Rules of Betrayal

49

“We believe Lord Balfour to be in possession of a nuclear weapon.”

Jonathan Ransom drank the vodka in one long draft. Seated in the first-class compartment aboard the Emirates flight, he stared out the window as the desert metropolis of Dubai rose to greet him. The spirits burned his throat wonderfully, and he closed his eyes, allowing its warmth to spread across his chest. It was his second flight in three days. Geographically, he was backtracking. Nonetheless, he had the real and discomfiting sensation of moving toward his quarry.

Until now, everything had been a rehearsal. Not just the past five days with Danni, but his entire life. The youth in conflict, the climbing to escape it, his redemption as a doctor, and his marriage to Emma, which was not a marriage at all but eight years of aiding and abetting a Russian-born, American-trained spook. All of it one long march, culminating in this moment. The birth of an operative.

“We believe Lord Balfour to be in possession of a nuclear weapon.”

Connor’s words hadn’t left his mind since he had heard them eight hours before. It was quite a step up from sorting through desk drawers to find a man’s name or searching dark closets for a few hand grenades. Before leaving he’d asked a hundred questions about why the government wasn’t pursuing this at a higher level, why Delta Force or the Navy SEALs weren’t going in instead of Jonathan, and why they didn’t just drop a bunker buster or a daisy cutter or whatever they called the bombs that obliterate everything within a mile of where they hit right smack on Balfour’s compound and be done with it. And Connor had answered firmly and with a rationale that Jonathan wholly understood: “Because we don’t have time.”

The surgeon had been called on to perform a lifesaving procedure on his nation’s behalf.

Jonathan ordered a last vodka. The stewardess, a stunning, dark-hued girl from Wales dressed in her tan Emirates uniform and red pillbox hat, bent at the knee to serve him, supplying him with a fresh dish of warm smokehouse almonds.

“Will you be staying in Dubai?” she asked.

“No,” said Jonathan. “I’m continuing on to Islamabad.”

“Pity.” She smiled, then returned to her duties.