Rules of Betrayal

5

Emma Ransom, a.k.a. Lara Antonova, sped down the eight-lane superhighway, a lone courier in the night. The windows were down, and warm air filled the BMW M5 with the scent of saltwater and scorched earth. The digital clock’s numerals glowed 11:47. Ahead, like the first rays of a rising sun, a scythe of light cut the horizon in two. She passed a sign saying “Sharjah Free Trade Zone-5 km.”

“This is a final systems check,” she announced to the empty cockpit.

“We have you loud and clear,” came a gruff American voice from deep inside her head.

“How’s the picture?” A microdigital camera embedded in the top button of her blouse delivered the pictures to her cell phone, which transmitted the images to a suite of offices at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C.

“If you’re driving two hundred kilometers per hour like the speedometer says, the camera’s working fine. Now slow down.”

“Just tell me if it’s in focus and aimed straight ahead.”

“Yes and yes. Now remember, all I want you to do is hand over the shipment, get General Ivanov his money, and get the hell out. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Frank, we’re clear.”

“Whatever you do, don’t wait around for him to try that gun.”

“That gun” was a VSSK Vychlop 12.7 mm sniper’s rifle, the most powerful weapon of its kind in the world.

“How did you rig it?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I don’t go in blind.”

“We engraved three bullets with his name and the royal family’s coat of arms and included them in the case. Two of them are good. We put fifty grams of C4 in the third. When the firing pin hits it, bang goes the breech. And I mean bang, as in a serious shrapnel burst. You don’t want to be nearby when it goes off.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’m glad you’re looking after me.”

“Me look after you? Since when?”

The comment provoked a laugh. Maybe because it was so patently true, or maybe because she wished it weren’t. “Talk to you on the other side.”

Emma pressed her foot against the accelerator, locking her arms against the wheel as the car gained speed-200… 220… 240 kilometers per hour-and the wind buffeted her.

“Slow down,” said Connor.

Frank Connor was the head of Division and Emma’s boss. She ignored him.

The free trade zone came into view. It was a city of warehouses, hangars, cranes, and fences built on a gargantuan scale. The highway narrowed from eight lanes to four. A sign advised her to slow to 80 kilometers per hour. Her response was to press the pedal harder and watch the speedometer jump to 260. She stared at the unbroken white stripe leading her on, enjoying the hum of the automobile’s five-liter V10 engine, the world beyond her reduced to a blur.

“Emma… I said, slow the hell down!”

She kept her foot on the accelerator: 280… 290… 300.

And then she braked. The car decelerated rapidly, the g’s forcing her forward against the seatbelt, making her aware of her anxious stomach and her rapidly beating heart. She drew a breath and calmed herself. The butterflies vanished and her heart rate fell to its normal fifty beats per minute. She was no longer Lara or Emma. She was an operative. Names didn’t matter. It was her work that defined her identity, her mission that formed the core of her soul.

Leaving the highway, she turned in to the east entry and stopped at the security checkpoint. A tall fence topped with rings of barbed wire blocked her path. A uniformed guard looked her up and down but didn’t ask for her name or her identification. She was expected. “Continue straight ahead for two kilometers,” he said. “You’ll be met at Warehouse 7.”

The fence clattered on its track, and Emma advanced into the complex. She passed a succession of warehouses, each five stories tall and as large as two city blocks. Even at this hour the area was alive with traffic: trucks loading and offloading goods, forklifts zipping back and forth, cranes lifting containers from trains to flatbeds.

Finally she reached Warehouse 7. A second checkpoint blocked the road. As she approached, the gate slid back. A police car was parked a few meters ahead. Its flashers lit up and began to strobe. A hand emerged from the driver’s window and motioned for her to follow.

She tailed the police car across a wide asphalt expanse to a smaller hangar two kilometers away that was situated at the farthest corner of the free trade zone. Its giant barn doors stood open, and bright lights burned overhead. Her eyes scanned the building. For a moment she caught a shadow perched on the rooftop, the glint of a rifle, but when she looked closer it was gone.

Balfour had already arrived and stood alone beside his Bentley Mulsanne Turbo. His retinue of bodyguards had dwindled to one, a six-foot, six-inch Sikh she knew as Mr. Singh.

There were, however, a dozen uniformed policemen to see to his well-being. This was the prince’s territory, and the prince would guarantee Balfour’s safety.

Emma killed the engine and stepped out of the car. A policeman frisked her, then nodded for her to go ahead.

