Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“Why do you trust me?” she’d asked when she’d recovered enough to ask why he’d come for her.

“Because you’re like me,” Balfour had answered. “You have nowhere else to turn.”

“What makes you so sure?” she’d asked, a rebel despite her bruised ribs, second-degree burns, and the angry scabs that covered her hips and shoulders and back.

“Thanks to Prince Rashid, the Russians know you’re a double. You can’t go back there. It’s obvious the Americans don’t want you either.”

“How do you know?”

Balfour had leaned close, so that she could smell the mint on his breath and note the long eyelashes that made his brown eyes glimmer. “The bullets, darling. Rashid told me that someone tipped him off.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?” Balfour’s dismissive tone convinced her he knew more than he was saying. “Someone on your side wants you dead. You can’t go home.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she’d countered, turning her head away so he couldn’t read the hurt in her eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can. But first I need your help.”

Emma had said nothing. She could refuse him, but he could as easily kill her as let her go. In the end, it came down to actions. He’d saved her life. The fact that he’d done so to further his own aims changed nothing. She owed him. It was only later that she began to fashion her own plan.

“Give me a map,” she said, returning her mind to the present.

Balfour showed her to a round table in the center of the room where a detailed topographic map was laid out. For an hour they discussed the logistics of the operation-men, equipment, timing. And all the while she sensed his eyes on her, measuring, appraising, calculating. She had known that Balfour was in trouble, but she sensed a new impatience about him, a frisson of desperation that electrified his every movement.

She had more questions. To whom did he intend to sell the missile? How much did he expect to receive? Where would the transfer take place? But these were an intelligence agent’s questions, and she knew better than to ask.

She remembered Rashid’s shadowy associate, the solemn, robed man kept deliberately apart from the others. She realized now that his separation was not to prevent him from learning too much about Rashid’s transaction but to keep Emma, and perhaps even Balfour, from learning too much about him.

“How soon can you go up?” Balfour asked, barely able to keep his ostrich-skin loafers in one place.

“How soon would you like?”

“Two days,” said Balfour. It was a command, not a request.

“All right,” said Emma, hiding her uncertainty about whether her still fragile body would be up to the task. “Two days.”

It was then that Emma knew Balfour’s troubles were worse than she’d realized.

Retrieving the missile was key.

For him and for her.

“The first thing you need to learn is how to move between two places without being tailed. This requires two skills, the ability to spot who’s following you and the ability to evade them.”

It was ten o’clock the morning after Jonathan had arrived in Israel. Standing next to Danni on the corner of Ramat Gan and Ben Gurion streets in the commercial heart of Tel Aviv, he leaned closer to hear her over the noise of the traffic. Around them, the sidewalk pulsed with activity. A multitude of shoppers passed in both directions, all of them appearing to be in an urgent rush.

“We’re going to start with something simple,” she went on. “I want you to cross the street and continue halfway down the block before crossing against traffic to the other side. When you get to the other side, keep on going in the same direction until you reach the traffic signal. We’ll catch up to you there.”

Jonathan scoped out the route. “It’s less than two hundred meters.”

“That’s far enough,” said Danni. She had abandoned the maid’s uniform for jeans, a white tank top, and black designer sunglasses. “Four people are going to follow you. They’re all in plain sight right now. Take a second to look around you and familiarize yourself with the people you see.”

Jonathan stepped away from Danni, finding a gap where he had a clearer view of both sides of the street.

“What are you doing?” she asked, grabbing him by the arm.

“What you said. I’m looking around at everyone.”

“And everyone knows that’s what you’re doing. You look like a virgin in a strip club. Your eyes are about to pop out of your head. Watch me.”

Danni walked casually to the corner of the intersection, taking up position next to a squat middle-aged woman carrying two straw shopping bags. Danni said a word to the woman, then returned her gaze to the intersection, pausing only to scratch her head. The light changed. The pedestrians around her crossed the street.

“That’s how you do it,” Danni said, once more at Jonathan’s side.

“Do what? You didn’t look anywhere except at that lady and the pavement in front of you.”

“Exactly.” Keeping her eyes locked on Jonathan, she said, “There’s a man across the road by the kebab stand, blue jeans, red shirt. Another guy is waiting to cross next to him, dark suit, sunglasses, cropped hair, can’t keep from checking his watch. Kitty-corner to us are two teenage girls, I’d say fifteen or sixteen, who’ve been working their way through the same rack of T-shirts since we’ve been standing here.”

Danni went on, pointing out men and women both stationary and on the move. Jonathan viewed each in turn, marveling at her ability to recall. “Which ones are going to follow me?” he asked.

“That’s not the point. I’m saying you have to observe without looking. Keep your head still and let your eyes move. Use store windows. Reflections from passing cars. Use natural movements as an excuse to look. Stop to tie your shoe. This is about sensing as much as anything else. Clear your mind. Expand your listening. Feel your surroundings.”

“I thought this was Israel, not Japan. I’m about to have a Zen moment.”

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine. Hone your senses. Right now they’re about as sharp as a butter knife.”

“How can you hone anything when you can barely hear yourself think or move without bumping into someone?”

As if to prove his point, a police car sped past, siren blaring. Jonathan stepped back from the curb, only to notice that he was the only one who had done so.

“Off you go,” said Danni, arms crossed. “One hundred meters. Cross halfway along. Your job is to spot the four people following you. And don’t give yourself away.”

The light turned in his favor. The pedestrians surrounding him left the curb. A step late, Jonathan joined them. Four people tailing him. He started to turn his head, then yanked it back to center. Let your eyes move. He looked out of the corner of his eye. The teenage girls who’d been examining T-shirts were mirroring his progress on the opposite side of the street. The businessman in the dark suit was there too, talking on a cell phone. Jonathan locked onto a pregnant woman and a boy wearing a Lakers cap. It might be them, too. Danni probably thought he wouldn’t suspect a guy wearing an American basketball hat. Jonathan stepped onto the curb, just avoiding a collision with two Hassidim barreling right at him, and realized he’d been craning his neck.

Foot traffic slowed. Ducking his shoulder, Jonathan angled through the crowd, keeping a steady pace. He lost sight of the teenage girls. The businessman was long gone, too. He was unable to spot one familiar face. Overwhelmed, he gave up trying to locate his tails. He concentrated instead on not barging into anyone. He reached the midway point and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. Automobile traffic cleared, and he jogged across the street.