Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

The memory was wonderful, but all too short-lived. Her subsequent unveiling as an operative in the employ of the Russian Federal Security Service had revealed her true reasons for coming to London. Visiting her husband for a romantic tryst figured far down the list. What he’d taken to be an expression of love was artifice or, worse, simple convenience. The realization had wrecked him.

“But why?” asked Jonathan, even as the pieces began to fall into place.

“Once we decided to run Emma as a double-to reintegrate her into the FSB-it was imperative that all doubts about where her loyalty lay be erased from the Russians’ minds. The Russians are paranoid to a fault, and no one more than Sergei Shvets, at the time director of the FSB, the man who was Emma’s first controller as well as her first lover. Emma had worked for us a long time by then.”

“Eight years,” said Jonathan.

“Longer,” said Connor. “There was no way Shvets was going to take her back unless we gave him a reason. If we wanted her dead, he could only assume it was because she had betrayed us. Nothing less would have convinced him.”

“And the rest? I mean, the explosives in the nuclear plant in Normandy? The car bomb in London? What about that?”

“That is none of your business.” Connor raised a hand before Jonathan could protest. “You already know much too much about what happened last summer. I only told you this much because you’re her husband and I figure we owe it to you.”

“So you weren’t aware that she was going to visit me in London?”

Connor laughed gruffly. “Do you think that’s the kind of thing she’d clear with me?”

Jonathan looked away. “And so…”

“If she saw you, it was because she wanted to. You do the math. I will say this, however: it was a stupid, rash decision in contravention of every last tenet of her training. She risked her life and the mission by doing so, and you’d better believe I chewed her ass out about it when I found out.”

Jonathan grabbed his mug of tea and drank it down. A steady hum reverberated through the carrier’s hull. There was a loud whoosh from above their heads, and the boat shuddered as if it had taken a body blow.

“Flight ops,” said Connor. “That’s the catapult launching a plane off the deck.”

The boat stilled, and Jonathan noted the pervasive scent of diesel fuel that hung in the air. “You said that Emma was in danger. How can I help her?”

“By finishing what she started.”

“I think you have the wrong person. I’m a doctor, not an operative.”

“Precisely. As it so happens, that’s exactly what I’m in the market for.” Connor laid his meaty fists on the table. “First off, I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. No bullshit. What you went through in those mountains is enough to derail a strong man. I’ve seen soldiers with twenty years’ experience lose it after something like that.”

“I’m okay,” said Jonathan.

“Nightmares? Sweats?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“Hold out your arm.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on. Stick it out straight in front of you. Hold your hand flat, fingers as straight as you can keep ’em.”

Jonathan extended his right arm. His hand shook visibly. He balled his fingers into a fist, and when he released them, the fingers were steadier. Connor eyed him, unsure.

“When I was younger, I lost a few friends climbing,” said Jonathan. “We were up high in dangerous spots, where things can happen quickly. Someone is there and then they’re not. It’s too fast to register what happened and what it means to you. I feel the same now. I’m freaked. Maybe I’m even in some kind of delayed shock. Part of me wants to give in to that, but there’s too much going on. I have to take care of the now, now, or else I’m not going to get down alive. Does that make sense to you?”

Connor considered this. “Yes, Dr. Ransom. It does.”

“Do me a favor. Would you stop calling me Dr. Ransom? My name is Jonathan.”

“All right, Jonathan.” One of the meaty hands rose from the table for a shake. “Frank Connor.”

“And that’s your real name?” asked Jonathan as he tried to match Connor’s grip.

“As far as my mother told me.” Connor laughed and loosened the knot of his tie. “Okay then, Jonathan, this is where we start. Everything I’m going to tell you from this moment on is classified, or a helluva lot higher than that. I don’t have any papers for you to sign. That can wait. But make no mistake, from here on out, you work for me, and by that I mean the United States government. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, but you can leave that military bullshit at the door. Are we clear?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed and a hint of red flushed his cheeks. “There’s something else I should tell you. The job I’m asking you to take is extremely dangerous. You will be going into the belly of the beast, and there is not going to be anybody there to hold your hand. You will be alone behind enemy lines, and I mean that in the real sense of the word. There is every chance in the world that you will be caught. And if you are, I can’t do a damn thing about it. The good news is that you won’t have to rot for fifty years in a Pakistani cell. The bad news is that you’ll be summarily executed.”

“Hey, Frank, don’t sugarcoat it. Tell how it’s really going to be.”

Connor didn’t appreciate the joke. “I will steer you where you need to go. I will tell you everything you have to do. Follow my instructions and you’ll make out just fine. The most important thing is to keep your wits about you. Are we cl-” Connor caught himself. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Jonathan. “I get it. It’s dangerous. Go ahead. If it’s something to help Emma, I’ll do it.”

“All right, then let me read you in on your wife’s activities. For the past two months-since September-Emma’s been stationed at the FSB’s residence in Damascus, doing penance for her role in the attempt to assassinate Igor Ivanov. They have her doing menial tasks-running Arab diplomats, low-level sneak-’n’-peeks, the occasional theft of corporate secrets. These days industrial espionage is a state activity, especially if you’re as far behind the eight ball as Russia. One of her jobs is handling Ashok Armitraj, a big-time gunrunner working out of South Asia. Armitraj is half Indian, half British and calls himself Lord Balfour. Ever heard of him?”

Jonathan said he hadn’t.

“Soon you’re going to know every goddamn thing there is to know about him. He’s going to be your bestest and closest friend. Anyway, a month back Balfour contacted Emma with a shopping list he wanted for a client. Usually no one cares who the end user is. Balfour gives us a country and we put that on the export documentation.”

“Us? America sells to this guy, too?”

Connor nodded. “We have a lot of fine companies to keep in business. Anyhow, the Russians don’t mind who the end user is. They’re shipping this stuff out the back door as it is.”

“What do you mean, the back door?”

“Think of them like the Mob. The stuff Balfour buys from the Russians has all fallen off the back of a truck. In this case, the truck is a government arms factory controlled by the FSB. There’s legit production and there’s the back door. Legit sales go on the books. The back door goes into the generals’ pockets.”

“So who was Balfour’s client-the end user?”

“We don’t know. What we do know, and what opened our eyes, was Prince Rashid’s involvement in the deal. According to Balfour, Rashid was brokering the sale and guaranteeing payment on his client’s behalf.”

“Prince Rashid from the Gulf? He’s a benefactor of Doctors Without Borders. He’s a good guy.”