“Ah, Miss Antonova,” said Balfour, who greeted everyone as if he’d just run into them at a cocktail party. “I see that you’ve found us.”

“Where’s the prince?” asked Emma.

“Due any minute. Where’s the plane?”

“On schedule.”

“So we wait,” said Balfour.

“So we wait,” said Emma. “I’ve never seen you without your pack of wolves. Don’t you feel naked?”

“I have Mr. Singh. Besides, the prince and I have a relationship of long standing.”

Emma raised a brow. She was skeptical of such relationships.

“And,” said Balfour, “I have something the prince wants.”

“I thought I was providing the merchandise.”

“Not that,” said Balfour. “Those are just guns. Playthings. I have something else. Something far more interesting.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said. But instead of probing further, which was an intelligence officer’s first instinct, she walked out of the hangar and stared into the black sky. The air buzzed with aircraft taking off, one after another.

“They’re mine,” said Balfour. “Cargo planes. They’re on their way to Iraq. For eight years the Americans pumped that country full of everything you can imagine. Now they want to take it all home in eighteen months. I’m more than happy to help.”

To the east, Emma made out a set of red landing lights. She checked her watch. The time was 11:58. It was the Tupolev, inbound from Tehran.

“Is that our plane?” asked Balfour.

“The prince said midnight. The Swiss aren’t the only ones who are punctual.”

“So you can be relied upon?” The promise of conspiracy lay heavy in his voice.

“Have I ever failed you?”

Balfour smiled his fox’s grin. “No. But that doesn’t mean I can trust you.” He stepped closer and lit a cigarette. “Just how high do your contacts reach in Moscow?”

“As high as necessary.”

“The director? General Ivanov?”

Emma met Balfour’s eye. She said nothing. She knew that she had something he wanted.

Balfour glanced over his shoulder at the cadre of policemen standing near their vehicles. Taking her arm, he led her toward a grass berm bordering the runway. “I’ve found something,” he said. “Something in the mountains. A device of some sort. I need help to extract it and bring it down.”

Still Emma refused to exhibit the least interest. “That’s not what we do,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It is an explosive,” Balfour continued. “American.”

“Really? What kind?”

“I don’t know. I only have a photograph. It’s much too far away for me to venture. I suffer from asthma, and it’s at high altitude. All I can tell you is that it is large and appears to be very heavy.”

“I’m an intelligence agent, not a mountain guide. What kind of help do you think I could provide?”

“Equipment. Experts. A whole team, I should think.”

Beneath her veil of nonchalance, Emma was keen to learn more. The words “large American explosive device” had coalesced into a tempting image. “Do you have the photograph with you?”

Balfour glanced over his shoulder once again. “Quick. Before he gets here.” A hand delved into the inner pocket of his cream-colored sports jacket. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”

Emma studied the photograph. It showed a length of silver metallic skin buried in snow. Stenciled in black paint were the letters “USAF.” A few feet away, a square fin protruded. She brought the photograph closer. The problem was scale. There was nothing to indicate the object’s size. It could be one meter or ten. “Looks like a bomb or a missile.”

“Yes, but what kind?”

“Don’t you have one with a little less snow on it?”

Balfour hesitated. “Unfortunately not.”

Emma kept her eyes on the picture, fully aware that Balfour was lying to her and that he knew more than he was letting on. “Where exactly did you say you found this?” she asked.

“I didn’t.” There was noise of motors approaching. Balfour snapped the photo out of her fingers and slid it into his pocket. “Our secret.”

“Of course.”

Emma turned to see a convoy of seven black Mercedes SUVs speeding across the tarmac. Small UAE flags flew from the antennas. Balfour returned to the hangar. Emma followed at a distance. As she walked, she glanced up at the roof of the hangar. The shadow she’d seen earlier was there again, and this time he wasn’t hiding. Nor were the three other snipers positioned on the rooftop. Either the prince was exceedingly conscious of his safety or something was wrong.

“Are you getting that, Frank?” she said under her breath. “They’ve got shooters on the roof. Something’s up. He’s never done that before.”

Emma waited for the voice to answer, but no one responded.

“Frank?” she whispered.

A faint, high-pitched whistle filled her ear. The whistle indicated the presence of a jamming device designed to seek out and defeat all wireless transmissions in the immediate area. She could no longer hear Connor; she could only hope he was able to receive her voice and her pictures.

Effectively isolated, Emma quickened her pace, watching as the fleet of Mercedes pulled to a halt. The driver’s door opened and a man wearing the tan uniform and green shoulder boards of a general in the national police got out.

The prince had arrived.