Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

“That’s impossible.” But even as Jonathan said the words he knew that it was possible-that somehow it was Emma’s doing.

Graves went on. “As it stands, you’re an accomplice to murder and guilty of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act. You’ve admitted that it was your wife we saw on the tape. We have pictures of you at the scene moments before the attack. Add to that the explosives residue on your shirt and you won’t last a morning at the Old Bailey. The only pity is that we don’t execute scum like you anymore. We just let them rot in prison. Now tell us where we can find your wife.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I don’t know any more than you.”

Jonathan sank back onto the bed. It was over. He was going to jail for a very long time.

The policemen came back into the room an hour later. It was evident from the start that their demeanor had changed. Not the woman. She was as stiff and upright as ever. But Graves appeared more relaxed, determined as ever, but looser, as if he’d come upon a new and guaranteed way to make Jonathan talk.

“Listen closely,” said the man from MI5. “I’m not saying I believe one word of what you told us. However, I made it a point to speak with a man you might know. Actually, he’s an old friend of mine. Marcus von Daniken, from the Swiss Service of Analysis and Prevention. I see the name rings a bell. Anyhow, seeing as how he and I both do more or less the same job, I gave him a shout and asked if he knew anything about your wife. Told him she was involved in today’s business and that I had you in custody. He might have let slip a few things that I’m fairly certain others wouldn’t want to get out. I’m not saying I know anything about an attack on an El Al jetliner or an organization called Division. For the record, I don’t, and that will never change. But von Daniken did tell me one thing. Do you know what that is?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“He told me that you were a tenacious SOB. And that you moved hell and high water to discover what your wife was up to. Given those facts, and given some other complexities that we are not at liberty to reveal, I’m going to ask you to do something for us.”

“What’s that?”

Graves sat down on the edge of the bed and took his time crossing his arms and getting comfortable. “There’s a reason that we’re out here in the country at Hereford instead of downtown at Scotland Yard,” he said. “Once you’re named as a suspect, I can’t come within a mile of you. A criminal act has taken place. Innocent people are dead. Someone has to pay, and you were involved. It’s an enforcement matter, pure and simple. Even as we speak, my friends over at SO15 are baying for your blood. But I’ve talked to my boss, and he’s talked to theirs, and all things considered, we’ve decided it’s best that this part of the investigation remain under my purview a little longer. For now, there are to be no charges filed against you. Technically, you’re a free man.”

Jonathan stared into Graves ’s eyes. He was capable and smart and more than a little ruthless. Jonathan knew better than to trust him. “So what is it exactly that you want?”

“You’re going to lead us to her,” said Graves with a valedictory smile. “You’re going to help us find your wife.”

His name was Sergei Shvets and he was chairman of the Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB, the successor to the much vaunted and feared KGB. Seated in the copilot’s seat of the Kamov helicopter, he watched with impatience as the calm waters of the Black Sea whisked below him. He was a sturdy man with dark, sunken eyes, a bulldog’s jowls, and a spray of silver hair. He was fifty years old. In Russia, he looked his age. In Paris, New York, or London, people thought him sixty. Though it was cool inside the cockpit, beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip.

“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.

“Five minutes.”

“Good,” said Shvets, checking his watch. For some meetings, it was wise not to arrive late.

Ahead, sprawled across a 150-kilometer crescent of shoreline, lay the city of Sochi, and behind it, rising out of a pink mist, the snowcapped spine of the Caucasus Mountains. Sochi had long been the chosen summer resort of Russia ’s Communist leaders. Like those leaders, the town was staid and orthodox, almost ashamed of its bourgeois subtropical climate. In the past few years, however, the city had undergone a spate of development. The country’s newly minted elite arrived in loud, bejeweled masses to revel in Sochi ’s abundant sunshine and outdoor cafés. Luxury villas had sprung up along the seafront, each more grandiose than the next. Roads meant for ZILs and Ladas were clogged with Mercedeses and Range Rovers. Sochi was christened Russia ’s Saint-Tropez.

But of late the president had given his countrymen a new reason to flock to Sochi. In 2014 the Black Sea resort would host the XXII Winter Olympic Games.

Shvets counted the number of cranes on the skyline and stopped at fourteen. It was the same number as the last time he had visited. As the helicopter swooped low over the city, he observed that several of the building sites appeared deserted, or in some cases abandoned altogether. Sochi, like the Rodina, lived and died according to the price of oil. He had little time to consider this. By then he’d spotted his destination and was pulling himself upright in his seat, wiping his brow, and tightening his necktie.

Bocharov Ruchei, the president’s summer palace built in the 1950s, was situated on a wide swatch of lakefront several kilometers south of the city. The helicopter landed in a grass field adjacent to the palace’s office wing. A waiting shuttle delivered Shvets to the rear of the president’s quarters. As he walked toward the entrance, he noticed a shadow above him. He glanced up. Snipers from the Interior Ministry were positioned on every rooftop of the complex. The president was frightened. This was a new development.

Once inside, Shvets was led to an elevator and ushered two floors belowground to the president’s shooting range. An aide offered him noise suppressors. Shvets placed them over his ears before passing through the glass doors that led into the range itself. Back to the wall, he watched the president fire round after round into the blackened silhouette of a United States Marine.

Finally the president turned and motioned for Shvets to approach. “Well?” asked the president.

“Ivanov is alive, but in intensive care. I have no word yet about his prognosis. Ambassador Orlov is dead, along with several of his staff. The police have no one in custody. Details are still sketchy, but it’s clear that this was no homegrown operation. The attack required expert planning, execution, and intelligence.”

The president struggled with the pistol’s safety. He possessed none of his predecessor’s facility with weapons, nor his love of violence. By nature he was weak but cunning. A weasel, with a weasel’s razor-sharp teeth. He was also smart. He knew that Russia demanded its leader to be a strong man and he was determined not to disappoint.

“Orlov was a good man,” he said. “I know his family. We will make sure he receives a state funeral.” He finally snapped the safety into place and gazed up at his visitor. “Did we not have any indication that something was in the air?”

“None,” responded Shvets. “Given Ivanov’s history, it’s difficult to know the motive. If ever there was a man with an abundance of enemies, it is Igor Ivanovich.”

“True, but I am certain this is not about Igor Ivanov.”

“Oh?”

“If Ivanov’s enemies wished to kill him, they could find a way to do it in Moscow with far less trouble.” The president dropped the clip from his pistol, and Shvets saw that it was the antique 1911 Tokarev custom built for Czar Nicholas II, rumored to be the very weapon that had killed him and his family. Even from several steps away, he could see the jeweled Romanov eagle embedded in the pistol’s pearl handle.