Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

Treason was a serious matter, and Connor was not about to point any fingers before marshaling his evidence. Until then, he’d have to do his utmost to restrict Erskine’s access to any and all information relating to Ransom’s search for the warhead. There was more to it than that. Erskine was only a pawn, a single node in a larger operation. Connor was more interested in discovering whom he worked for and breaking down the entire operation. Arrest Erskine now and his handlers would shut down and go into hiding. In six months’ time they’d be back, using new names and new aliases, with the same devilish intent of corrupting Division and its sister agencies within the intelligence community.

Connor followed the call to the NSA with one to an organization on his side of the Potomac, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, or FinCEN. FinCEN was one of the unsung heroes in the fight against terrorism. Created to investigate financial misdeeds within the United States, it had seen its portfolio increase significantly since 9/11 and was now the foremost actor in the international battle against terrorist finance.

Connor greeted his contact, supplied Erskine’s Social Security number, and requested a full workup on his financial history. He was most interested in Erskine’s bank accounts and asked that statements from the past six months be scrutinized with a view toward determining the identity of any person or party who might have transferred monies into the accounts. Requests like this were FinCEN’s bread and butter. Information would be forthcoming within twenty-four hours.

The office phone rang. Connor finished with FinCEN and picked up. “Yeah?”

“I’ve found Colonel al-Faris.”

“Thanks, Pete,” he said. “Put him through.”

A pause as the call was transferred.

“Frank-it is Nasser. It is very late here. Please tell me how I can be of assistance to my American friends.”

“Hello, Nasser,” began Connor. “I was interested in-” He stopped speaking in midsentence. Something had caught his attention.

A red cursor flashed on the screen of his computer monitor. A window opened, and a prompt read, “Remora 575 Active. Currently downloading 1 of 2,575 files.” An IP address followed. “Time remaining: two minutes.”

“Frank… are you there?”

“Holy mother of God,” said Connor, his eyes glued to the screen. “I gotta call you back.”

Remora 575 belonged to Jonathan Ransom. With amazement verging on disbelief, Connor stood motionless, watching as the files from Lord Balfour’s hard drive were copied and transferred onto his own.

And sometimes your prayers are answered even as the world is falling apart around you.

Sultan Haq woke, alarmed.

Bolting upright, he stared into the darkness. A face stared back. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Heavy black-rimmed glasses. It was Revy, the Swiss doctor who had so freely insulted him and his country this evening.

Haq met the man’s regard, despising him, as he viscerally despised all men of the West. For his privilege and arrogance, but mostly for his false, ingrained superiority. The face stared back, saying nothing, yet demanding something of him nonetheless. Haq looked more closely at him, frustration welling up inside him. And more-a nagging certainty that he was being deceived. He looked past the glasses and studied the blue eyes.

His chief interrogator at Camp X-Ray had had blue eyes, and the same blond hair. Looking into Revy’s face, Haq felt himself drawn back into the interrogation room. He remembered the fluorescent lights, his captors’ greedy, dissatisfied faces, the rank breath and insistent questioning, and then the hood, the abrupt tilting of his head, the last desperate breath before the torrent of water. Water in place of breath. Water in place of light. Water coming as death to carry him away on its fluid, relentless waves.

And there, high in the corner, taunting him when the hood was removed and he could breathe again, the undying television, blaring on and on, playing the same dreadful images, the dancing sailors crossing New York City, belting out cheery, hopeful songs. American songs.

Haq closed his eyes to ward off the memories, but they persisted. Images from a different world. A barbarous, deceitful world. A world Haq swore to end.

The interrogator was a soft, weak man, but the blue eyes staring back at him in the darkness were neither soft nor weak. They were formidable adversary’s eyes. And so Haq asked what it was that Revy demanded of him. For what purpose had he lured him from his sleep?

Haq believed in the power of dreams.

Revy didn’t answer, and Haq knew he was baiting him, daring him to guess his secret.

Sultan Haq stared into the darkness until the face receded and there was nothing but black, and a terrible gnawing settled on his soul.

Emma came to him in his sleep. He felt her warmth beside him and his body responded. He touched her and she moaned. Jonathan was dreaming, of course. It was only there that he could see her as she was, or perhaps as he wanted her to be. He ran his hands over his wife’s body, and he stirred as if discovering her for the first time. He saw her lying on the grass beneath him. It was night in the green hills of West Africa where they’d first met and he’d fallen irrevocably in love with her. He undid her belt buckle, yanking the leather strap free, and slid her jeans over her strong, eager hips. She parted her legs and whispered his name. Jonathan. Love me. A warm breath caressed his ear, his neck. His heartbeat quickened. He met her eyes, and as he entered her, she nodded to say it was all right. More than all right.

“Jonathan.”

He woke with a start. Emma sat on the bed beside him, her hair down, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. “Shhh,” she said as she removed her clothing.

She pulled back the sheets and climbed on top of him, back arched, eyes locked on his as he pushed into her. He gasped, and she covered his mouth with animal swiftness. She said nothing but shook her head, always watching him, her breath quickening. Light from the approaching dawn fell over her breasts, which appeared fuller than he remembered, her nipples exceptionally pert. Grasping her hips, he drove into her and she fought back, their tempo growing more rapid, more violent, Emma lowering her head, letting her hair fall on his chest, sweating now, her breathing labored, hard fought, her motions unrelenting, urging him on, demanding his attention, until he could match her no more and he surrendered and allowed himself release.

A moment later her body began to tremor and a languorous moan issued from her clenched teeth and she buried her face in his neck and expelled a long, hot breath.

“Come with me,” she said, still gasping. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I can get you out.”

“No.”

“You’ll die here.”

“Maybe.”

She pushed herself off him. “For me?”

“I’m not on your team, Emma.”

“And for your child?”

Jonathan pushed himself up on an elbow. “What? You’re-”

“I’m pregnant.”

“How far?”

“Four months.”

Jonathan sat up, stunned. “London?”

Emma nodded.

“You’re sure that’s when it happened?” The words came of their own volition, a reminder of his distrust. Emma slapped him very hard and slid to the edge of the bed. Jonathan stared out the window. His room faced east, and he saw the first sliver of the sun edge above the horizon. “Then why are you here? Why are you doing all this?”

“To save myself.”

Jonathan caught something in her voice, an intimation of a task yet to be accomplished. “What does that mean?”

Emma met his gaze and held it. “Come with me and you’ll find out. But you have to trust me.”