Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

Jonathan grabbed the papers out of Lazio’s hands and rifled through them until he came to the last page. The bill for Emma’s stay totaled some twenty-five thousand euros. Over thirty thousand dollars. He breathed deeply, suddenly feeling hot, his throat thick and uncomfortable. Who in the world would have paid that kind of bill?

Lazio observed him with concern. “Are you all right? Would you like another espresso?”

“Yeah, sure,” answered Jonathan distractedly. Something more important than espresso had caught his attention. He had come to a line at the bottom of the page listing the “Name of Responsible Party” who had checked her out. As Lazio had said, there was no name. There were, however, initials: “VOR S.A.”

Lazio brought another espresso. Jonathan gulped it down, his eyes glued to the page. VOR S.A . “S.A.” stood for société anonyme , the French equivalent of corporation. It was a business, then, that had paid. He set down the cup, then flipped back to the first page. There had to be more information. Something that could shed more light on the circumstances, something that would hint at the nature of the enterprise that had paid the staggering bill.

Under “Details of Admittance,” it was noted that Emma, or in this case Lara, had been transported to the hospital by ambulance. But from where? He moved his finger across the line, struggling to make out the handwritten entries. Squinting, he made out the words “picked up patient at Civitavecchia at 2030.”

“Civitavecchia,” he said aloud.

Jonathan shook his head. Civitavecchia was an ancient port on the coast, nearly 80 kilometers from Rome. He knew the town because he’d been there on his honeymoon with Emma. An overnight stay en route to the airport. She’d insisted on visiting the historical seaside town, saying that she’d read about it as a child and had always dreamed of visiting.

Civitavecchia .

Where Emma had friends. Friends who no doubt predated her courtship with Jonathan.

He glanced up at Lazio, shielding his eyes from the overhead lamp’s harsh glare. His face felt more flushed than before, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He put a finger on his wrist, and was surprised to find his pulse racing. It was the fatigue. He was exhausted. That was all. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing away the discomfort.

“Isn’t there a hospital with a decent emergency room closer to Civitavecchia than this Ospedale San Carlo?” he asked.

“I imagine so.”

“Which one?”

Lazio didn’t answer.

“Which one?” Jonathan repeated. At that moment, a shiver passed the length of his spine and his eyelids clenched shut for a long, quivering second. He stood. There was a ringing in his ears and he was dizzy. Worse, he could barely breathe. In the space of five seconds, his airway had nearly closed. He was going into anaphylactic shock. He looked at the empty espresso cup. “You,” he gasped, stumbling toward Lazio. “What did you do to me?”

Lazio backed toward the door. “Penicillin,” he said. “You are allergic, too. I remember you were ill and we had to be careful what antibiotic to prescribe. Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. I have some epinephrine in the other room. As soon as you lose consciousness, I’ll administer enough to keep you breathing until the police arrive.”

“Get it now!” Jonathan pulled the gun from his belt, but dropped it to the floor. He fought for his breath. He had a minute, no more, before he’d lose consciousness. He collapsed against the desk, knocking a lamp to the floor. “A chair…” he wheezed.

Lazio hesitated, then rushed to put a chair behind Jonathan. As he did, Jonathan charged, striking the man in the chest and driving him into the wall. The jarring motion forced a breath of air into Jonathan’s lungs, and before Lazio could react, before he could raise a hand to defend himself, Jonathan punched him in the chin.

Lazio slid to the floor, unconscious.

Jonathan stumbled down the hall. Whatever jolt he’d experienced was seeping out of him rapidly. He pushed open the door to a treatment room and yanked at the cabinets. Clumsily, he searched for a drug that would counteract the penicillin. Prednisone. Benadryl. Epinephrine. Where was the damn epinephrine Lazio had talked about? He found nothing of use. The room began to dim. He collapsed to a knee, then summoned his strength, stood, and willed himself down the hall and into the next room. Shaking hands clawed at a cabinet. He saw a word he recognized. Adrenaline. He grabbed at the box, knocking a dozen behind it onto the counter. He fumbled with the packaging, ripped off the cover, and freed the vial.

A needle. He needed a syringe.

He opened the top drawer. There. Plenty of needles. He tore at the paper packaging and flicked off the cap. He was moving by rote, his thoughts far away, drifting…

He forced himself to stay awake and focused his attention on the vial and the needle he needed to slip into it. There! Done! He extracted the plunger, desperately trying to regulate the amount of the hormone he needed. He had only one chance. Too little adrenaline would fail to counteract the penicillin. Too much would send his heart into violent paroxysms that would rupture his aorta. The problem was that he couldn’t see clearly. His vision turned double, then tripled. He had no idea how much he’d taken into the syringe.

The world began to go dark.

Slipping. He was slipping…

He pulled at his shirt, wrestling an arm from the sleeve.

No time…

He fell and his head struck the floor. For a moment his vision came back. It was then that he plunged the needle into his jugular vein and depressed the plunger.

White.

The world exploded into a ball of blazing light. A spasm racked his body, arching his spine and locking down his lungs. A fire ignited inside his chest and shot upward into his head. It was a violent, searing heat that burned his eyes and expanded relentlessly inside his skull. His every muscle tensed. His heart thudded crazily, and he felt as though his brains were going to be expelled through his ears and eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. He remained frozen, his face contorted into a rictus of death.

And then it passed.

The pressure in his head subsided. The heat receded and he could see clearly. He drew a breath, his heart hammering inside his chest. He lay still as the pounding subsided. Finally he stood.

At once the imperatives of his predicament came back to him.

He hurried down the hall into Lazio’s office. The floor was empty. Lazio was gone. He scooped up the hospital records, made his way back to reception and out the front door. As he came onto the landing, he heard the squeal of tires leaving rubber. He craned his neck and caught sight of a pair of taillights receding into the distance.

Jonathan gulped down the warm night air. He looked both ways, then turned left and ran up the street, away from the city.

Toward Civitavecchia.

Mischa Dibner, director of Nuclear Safety and Security for the International Atomic Energy Agency, Austria, sat alone at the head of the conference table deep in the catacombs of Thames House. Her hands were clasped on the desk, her posture without reproach. She was a fierce, pixie-ish woman with a helmet of henna-colored hair and a complexion as pale as a Kabuki mask, with shiny black marbles for eyes. Her record showed that she was fifty-six, a Hungarian by birth and German by marriage. But her English was an American’s and hinted at long years spent in the United States.

Graves made the appropriate introductions. After inquiring as to her health and thanking her for venturing forth from her hotel so late at night, he got down to business. “What prompted your decision to visit London at such short notice?”