Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

Jonathan looked at her belly and saw that it was round where before it had been flat. Her breasts were larger, fuller. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she clutched his hand and turned it away. Joy and sadness filled him in equal measure. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

And she rolled off the bed and left as silently as she had come.

It was eight a.m. and Blenheim was in full swing. In the motor court, the Range Rovers had been pulled from their garage bays and were being washed and waxed. The sound of horses being led to and from the stables carried in the sunlit air. The house trembled with the comings and goings of its many residents. Strangely, the area by the maintenance building was lacking any activity. There were no trucks nearby. No sign of the armed guards Jonathan had observed yesterday keeping watch on the entrance.

At first Jonathan surmised that the warhead had been moved. The previous evening’s attack had spooked Balfour, and he’d wasted no time in spiriting his crown jewel to a safer location. Then another idea came to him. It was precisely because the attack had spooked Balfour that he would not risk moving it. The calm was a facade, Balfour’s effort to avoid drawing attention to the shed. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and Jonathan gained proof that his hunch was correct. A pair of snipers lay flat on the garage roof, keeping an eye on the shed’s perimeter. Snipers did not guard an empty building.

All this Jonathan took in from his second-floor window. Freshly shaved and showered, and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for a morning run, he felt himself in the grip of a feeling unlike any he’d known. Part call to action, part thirst for revenge, a manic desire stirred inside him to do whatever was necessary to see his job through. His own safety and well-being did not come into play. He would pass along the information he had gathered to Frank Connor. It was that simple. He wasn’t sure if it was a fool’s courage or a father’s first and last duty to his unborn child. He knew only that actions defined a man, and that waiting was not an option.

It was Emma, of course. Her visit had awakened feelings he’d thought dead. Or maybe he had preferred them that way. The ego’s almighty and seductive trickery. No matter the scope of her betrayal, the enormity of her crimes, he could not rid himself of his love for her. She was poison, yet he tasted her incautiously. He was a man of discipline, yet she defeated his will. Her essence tormented him. Her competence inspired him. And now he had learned that she was the mother of his child. For that, he swore allegiance to her forever. Allegiance, but not assistance. If he could not defeat her in love, he would defeat her in war.

Turning, Jonathan strode to the dressing area and removed a platinum American Express card from his wallet. The card bore Michel Revy’s name but it was not a credit card, nor had it ever belonged to him. The card was one of Frank Connor’s neatest tricks. Embedded in its skin was a powerful counterjamming device capable of defeating the wireless cage Balfour had erected over his estate.

Connor’s instructions were clear. As soon as Jonathan came into possession of information relating to the warhead’s location and its sale and transfer to Balfour’s client, he was to transmit it to Division. This could be done in one of three ways. If Jonathan was able to free himself from Balfour and get liberty outside Blenheim, he could simply call the secure line programmed into the phone. If that were not the case (and Connor had been plainspoken about his belief that Balfour would not permit Jonathan to leave the compound), Jonathan could transmit the encrypted information to a secure site via his laptop. As there was no wireless service and no Internet connection in his room, the laptop was also out.

The last option involved activating the counterjamming device in the credit card. Once activated, the card possessed sufficient power to defeat the most robust jamming system for five to eight minutes. During that time Jonathan would be able to place a call to Division, transmit his information, and receive instructions as to his further actions. There was only one catch. Connor had been up front in explaining that Balfour’s security team would immediately notice the disruption in the jamming system, and, as important, would be able to triangulate the location of the counterjamming device within sixty seconds. Use of the credit card meant certain detection, and thus certain death.

Jonathan slipped the card into his shorts along with his phone and quietly left his room. He paused in the hallway, looking left and right, and decided to use the back stairs, which passed adjacent to the kitchen. The hallway was empty, and with every step his confidence grew. Once outside, he would jog past the stables and across the meadow Balfour had named Runnymede to the farthest corner of the estate. The farther he was from the jamming signal, the greater the counterjamming device’s ability to defeat it. He passed the reproduction of Blue Boy and the framed collection of medieval fighting irons and wondered what was going to happen to all of Balfour’s possessions.

To his right a door opened and Mr. Singh stepped out, blocking his path. Jonathan offered a polite good morning and walked around the man-mountain, not slowing his stride. Mr. Singh’s phone rang, and Jonathan heard him say in the queen’s English, “Good morning, m’ lord.”

Reaching the stairs, Jonathan put his hand in his pocket, fingering the credit card for reassurance. As he descended the stairs, he was met by the smell of sausage and eggs and all the wonderful scents of a country breakfast. The chef stood by the stairs, clutching a basket of muffins. Jonathan was forced to engage her in conversation, politely declining the offer of a muffin, French toast, and eggs Benedict. He secured his escape by accepting a red apple from the fruit bowl and promising to return after his run. Mollified, the chef attended to her stove and he crossed the last few meters to the door.

“Ransom.”

His name was spoken, not shouted, in a faultless American accent that he had once admired. Danni had trained him how to spot a tail and how to memorize a roomful of objects. But she hadn’t said a word about how to react when someone unexpectedly called your name and you were thousands of miles from home and surrounded by the enemy.

Jonathan froze, his shoulders stiffening, and at that moment he knew that all was lost. He looked over his shoulder. Sultan Haq stood at the opposite side of the kitchen. Their eyes met. The spark of recognition passed between them and an image flashed in Jonathan’s mind of Haq standing on the mountain plateau surrounded by flames, the Kentucky hunting rifle in his hands, crying out for revenge. Jonathan remembered Hamid and the brave soldiers who had died in the complex of caves at Tora Bora, and for a glorious moment he considered killing Haq then and there.

Footsteps approached from the stairs behind him. Mr. Singh and Balfour.

Jonathan bolted out the door and slammed it behind him. He ran past the line of Range Rovers, the car attendants shooting him confused looks, past the garage and toward the stables.

“Ransom!” shouted Haq.

“Stop him!” ordered Balfour.

A security guard astride an ATV motored in his direction, standing tall on his pedals, trying to make sense of the situation.

Lowering a shoulder, Jonathan knocked him headlong off the four-wheel vehicle and jumped into his seat.

“Shoot him!” Balfour was saying.

Jonathan spun the ATV in a tight turn and accelerated out of the motor court and past the stables. There was a shot and the ATV jumped as a bullet struck the chassis. Jonathan hunkered low over the handlebars, keeping the throttle full out, building speed. Another bullet struck the fender. He bounded into the meadow, putting distance between himself and the main house. A look behind him showed that no one had followed. He slowed enough to pull the credit card out of his pocket and activate the counterjammer. Trading the credit card for his phone, he hit the speed-dial for Frank Connor. There was a hissing sound, and the call failed.