Rules of Vengeance

17

Seated in the rear of the cab, Jonathan watched Emma climb from the BMW and walk away from the car. He had his money ready and as soon as Emma had gone ten steps, he passed the cabbie two fifty-pound notes. He waited another moment, his eyes fixed on his wife as if there were a cable connecting them, then opened his door and set off down the sidewalk. He kept close to the buildings, slowing now and again to keep some pedestrians between him and his wife. “Natural cover,” she’d called it, explaining her work to him.

Emma continued down Storey’s Gate for exactly one block before stopping at the intersection of Victoria Street. The light changed. Pedestrians on either side of her crossed the street, but Emma remained where she was.

Jonathan hung back, watching. Any second now, a car was going to pull up, Emma was going to climb in, and that would be that. He would never see his wife again. He turned, looking for a cab, but for once there were none to be seen. He balled his fist and pounded his thigh. He should never have abandoned the taxi.

It was almost 11:15. Dr. Blackburn would be frantically searching for him at the hotel, wondering where his keynote speaker had disappeared to. He imagined Jamie Meadows pounding on the door of his hotel room, asking if everything was all right. Jonathan put them out of his mind. He could give his talk tomorrow.

It was then that he saw a motorcycle policeman zip past him, and all thoughts about the conference vanished. The policeman continued to the intersection of Storey’s Gate and Victoria Street, where he stopped his bike, dismounted, and blocked off all eastbound traffic. Quickly the road emptied of vehicles and grew curiously calm. Jonathan was put in mind of the eerie silence that precedes an avalanche.

By now a group of pedestrians had surrounded Emma. Even so, he could see her clearly standing with a cell phone to her ear, gazing intently in front of her.

Behind him, he heard the hum of a powerful engine. He turned in time to see a flash of black, and a Chevrolet Suburban zipped past him, then another identical to it, close behind. Both were followed by a fleet of jet-black Mercedeses. Three in all. He saw a flag fluttering from one of the cars. The red, white, and blue of the tricolor shimmered in the bright sunshine. It took him a few seconds to guess the country. Not France, not Holland … Russia .

It hit him then. He knew why Emma was waiting at the corner.

Lebanon. Kosovo. Iraq . She had told him about her work in those places. Invariably it involved the kidnapping or assassination of a high-ranking figure deemed unfriendly to the cause-the cause being the security and well-being of the United States of America. It was no coincidence that she was standing on this particular street corner at the precise moment that a motorcade ferrying Russian officials across London was passing.

Emma had come to London to kill someone, or, as he’d once heard her refer to it, “to secure a political objective.”

All this passed through Jonathan’s mind in a second.

He began to run, shouting her name. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it. Emma had taken pains to explain why her actions were necessary, and in every case he’d come to share her views. It was a common misperception that aid work is a liberalizing force. In fact, time spent in impoverished countries, caring for the poor, the sick, the downtrodden, had the opposite effect. Jonathan had no tolerance for the corrupt and powerful who furthered their gains at the expense of their countrymen. It didn’t matter what country. He didn’t believe in second chances, either. The fact was that most of the people who ended up on Emma’s list had it coming. But this was different. This time he was involved. This time he knew. To watch and do nothing, to stand still and bear mute witness-it was asking too much. He would not be an accomplice to murder.

“Emma!”

The last Mercedes drove past. Jonathan’s voice was drowned out by squealing tires, the aggressive roar of so many powerful engines. The motorcade shot down the street, only now coming abreast of the gray BMW.

The car.

The parking space conveniently available.

The text message on Emma’s phone was emblazoned on his memory. “Package ready for pickup. ETA 11:15. Parking arranged. LT 52 OCX Vxhl. Meet WS 17:00.”

The BMW was the package. The attack was set for 11:15. It was a Vauxhall car that had vacated the space.

“Emma!”

Finally she turned toward him, and in the instant before the explosion, their eyes met. And as the blast wave hit him and lifted him into the air and threw him with astonishing force through the windshield of a Range Rover parked nearby he registered only the ferocious explosion and inside it the image of Emma’s condemning eyes.

He had never seen her more angry.