Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

Division was the president’s secret weapon and operated at his sole command. Covert foreign policy conducted at the barrel of a gun, with no congressional oversight allowed.

But times changed. The outrage that followed 9/11 faded. There had been no further attacks on American soil, though Connor knew firsthand that plenty had been thwarted. If Americans had a short memory, he liked it that way. It meant that his country was safe.

Connor looked at Erskine and made a decision.

“You’re right,” he said. “I was being hasty. We can’t go out there running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

“I’m pleased you see it that way,” said Erskine. “The last thing this agency needs is to get into hot water again. As far as everyone outside this office is concerned, Emma Ransom is Lara Antonova, a card-carrying FSB spook.”

“You’re right, Pete. This is no time to get emotional.”

Erskine evinced a grimace, as if to say he shared Connor’s concern for her welfare. “Look at it this way. If anyone can take care of herself, it’s Emma Ransom. She’s one tough cookie.”

“That she is.”

“We have to tie this operation off at the source. There’s no other way. Don’t take it hard, Frank. The woman knew what she was getting herself into.”

“Did she, Pete? You really think so?” Connor shook his head ruefully. “And did your wife? Did she know she was going to be an intel widow, or did you wait till after the marriage to tell her?”

Erskine was a newlywed, six months in, and married to a gal who worked reasonable hours as an attorney over at the Justice Department. He was at the part where he had to call his wife every evening to explain why he wouldn’t be home at seven.

“Sometimes, kid,” Connor went on, “I wonder if any of us really know what we’re getting into.”

At fifty-nine years of age, standing five feet nine inches tall and weighing 260 pounds, Frank Connor was the poster boy for heart disease, diabetes, stroke, and all the perils to personal health that accumulated after a life spent eating, drinking, and working to excess. His chin drooped over his collar. His thatch of ginger hair had thinned to a wisp, and his cheeks were decorated with enough broken capillaries to map the United States interstate system. His blue eyes, though, were still vital and stood ready for a challenge.

During his thirty years in Washington, he’d worked at Treasury, in the Pentagon, and for the past ten years at Division. Everyone knew that Frank Connor was going to die with his boots on. Connor knew it, too, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“All right, then,” he said. “What’s that they say about lemons and lemonade? Let’s see what we can make out of this fiasco.”

“Do let’s,” said Erskine, with exaggerated brio.

“Take a look at Rashid’s pal. Recognize him?”

Connor sat at his government-issue desk staring at the image of Prince Rashid’s associate filling his computer screen.

“Never seen him,” said Erskine. “What do you think? Distant cousin? A warlord over from Afghanistan?”

“Too spiffed up. This one’s got some class.”

“One of his Wahabi pals from Riyadh?”

“Why would he need Rashid to do his shopping for him? Plenty of fundamentalist nut jobs can do the job right there. Besides, if he were a Saudi, our assets would’ve pinpointed him by now. With all the eyes and ears we have on payroll in the royal palace, we’d know his name, blood type, and favorite scotch.”

“A friend of Balfour’s?” suggested Erskine.

Connor dismissed the suggestion with a snort. “He’s with Rashid all the way. Did you see the way the prince kowtowed to the guy? He respected him. Whoever our new friend is, he’s a mover and a shaker. He’s either done something to impress Rashid, in which case we should have a trace of him on our books, or he’s going to, in which case we may be in deep shit. Get a still blown up and send it over to tech services for cleaning up. When it’s finished, pass it over to Langley, MI6, and our friends in Jerusalem. Maybe they can put a name to a face.”

“Right away.” Erskine jotted the notes on a digital assistant, then slipped the device into his jacket. He walked to the door, but instead of leaving, he checked that it was properly closed, then crossed the office and perched himself on the corner of Connor’s desk. “You know what really concerns me, Frank?”

Connor leaned back in his chair. “What’s that?”

“The weapon Balfour mentioned finding.”

“That? Probably a five-hundred-pounder we were sending to the mujahideen way back when.”

Erskine narrowed his eyes and shook his head, having none of it. “I don’t think he’d ask Emma if she had a direct line to Igor Ivanov if it were a conventional munition. Mind taking another look at the feed?”

Connor restarted the digital recording, watching closely as Balfour handed Emma the picture of the bomb. The images were so crisp that Connor wanted to reach out and kiss her for framing the photograph so perfectly. Erskine rose from his chair and approached the fifty-inch screen. “What if it isn’t just a five-hundred-pounder?”

Connor put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “What are you trying to say?”

“What if it’s something bigger?”

“Like what? A bunker buster?”

“I don’t mean bigger in size,” said Erskine menacingly.

Connor leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. “We’d have known.”

Erskine crossed his arms and looked at Connor over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. “Would we?”

It was past midnight when Frank Connor returned to his town house on Prospect Street in Georgetown. Mounting the stairs, he paused at the front door long enough to punch in the alarm code and watch the pinlight turn from red to green. Despite the alarm and the two-man security team parked somewhere up the street to keep watch on him, he had few illusions about his safety. He’d been in the business long enough to forget more enemies than he could remember. If someone wanted him dead, he would die without seeing his assailant.

Safety was one thing. Security another.

Instead of unlocking the door and stepping inside, he put his fingers to the brick just below the alarm and slid it to the right, revealing a second numeric touch pad. This was his own alarm, a motion detection system set to register any activity inside the home and notify him privately. He was pleased to see that the light burned amber. All clear. It wasn’t his life he was worried about so much as the information inside his home.

He tapped in his six-digit code-his mother’s birthday-and then thumbed the brick back into position. With a muted click, the door opened automatically. Connor stepped inside and set down his briefcase in the vestibule. A single lamp burned in the living room, casting light on a chintz couch and an antique Quaker chair. The house was decorated in traditional bachelor style, which meant there was really no style at all. Still, he was careful to follow the dictates required of a ranking official who’d maxed out on the Special Executive Service pay scale long ago. He had an oak dining set and fine Meissen china. He had a mahogany secretary and prints of old U.S. sailing ships. There were no photos of friends or family anywhere in the house. He had none that he cared about. The only piece of furniture he gave a hoot about was his old leather recliner, dating from his days as a law student at the University of Michigan.

Connor was a man of habit. As always, he walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk, turning the lights on and off to mark his progress through the house. Next he went to his second-floor den, sat down in his recliner, and made himself watch one of the late-night television hosts’ monologue. Ten excruciating minutes passed before he rose and walked up the last flight of stairs to his bedroom. He drew the curtains, changed into his pajamas, then lay on his bed, leafing through an issue of Foreign Affairs, not seeing a single word.