Rules of Vengeance (9 page)

“Me, too.” Jonathan wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him. “Been here long?”

“In London? A few days.”

“You look good. I mean, better than the last time I saw you.”

“The last time, you’d just yanked a bullet from my shoulder.”

“I’d prefer to think I deftly removed it.”

“Deftly or not, it hurt like hell.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say—you never forget your first bullet.”

“I thought it was your first kiss.” Jonathan held her at arm’s length, thrilled by the sight of her, by the feel of her. “How’s the shoulder?”

Emma stepped back and demonstrated an admirable range of motion. “As good as new.”

Jonathan nodded his approval. Suddenly he looked toward the door. “Does this mean no one followed me?”

“For the moment. In case you’re interested, there’s two of them.”

“Two of who?”

“Two minders. One’s in a blue tracksuit, posing as an OBG—that’s an official bodyguard—for one of the poobahs staying at the hotel. The other was out front in his car. A tan Ford. Division always buys American. They had you until you reached the tube. I had to run some interference to get them off your tail.”

“Well, thanks, then.” He gazed around the beat-up flat, suddenly at a loss for something to say. “I hope you’re not staying here.”

“God, no,” Emma said, but her eyes moved from his and she didn’t elaborate.

“So what are you doing here, Em?”

“I told you I’d come when it was safe. I did some checking and found out you were traveling to London to attend this conference. It seemed like the right time.”

“What about the guys at the hotel who were supposed to be keeping an eye on me?”

Emma shrugged. “Occupational hazard. I decided you were worth the risk.”

Jonathan smiled. He suspected that there was something more, some reason that she was in London other than to see him. Emma gave her emotions short shrift. But he was too caught up in the moment to give it more than a passing thought. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”

“How are things at the camp?”

“Not bad, all things considered. We’re short a few pair of hands, but we have adequate supplies for once. That’s saying something.”

“Enough antibiotics?”

“The Red Cross airlifts a pallet of meds to us once a month. We’ve got enough to keep malaria and dengue down. Something crazy happened last week. I’ve got to tell you about it. A girl was playing down at the river and a croc got hold of her arm. Took it off below the elbow. The father was watching. He got so upset, he wrestled the croc out of the water and killed it. It was a monster, twelve feet at least. Anyway, he cut open that croc, and there was his daughter’s arm, intact, with barely a scratch. We were able to get the girl on the table less than an hour after the accident and reattach her arm. If we can stave off infection, I’m thinking she just might regain some use of her fingers.”

“You and those hands,” said Emma. “Magic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hands. You’re gifted. You’re the best surgeon I’ve ever met.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. And I know from firsthand experience.” Emma took his right hand and spread the fingers one by one, kissing each playfully, and then not so playfully. “And not just on the operating table,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, so that their bodies pressed against each other and Jonathan could smell her scent. “As I recall, these hands are rather gifted in another department as well.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but they’re out of practice.”

“Hmm? Are they? We’ll have to see, now, won’t we?” She untucked his shirt and ran her own hands across his chest. Her hands changed direction, and Jonathan closed his eyes. “Doesn’t take you long, does it, mister?” she said. “Christ, I’d almost forgotten.”

Jonathan put his arms around her and lifted her up. “Forget the mattress.”

   Afterward, Jonathan lay back, feeling warm and sated, and maybe even happy. “We have to figure out a way for you to come back with me…”

“Stop right there.”

He propped himself on an elbow, eager to explain. “No, no, not like that—I don’t mean come back with me on the plane. I mean how you usually get around. Via Paris or Berlin or…”

“Jonathan—”

“Or Havana.”

“Havana?” Emma burst out laughing. She pulled herself closer to him. “And from Havana, where to? Or should I even ask?”

Jonathan considered the question. There was something in her voice that led him to hope that maybe the question wasn’t entirely academic. “Venezuela,” he said.

“Venezuela? Caracas or Barranquila? They both have decent airports.”

“I’ll leave the choice to you. If neither’s any good, you can hit São Paolo. Brazil doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. Once you’re in South America, it will be much easier to get to Kenya.”

