Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“No.”

“Then it is finished.”

“And the surgical suite is all right?”

“Intact,” said Balfour, making a slow, steady circuit of the room.

Mr. Singh entered the room behind him, his eyes locked on Jonathan.

Jonathan didn’t question the intrusion. He played the frightened guest who refused to be mollified. “But there were so many explosions. Isn’t this a matter for the police?”

“The explosions were only hand grenades and an RPG that took out my men on the roof. Mostly it was small-arms fire. The police do not intercede in this kind of thing. It is an army matter, but frankly, the army has no interest in protecting me these days.”

Balfour skimmed the desk with his pistol, pushing aside a copy of his medical records and tilting his head to read Jonathan’s notes on the pad of paper beneath it. Jonathan heard Emma telling him to find a good reason to leave. If he chose to follow her advice, the time was now. He could feign battle stress, admit that the tumult was too much for him. He could say he was a doctor, not a soldier, and ask to be put on the next plane home. Then he remembered that Revy had operated on a Chechen warlord in Grozny and a Corsican gangster under a death warrant from the national police. The Swiss doctor had logged too much time in stressful conditions for a few hand grenades and an RPG to shatter his nerves. But Revy’s history was beside the point. Jonathan had committed to the mission, and he never backed out on his word.

“And you stayed here the entire time?” asked Balfour, sliding open the closet door and admiring the suits.

“Of course,” said Jonathan. “I wasn’t about to leave.”

Balfour murmured, “Of course,” while Singh maintained his baleful glare.

“So we are still on for the morning after next?” said Jonathan.

“Certainly.” Balfour had moved into the bathroom and stood rifling through Jonathan’s shaving kit, pretending not to be interested in what he found. “I came to tell you that Yulia is quite distraught,” he called. “She will not be able to accommodate you. You would like another, perhaps?”

“No, no,” said Jonathan. “I’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.”

“No condoms,” said Balfour quizzically, poking his head into the bedroom.

“Excuse me?”

“I would think that a doctor would know well enough to bring sheaths.”

But Frank Connor was every bit as smart as Ashok Balfour Armitraj. He had read the correspondence between Revy and his client enough times to master the details of Jonathan’s cover. Sex, he knew, was foremost on the single male traveler’s agenda.

“If you need to borrow one,” said Jonathan, “look in the drawer.”

Balfour slid open the vanity’s drawer and picked up a silver packet.

“Help yourself,” said Jonathan. “I hope it’s not too big.”

For once, Balfour had no response.

“Good night, Ash,” said Jonathan. “I’m glad that you’re safe.”

Balfour dropped the condom back into the drawer and walked from the bathroom.

Peter Erskine greeted Connor as he walked through the door to Division. “Frank, am I glad to see you. The phone’s been ringing off the hook from Islamabad for the past hour. Where have you been?”

“Busy,” said Connor as he made a beeline through the operations center to his office. “What’s the big news?”

“The ISI is talking about a firefight at Balfour’s estate.”

“At Blenheim? Close the door behind you. Go on.”

Erskine shut the door to Connor’s office and leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. “The ISI has been keeping a man on Balfour even though it withdrew protective custody. He said all hell broke loose about forty-five minutes ago. Small-arms fire. Grenades. RPGs. He wasn’t inside the compound perimeter, but from what he saw, it was a fierce little battle.”

“Any clue that it was Indian intelligence trying to snatch Balfour? The RAW’s had a hard-on for him since that Mumbai thing. They probably got wind he was blowing town and finally got up the guts to make their move.”

“No word. It’s too early to tell.”

“So that’s it? Small-arms fire? A couple grenades? How long did this ‘fierce little battle’ last?”

“A short while, maybe twenty minutes.”

Connor set down his satchel on his desk. “Hell, it was probably Balfour showing off some of his weapons.”

“I don’t think so. Two ambulances reportedly went to the estate.”

Connor snapped to attention. “Oh? Well, did they or didn’t they?”

“It’s Pakistan. What looks like an ambulance might be a repair truck. Anyway, they didn’t leave in a hurry.”

“Meaning whoever they went to look after was dead.”

Erskine approached the desk. “Have you heard from Jonathan Ransom?”

“He only arrived at the compound eight hours ago. I told him to keep quiet until he has something concrete. Find Colonel al-Faris and get him on the line. If it’s our boy who was killed, I want to know it. Try him at his home, and if he’s not there, at his mistress’s place.”

“Do you have her number?”

“It’s on file,” said Connor. “She works for us.”

Erskine turned to go, pausing at the door. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. We got a response from the Brits about the picture of Prince Rashid’s associate we sent over to them-the creepy guy we couldn’t identify at Balfour’s hangar in Sharjah.”

Connor looked up sharply. “What about him?”

“They think he’s Massoud Haq. Sultan Haq’s older brother.”

“Can’t be. Massoud Haq is in Gitmo. They picked him up back at the beginning. He was a general in the Taliban army. Led a cavalry charge against a battalion from the 82nd Airborne Division. He’s a crazy one, all right. He’s as hardcore as they come.” Connor shook his head, shuddering at the possibility. “Nah, no way it’s him. He’s in custody for the duration.”

Erskine pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Massoud Haq was released six months ago,” he said. “I checked. The Department of Justice wrote a brief clearing him.”

“What?” Connor dropped into his chair, uttering a rare expletive. “Not another one. Half the guys we’re targeting these days spent time in Gitmo. Doesn’t anyone realize we’re fighting a war? Last time I checked, you didn’t release the enemy until they surrendered.” He paused and studied Erskine. “When exactly did you find this out, Pete?”

“It came in while you were gone.”

Connor considered the answer evasive but said nothing. He signaled that they were done, and Erskine left the room. Connor watched him return to his desk, wondering just how long ago that had really been. Demoralized and thoroughly pissed off, he opened his satchel and took out his legal pad and his BlackBerry. He scrolled through his messages but saw nothing from Danni. He called Mossad headquarters in Herzliya and this time demanded to speak to the director of the service.

“Frank, if I knew where Danni was, I’d tell you. She’s on leave. She could be anywhere. She has lots of miles racked up, you know what I mean? She’s due back in six days. The girl needs her rest.”

Connor hung up the phone, then placed a call to a closer destination: Fort Meade, Maryland, home of the National Security Agency, or NSA. The NSA was responsible for gathering signals intelligence from around the world. Essentially, this meant eavesdropping on every known mode of telecommunications, both terrestrial and satellite-based. His conversation was brief. He read off four telephone numbers and requested a log of all calls made to and from them for the past thirty days. The numbers belonged to Peter Erskine’s private cell phone, his company BlackBerry, his home landline, and his home fax.