Rules of Vengeance

“Who are ‘they’?” Jonathan asked.

“Division. They have people everywhere. It might be a doctor you’ve worked with for some time, or someone just passing through. An inspector from the UN or a raja from the World Health Organization. You know. People like me.”

Division was a secret agency run out of the United States Department of Defense, and was Emma’s former employer. Division ran the blackest of black ops. Clandestine. Deniable. And, best of all, without congressional oversight. It was not an intelligence-gathering agency per se. Its members weren’t spies, but operatives inserted into foreign countries to effect objectives deemed essential to U.S. security or the protection of its interests around the globe. That objective might involve the manipulation of a political process through extortion, blackmail, or ballot rigging, the destruction of a geopolitically sensitive installation, or, more simply, the assassination of a powerful figure.

All Division operatives worked under deep cover. All assumed false identities. All carried foreign passports. Shorter operations ran to six months. More complex ones could last two years or more. Prior to posting abroad, every effort was made to construct a meticulously documented legend. In the event that an operative was caught or exposed, the United States would deny any association with the individual and would make no effort to secure his or her release.

“And what am I supposed to do?” Jonathan asked. “Stay here in the mountains for the next twenty years?”

“Go on with your life. Pretend I’m dead. Forget about me.”

Jonathan set down his cup of tea. “I can’t do that,” he said.

“You don’t have a choice.”

He took her hand in his. “You’re wrong. I do have a choice and so do you. We can leave here together. We can go back to Africa or to Indonesia or… oh, hell, I don’t know… but we can go somewhere. Somewhere far away where they won’t think of looking.”

“No such place exists,” whispered Emma. “The world’s grown much too small. There aren’t any far-flung corners anymore where one can just draw the curtains and disappear. They’ve all been discovered and have webcamsand someone waiting to build a five-star resort. Don’t you see, Jonathan? If there were any way that we could stay together, I’d jump at it. I don’t want to leave you either. Last week, when I disappeared down that crevasse, you didn’t just lose me. I lost you, too. I wasn’t sure whether I’d ever see you again. You’ve got to believe me. We haven’t any other option but to split up. Not if we want to stay alive.”

“But-”

“No buts. That’s just the way it has to be.”

Jonathan began to protest and Emma put a finger to his lips. “Listen to me. Whatever happens, you mustn’t contact me until I say it’s all right. No matter how much you miss me, no matter how certain you are that no one’s been watching you and that everything is safe, you mustn’t think of it. I know it will be hard, but you have to trust me.”

“And if I do?”

“They’ll know. They’ll get to me first.”

Ten days earlier, Jonathan and Emma had come to Switzerland for a long overdue vacation. Experienced mountaineers, they had decided to climb the Furka, a peak situated midway between the villages of Arosa and Davos. The climb ended in disaster when a violent storm caught them on the mountain and Emma fell while descending a steep incline. Jonathan had come off the mountain believing his wife dead. The next day he received a letter addressed to her. Its contents unlocked a door to her secret past. He might have ignored it, but that wouldn’t have been his way. On general principle, he avoided the easier path. Instead he delved into Emma’s hidden world, anxious to discover the truth she’d kept hidden since the day they had met.

His search had ended on a hilltop outside of Zurich, with four men dead and Emma wounded.

That was three days ago.

Jonathan squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. He couldn’t deny the affection in her touch. But was it love? Or was it rote?

Suddenly she was up, making a circuit of the hut. “You’ve got enough provisions for a week. Stay put. Nobody knows about this place. When you leave, act as if I’m dead and gone. That’s just the way it is. Get that throughyour head. Use your American passport. Go back to work. Take whatever assignment they give you.”

“And Division? You don’t think they’ll mind?”

“Like I said, they’ll be watching. But you needn’t worry. You’re an amateur. They won’t bother you.”

“And if they do?”

Emma stopped, her shoulders tensing. The answer was evident. “It’s me they want.”

“So when will I see you again?”

“Hard to say. I’ve got to see if I can make things safe.”

“And if you can’t?”

Emma stared at him, a sad smile turning her lips downward. It was her code for “Don’t ask any more questions.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that,” he said.

“I wish I could, Jonathan. I really do.”

With a sigh, she threw her rucksack onto the cot and began stuffing her belongings into it. The sight panicked him. Jonathan stood and walked toward her. “You can’t leave yet,” he said, trying to talk in his professional voice. The doctor advising his patient, instead of the husband ruing the loss of his wife. “You shouldn’t even be exercising your shoulder. You could reopen the wound.”

“You didn’t care so much about that an hour ago.”

“That was…” Jonathan cut his words short. His wife was smiling, but it was an act. For once he could see through it. “Emma,” he said. “It’s only been three days.”

“Yes,” she said. “Foolish of me to wait so long.”

He watched as she packed. Outside, it was dark. Snow had begun to fall. In the nickled moonlight, the snowflakes looked as fragile as glass.

Emma placed the rucksack on her good shoulder and walked to the door. There would be no kiss, no labored goodbye. She grasped the door handle and spoke without looking back. “I want you to remember something,” she said.

“What?”

“Remember that I came back for you.”

The plane taxied to the arrival gate. The cabin lights blinked as the aircraft switched to auxiliary power. Passengers stood and opened the overhead luggage bins. In seconds the main cabin was a maelstrom of activity. Jonathan remained seated, his eyes on the police cars that had parked at right angles to the plane. No one was going anywhere yet, he said to himself. Unbuckling his safety belt, he shoved his satchel under the seat in front of him and positioned his feet so that he could stand up quickly. His eyes darted up and down the aisles, looking in vain for an avenue of escape.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Please retake your seats. Police officers are coming aboard to conduct some business on behalf of Her Majesty’s government. It is imperative that you clear the aisles.”

With a collective moan, the passengers found their seats.

In his seat in row 43, Jonathan leaned forward, his muscles tensed. He spotted the first of the policemen a moment later. He was dressed in plain clothes and followed by three uniformed officers with Kevlar vests strapped to their chests, pistols worn high on their hip and in full view. They bullied their way down the aisle, making a beeline for him. There were no smiles, no apologies. Jonathan wondered what they had in mind for him. Whether he would be interrogated by English authorities or the Americans had made a deal to have him turned over to their care. Either way, the outcome was foreordained. He would be “disappeared.”