Rules of Betrayal

13

The MV-22 Osprey flew high over the blue waters of the Persian Gulf, maintaining a speed of 180 knots on its course south-by-southwest from Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. Seated in the passenger compartment, Jonathan Ransom glanced out the window as a pair of F-18 fighters whizzed past a mile to port. The helicopter passed directly above a guided missile cruiser, the Stars and Stripes flying boldly from the fantail. For the last ten minutes they’d been overflying the naval vessels of Carrier Task Force 50. He’d left one war zone only to enter another.

“Touchdown in six minutes,” said the pilot.

Jonathan checked his shoulder harness, making sure that the belt fit tightly across his chest and waist. The Osprey dipped its nose and began a rapid descent. He had the sensation of being sucked into a vortex against his will.

Since climbing onto the chopper at Tora Bora one week earlier, he’d been constantly on the move. From Tora Bora to Bagram. Bagram to Camp Rhino. Camp Rhino to the embassy in Kabul. Back to Bagram. At every stop he’d endured another debriefing. He’d related the events as best he could. He’d asked to go home. Always he received the same answer: “In due time.” And he waited to be moved again.

The aircraft touched down. Two MPs led the way to a hatch in “the Island,” the imposing tower rising from the flight deck. Jonathan followed, climbing a set of stairs to reach the flag bridge. His destination was an anonymous wardroom with a table and chair and an American flag stuck in one corner like an afterthought.

The hatch opened and a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a rumpled gray suit entered. He was carrying two china mugs and held a leather folder beneath an arm. “You drink tea, right?” he said, thrusting one of the mugs toward Jonathan. “I got you Darjeeling. Two bags and plenty of sugar. Figured you needed something to keep you going. Me, I’m a coffee guy. Don’t care what kind as long as it’s black.”

Jonathan took the mug and looked on as the man struggled to set his coffee and dossier on the table, spilling quite a bit in the process. “Want to join me?” he asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “No? Suit yourself. Me, I have to sit. I swear these long flights give me thrombosis in my legs. Hurts like the dickens.”

“You should make sure you walk around during the flight,” said Jonathan. “Helps the circulation.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say.”

The man unzipped his leather folder and took out a legal pad and some papers and arranged them neatly, as if he were a clerk setting up for business. Jonathan knew better than to be fooled. Whoever this man was, he was anything but a clerk.

“Some shit-storm you went through,” said the man. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. The other guys weren’t so lucky.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“You want to tell me your name?”

“What’s the point? I’d probably be lying to you.”

“You’re Connor.”

The man pulled his jaw into his neck, either surprised or bewildered. “Emma told you?”

“She might have let something slip when we were in London. She said you were a prick. I just put a face to a name.”

Connor found this amusing. “Did she tell you anything else?”

“That you tried to have her killed when she was in Rome.”

“I understand you’re upset. No one likes to be manipulated without their knowledge.”

“I’m still working on your sending a man to put a knife in my wife’s back.”

Connor lost his friendly tone. “We’ll get to that later,” he said, and for the first time Jonathan was aware that he was in the presence of a formidable individual. “Sit down, Dr. Ransom. I didn’t fly seven thousand miles to give you a handshake, a hug, and a kiss on the cheek for serving your country. We have some important issues to get through.”

Jonathan sat down. “Eight years wasn’t enough? I thought I’d served my time.”

“Believe me, we’re grateful for all you’ve done. Especially for your actions in Switzerland. No one more than me. If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry that we had to drag you back into this. I know you went to Afghanistan to get away from it all.”

“I went to Afghanistan to get back to doing what I do best.”

“From the little I heard about how you acted under fire, you might want to reconsider what that is.”

“I did what anyone would do.”

“Not everyone would carry a wounded soldier through a hail of gunfire at considerable risk to himself. They give medals for that kind of thing.”

“I don’t want a medal.”