“By tramp steamer this time? Or do you have another idea?”

“I’m thinking more like by jet. I can’t wait another six months to see you.”

Emma nodded as he spoke, taking it all in. “And then I suppose we’ll meet up at the Turkana camp?” she asked, in a less reasonable tone.

“Yeah. We’d be safe there.”

“So I can just move in with you, or maybe you can build me a little thatched-roof hut in the forest where you can visit me every day after work or whenever you get bored, and we can get it on under the stars like we used to? Is that what you want, Jonathan? Keep your wife stashed away for some action on the side?”

He didn’t reply. He’d picked up on the prickly timbre in her voice. At heart Emma was a realist, and she didn’t tolerate forays into Never-Never Land.

“I just have one question,” she went on. “What about the people who are watching you to see if I happen to turn up?”

“You said that they only picked me up when I came to London. There’s no one watching me at the camp.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Jonathan nodded. “There’s only nine of us permanently at the camp. And seven haven’t left in over two years. I know them, Emma. They’re not working for any government. Besides, I’m being careful. I don’t ever mention your name. I only tried to contact you that once.”

“What about Hal Bates?”

“Hal Bates? You mean lazy-eyed Hal from the UN Commission on Refugees? You think he’s interested in me? Come on. The guy shows up once a month for a day or two, does a camp count, asks if we need any moldy K-rats, then scoots back to Nairobi. I don’t even talk to him.”

“Hal’s a twenty-year man with the CIA. The UN thing is his day job. Every time he goes to the camp, he asks around about you. No strong-arming, mind you. Just the casual question here and there. ‘By the way, old chap, happen to see Dr. Ransom with that overbearing wife of his? You know, the good-looking
mwanamke
with the decent pair of knockers?’ That sound like Hal? He even takes a few pictures of you and sends them back to Langley, and they pass them down the line to Connor at Division. All in the name of intra-agency cooperation.”

“That can’t be,” protested Jonathan. “I mean, someone would have told me. I know everyone who works there, the locals, too. They’re friends. Even then, I keep an eye on them to see if they’re watching me a little too closely. I am being careful, Em. I’d know if someone were watching.”

“You don’t know how to be careful,” she said, with a sympathy that irked Jonathan. “You couldn’t spot one of our networks if it were a snake crawling up your pants. We wouldn’t let you.”

“You’re wrong!”

“And Betty?” Emma asked, not missing a beat.

“Betty the breakfast cook?” Jonathan was dumbstruck at the mention of her name. How could Emma know a thing about her? “She’s fourteen years old. She’s been in the camp for years. Are you saying she’s an asset?”

“Not for a minute. But she doesn’t need to be. All she has to do is keep a sharp eye and be ready to report if she ever sees you with a European woman who doesn’t work in the camp. Last I heard, the going fee for a tip is a hundred U.S.—double that if the tip pans out. That’s half a year’s wage in that part of the world. What are you paying Betty the breakfast cook?”

“We don’t,” said Jonathan. “She gets her meals, a place to live that’s relatively safe, medical care, and she attends camp school three days a week.”

“Ah, I see. One of your friends. Someone whom you’d trust with your wife’s life.”

Case closed, thought Jonathan. He had no rebuttal. The verdict would be swift and damning. The defendant, Jonathan Ransom, is found guilty of recklessly endangering his wife. The sentence mandated for such a crime was death. But not his. Emma’s.

She turned onto her side and he noticed a long scar on her back, just above her kidney. He traced it with a finger. “This is serious,” he said, sitting up, taking a closer look. “What happened?”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing,” said Emma. “I fell and cut myself, that’s all.”

The scar was five inches long, expertly stitched, and still puffy. “This was a deep incision,” he said. “A surgeon did this work. What kind of fall was it, exactly?”

“It was nothing. Some broken glass, I think. Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

He knew she was lying. “Worked up?” he said. “I think about you every day. I wonder where you are and if you’re safe, or if I’ll even see you again. Then you show up out of the blue with a nasty scar on your side that you won’t tell me about and act as if we’re teenagers sneaking away from their mom and dad. How long do you expect this to continue? Am I supposed to live like a monk pining for you until one day some man or woman I don’t know shows up and tells me you’re dead?”

