Rules of Vengeance

“Stop right there.”

He propped himself on an elbow, eager to explain. “No, no, not like that-I don’t mean come back with me on the plane. I mean how you usually get around. Via Paris or Berlin or…”

“Jonathan-”

“Or Havana.”

“ Havana?” Emma burst out laughing. She pulled herself closer to him. “And from Havana, where to? Or should I even ask?”

Jonathan considered the question. There was something in her voice that led him to hope that maybe the question wasn’t entirely academic. “ Venezuela,” he said.

“ Venezuela? Caracas or Barranquila? They both have decent airports.”

“I’ll leave the choice to you. If neither’s any good, you can hit São Paolo. Brazil doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. Once you’re in South America, it will be much easier to get to Kenya.”

“By tramp steamer this time? Or do you have another idea?”

“I’m thinking more like by jet. I can’t wait another six months to see you.”

Emma nodded as he spoke, taking it all in. “And then I suppose we’ll meet up at the Turkana camp?” she asked, in a less reasonable tone.

“Yeah. We’d be safe there.”

“So I can just move in with you, or maybe you can build me a little thatched-roof hut in the forest where you can visit me every day after work or whenever you get bored, and we can get it on under the stars like we used to? Is that what you want, Jonathan? Keep your wife stashed away for some action on the side?”

He didn’t reply. He’d picked up on the prickly timbre in her voice. At heart Emma was a realist, and she didn’t tolerate forays into Never-Never Land.

“I just have one question,” she went on. “What about the people who are watching you to see if I happen to turn up?”

“You said that they only picked me up when I came to London. There’s no one watching me at the camp.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Jonathan nodded. “There’s only nine of us permanently at the camp. And seven haven’t left in over two years. I know them, Emma. They’re not working for any government. Besides, I’m being careful. I don’t ever mention your name. I only tried to contact you that once.”

“What about Hal Bates?”

“Hal Bates? You mean lazy-eyed Hal from the UN Commission on Refugees? You think he’s interested in me? Come on. The guy shows up once a month for a day or two, does a camp count, asks if we need any moldy K-rats, then scoots back to Nairobi. I don’t even talk to him.”

“Hal’s a twenty-year man with the CIA. The UN thing is his day job. Every time he goes to the camp, he asks around about you. No strong-arming, mind you. Just the casual question here and there. ‘By the way, old chap, happen to see Dr. Ransom with that overbearing wife of his? You know, the good-looking mwanamke with the decent pair of knockers?’ That sound like Hal? He even takes a few pictures of you and sends them back to Langley, and they pass them down the line to Co

“That can’t be,” protested Jonathan. “I mean, someone would have told me. I know everyone who works there, the locals, too. They’re friends. Even then, I keep an eye on them to see if they’re watching me a little too closely. I am being careful, Em. I’d know if someone were watching.”

“You don’t know how to be careful,” she said, with a sympathy that irked Jonathan. “You couldn’t spot one of our networks if it were a snake crawling up your pants. We wouldn’t let you.”

“You’re wrong!”

“And Betty?” Emma asked, not missing a beat.

“Betty the breakfast cook?” Jonathan was dumbstruck at the mention of her name. How could Emma know a thing about her? “She’s fourteen years old. She’s been in the camp for years. Are you saying she’s an asset?”

“Not for a minute. But she doesn’t need to be. All she has to do is keep a sharp eye and be ready to report if she ever sees you with a European woman who doesn’t work in the camp. Last I heard, the going fee for a tip is a hundred U.S. -double that if the tip pans out. That’s half a year’s wage in that part of the world. What are you paying Betty the breakfast cook?”

“We don’t,” said Jonathan. “She gets her meals, a place to live that’s relatively safe, medical care, and she attends camp school three days a week.”

“Ah, I see. One of your friends. Someone whom you’d trust with your wife’s life.”

Case closed, thought Jonathan. He had no rebuttal. The verdict would be swift and damning. The defendant, Jonathan Ransom, is found guilty of recklessly endangering his wife. The sentence mandated for such a crime was death. But not his. Emma’s.

She turned onto her side and he noticed a long scar on her back, just above her kidney. He traced it with a finger. “This is serious,” he said, sitting up, taking a closer look. “What happened?”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing,” said Emma. “I fell and cut myself, that’s all.”

The scar was five inches long, expertly stitched, and still puffy. “This was a deep incision,” he said. “A surgeon did this work. What kind of fall was it, exactly?”

“It was nothing. Some broken glass, I think. Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

He knew she was lying. “Worked up?” he said. “I think about you every day. I wonder where you are and if you’re safe, or if I’ll even see you again. Then you show up out of the blue with a nasty scar on your side that you won’t tell me about and act as if we’re teenagers sneaking away from their mom and dad. How long do you expect this to continue? Am I supposed to live like a monk pining for you until one day some man or woman I don’t know shows up and tells me you’re dead?”

“No,” said Emma, much too reasonably.

Jonathan fell back. “And you can’t come with me?”

“No.”

“And I can’t go with you?”

“I don’t think that would work.”

“Then what, Emma? Tell me what will work.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Emma looked at her watch and bolted upright. “Shoot! We’ve got to get you back to the hotel.”

“Not yet. Not before you give me an answer.”

But Emma was already standing. “We’ve been here much too long. There’s a car downstairs. Get dressed.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

Grasping his hand, Emma led him to the first floor and out the rear of the building. On the pavement her actions grew crisp, disciplined. Her head turned to the left and right. She was in the open, which meant she was in danger.

They walked to a black Audi parked two blocks up the street. Using her remote key, she deactivated the alarm, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Jonathan circled the car and slid into the passenger seat. Neither spoke during the drive to the hotel. She dropped him a hundred meters from the entry. He tucked his head into the open window. “When will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“For sure? How will I find you? Should I ask Blackburn?”

“Probably not a good idea,” said Emma. “We’ll find you. Now, go. And good luck with the speech. Don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine.”

Just then a car honked. Emma threw the Audi into gear and accelerated into traffic.

Jonathan watched the car disappear, then walked to the hotel. He had barely stepped inside the lobby when a rotund, serious man hurried over to him. He wore a gray pinstriped suit with a carnation in his lapel. “There you are, Dr. Ransom. We’ve been waiting ages to speak with you. Where have you been?”

“Taking a walk in the park,” said Jonathan. “I needed some air. Jet lag.”

“Of course.” The shorter man placed a hand on Jonathan’s elbow and led him toward the reception. He was bald, with a ruddy complexion and dark, intelligent eyes. “Did you get my note?” he asked. “I scribbled a little something on your program. I thought it might be wise for us to coordinate plans before your speech tomorrow morning. The concierge assured me it had been sent up to your room.”

“Your note?” Only then did Jonathan remember the elegant penmanship. Looking forward to saying hello. Will require a few minutes to discuss your remarks. “You sent the program?”