Rules of Betrayal

72

Frank Connor paced the floor of his secret study like a condemned man. His phone had been confiscated and his landline restricted. Likewise, technicians had disabled all Internet access, both Ethernet and wireless. Even his cable TV had been cut off. His isolation was complete. He might as well be in prison already.

Pouring himself a glass of bourbon, he threw off his jacket and loosened his tie. His initial interrogation by the FBI had been brief and to the point. He’d decided up front to tell the truth. Piece by piece, he’d revealed the operation. The unauthorized attempt on Prince Rashid’s life with the explosive bullets was the first strike against him. Nine innings’ worth more followed. There was no point in lying. If he hadn’t already, Erskine would offer up his own version of the events. Connor’s every action of the past six months would be put under the microscope-every phone call, every e-mail, every meeting. His only hope was for the WMD to be found inside the hangar. Results meant exoneration. Failure meant punishment. Frank Connor was a big boy. He knew the drill.

Connor pulled up the section of floorboard and unlocked his private safe. Inside was a stack of virgin BlackBerries. Terrorists weren’t the only ones who didn’t want the government eavesdropping on their calls. He chose a phone and called his assistant, Lorena.

“Did they find it?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “Mr. Sharp made me leave right after you.”

“What about Ransom and Danni? Any word?”

“I don’t know, Frank.”

“And Haq?”

Lorena started crying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t find out anything.”

Connor hung up, walked through the closet to the bedroom door, and opened it an inch to make sure none of the marshals were nearby. Satisfied that he was alone, Connor called his colleague at the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. “Got anything?” he whispered.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Connor’s spirits lifted. “Shoot.”

“I checked Erskine. He’s clean.”

“I thought you said you had something for me.”

“Hold on to your pecker. I’m just getting started. It’s our policy not only to check the primary suspect but to look at everyone around him. So anyway, Erskine has a home equity account linked to his payroll account. That’s normal. I do, too. But Erskine’s always taking money out of the home equity account and never putting anything back in.”

“That sounds about right,” commented Connor.

“Here’s where it gets interesting. There’s a second account linked to the home equity line of credit-Erskine’s wife’s. Check this out: it’s his wife who’s making the occasional repayments, keeping the line of credit at a manageable level.”

“I know her. They just got married six months ago. She’s a nice gal. Lina.”

“Lina Zayed Erskine.”

Connor felt the floor shift beneath him, and a sharp pain radiated from his chest. “Go on.”

“Except that she’s putting in twenty, thirty, forty thousand at a time.”

“That seems kind of steep for an attorney over at Justice.”

“A GS-12. Annual salary of $74,872 before taxes. Obviously, that nugget got my attention, so I decided to look a little closer, see where she might be getting all that disposable income if it wasn’t courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

“And?”

“Turns out the money was wired into her account from a certain bank domiciled in the Cayman Islands that we here at FinCEN are very familiar with. This establishment turns up much too often in connection with some of our shadier targets-drug dealers, arms traffickers, even the occasional link to our friends in Islam, if you get my drift. Naturally, it was a numbered account. No name, no nothing. Knowing that this might be important, I gave the head of the bank a call myself. He was none too happy to hear from me. When I mentioned the account in question, he practically had a coronary. One of my best clients, a man of unrivaled reputation, a humanitarian. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was talking about the Good Lord himself. Finally this jerk tells me that if I knew what was good for me, I would never mention this account again. End of discussion.”

“The client sounds more like Pablo Escobar than Jesus Christ.”

“Bingo. First thing I did after I hung up was put this numbered account through our tracking system.”

“Any results?”

“Big time! We got a dozen hits right off the bat, all of them linked to some very questionable characters.”

“All right, I’ve still got my pecker in my hand, and you’ll be happy to know it’s hard as a rock. A real diamond cutter. Just tell me who the account belongs to.”

“I don’t have a definitive, but there’s one name that keeps popping up.”

“Who?” Connor listened to the name and felt his chest tighten. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “Frank… you there?”

“Yeah,” said Connor, finally drawing a breath. “Forward what you’ve got to my BlackBerry. I’ve got a new number. Here it is.”

There was a knock on his bedroom door and Connor hung up, hurrying from the study and stuffing the phone into his pocket. He unlocked the door, and one of the marshals peered inside. “Would you like something from your kitchen before bed, sir? I know chow down at the J. Edgar Hoover Building ain’t so great.”

“How ’bout a tuna sandwich and some coffee,” said Connor.

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed and Connor locked it. Hurrying back to his safe, he withdrew $50,000 in neat packets of hundreds, and with them two clean U.S. passports in the names of Donald Maynard and John Riggins. Connor was a Jets fan from way back, but he drew the line at Emerson Boozer. Finally, reaching deep into the safe, he withdrew a polished oak box. He unclasped the lock and removed a sleek stainless steel semiautomatic pistol, a Ruger. 380. The sight of guns made him nervous, and he handled it clumsily, struggling to insert the clip and chamber a round.

Satisfied that he had everything he needed if circumstances forced him to become a permanent fugitive, he closed the safe, turned off the lights, and walked across his bedroom to fetch his gloves and overcoat.

It was then that he felt the icy breeze skirt his ankles and send an ache through his bad leg. He turned to find a trim, dark man standing ten feet away. The man wore a pea coat and a longshoreman’s cap, and he held a very large, very sharp carpet cutter in one hand.

“Hey, Frankie.”

A picture of Jim Malloy and his wife flashed through Connor’s mind. Fear gripped him. Still, he reacted as taught. Reaching into his pocket, he drew the compact Ruger. 380 and unlocked the safety with a flick of his thumb. He raised the pistol and took aim. But suddenly his eyes wouldn’t focus. His arm began to waver as the pain in his chest worsened. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but his hand would not obey.

And then it was too late. The man was on him, knocking his arm away, flinging the pistol to the ground.

“Just you and me here, Frankie,” he said, his face inches away. “Time for a little fun.”

The intruder grabbed Connor’s arm and drew it toward him, ripping back the shirtsleeve. “Soft as a baby’s belly. We’re not going to have any problem at all.”

Connor tried to talk, but his breath wouldn’t come. His entire body felt as if it were being crushed inside a vise.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said the intruder.

Connor watched the blade touch his wrist.

There was a sound like someone spitting and something tore into Connor’s shoulder and the man stopped what he was doing. His eyes widened, and he said, “What the…?” Connor looked down and saw that his own shoulder was bleeding, and he knew that somehow he had been shot. And then blood streamed from the man’s mouth and he fell to the floor and didn’t move.

Emma Ransom stood at the top of the hidden stairwell, a silenced pistol in her extended hand.

“Hello, Frank. How long have I been telling you to put a proper lock on that shed?”