“No,” said Emma, much too reasonably.

Jonathan fell back. “And you can’t come with me?”

“No.”

“And I can’t go with you?”

“I don’t think that would work.”

“Then what, Emma? Tell me what will work.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Emma looked at her watch and bolted upright. “Shoot! We’ve got to get you back to the hotel.”

“Not yet. Not before you give me an answer.”

But Emma was already standing. “We’ve been here much too long. There’s a car downstairs. Get dressed.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

Grasping his hand, Emma led him to the first floor and out the rear of the building. On the pavement her actions grew crisp, disciplined. Her head turned to the left and right. She was in the open, which meant she was in danger.

They walked to a black Audi parked two blocks up the street. Using her remote key, she deactivated the alarm, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Jonathan circled the car and slid into the passenger seat. Neither spoke during the drive to the hotel. She dropped him a hundred meters from the entry. He tucked his head into the open window. “When will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“For sure? How will I find you? Should I ask Blackburn?”

“Probably not a good idea,” said Emma. “We’ll find you. Now, go. And good luck with the speech. Don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine.”

Just then a car honked. Emma threw the Audi into gear and accelerated into traffic.

Jonathan watched the car disappear, then walked to the hotel. He had barely stepped inside the lobby when a rotund, serious man hurried over to him. He wore a gray pinstriped suit with a carnation in his lapel. “There you are, Dr. Ransom. We’ve been waiting ages to speak with you. Where have you been?”

“Taking a walk in the park,” said Jonathan. “I needed some air. Jet lag.”

“Of course.” The shorter man placed a hand on Jonathan’s elbow and led him toward the reception. He was bald, with a ruddy complexion and dark, intelligent eyes. “Did you get my note?” he asked. “I scribbled a little something on your program. I thought it might be wise for us to coordinate plans before your speech tomorrow morning. The concierge assured me it had been sent up to your room.”

“Your note?” Only then did Jonathan remember the elegant penmanship.
Looking forward to saying hello. Will require a few minutes to discuss your remarks
. “You sent the program?”

“Why, yes. Who did you think?” When Jonathan didn’t answer, the man continued. “I do hope the accommodations are to your liking. Some of the members think it’s a bit grand, but I believe we need to sequester ourselves in a discreet environment. We’re physicians, not plumbers. Can’t expect us to meet at Earls Court. But enough about that. How was your flight in? Everything go all right?”

But Jonathan didn’t answer. He was no longer hearing the man’s words. He’d finally gotten sight of his host’s name tag.

It read “Dr. Colin Blackburn.”

   “I can’t comment on Robert Russell’s work for our firm,” said the self-assured, arrogant man sitting across the desk from Kate Ford. “All of our contractors are employed on the basis of absolute confidentiality. It’s not that we don’t care to help with your investigation, it’s that we can’t. Rules are rules.”

Sixty with a crown of thinning hair, bifocals perched at the tip of a hawkish nose, Ian Cairncross, director of Oxford Analytica, fixed Kate with a bored gaze. The two were seated in his office at 5 Alfred Street. From next door at the Coach and Arms pub, the din of the evening crowd climbed the walls of the cobblestone alley and into the open windows. For ten minutes Kate had listened to a lengthy history of Oxford Analytica.

The firm had been founded thirty years earlier by an American lawyer who had worked as Henry Kissinger’s assistant in the Nixon White House. While completing his doctoral work at Oxford, he’d stumbled on the idea. To his eye, the pool of dons and scholars at Oxford represented an incredible confluence of world-class experts on everything from economics to political science to geography. If he could harness this expertise, he could put it to work answering questions of utmost import to governments and multinational corporations around the world. He wanted the dons to analyze problems ranging from forecasting the future price of oil to guessing who would succeed the next Soviet premier. For all intents and purposes, Oxford Analytica was the world’s first “overt intelligence agency.” And that expertise was available to all comers, provided they agreed to OA’s not insubstantial fees.