Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

After exiting the building, she crossed the grand promenade of La Défense, stopping at the railing overlooking the Seine. Her face took on a gray pallor. The memory of Bertels’s lingering handshake sickened her. She turned her face to the sun, forcing herself to take long, slow breaths. All the while Papi’s words echoed in her mind: After all, it’s what you Nightingales do best .

Fixing her handbag over her shoulder, she set off toward the Étoile. And as she walked, her steps took on a marching rhythm. Her qualms passed. She slipped back into the protective shell of a trained government operative.

Emma hadn’t stolen the codes to interfere with the functioning of a nuclear power plant. It was virtually impossible to defeat the myriad safeguards that governed their safe operation. She had stolen the codes to break into the IAEA’s system and obtain a nuclear passport.

Slipping her hand into her pocket, she fingered the identification card.

Getting in was the easy part .

The Cinnamon Club on Great Smith Street was famed for its curry and its clientele. Located in the shell of the Old Westminster Library, the restaurant was an oasis of starched tablecloths and hushed conversations, a world far removed from the frenetic activities beyond its walls. Owing to its proximity to Whitehall, it had long been a favored haunt of MPs, civil servants with generous expense accounts, and visiting dignitaries.

“Location couldn’t be better,” said Connor as he scooted his chair back from the table to afford his girth some extra room. He had dressed for the occasion in his best suit, a three-year-old gray worsted that was missing only one button. His shirt, however, was brand-new. Pale blue and fashioned from the finest cotton-poly blend.

“You can still smell the cordite or whatever it is they use these days,” said Sir Anthony Allam. “One Victoria is just around the corner. Place is still a mess. Blew out all the windows for three blocks. Luckily, the bombers used a shaped charge, or it would be much worse. I suppose we should thank them for that.”

“Yeah, maybe you ought to throw them a parade,” said Connor, his pouchy eyes peering over the top of his menu.

The waiter took their orders. Gin and tonic to drink and a Madras chicken curry for Allam. Hot-hot. Connor ordered the same without gusto.

“I appreciate your time, Tony, short notice and all.”

Allam smiled politely. “My pleasure, though I have to admit this particular spot wouldn’t have been my first choice. Too many eyes and ears.”

“Exactly.” Connor looked to his right and left, and appeared dissatisfied with his selection. “I don’t see any unfriendly faces.”

“Don’t worry, they’re there.” Allam folded his hands on the table. He was a busy man, and his ironclad gaze made it clear that it was time to get down to brass tacks.

Connor bent his head closer. “So Emma’s been giving you a tough time.”

“You might say that.”

Connor offered a doctored version of what had taken place in the Swiss Alps five months earlier.

“And this is the first you’ve heard of her since?” asked Allam.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on the husband, hoping that he might lead us to her, but until four days ago he was doing his save-the-world thing down in Africa. Regular Albert Schweitzer.”

“Are you saying that you haven’t any knowledge about her actions in all that time?” Allam pressed.

“Not exactly,” said Connor, with reluctance.

Allam pounced on the show of hesitation. “Oh?”

“Like I said, we’d been keeping tabs on her husband. A few months back he called one of her old work numbers. All lovesick. Had to see her.” Connor shrugged. “He’s an amateur. What do you expect? Anyway, we traced the call to Rome and got a team in place in record time. She got the better of us. Left our guy dead. Since then she’s been off the grid.”

“Until now.”

Connor winced. “Yeah, until now.”

“How could you let her get so out of control?” demanded Allam, his voice rising. “It reeks of irresponsibility.”

“I told you, she went rogue. What she’s doing now is her own business. I don’t have the slightest clue who she’s working for.”

“Whoever it is, they wanted to kill Igor Ivanov and they did it on my turf. I’m surprised you have the gall to ask for our help. As far as we’re concerned, the attack has your fingerprints all over it.”

“What?” retorted Connor, drink and anger flushing his cheeks. “You think this was an American operation? Have you lost your mind?”

“Look at yourself, Frank. You’re out of control. You’re so blinded by your desire for retribution that you’re putting yourself and your organization at risk. First you fly into my country without having the courtesy to notify me, then you make an arse out of yourself harassing Prudence Meadows in the hospital, and last night you dredge up that monster Danko and try to blackmail him into doing your dirty work. Word was all over town before dawn. The way you’re acting, I wouldn’t put anything past you. I think this is the right moment for us to formally cut the ties between our two organizations. From what I hear, Division isn’t long for this world anyway.”

Connor fought to find the right words, blinking madly. “Are you saying you won’t help us find her?”

“I see you’ve finally learned how to speak English.”

Connor chucked his napkin to the floor and stood abruptly, toppling his chair to the ground. “I should have known better than to ask a favor of our ‘cousins,’” he said, wagging a finger in Allam’s face for good measure. “Fuckin’ limeys! You couldn’t catch a tick if it was burrowed in your ass!”

“Good riddance,” shouted Allam. He stayed absolutely still as Frank Connor stormed from the restaurant. It took all his discipline to remain seated while every head in the restaurant turned and stared at him.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” he said to himself. “The unfriendly faces are here all right. You just can’t see them.”

The plane was a Cirrus SR22 , a single-engine turboprop capable of seating six with a top speed of 200 knots and a range of 900 kilometers. Mikhail Borzoi, chairman and sole owner of Rusalum, Russia’s largest aluminum producer, majority shareholder of six of the country’s ten largest commercial banks, single largest public patron of the Kirov Ballet (private patron to three of the company’s leading dancers), and first counselor to the president, completed his preflight check. The pitot tube was free and clear. The stall flap was functioning nicely. The oil level was more than adequate, and the gas tank was filled to the brim.

“We’re good to go,” he called to his copilot before climbing into the cockpit and strapping himself into the left-hand seat.

Borzoi unfolded the map on his knee and plugged the coordinates of his flight plan into the Garmin computer. He was fifty-five years old, of average height and less than average build. Once long ago someone had said he was shaped like a pear, and the description still held true. But if he were a pear, it would be of the prickly variety. Mikhail Borzoi was not a nice man. Nice men did not control the world’s largest producer of aluminum. Nice men did not amass a fortune worth some $20 billion, and that was after the stock market crash. Nice men did not rise from an impoverished childhood to stand at the president’s side and be among the three candidates certain to take his place in the next election. Not in Russia. In Russia, nice men got trampled, chewed up, and spit out.

Borzoi radioed the flight tower and received his clearance to taxi. He had always dreamed of being a military pilot. As a youth, he’d attended the annual May Day parade in Red Square and gasped as the squadrons of MiGs and Sukhois and Tupolevs flew overhead. He had envisioned himself soaring high into the stratosphere and speeding back to earth. Those dreams ended at the age of ten, when the optometrist plunked a pair of hideous horn-rimmed spectacles on his nose. If he couldn’t be a fighter pilot, he would settle for second best. He would be a spy.