Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“Dammit.”

It was then that he saw a black shadow advancing over the terrain. Looking again, he saw that it was Sultan Haq on Inferno, the black stallion, galloping in his direction. Jonathan hit the speed-dial again. The hissing erupted and Jonathan swore. Abruptly the white noise died and the call went through. Jonathan revved the throttle and the ATV hurtled over the grass, rocking considerably, lifting him out of his seat. He could not control the vehicle and hold the phone at the same time.

Behind him, Haq was gaining ground. Jonathan returned his left hand to the grip, clutching the phone in his palm. An ATV appeared at the far end of the meadow, blocking his escape. Jonathan veered right, cutting a diagonal path away from it, then braked to a full stop.

“Frank, it’s me, Jonathan. Can you hear me?”

“Jonathan… yes, I can, just barely. What the hell are you doing?”

“Frank, it’s here. The warhead is at Blenheim. You have to get here fast. They’re moving it today. The buyer’s Sultan Haq.”

“Say again? You’re cutting out… can’t quite pick you up…”

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. Haq was charging at him, the horse breathing furiously. Jonathan grabbed the handlebars and squeezed the throttle, steering the ATV toward a spot in the fence where he’d glimpsed a jeep and some workers. He willed the all-terrain vehicle faster, but it could not outpace Inferno. The black stallion neared, close enough for Jonathan to hear his hooves thudding the ground, to feel his presence. He looked over his shoulder. Haq was five meters behind and closing fast. Jonathan searched the field ahead, observed that there was a tear in the fence, and aimed the ATV toward it.

Suddenly Haq was beside him, leaning off the horse and striking him with an enormous fist. Jonathan yanked the handlebars to the right, but Haq stayed with him, one hand clutching the horse’s mane, his legs wrapped around the beast’s flanks. Again his fist connected with Jonathan’s cheek. Jonathan lashed out with his left arm, hitting the side of Haq’s head. The horse slowed, and Jonathan was clear.

Fifty meters separated him from the fence.

He leaned low over the handlebars, eking out every ounce of power from the throttle.

A blur appeared to his right. A jeep barreled in front of him, blocking the fence. Mr. Singh was at the wheel, and Balfour stood in the back, manning the. 30 caliber machine gun.

Jonathan spun the ATV to avoid colliding with them. The ATV bucked at the violent change of direction, two wheels lifting off the ground. Jonathan shifted his weight, but he was traveling too rapidly and the meadow’s soil was too soft. The ATV flipped, and Jonathan tumbled headlong through the tall grass.

Spitting out a mouthful of turf, he pushed himself to his knees, only to see Balfour swing the machine gun around and cock the firing pin.

“Don’t shoot!” shouted Haq as he dismounted and approached Jonathan. “Hello, Dr. Ransom. I hoped that we would meet again, but didn’t dare believe it. This time I don’t think you can rely on the cavalry to rescue you.”

“Probably not,” said Jonathan.

Haq kicked him in the ribs, and Jonathan fell to his side. The tall Afghan reached into the grass and picked up Jonathan’s phone. He pressed several buttons but drew no satisfaction. “Who did you call?”

Jonathan remained silent.

Haq looked at Balfour.

Balfour said, “I have the world’s most sophisticated jamming system. No one can make a wireless call from anywhere within five kilometers unless I clear the number beforehand. This man-Revy, Ransom… whatever his name is-could not have placed a call.”

Haq appeared unconvinced. With mounting anger, he turned toward Jonathan. “Who were you calling?”

“I was trying to reach your father in hell. I wanted to tell him I was sorry I didn’t cut his throat myself.”

“I’ll let you deliver the message personally, but first I must know if you are telling me the truth. Mr. Singh, hold him.”

The Sikh wrenched Jonathan to his feet and locked his arms around his chest, imprisoning him.

Haq pulled an instrument from his pocket. It was a knife, but no ordinary one. A short, crescent-shaped blade extended from a scarred bulbous wooden handle. It was a poppy knife, used by farmers to slice grooves into the ripe poppy bulbs from which the precious opium could flow. “You have dark eyes,” he said. “I remember.”

Jonathan blinked several times, realizing then that the fall had knocked the colored lenses from his eyes. Haq raised the blade to the soft flesh just beneath his eye. “A surgeon cannot perform his duties if blind.”

The cold metal pressed harder.

Jonathan struggled to break free, but Singh only tightened his grip.

“So, my friend,” said Haq, moving the blade slowly back and forth, “as we do not have enough time for you to answer all my questions, I shall ask you to answer only one. Tell me the truth, or it will cost you an eye. And if you think I will kill you afterward, you’re mistaken. I have other plans. Did you tell your masters about our plans?”

“The call didn’t go through.”

A flick of the wrist and the blade ripped his skin. Jonathan flinched but did not cry out.

“I will ask one more time, and then I will feed your eye to the horse.”

Jonathan steeled himself. Emma, he knew, would not yield.

If not in love, then in war.

“Did you speak to your masters about our plans?” asked Haq.

“I did not.”

Haq looked at Balfour, who offered no expression. “I’m sorry,” said Haq, pushing the blade into the fold of skin. “But I can’t believe you. Not yet.”

“Try it,” gasped Jonathan. “Try the phone yourself. Hit the number seven and press Call. You’ll see.”

Haq lowered the knife. He thumbed the seven and called, bringing the phone to his ear. Jonathan watched, asking himself feverishly if five minutes had passed since he had activated the counterjamming device. Haq’s eyes opened wider, and Jonathan’s heart sank. But a moment later the Afghan put the phone into his pocket.

“Well?” asked Balfour.

“The call could not go through. Your jamming system was effective.”

“Move away, then,” said Balfour. “I’ll finish him.”

Haq stretched out a hand to stop him. “Not yet. I would like to take him to my brother. Dr. Ransom has much to answer for.”

Balfour considered this, then aimed the barrel of the machine gun toward the sky. “As you wish. I will make him my gift to you.”

Slumped in the rear of Balfour’s Range Rover, Jonathan read the large white letters painted on the wall of the hangar at Islamabad Airport and knew that they had arrived. Mr. Singh sat next to him. Ever-vigilant, the Sikh had not shifted his eyes off Jonathan for a moment during the hour’s drive from Blenheim. Sultan Haq occupied the front seat, while Balfour himself drove. Another vehicle led the way. Two followed behind. But the most important cargo sat in the rear compartment, barely an arm’s length from Jonathan. It was an unmarked olive-drab crate the size of the footlocker he’d taken to Boy Scout camp, inside which rested a nuclear warhead.

Built to accommodate large jets, Hangar 18 sat alone at the far corner of the airport. The words “East Pakistan Airways” ran above the closed doors. EPA. Another clue from his visit to Balfour’s office. There was no sign of activity, but as Balfour approached, a door built into the hangar slid open. Balfour didn’t slow as he maneuvered the car over the steel tracks. Shadow replaced the sun. There were no planes, but there were crates. Mountain after mountain of olive-drab crates piled to the sky. Stenciled on the sides in English, Cyrillic, and Arabic were words like “Ammunition:. 45 caliber. 5,000 rounds. Grenades: Antipersonnel. Rifles: Kalashnikov AK-47.” And there were other words, like “Semtex” and “C4” and “Bofors” and “Glock.” It was the United Nations of weapons.