Rules of Vengeance Page 10

  “Where is he now?”

  “He strolled back into the lobby without a by-your-leave at eight o’clock. But it was like we were watching a different man. Before he’d been calm, real loosey-goosey. This Ransom was very jittery indeed. Kept looking over his shoulder as if someone were about to sneak up behind him and put a round into the back of his head. I overheard him tell another doc that he’d gone for a walk in the park because he was jet-lagged. For two hours? Load of crap. Something had him spooked.”

  Or someone.

  It was after ten when Frank Connor passed Marble Arch and drove down Park Lane. He craned his neck as they passed the Dorchester. “Did you find the other doctor?” he asked. “The one who led him to the conference room?”

  “Negative. He disappeared into thin air. He was not a civilian.”

  “So she’s working a team.”

  “It looks that way boss.” The driver glanced sidelong at Connor. “But for who?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Connor stared at the glittering lights of the porte cochere, the richly liveried doormen, and the succession of beautiful people parading in and out of the revolving doors. He pulled a crumpled notepad from his jacket and wrote, “Nightingale in London.” “Nightingale” being the last operational designation for Emma Ransom.

  “Where to, Mr. Connor?”

  “Notting Hill. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  14

  Ka-tink.

  Jonathan heard the noise and awakened instantly.

  He bolted upright in bed, eyes open, ears straining to pick out the slightest sound. It was his habit to sleep with window and curtains open. Light from the full moon dusted the room with a silvery hue, casting sinister, elongated shadows. He saw nothing to alarm him and heard no further sounds. Throwing back the covers, he slid out of bed and walked to the door. It was closed, the lock secured, but the brass chain he’d fastened before going to sleep was dangling free, swaying ever so gently.

  He turned back toward the bed, his senses pinched taut. He was not sure if someone had actually entered the room or if he’d tried to gain entry and failed. Jonathan turned on the lights. The bedroom was empty, so he walked toward the salon and ducked his head into the spacious sitting room. Again he saw no one. A warm breeze blew into the room, ruffling the curtains.

  Ka-tink.

  His glance fell to a side table where the curtain had harmlessly knocked a cut-glass vase against the wall. He moved the vase out of the way of the offending curtain. Relaxing, he put a hand to his chin and asked himself if he really had fastened the chain earlier. Maybe. Maybe not. He’d been tired, and more than a little stressed.

  Just then, from close by came the hollow ring of a glass being set on a hard surface. He felt a presence behind him. Immediately he reached for the vase. He heard a footstep and thought, This is it. They know I’ve seen Emma. They’ve come for me. But before he could raise the vase, before he could spin to see who was behind him, a firm hand cupped his mouth and drew his head forcefully back.

  “Ssshhhh. I’m not here.” She spoke in the lowest of whispers.

  Familiar lips lingered against his ear. The hand lessened its grip. Jonathan turned, seeing Emma standing with her fingers to her mouth. He signaled his understanding and waited, motionless, as she circled the room, waving a small rectangular instrument close to the walls, the lamps, the television, and the telephone. She found what she was looking for behind an equestrian print, and in the bathroom attached to the back of a vanity mirror. She dropped the electronic listening devices into a glass and filled the glass with water from the sink. Then she closed the bathroom door and crossed the room to him.

  She was dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a black T, and black flats. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail, her cheeks flushed, her face unadorned with makeup. She ran her hand across his bare chest. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  She kissed him with her eyes open, then stepped back and peeled off her shirt. Never dropping her gaze, she unfastened her brassiere and let it fall to the ground, then stepped out of her jeans.

  “How did you get in?” he asked.

  “I have a room key.”

  Somehow the notion didn’t surprise him. “And the chain?”

  “That’s a parlor trick. I’ll show you someday.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said. A parlor trick, just like her ability to field-strip a pistol blindfolded. “I thought we were going to see each other tomorrow.”

  “Lack of discipline. No excuses, sir.” Emma lay on the bed, entangled in the sheets. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  “What is?”

  “What I have to tell you.”

  Jonathan turned on his side. He looked into his wife’s eyes, cataloguing the flecks of amber in green. “Here I am,” he whispered. “Tell me.”

  Emma ran a finger across his cheek. “I’m leaving.”

  “You mean for another five months?”

  “Longer.”

  “You’re sure? How do you know?”

  “Because I have to go away.”

  “You already went away,” he said. “You said you were going to work things out and that we’d see each other when it was safe.”

  “I hoped it might work that way.”

  “How long are you talking?”

  “I can’t say …”

  “A year? Two?”

  “Yes … I mean, I don’t know. A year, at least. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.”

  Jonathan studied her features, seeking out the secret places where she hid her doubt. But he saw only steadfastness: the same resolute, stubborn woman he’d fallen in love with. “There has to be another way.”

  “There isn’t. We both know that.”

  “Stop talking as if I have a say in this. It’s your decision. It’s your damned life.” He threw back the sheets and left the bed.

