Rules of Vengeance

44

Sir Anthony Allam sat alone in his office listening to the ticking of his prize antique Asprey ormolu clock. The clock had belonged to his father, and his father before him, and so on all the way back to 1835, when Sir Robert Peel, modernizer of the London Metropolitan Police Force (hence the name bobbies), had awarded it to Detective Superintendent Aloysius Allam in recognition of his fifty years of service. Six generations later, the Allams had made a name for themselves as coppers on both sides of the Atlantic, and Sir Tony had the connections to prove it.

Feeling beneath his desk, he punched a button that indicated that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstance. Swiveling, he opened the sideboard that housed the director’s line, a phone equipped with the latest in scrambling technology. These days it was as likely that your own brood was listening in as the enemy. He consulted his directory, then dialed an overseas number connecting him to a certain rather undignified suburb of Washington, D.C.

“Hello, Tony,” said a rough American voice.

“Evening, Frank. How’s the world treating you?”

“Fair to middlin’,” said Frank Connor. “Yourself? It’s a little late over there, isn’t it?”

“You tell me. You didn’t really think you could come for a visit without my hearing about it, did you? Enjoying your stay so far?”

Connor grunted. “Food’s just as lousy as it was last time.”

“Not having any success finding her either, I gather.”

“Who?”

“You know who. Word is she went rogue on you.”

There was a long pause, followed by a sigh of capitulation. “These damn field types. We get some of ’em so wound up they have no choice but to self-destruct.”

“She looks rather composed to me,” said Allam. “We’ve got her on tape detonating the car bomb that tried for Igor Ivanov.”

“That was a terrible business,” said Connor, without sympathy.

“Not yours, I trust.”

“Come on, Tony. You know me better than that.”

Allam left that comment alone. “Any idea who she’s hired on with?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be eating that soggy bacon of yours. Ivanov’s got himself plenty of enemies. The man’s a regular butcher. The Monster of Grozny, they call him. He’s a freakin’ war criminal. Word is he likes to get his hands bloody, and I mean his own hands. They say he threw that last journalist out of the window himself. You know, the guy in St. Petersburg.”

“I heard the same thing. He’s a devil, that one.” Allam cleared his throat. “But here’s the rub-my people have themselves convinced that Emma Ransom wasn’t after Ivanov at all. They tell me that the blast was some kind of diversion to get into the offices of our British Nuclear Authority, the equivalent of your Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and make off with some laptop computers containing all kinds of sensitive codes. They believe that she may provoke some kind of incident or attack on a nuclear facility within forty-eight hours.”

“In England?”

“Possibly. Possibly abroad.”

“If there’s anyone who could pull it off, it’s her. You have your hands full. Me, I’m just looking to even up the scorecard.”

“You made quite a scene at the hospital this morning. Was Prudence Meadows another of your agents who was wound too tight, or was it her husband?”

“No comment.”

“Watch yourself, Frank. Remember, we’re only cousins.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” said Allam earnestly. “Actually, this was meant to be a courtesy call. We received word that Jonathan Ransom is in Rome. It’s our belief he’s trying to find his wife. I can tell he’s not one of yours. Leaves a trail a mile long and half again as wide. I’m sending a team down there to work with the carabinieri and see if we can run him to ground. I’ve a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on. Anything you’d care to add?”

There was another lengthy pause, and Allam had the distinct impression that fat old Frank Connor was squirming in his chair. The mental picture made him very happy indeed.

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” asked Connor.

“I may be able to find an opening in my agenda.”

“Good,” said Connor. “Cinnamon Club. One p.m. Oh, and there’s just one thing…”

“Yes?” Allam listened closely as Connor went on a lengthy discourse. It was all he could do to keep his temper from getting the better of him. “Very well, then,” he said when Connor had finished. “I’ll see you at one. But Frank-Frank?”

But there was no one on the other end of the line. Connor had already hung up.