Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

“And so?”

“I’m going to do what you suggested earlier. I’m going to find out just who Lord Russell’s source is.”

“The one who told him about the car bomb?”

“Is there another?”

“Have you gotten anything back from communications about his phone or Internet records?”

“Russell was better than any terrorist at keeping his trail clean. The only phone number we’ve got for him was used by friends and family. All strictly aboveboard. The devil probably kept a bag of SIM cards he interchanged for his private calls. Until we find one of them, we’re out of luck. Same thing goes for his e-mails. Ah, there it is!” Graves located the page listing the Automobile Visual Surveillance Bureau, picked up the phone, and dialed an internal number.

“Graves. G Branch. I need everything you’ve got from Sloane Square three nights ago, between twenty-three thirty and one-fifteen. Target a four-square-block search area. Send the results to my personal in-box. How long? Make it an hour and a case of Guinness is yours.”

“Russell stopped at Sloane Square after visiting his parents’ home the night he was murdered,” said Kate.

“So he did.” Graves rose and circled the desk, picking up his car keys and dropping them into his pocket. “The Windsor Club. Peers of the realm, bluebloods, that kind of thing. Like I said, stupid of me.”

“Why stupid?” asked Kate, rising and accompanying him out of the office.

“Isn’t it obvious? Russell met someone at the club who clued him in to what ‘Victoria Bear’ meant.” Graves stopped at the door. Kate was standing barely a foot away. He noticed that she had a few freckles across the bridge of her nose and that her hair was naturally blond. Nice eyes, too. Something kind lurking behind all that steel.

“Good luck in Italy,” he said. “Find him. Find Ransom.”

And without a backward glance, he hurried down the corridor.

Alone . That was the problem, Graves decided as he drove through the streets of Westminster. Too much time on the job and too little time for himself. He was forty years old, married once, for all of two years. She’d kicked him out after he’d returned from a nine-month tour in Iraq during the first dust-up, in ’91, or rather, she’d kicked out his suitcases, his football trophies, and his cockatiel, Jack. He had a scar and a medal to show for his efforts, but she wanted more. She wanted him .

Back then it had been the Parachute Regiment, with a stint at the SAS, the Special Air Service. Today it was Five. Both demanded the lion’s share of a man’s time, and he gave it willingly. Eagerly even. He didn’t know any other way. He’d thought about ditching it all. There were plenty of offers in private security these days. Big-money jobs hobnobbing with corporate bigwigs, helping this insurance company guard against fraud or that bank choose the most state-of-the-art alarm. But that’s all he’d done: think about them. In the end, he didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about money. He made enough to see to his needs and to buy the occasional toy. It was about more than that, wasn’t it? It was about something bigger. Christ, if he knew the word for it. It was about whatever it was that you felt when you got them before they got you.

He caught his eyes in the mirror and scowled. Forget it , he chastised himself. Don’t get all grandiose on me. A regular Edmund Burke. Just concentrate on your job. Find out what Emma Ransom was up to and do it fast .

He turned the corner into Sloane Square and spotted his destination. Still, he was haunted by his sudden melancholy. He didn’t expect anyone to understand.

Anyone except Kate.

An inconspicuous brass plate , its engraved letters worn to near obscurity, was all that noted the establishment at No. 16 Sloane Square. Graves pressed the Windsor Club’s buzzer. A female voice answered, and he gave his name and occupation. “It’s an emergency,” he added. “Open up.”

A buzzer sounded and he pushed open the door. The foyer was wood all around, light courtesy of a chandelier that had seen service with Nelson. The floor was scuffed and in need of polishing. Shabby chic for those too rich to be bothered.

“Colonel Graves, I’m James Tweeden, the club manager. How can we be of service?” He was tall but stocky, conservatively dressed in a navy suit and tie. His handshake was iron. Former military, guessed Graves, as Tweeden showed him into a deserted lounge.

“Always keep long hours?” Graves asked, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down.

“Nothing fixed, really. We open at eleven in the morning. Keep the staff around as long as needed.”

A waiter materialized and Tweeden waved him off before Graves could ask for tea.

“I’m here about Robert Russell. He was here two nights ago. I’d like to know whom he met.”

“We don’t discuss our members’ activities,” said Tweeden. “That’s why the establishment is a ‘private’ club.”

“What about your ex-members? Russell’s dead.”

“Same difference. It’s the Russell family we’re concerned about.”

“All well and good. Under normal circumstances, I’d leave it at that, but something’s come up. We’ve got pictures of his car parked just outside.”

“Does this have something to do with his murder?”

“More than that, actually.” Graves cocked his head and leaned in, whispering confidentially. “Look, Mr. Tweeden, you may keep late hours, but I don’t. If I’m coming here at half-past one, it’s because something serious is up. A question of national security. If you’d like, you can phone the director general.” Graves held out his phone.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Who’d you serve with?” asked Graves.

“Grenadiers.”

“Parachute Regiment, myself,” volunteered Graves.

“Wankers.”

“Look who’s talking. Got to be a fairy to wear those bearskin caps.”

The men shared a laugh. Tweeden motioned Graves closer. “Look, Colonel. This billet’s a sweet bit of work. Remuneration’s competitive. Members are a nice lot. Russell’s father, the duke, saw my boy into Eton. The only things they ask of you are loyalty and discretion. When a member passes through these doors, he doesn’t want the world following him.”

Graves said that he understood. “This is between you and me. You have my word that it won’t come back to bite you in the arse.”

“All right, then,” said Tweeden. “Guess a little chin wag won’t hurt. But between us and us alone. Lord Russell was here. He arrived at midnight. I greeted him. He wanted a private room. He had a guest coming and he wanted to use the back entry…” A footstep sounded in the doorway behind them. Tweeden shot from his chair. Graves glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a longish, bony face familiar to every Briton from the age of two up. One of a dozen or so men entitled to use the title HRH, His Royal Highness. The man’s eyes looked Graves up and down, none the happier because of it. A second later he was gone.

The effect on Tweeden was immediate. “You’ll have to leave now, Colonel,” the club manager said icily. “I can’t help you any further.”

Graves rose. “Who was it?” he whispered. “Who did Russell meet with? Give me a name.”

“Foreigner,” said Tweeden. “Name you see on the football pages.” Then, in a louder voice, for public consumption, “It was a pleasure, sir. My assistant will see you to the door.”

“Come on,” said Graves, taking hold of Tweeden’s elbow. “One name. You can do that much.”

Tweeden yanked his sleeve free. “Good evening, Colonel.”

Graves dropped into the front seat of his Rover and slammed the door. “Damn it all,” he muttered under his breath. He’d been a second away from getting the name, and then who of all people should show up? If he weren’t a rationalist, Graves would think that the gods had something against him. He considered running home and packing a bag to join Kate. Her plane was set to leave at five. He might just have time to get an hour or two of sleep.