Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

“I recall something about that. Not just Austen, but several officials with him. There was some hint that it might have been a terrorist plot.”

“It wasn’t any plot and it wasn’t a crash. Austen wanted to bring down an El Al jet to fire up tensions in the Middle East. Emma stopped him.”

“You mean she killed him.”

“I mean she saved five hundred lives.” Jonathan didn’t elaborate. It had been his finger on the trigger that had ended Austen’s life. “Her actions prevented a war, but no one cares about that now. All they care about is the fact that Emma disobeyed orders. That she broke ranks. Nobody in Washington wants to congratulate her. They want to kill her.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

For once, Graves was silent.

“What my wife did today was terrible. I can’t make an excuse for her, except to say that we both know she’s acting on someone else’s orders. But I’m sorry, Colonel Graves, I’m not going to help you find her.”

“What can I do to entice you? Money-is that what you want?”

“Nothing…” Jonathan bit back his words. Graves had to know he wouldn’t betray his wife for money. The offer was as ridiculous as it was insulting. Graves was trying to distract him, to keep him on the line.

Jonathan glanced out the rear window. One hundred meters back, he caught sight of a police car. As he entered Piccadilly Circus he saw another, this one approaching from Regent Street, lights flashing, but no siren. Suddenly its strobes died. In Jonathan’s anxious state, he was certain that the policeman had been told not to draw attention to himself. And if there were two so far, there had to be more on the way. It was Graves’s phone. Jonathan had forgotten that MI5 would be able to track it just as easily as his ankle bracelet. He had set his own trap.

He slapped his palm over the phone. “Pull over here,” he ordered the cabbie.

“I thought you wanted to go to Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“Right here!”

“You still there, Ransom?” asked Graves in his silky voice.

“Goodbye, Colonel.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“Not yet.”

Piccadilly Circus at 8 p.m . on a warm summer’s evening was as crowded as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Giant neon signs clung to the surrounding buildings, bathing the street in a glowing iridescent light. Jonathan paid the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk. The fast-moving crowd engulfed him instantly. He moved with the throng, crossing at Coventry Street and heading north, all the while watching the two police cars converging on the congested square. At that moment another police car drew up alongside him. Its window was down and he could hear the hiss and crackle of its radio and a voice blaring orders. “Suspect has left the cab and is on foot. Set up emergency blocks at Coventry, Piccadilly, and Shaftesbury. All available officers to Piccadilly Circus. Subject is a white male, thirty-eight years of age, six foot tall, graying hair, last reported wearing a white shirt, jeans…”

Jonathan didn’t wait to hear any more. He slunk into the crowd, turned, and walked in the opposite direction. He ducked into the first store he came to, a tourist emporium selling everything from T-shirts to Princess Di bobbing heads. Racks of clothing filled the store. He selected a black T-shirt and a Les Mis baseball cap. He paid and immediately put on both the shirt and the cap. There was nothing to be done about his blue jeans.

In the short time he’d spent in the store, the police had moved in en masse. Roadblocks were in the course of being set up at all arteries emptying into Piccadilly Circus. A van had appeared at Regent Street and was disgorging uniformed officers. Horns blared. Traffic ground to a halt.

Back on the sidewalk, Jonathan kept close to buildings, attaching himself to knots of pedestrians. He slipped from group to group, searching for an escape route. As if taking its cue from the stationary auto mobiles, the pedestrian traffic slowed. An anxious mood stirred the crowd.

Jonathan spotted a pair of policemen, fluorescent orange bibs on their chests, coming toward him, their eyes searching every face they passed. He looked over his shoulder and counted no less than four peaked caps. Not knowing what else to do, he stopped where he was and turned his attention to the nearest store window. It belonged to a currency exchange firm. The teller was open for business. A line extended from the customer window. He stood at the back, hands in his pockets, eyes to the fore. He imagined the policemen coming closer and felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.

A slight older man stood in front of him, counting coins from a change purse. Jonathan took a step forward, bumping into him forcefully, causing him to drop his change. Coins tinkled onto the pavement.

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan as he crouched down to help the elderly man pick up his change. “That was clumsy of me. Let me help you.”

“Thank you,” mumbled the man in accented English.

Jonathan trained his eyes on the pavement as he picked up the stray pound coins. From the corner of his eye, he observed two pairs of polished black boots stride past. When the policemen had gone, he stood and handed the man his change. “Did we find it all?”

The man counted his coins and nodded.

The line moved forward. Jonathan stepped to the window and exchanged one hundred dollars for pounds. After completing his transaction, he continued down the street, hugging the buildings.

A few feet ahead he spotted the sign for the Underground. He descended the steps into the station. If anything, it was more congested than the street. The depot spanned the width of the intersection above them. Two officers scouted the turnstiles, searching for the six-foot male in white shirt and jeans, with graying hair. He bought a ticket, then timed his passage until the policemen were busy on the far side of the station.

He passed through the turnstile and made a beeline for the nearest tunnel. Bakerloo Line north. It was the same train he’d taken the night before. As he progressed through the tiled passageways, the foot traffic grew sparse. Suddenly he was alone, with only the echo of his heels for company. He descended a last flight of stairs to the platform. The train arrived ninety seconds later.

Five minutes after that, Jonathan got off at Marylebone station.

He was a free man.

Twenty-five Notting Hill Lane was an Edwardian two-story town home painted robin’s-egg blue, with dormer windows upstairs and a black lacquered front door replete with a brass knocker. It was nine-thirty, and night had fallen as Jonathan climbed the short flight of stairs and struck the heavy ball three times. Almost immediately the door opened, causing Jonathan to start.

“Hello,” said a little girl with black hair done in pigtails.

“Is your daddy home?”

“Jenny, whatever are you doing? You’re supposed to be upstairs in bed.” A plain, dark-haired woman in sweatpants and a cardigan sweater hurried to the door. Jonathan recognized Prudence Meadows from the cocktail party the evening before. “Hello,” he said. “Is Jamie here?”

“Oh, hello, Jonathan. No, Jamie’s not back from hospital yet. Would you like to come in?”

“Do you expect him soon?”

“Any minute. Do come in. You can wait in the living room until he gets home.”

Jonathan stepped inside and Prudence Meadows shut the door behind him. She asked him to wait a moment while she tucked her daughter back into bed, and disappeared up the stairs. Jonathan walked across the foyer, ducking his head around the corner and looking at the living room. Pictures of Meadows and his family decorated a side table. There was a leather couch and an ottoman with a hand-knitted blanket thrown across it. Toys and stuffed animals littered the floor.