Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“Looks like you got yourself into trouble,” said Benny, reprovingly.

Danni didn’t flinch. “I did what I did.”

“So you’re not arresting me?” said Jonathan.

“Not yet,” said Bob. “Come with me.”

He led them through a series of doors and hallways to a shabby, windowless office. Posters and pamphlets advertising the various ways of getting around New York adorned the walls. They sat down at a table littered with empty Styrofoam cups.

“Benny tells me that we have the possibility of a nuclear device being smuggled into the United States. Is that correct?”

“We think so,” said Jonathan. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much of an idea where.”

“Tell me what you know. If you can give me some details, I’ll do my best to alert the proper authorities. I take what Benny tells me very seriously.”

Jonathan gave a summary of what he had learned and witnessed the past few days at Balfour’s estate. He drew a picture of the reconfigured warhead and offered a description of Sultan Haq. “Frank Connor believes the target area is either Washington or New York,” he said in closing.

“That doesn’t help us much,” said Bob.

Danni leaned forward. “He also mentioned that Prince Rashid of the UAE is involved.”

“We’re trying to track him down now,” said Benny. “I have a call in to the American Secret Service to see if he’s due for a visit soon.”

“A sketch artist is on the way,” added Bob. “It will help to have a portrait to get out to all ports of entry. You want some coffee while we wait?”

Jonathan stood. Suddenly the room was too small, the lights too bright. “Is that it?” he asked. “We’re just going to sit and wait for the bomb to go off?”

Bob opened his hands. “You’re not giving us much to go on.”

“Haq is here,” continued Jonathan, unable to contain his frustration. “If Emma’s looking for him, you’d better believe this is happening now.”

“Who’s Emma?” asked Bob, searching the faces around him for clarification.

Danni spoke swiftly to Benny, and Benny said, “Don’t worry about it. We don’t talk about her.”

Jonathan stopped his pacing. His eye had landed on a cluster of pamphlets drooping out of a plastic holder attached to the bottom of a poster for the Metropolitan Transportation Association. The pamphlets had a blue border across the top, and there was something about the logo that looked familiar.

“Jonathan? Are you all right?” Danni stood and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” He took a pamphlet giving the train schedule for White Plains, Chappaqua, and Mount Kisco. “Are there more of these?”

“Don’t worry about taking a train,” said Bob, irritated. “We have cars at DHS.”

Jonathan pulled out all the pamphlets and started leafing through them. Then he saw it. On one of the pamphlets, the border read, “Metro-North Railroad.” M-E-T-R-O-N. “Haq had one of these,” he said. “Not an original. It was something he’d downloaded off the Net. Are there lines that begin with H-A-R?”

“Harlem Line,” said Bob.

“And N-E-W-H?”

“New Haven Line.”

“Where do they go?”

Bob looked at the faces staring at him. He shrugged, as if he’d been asked the dumbest question in the world. “Grand Central Station.”

Sultan Haq removed the warhead from the leather bag and set it at his feet. Rashid sat across from him, eyes rapt. Haq flipped open the cover and studied the keypad. With his fingernail, he input the six-digit code to arm the weapon. A pinlight flashed from red to green.

The train rustled over the tracks and the device tipped to one side. Rashid caught it and set it back upright. “And so?” he asked.

“It is ready,” said Haq.

“Where will we set it off?”

“It must be at street level for maximum effect.”

Ahead, the skyline of Manhattan came into view.

It was her insurance.

She was done. She could not go on living life with one eye trained over her shoulder. She would never work again. Not for the Americans. Not for the Russians. Not for Division or the FSB. Not for anyone. She was finished. But still, she knew they would never stop looking for her.

Emma put a hand on her stomach. Recently the baby had begun to kick. It was a girl. She was sure. One task remained and she would be free. The bomb would keep the jackals at bay so that she could be a mother. They could never risk coming after her if she possessed such a deterrent.

Emma Ransom crossed the tracks and took up position near a wall that led to the special platform. The underground gallery was endless, with track after track receding into an eternal dusk. A steady mechanical humming filled the air, interrupted by the clumsy, cacophonous arrival or departure of a train. She checked her watch and squinted into the distance, thinking that it was time and that Rashid should have been here by now.

For a week she’d listened in on the prince’s calls to Balfour and Massoud Haq. The process involved copying Balfour’s SIM card, acquiring her own eavesdropping equipment on a day trip to Islamabad, and piggybacking on Balfour’s impressive telecommunications system. She had followed the planning step by step, and so she knew that Rashid had picked up Sultan Haq in Germany and was headed this morning to Grand Central Station. She also knew that he had decided to offer his own life to further his goals, not for the glorification of Islam and the punishment of the West but for the elevation of himself as Godhead. Rashid wished nothing less than to take the place of the Prophet.

The track beneath her feet began to tremble. Craning her head, she made out the headlight of an approaching locomotive. She drew her pistol and checked that a round was chambered. She pulled her gloves tight and lowered the balaclava so it fit snugly about her face and did not crowd her eyes. Then she cracked her neck and drew a breath.

The train drew nearer, its brakes squealing as it slowed. The locomotive passed, then the passenger cars. The lights were illuminated and she saw Rashid and Haq, and two bodyguards standing at the door.

Emma ran behind the last car, grabbed hold of the railing with her free hand, and hauled herself onto the narrow observation terrace. The door handle turned easily and she threw open the door, raised the pistol, and fired twice, hitting the bodyguards in the chest, her arm already swinging the weapon toward Rashid as she advanced into the cabin. A hand chopped her arm and she fired early. Rashid spun from his chair, blood streaming from the graze at his temple.

It was Haq. He struck again, knocking the pistol loose and sending it to the floor.

The train braked hard, coming to a halt, and Emma allowed herself to go with it, moving away from Haq, bringing up her right leg to strike him in the chest. The blow landed squarely but did not faze him. Haq threw himself at her and she kicked again, deflecting him, following the kick with a closed fist to the head. Haq shuddered, then lashed out, a lightning-fast punch that connected with her jaw. Emma fell to the ground, her head spinning, blood filling her mouth. Throwing out her leg, she caught Haq’s ankle and sent him tumbling against the window. Glass shattered. But the blow only angered him. He stood and took up position, face-to-face. Emboldened by his size advantage, he came straight at her. Emma kicked and he deflected it. She punched and punched again, the first blocked, the second landing on his cheek, stunning him. Then he had her in his arms. Massive, crushing arms. With a grunt, he hurled her across the cabin. She landed on her back on a low table, shattering the china beneath her. Her head struck the corner of the hard surface, and the world dissolved into a blizzard of white noise.