  “Not anymore it’s not,” said Emma. “I traded it in ten years ago.”

  “For what?”

  “Duty. A sense of belonging. The need to contribute. The same thing we all sign up for.”

  “You did all that,” he said, turning, approaching her with a hand extended. “You did more than that. The government should be grateful.”

  Emma lowered her gaze. “Division caught hell for the operation. Congress wanted to shut them down, but the president’s given them one last chance.”

  “Another chance? Is he crazy?”

  “I told you,” said Emma. “Division is like the Hydra. Cut off its head and ten more grow in its place. Division has its uses. The president knows better than to limit his options.”

  “Have you spoken with them? With Division?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I just mean—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With all your contacts, I thought you might find a way to explain why you had to disobey your orders. They’d have to understand.”

  “I’m rogue, Jonathan. I didn’t just disobey orders, I went completely off the reservation. I tried to take down the whole ship. That makes me the enemy.”

  “But you stopped a passenger jet from being shot down.”

  “But nothing. Besides, you saved the plane. The first time I show my face, I’ll get a bullet in the head. I thought I’d explained that to you. You think I’m living like a war criminal for the fun of it?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure I don’t know half of what you’ve been through.”

  “No, you don’t.” Emma drew a breath. “Look, the new man running Division is a complete bastard. His name is Frank Connor. He’s not one of us. I mean, not trained in the field or any of that. His whole career he’s been behind a desk, and now he’s making up for lost time. God knows how they chose him. He’s smart enough to realize that his overseers won’t let him lift a pinkie until he takes care of me.”

  “Are those his guys downstairs?”

  “Probab
ly.”

  Jonathan sensed that there was more. “What happened, Em? Has he already tried? That scar on your back—what’s it really from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters.”

  Emma stood and faced him. “Then, yes, Jonathan, he’s already tried. It’s what we do, remember? We target enemies. We find them, we follow them, and when we’re good and ready, we take them out. The only difference is that this time it’s me wearing the bull’s-eye.”

  Jonathan nodded. He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew better. “Where were you?”

  “Rome.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Seeing old friends, Jonathan. At least, I thought they were my friends. I was wrong. Anyway, there I was in the Borghese Gardens, standing on a corner, waiting for a ride to dinner. I broke every rule in the book. I was alone without backup in a city I didn’t know well. For ten minutes my guard was down. And that’s when they came at me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Emma.”

  “Blakemore likes his knife,” she said offhandedly as she fingered the livid scar. “He forgot I knew that. I got away with twenty-seven stitches and a lacerated kidney. Guess I’m lucky.”

  “But how did they find you?”

  “It was you.”

  “Me?”

  “You called. It was in April. They had your phone in their system.”

  “But that’s impossible. I bought that phone in Nairobi. No one called me except my colleagues at camp.”

  “I told you. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “But it was just the once …”

  “That’s all they needed. They got my number, my GPS coordinates. They engineered a phony meet. They used the name of an old contact. Someone they knew I would trust. As I said, I broke every rule.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jonathan sat down, crestfallen.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should never have kept the phone. The fact is that I wanted you to call. I wanted you to tell me that you had to see me. The hard part about running is that after a while you get tired. You forget that they’re there even if you can’t see them. You get lazy. Or, worse, sentimental.”

  “And him?”

  “Blakemore? He’s dead.” Emma said the words without emotion. It was her agent’s voice, the one she used when she talked about her work, businesslike and matter-of-fact, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about a man putting a knife into your side and you killing him in the ensuing struggle.

  Jonathan looked on as Emma rubbed a finger across the scar. He saw a faint smile trace her lips. Where the hell did that come from? he wondered. A sense of victory? Survival? Revenge?

  “I can go somewhere,” he said. “I can hide. After a couple of years, they’ll give up.”

  Emma shook her head but said nothing.

  “There has to be a way,” he continued.

  Emma walked to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. “Do you have any idea what it took to see you this evening? Can you even begin to imagine the risks I ran to get into this room tonight? Sure, I may know my way around a locked door, but I can’t outguess every goon in town. You know what the first thing is that they teach you? In every op, you only get one chance: your first and your last. I’ve used up my nine lives, Jonathan. I’m running on faith. What I did tonight was just plain stupid. The problem is that I knew it all along and still I did it. I had to see you. You’re dangerous, Jonathan. You’re my poison.” Emma let go of him and walked toward the window. She stood, framed by the dawn sky, the curtains billowing gently around her bare legs. She turned to look over her shoulder and smiled sadly. “Emma Ransom died tonight.”

  Jonathan stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He had mourned her once. He knew the misery that came with the loss of a spouse. But somehow this was worse. The idea that Emma was out there alive somewhere and that he could not see her was too much. A profound sadness settled on him.

  They stood that way for a long time, watching as the sun warmed the trees in Hyde Park and the horses and their riders appeared along the serpentine trails, listening as the impatient, mechanized sounds of the city rose around them.

