Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

Seated in row 22, Jonathan relaxed with a Dr Pepper. PIA was a Muslim airline and carried no alcohol on board.

“Where do you think he was going?” he asked Danni, his head lolling against the seat.

“Haq? It’s always New York City. They all want to top 9/11. Did he give you any clue as to his final target?”

“None.” Jonathan sipped his lukewarm soft drink. Not only was there no alcohol, but there was no ice either. “Who gets custody of him?”

“It’s your cruise missile he stole. I imagine he’s in the hands of the military right now. I hope they put him in a black hole and let him rot.”

“Amen,” said Jonathan, a little frightened by the depth of his conviction. “All my life I’ve tried to keep out of politics. My dad was a bean counter for the General Accounting Office-those are the guys who figure out how much money the boys in Washington are really spending-and he was always complaining about the government. But for all his arguing, he never did anything about it. He just bellyached. He used to say that you couldn’t do a darned thing to change Washington. I chose to study medicine for exactly that reason. I wanted to do something where I could make a difference. For a long time it’s made me happy. Maybe it’s made me feel important, too. But now, working with you, with Connor, I feel differently. It’s like I was dodging my responsibility.” Jonathan frowned, contemplating the bullet the world had dodged. “It’s scary to think what one determined man can do.”

Danni nodded in agreement. “I don’t know Haq or his politics. I don’t blame him for hating the West, though. It’s his country. He wants you out. Just like the Palestinians want us out. After a while, you see both sides of the story.”

“But that’s no excuse for getting hold of a bomb,” Jonathan protested.

Danni smiled wryly. “My, but you’re sounding very political.”

“I’ve changed. Or maybe the world has.”

Jonathan looked toward the head of the aircraft and saw the captain advancing down the aisle. He walked purposefully, his eye on the row numbers, and stopped beside Jonathan.

“You are Ms. Pine?” he asked, kneeling and speaking in a low, confidential tone.

Danni returned her seat to the upright position. “Yes.”

“I’ve been asked to pass along a message to you.” The pilot looked at Jonathan, then back at her. “Would you prefer to accompany me to the rear of the aircraft?”

“No. You can talk freely.”

The pilot leaned closer. “The message is from a Colonel Yaz with my country’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence. He says to tell you first that he is a friend of Benny’s.”

Danni nodded, indicating that she understood.

“He said that there seems to have been a miscommunication. The party you wanted met in Germany was not on board the plane. Nor was his luggage. He asked if you had any idea where your friend might be heading, and if so, that you tell me, so I may forward it along.”

Jonathan looked at Danni as all his muscles tensed. “My God,” he said. “It can’t be.”

The Gulfstream G-V landed at Westchester County Airport, thirty miles northeast of Manhattan, at six-thirty in the morning. There were no customs formalities to attend to. The pilot had killed his primary transponder shortly after takeoff. Nearing the tower, he’d turned an alternate on and identified himself as a private jet incoming from Boston, Massachusetts. The air traffic controller was curious about the sudden appearance on his radar, but not enough to cause a problem. He had a student pilot veering into commercial airspace to deal with. Permission to land was given without further questions.

Prince Rashid’s Maybach limousine waited on the tarmac. Sultan Haq slid into the backseat, clutching his black leather overnight case to his chest. Rashid sat next to him.

“The train is ready?” the prince asked his chauffeur.

“Yessir. At North White Plains Station.”

The Maybach drove five miles to the North White Plains Station, a sprawling rail yard. Prince Rashid’s train sat on a remote siding, lost among strings of cars waiting for repair and service. The train numbered four cars: a locomotive followed by storage car, galley, and the passenger car. The cars appeared like any others, silver with blue-and-red striping running below the roof. On closer examination, the words “HRH Prince Rashid al-Zayed” could be seen in ornate gold script written in the blue striping.

A steward ushered the men inside. The interior did not look like any other passenger car. In place of torn leatherette seats and sticky linoleum floors were plush couches, sleek chairs, coffee tables, and wool carpeting. Haq sat in an overstuffed recliner, the leather bag in his lap. Two beefy, well-dressed men stood at the opposite end of the car: Rashid’s praetorian guard.

The train began to move, and the steward brought a platter of steaming eggs, croissants, jams, and fruit. Rashid poured two flutes of orange juice.

“To us,” he said, toasting. “We shall be more famous than Muhammad.”

Sultan Haq raised the glass.

No drink had ever tasted sweeter.

Jonathan stepped off the aircraft and walked briskly up the skyway into the terminal at JFK International Airport in New York City. He was happy to be back on solid ground. The remaining hours of the flight had passed with maddening slowness. He’d had too much time to question what steps he might take to find Sultan Haq and precious little success in coming up with the answers. The fact was, there was little he could do. He was traveling on a false passport. He was wanted for questioning by U.S. intelligence. He could hardly approach the first policeman and say, “Hello, I’m an operative working for Division and I believe that someone is trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into the United States.” Without Frank Connor to vouch for him, he could count on his warnings being met with arrest and incarceration.

Danni walked beside him. She had her cell phone out and was checking her voicemail. She pulled at his elbow and mouthed for him to wait while she listened to a message. Immediately her eyes narrowed and her shoulders tightened. “Here,” she said after what seemed like a while. “It’s Frank.”

“Connor? What did he say?”

“Listen for yourself.”

Jonathan raised the phone to his ear. “Hello, Danni. You know who this is.” Connor’s voice sounded thin, unsteady. It was obvious the man was in pain. “Haq got away. He’s here in the States, or will be soon. My guess is his target is on the eastern seaboard, probably Washington or New York. Prince Rashid is helping him. I don’t know how or why or anything else, just that Haq is on his way. I talked to Benny. He’s setting something up. That’s all I know for now. I’ve got some issues of my own. Oh, and be careful, both of you. Emma’s here, and she’s after Haq, too.”

“Who’s Benny?” asked Jonathan when the message was finished.

“My Frank.”

They walked to the end of the long, featureless corridor and descended a flight of steps. A sign on the wall read, “Welcome to the United States.” They proceeded to the end of another corridor. The passport area opened to their left. They stood in the line reserved for non-Americans. It advanced slowly.

“Excuse me, Dr. Ransom? My name is Bob. I’m with DHS-the Department of Homeland Security. Mind coming with me?”

Bob was fifty, balding, and avuncular and wore a black leather jacket over a turtleneck and jeans. Another man stood next to him, also in jeans and a leather jacket, but taller and lean, with gaunt cheeks and sunken black eyes.

Unexpectedly, Danni stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “Hello, Benny,” she said.