Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

I save lives, he told himself. This is just a different way.

“In.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Connor nodded momentously, and a great sigh sent a shudder through his shoulders and his back, right down to his thick workingman’s hands. “We believe Lord Balfour to be in possession of a nuclear weapon. A warhead from one of our cruise missiles lost in the mountains near Afghanistan about twenty-five years ago, to be specific.”

Silence followed, as only silence could.

“A WMD?” asked Jonathan, finally.

“A nice little one-hundred-fifty-kiloton WMD in a stainless steel warhead not much bigger than a ripe summer watermelon.”

Connor was still leaning forward, still staring at him a little too hard. Jonathan sensed that there was more, and that it was going to be awful. “And Emma?” he asked.

“Emma helped Balfour bring it down from the mountains. A peak called Tirich Mir.”

“Tirich Mir?”

“Name mean something to you?”

“Never mind.” It did, but this wasn’t the time to bring up the past. Jonathan looked away, a curtain of horror falling over him. He didn’t ask if Connor was sure. They were past the bullshit. Past the untruths and the posturing and the deception. This was the real deal. This was “operational,” as Connor might say.

“When I learned where the missile was lost, I tasked a spy satellite to give me a close-up view of the area. I saw her with my own eyes. She was leading a recovery team to the site. I tried to get a special ops team there in time to intercept her, but the weather didn’t cooperate. One of the Marines leading the mission was killed.”

“By Emma?”

“She set a charge to blow up the remnants of the missile. She knew that without proof, I couldn’t raise much of a hue and cry. Captain Crockett didn’t get out in time.”

Jonathan sat up straighter, forcing himself to speak in a measured voice. It was his doctor’s voice, the one he used when delivering the worst of news. He’d learned long ago that professionalism was the first refuge of shame. “But why would she help Balfour? You told me he was present when Rashid tortured her.”

“We’re guessing that Balfour rescued her from the desert and this is some sort of way she’s paying him back. It’s my fault. We got her wound so tight she didn’t know who she was any longer. The torture pushed her over the edge. If I hadn’t seen her myself, I wouldn’t believe it either.”

“Is she there?”

“No idea. We’re surmising she brought the weapon down from the mountain and delivered it to Balfour. There’s no reason for her to stick around, but I wouldn’t have said she’d jump ship to Balfour either.”

Jonathan returned his eyes to the blueprints. He needed to focus. For the mission and for his sanity. “Any idea where on the premises it might be? The warhead, I mean?”

“I doubt Balfour will keep it in the main house. It’s not the kind of thing you tuck under your pillow. My experts tell me there’s no way the bomb is still functional after all these years. If Balfour wants to sell it for top dollar-and we’re certain that is his intention-he’s going to need to bring it back up to working condition. For that, he’ll need a secure workshop away from prying eyes.”

Jonathan pointed to the two outbuildings and suggested they might serve as acceptable spots. And for the next ten minutes he and Connor discussed the other places where the bomb might be kept, general security at Blenheim, and Balfour’s working habits.

Then Connor fished in his jacket and came out with a small razor cartridge cradled in his palm. “See this? As far as you’re concerned, it’s the crown jewels, and you will guard it accordingly. Looks like a razor blade, but it’s really a flash drive. All you need to do is put this in Balfour’s computer for ten seconds-laptop or desktop, doesn’t matter as long as it has wireless or Ethernet connection. It will install spyware on the computer and send us the entire contents of his machine and every machine it makes contact with. If Achilles built the Trojan Horse today, it would look like this.”

Jonathan held the compact flash drive in his hand. He felt relatively comfortable with the parameters of his mission. He knew Pakistan fairly well from his salad days climbing in the Hindu Kush and the Himalayas. He was a doctor impersonating a doctor, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Even the thought of inserting himself into Balfour’s inner sanctum didn’t scare him much. He’d been in arduous circumstances before and kept his cool. As a surgeon, he was constantly operating under a microscope, so to speak.

There was only one wild card.

“What if I see her?” he asked.

Connor leaned forward, making a steeple of his fingers. “Talk to her. Find out why she’s doing what she’s doing. See if you can get her to tell you where the bomb is. Try to bring her back.”

“And if she threatens to expose me?”

Connor wrinkled his brow. “I suppose you’ll have to kill her.”

Jonathan said nothing. Surprisingly, no protest welled up inside him. There was no cry of indignation. Instead, he remembered the feel of the blade in his hand, the cold, heavy heft of it. Now he knew why Danni had been so insistent on teaching him how to use the knife.

But it was Connor who had the last word. “If, that is, she doesn’t kill you first.”

The two stood side by side watching Emirates Flight 221 climb into the sky. The observation deck was deserted except for an elderly woman standing at the far end of the concourse. All the same, they spoke in hushed tones. For Connor, it was habit. For Danni, it was necessity. There was no other way to mask her feelings.

“How’d he do?” asked Connor.

“What kind of question is that?” Danni snapped. “We’d hardly even begun.”

“And?”

“Not bad, but not good, either. He’s got a mind like a steel trap. The memorization came easily to him. He’s got a fine eye indoors. If he gets into Balfour’s office, he’ll do a good job finding what he needs. But he’s no field agent. Not by a long shot. He needs another month at least.”

“Too late for that.”

“It’s not right. He’s a rank amateur.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“I’m not. You’re underestimating Balfour. All those good manners and fancy clothes-it’s a disguise. He’s a cold-blooded killer from the worst streets you can imagine. My people tried to put a man into his organization two years ago. He lasted a month before his corpse turned up in a Pindi slum with his throat cut and his testicles stuffed into his mouth. And he was good, Frank. Sayeret. You’re putting a novice with no operational experience into a gangster’s household in a foreign country without any backup. How long do you think he’s going to last?”

“Long enough to tell us where Balfour is keeping that warhead and who he intends to sell it to.”

“Did you tell him about Revy?” asked Danni.

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Can von Daniken keep it quiet?”

“He’s working on it. So far, so good, but he’s not as confident as I’d like.”

“You owe Jonathan the truth.”

“The truth will ruin his nerves.”

“And Emma?”

“He knows what to do if he sees her.”

“Think she’s there?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“He won’t do it. She’s his wife, for God’s sake.”

“He’s killed before. I’ve seen that look in his eye. He’s not as averse to it as you think.”

“Not like this, he hasn’t. You’re asking too much.”

“All the same, it needs to be done.”

Danni put a hand on Connor’s arm. “Don’t make him go through with it. You can reach him in Dubai. He has a six-hour layover.”