  Emma’s phone rang. Without a word, she freed herself from Jonathan’s arms and found her phone. She checked the incoming number, then looked up at him. In an instant her disposition had changed. Her eyes stared at him with abandon, as if he were a stranger or, worse, the enemy.

  Emma turned away and walked into the bathroom. She did not answer the phone until she’d closed the door behind her. When she came out two minutes later, the transformation was complete. She was no longer Mrs. Jonathan Ransom. She was the woman he had discovered went by the call sign Nightingale, a former operative for the United States government, and now a fugitive at large.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, gathering up her clothes in her arms.

  “Who was that?”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  Emma sidestepped him, but Jonathan quickly blocked her path. “Where are you going when you leave here?” he demanded.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “In a second. First tell me where you’re going.”

  Emma lowered her eyes and began to walk around him. Jonathan grasped her arm. “I asked you a question.”

  “And I gave you an answer. It doesn’t concern you. Please, Jonathan—”

  “You didn’t come here to say goodbye to me. You’re on assignment or whatever they call it. You have it written all over you. One second you’re Emma—I mean, my Emma—the next you belong to them. Who was that on the phone?”

  “Let go of me, Jonathan.”

  The words were spoken crisply and with an absence of emotion that angered him that much more. Jonathan yanked her toward him, causing her to drop her clothes to the floor. “I want to know where you’re going.”

  Suddenly the world was in motion. His feet were rising, his head was rushing at the carpet, and his arms were searching for something to grab on to. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

  Hastily Emma scooped up her clothing and walked into the bathroom. The door slammed and he heard the lock engage.

  Jonathan struggled to his feet and lumbered toward the bathroom. If she thought the matter was finished, she was mistaken. He was through letting her dictate the terms of their relationship. She couldn’t just pop in and pop out of his life whenever she felt like it.

  Emma’s cell phone lay on the carpet, half hidden beneath the sofa. Evidently it had fallen from her clothes when he’d boorishly tugged her toward him. He glanced at the bathroom door, picked it up, and hit the send button. The number of the incoming call appeared on the screen. A text message was attached and it read: “Package ready for pickup. ETA 11:15. Parking arranged. LT 52 OXC Vxhl. Meet WS 17:00.”

  He accessed the call register and scrolled through the calls she’d received. He saw the same number again, and others listed as “restricted.” He thumbed to the second page and saw a familiar international country code: 33, for France. He didn’t recognize the city code. He scrolled down and saw that the call had been made a week ago.

  A loud noise came from the bathroom. Hurriedly Jonathan returned the phone to the floor and busied himself dressing. Emma emerged a moment later, looking distressed. “Where is it? Where’s my phone?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Bullshit. You took it.”

  Jonathan repeated his denial, but Emma wasn’t listening. She marched past him and grabbed the phone from where he’d put it beneath the sofa. “Tell me you didn’t take this and I’ll believe you.”

  “I didn’t take it,” lied Jonathan.

  “Thank you,” said Emma, softening. “Believe me, it’s better this way.”

  Jonathan stared at her, not answering.

  “I’ve decided to tell you where I’m going,” she said.

  “Why the change of heart?”

  Emma approa
ched him, cocking her head. “I don’t want us to part on bad terms. That was a friend who called me. Someone who’s helping keep me safe. He’s set it up for me to leave the country this morning. I’m catching a flight from City Airport at ten. I’m going to Dublin. I won’t be staying long. From there, I don’t even know myself.”

  “I guess I’ll have to be happy with that.” But in his mind, he had a dozen other questions. What was “the package”? Whose estimated time of arrival was 11:15? What did LT S2 OXC mean? And finally, who was Emma supposed to meet “at WS at 17:00”?

  Emma stared at him from beneath her brow. It was her way of showing that she wanted peace. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love you,” she said. “No matter what you may hear about me in the future, no matter what people say, you must always believe that.”

  Jonathan put his arms around her and hugged her to him. Finally Emma pushed herself away.

  In silence, he watched her gather her things and leave without saying goodbye.

  15

  For eight years Jonathan had lived in the dark. For eight years he’d been married to a woman he’d loved and trusted but in fact didn’t know the first thing about. All too frequently he had watched as Emma left on last-minute trips with vague destinations. If Emma said she was taking a night train to Mombasa to pick up a load of quinine, that was what she was doing. If she needed two days in Venice for some R&R with a friend, she had his blessing. He never questioned her. His faith was absolute.

  And then, five months ago, he had discovered that it was all a lie. Not only the trips to Mombasa and Venice, but all of it—her name, her past, her devotion to bringing medical care to those who needed it most. Since the day he met her, Emma had been working as an agent of the United States government, and Jonathan had been her unwitting, unsuspecting cover. Time did not heal this wound, even by degrees. If anything, time worsened it. Jonathan was not suspicious, but he was prideful. Standing with his back to the door, he decided that eight years was enough.