“I know you don’t. I couldn’t give you one anyway. But so you know, Dr. Ransom, the man you led us to, Abdul Haq, was a first-class sonofabitch. We’d been trying to get at him for months without any luck. Drones. Informants. Rewards. Nothing worked. Then we got word he was sick and we saw our way in. You happened to be in that neck of the woods. You didn’t leave us much choice.”

“So that’s how it goes? I don’t get a say in the matter.”

“No, Dr. Ransom. Sometimes you don’t. Ain’t life a pile of shit?”

“And Hamid?”

“Hamid signed up. He grew up in Kabul, then emigrated to San Francisco. He joined the army to do some good for his country.”

“And that’s when you stepped in?”

“He possessed a unique skill set that was very much in demand. Hamid wanted us as badly as we wanted him. Afghanistan is a safer place without Mr. Abdul Haq.”

Jonathan put the mug to his lips and drank down the warm, sweet tea. He thought of Hamid dropping from his grasp. It might as easily have been him. “You know, I’ve been wondering about something. How was it that you guys found me all that time ago?”

“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Of course you know,” said Jonathan. “A guy like you knows everything.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Jonathan stifled a nasty rebuke. “And Emma? How’d you get your hooks into her?”

“I can’t tell you that either. ‘Need to know,’ Dr. Ransom. It’s the first rule of the game.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Like I said, I can’t discuss your wife’s past or present.” Connor paused and set down his coffee. “At least, not yet.”

Jonathan felt something shift in the room, a change in the dynamic between them. If he weren’t mistaken, an offer had been made. “What does that mean?”

“It means I came to talk to you about helping us.”

“You mean Division?”

Connor nodded.

“You’re serious? You want me to work for you?”

“We think you have certain skills that can-”

“No,” said Jonathan.

“Just hear me out.”

“Absolutely not. I’m finished. Done. Over.”

“I’ve come an awfully long way-”

“Well, that’s awfully tough shit.” Jonathan shoved himself away from the table, knocking his chair over as he stood. “Now you can get in your plane and fly an awfully long way back. Goodbye.”

“Please, Dr. Ransom, I understand you’re upset. Just give me a-”

“I said I’m finished.”

Connor stared at Jonathan. “Fair enough,” he said. “It goes without saying that none of what happened in Tora Bora can ever be repeated. The intel boys aboard ship will give you some papers to sign. When you’re done, tell them where you want to go. They’ll make it happen. Ticket, passport, whatever you need. I’ve been authorized to pay you for your work. I’ve got a check for fourteen thousand dollars made out in your name. That’s two months’ hazardous duty pay at major’s rank.”

“Keep it,” said Jonathan.

“It’s yours. You earned it. If you want to give it to charity, that’s your business.”

Connor set an envelope on the table, then gathered up his papers and replaced them in his briefcase. Jonathan noticed that he hadn’t written a word. It was a show, just like the lousy suit, the scuffed-up shoes, and the Joe Sixpack delivery. He was the voice of America.

Connor stumbled as he rose to his feet and extended an uncertain hand for balance. Jonathan rushed around the table. “You okay?” he asked, grasping his arm for support.

“It’s the leg.” Connor waved him off. “I told you already. Lousy circulation.”

Jonathan took a better look at Connor, seeing him as a doctor would a patient. He took in the burst capillaries in his cheeks, the bags under the eyes, the air of dissipation. Up close, he could hear Connor’s breath, rapid and shallow. “Do you know where Emma is? Please. I just want to know if she’s all right.”

Connor lifted his satchel onto the desk. “What if I were to tell you that everything you currently know about your wife is false?”

Jonathan hesitated before answering, wondering if this was just another ploy to lure him in. “Like what? That she didn’t try to kill me in France?”

“Among other things.”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” said Jonathan, but his response was a reflex. There was something about Connor’s manner that bespoke honesty and earnestness. Or maybe it was something inside Jonathan. Maybe he just wanted to believe.

“And if I told you that Emma was in danger-possibly grave danger-and that you were the only person who could help her?”

Jonathan looked hard at Connor, trying to see past the artifice. He saw only a man who was fifty pounds overweight, with a bum leg and a heart condition, telling him the truth. “Sit down.”