Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“What kind of question is that?” asked the prince, lowering the rifle and passing a well-manicured hand along its barrel. “It is a thing of beauty. An instrument of death rendered elegant.”

“I’m glad you like it.” She checked her watch. “Excuse me, but I have a three a.m. flight to Zurich. I’m sorry to leave so soon-”

“Nonsense,” said Prince Rashid. “I’ll call the airport and see that it’s delayed. You must stay and try General Ivanov’s gift with me.”

Emma sensed an insistence that had not been there before. A false, predatory insistence. “Really,” she continued, a voice within her ordering her to run. “It’s late and I must be going. General Ivanov is expecting me.”

Prince Rashid flashed his movie star’s smile. “But I spoke with Igor Ivanovich earlier. He’s more than happy for you to stay. He called you his country’s finest ambassador. Now that we’ve met, I see that he spoke the truth.”

Emma’s eyes went to the roof of the hangar. The snipers had taken up position. Each was curled over his weapon. She had little doubt that her head was centered in the crosshairs of their scopes. She decided that Rashid had been expecting the rifle and that it was not a surprise. She looked at Balfour, who knew nothing about the gift. It was Connor’s play and Connor’s play alone.

“Surely you can stay,” added Balfour, his eyes sterner than his voice.

“But of course,” Emma consented, if only to buy time.

The prince rattled off a command, and a patch of scrub adjacent to the hangar was suddenly illuminated as bright as midday. At the far end was a wing-back chair. On it sat a mannequin dressed in the uniform of a United States Marine. Emma had her proof. Rashid had been expecting the weapon.

The prince handed her the rifle. “Please. I would be honored if you took the first shot.” He selected a bullet from the case. “I insist.”

Emma cleared the breech and slipped the shell into the chamber, slamming home the bolt with authority. Her odds were one in three. She’d faced worse, she told herself as anger replaced apprehension. She’d been betrayed. She knew too much, and knowledge was a double-edged sword. It was that simple. Whatever the case, she would proceed in style.

“Come,” she said, motioning to the prince to come closer. “Let me show you how to shoot it. The rifle is heavy in the barrel. It’s necessary to put weight on your back foot. To aim, you have to lay your cheek flat against the stock. Step closer. You can’t see from there.”

“I can see perfectly,” said Prince Rashid.

“As you wish.” Emma sighted the rifle on the mannequin’s chest, positioning the butt against her shoulder. “The trigger is surprisingly light. Squeeze gently and get ready for the biggest goddamn kick of your life.”

One in three.

She pressed her cheek to the stock, drew a breath, and tightened her finger.

The explosion was deafening.

The prince cowered, raising an arm to protect his head. Downrange, the mannequin sat in his chair just as before, but his head and half of his left shoulder were gone.

“A little high.” Emma shrugged, not entirely dissatisfied, and handed the prince his rifle. “I’m sure you’ll do better.”

Weapon in hand, the prince walked to the lacquered case, selected a bullet, and slid it into the chamber. Without a word, he returned to the firing line, drove home the bolt, raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.

The shot was wide and low, loosing a cloud of dust.

“A devil of a kick,” said Prince Rashid, rubbing his shoulder. “My wife will wish to know how I received such a bruise.”

One bullet remained in its velvet cradle. Rashid thrust the rifle toward Balfour. “What about you, Ashok? Game?”

Balfour raised his hands. “I just sell the bloody things. Look at it. The damned thing is nearly as big as I am.”

“That’s two excuses,” said Prince Rashid. With a glance at Emma, he plucked the final bullet from its case and slid it into the carriage. “Perhaps you can help me this time,” he said to her. “How should I sight it?”

Emma stepped behind the prince and placed an arm around his shoulder, guiding his head so that his cheek lay in the proper position against the rifle stock. With her left hand, she helped raise the weapon so that it was aimed at the mannequin. “Don’t touch the trigger until you have the bead centered on the target. I suggest aiming a half-meter low to compensate for the kick. Press your front foot into the ground. Harder. Now tense your stomach.”

Emma stood just to the side of the prince, watching his finger caress the trigger. “Softly,” she said. “Take a breath and squeeze.”

The prince looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Softly,” he said.

“That’s right.”

Suddenly the prince stood tall, lowering the rifle. “Dammit,” he said, striding away.

“What’s wrong?” asked Balfour, rushing to his side.

“I just can’t do it to my shoulder,” said Prince Rashid. “It will ruin my golf game for a month.”

The gathering went silent; then a few of his underlings laughed and the laugh became contagious. Prince Rashid handed the rifle to a short, corpulent man in a captain’s uniform. “Let’s see if Captain Hussein can hit the target. As I recall, he used to be a shooting instructor at the academy.”

Hussein walked to the firing line. With care, he raised the weapon and sighted it on the mannequin. He would not disappoint his ruler.

“Softly,” said the prince, staring at Emma.

An instant later, the rifle backfired as the bullet exploded inside the barrel, blowing apart the bolt and chamber.

The police captain lay writhing on the ground, his face ripped clean off his skull, eyeballs, cartilage, and teeth mashed together to resemble nothing more than a crushed pomegranate. The police officers ran to the horrifically wounded man. Balfour shouted for an ambulance. “On the double!”

But Prince Rashid remained where he was.

“You,” he said to Emma, grasping her by the arm. “You will come with me.”

The trek led upward, hugging the contours of the mountain. The truck surged and slowed, rocking like a lifeboat on a stormy sea. The foothills had disappeared hours ago, replaced first by sparse pine forest, then the featureless, ever-steepening slopes of scree. Now even that was gone, cloaked by gray cloud. It was just a patch of hardscrabble in front, a precipitous drop to the side, and the incessant grinding of the motor struggling at altitude.

“I would do anything for my father,” said Haq. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

Jonathan sat between Haq and his driver, too uncomfortable to be scared. “My father’s dead.”

“This is fate,” said Haq with conviction. “When I was a boy, I was struck by shrapnel from a Russian grenade. My father carried me on his back for three days to reach an aid station. He had pneumonia at the time. It was winter. He nearly died to save me. I promised myself that one day I would repay him.”

Jonathan looked at Haq. “You destroyed a village to help your father?”

Haq considered this, his eyes indicating that he was not unaware of the moral complexity. “The village was of strategic value,” he said finally.

Jonathan looked straight ahead.

“What brought you here?” asked Haq. “You’re not a missionary?”

“No,” said Jonathan.

“But on a crusade nonetheless.”

“What about you?” asked Jonathan. “Where did you learn your English?”

“I was a guest of your country for several years.”

“You were in the States?”

“Not exactly. Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo Bay. I was captured in November of 2001. I surrendered, I’ll admit it. It was the bombs. Every day the planes would come. They flew high, so you could not hear them. The bombs would arrive without warning. We were dug in, but a mound of earth is no protection against a five-hundred-pound bomb, let alone hundreds of them. The fury. You have no idea.” Haq looked away, his eyes staring in horror at a point far beyond the windshield. And then he snapped back. “I’m glad you find my English acceptable. We learned from the movies.”