectly round, and hollow in the center. Jonathan grabbed hold of one end of the nearest buoy and swung inside it. Step by awkward step, he advanced until he had reached the middle. And there he sat for the next hour, listening as the sirens came and went and the voices of frustrated policemen echoed into his hiding place, until all of a sudden it grew quiet.

He still didn’t dare to show his face on the dock.

Instead, he slipped out of the buoy and lowered himself into the sea.

The water was warm and filthy.

He took a breath and went under.

   Kate Ford stood on the quai, hands on her hips, arms akimbo. Thirty minutes had passed since Ransom had made his mad dash across the highway and onto the embarcadero. Despite the efforts of over fifty policemen, no trace of him had been found. Even now searches of all the moored cruise ships were taking place. Patrol boats crisscrossed the harbor. She didn’t have much hope.

“He’s gone,” she said.

The lieutenant colonel from the carabinieri shook his head. “It’s not possible,” he said. “We have him penned in.”

“He swam,” said Kate.

“But the ships,” said the policeman, gazing up at the four-story superstructures to either side of him. “It is too dangerous.”

Not when you don’t have any other choice
, thought Kate.

She turned and headed back to the main street. “Come,” she said. “Ransom was here before us. He was looking for his wife. Someone must have seen him. Maybe someone spoke with him.”

“Where do we start?”

Kate unfolded the hospital admittance sheet, running her finger to the entry that listed where the ambulance had picked up the injured woman who had given her name only as Lara.

“The Hotel Rondo,” she said.

   The offices of the International Nuclear Security Corporation were located on the twenty-seventh floor of a skyscraper in La Défense, Paris’s bustling business district bordering the Seine. The company billed itself as a one-stop shop, capable of providing private businesses, government installations, and military bases with the “entire spectrum of security solutions.” But as its name suggested, the company specialized in one area: the safeguarding and protection of nuclear installations.

With regard to a nuclear power plant, the company worked from concept through final construction, designing and implementing security measures governing everything from physical entry to and exit from a plant (alarms, cameras, biometric checkpoints), cybersecurity, in-plant employee location, force protection, and, last, the monitoring of all critical operations systems, including the storage of spent fuel. It was no exaggeration to say that nearly every major producer of power in the Western world relied on INSC to guarantee the safe and accident-free operation of its nuclear installations. To date, their trust was justified. No INSC-certified plant had ever experienced an outage, shutdown, or accident of any kind.