Rules of Vengeance

19

From Division’s office in Lambeth, south of the Thames, Frank Connor heard the blast and immediately turned on the television. A bulletin cut into programming within five minutes. A still photograph of the Department of Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory Reform was displayed as a reporter offered the first sketchy details of a car bombing near Victoria Street, in the heart of London. A rattled eyewitness followed, describing the blast.

Connor watched intently, popping open a can of Coca-Cola and sneaking glances out the window. It wasn’t long before he caught the plume of smoke drifting above the skyline. He knew about explosions, and this one was a monster.

One of the desk girls entered the room. “I’ve tracked down Hubert Lorenz,” she said. “He’s available, but he’s asking for one hundred thousand pounds.”

Lorenz was a German bounty hunter known in the trade for his precision and reliability.

But Connor didn’t answer. If anything, he drew nearer the television, his eyes transfixed by the pictures now being beamed live from the scene. The camera panned over several mangled automobiles and lingered on bloody victims lying on the sidewalks. The reporter announced that seven people were confirmed dead and at least twenty injured. Connor was surprised the numbers weren’t higher.

“I’ve got him on the line,” continued the assistant in her aggravating north-of-England accent. “He’s not someone who likes to be kept waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah, just hold on.” Connor turned up the volume. The reporter announced that the target of the attack was thought to have been Igor Ivanov, the Russian interior minister, and added that Ivanov had been taken to a nearby hospital, where news of his condition was expected at any minute. “And?” Connor whispered to himself, like a bettor with an interest in the game. “Is he dead or alive?”

“Mr. Connor, what do I do about Mr. Lorenz?”

Connor spun in his chair. “Tell him to fuck off! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out. I’m fuckin’ occupied!”

The assistant beat a quick retreat.

Connor rose and opened the window. By now the smoke had spread into an ominous black pall that enveloped Big Ben and covered a good portion of the sky. Helicopters flitted low over the skyline. The wail of sirens sounded from every direction. Once again London was under attack.

And Frank Connor knew who was responsible.

Seated alone in the former linen closet that served as her office, Connor’s assistant hung up the phone and crossed the German’s name off the list of surveillance experts she had prepared for her boss. Suddenly she noticed that her hand was shaking and she put down her pen. Never once in five years had she heard Mr. Connor swear. At all times he’d been respectful, polite, and decent. In her diary she had called him a “nice bloke,” which to a working-class girl was high regard indeed. The outburst had shaken her. But it wasn’t the epithets that left her stunned and feeling weak in the knees; it was the savagery of his tone and the rage in his eyes. For a moment she’d felt certain he was going to harm her. Overcome, she sobbed and rushed to the ladies’ room.