Rules of Vengeance

The fuel used to power the reactor took the form of long, slim rods of uranium (actually, hundreds of uranium pellets stacked on top of each other). The rods measured 16 feet in length and an inch in diameter, the width of a tube of Chanel lipstick or a Panatela cigar. They were grouped in square bunches, seventeen by seventeen, into a single fuel assembly unit. The rods stayed “hot” or “fissile” for four years. After that they were removed from the reactor vessel and transported a short distance aboard a miniature rail car through a tu

Emma checked the height readings from the two points and performed a calculation inside her head. The result pleased her. The plan was going to work.

Her task completed, she retraced her steps through the field and climbed the steep hillock. Her car was where she had left it, parked in a copse of ground oaks, covered by a profusion of branches. She cleared the foliage, threw her bag into a false compartment in the trunk, then climbed into the car. In a moment she was speeding down the highway toward Paris. The entire reco

Getting in was the easy part.

43

The director general of MI5 was Sir Anthony Allam. Allam was a career officer, a graduate of Leeds University who’d joined the Security Service directly after completing his studies. He’d done stints in all the major branches during his time: Northern Ireland, capital crimes, extremist groups, and most recently counterterrorism. He was a slight, unprepossessing man, with neatly trimmed gray hair, unfailing ma

But looks were deceiving. One didn’t rise to be head of Five without superior intelligence and more than a little of what his Welsh mother had called moxie. Behind the furtive blue eyes and the deferential smile hid a volcanic temper. Word round Thames House was that when Sir Tony, as he was known, was angry, you could hear him all the way to Timbuktu.

“You mean to suggest that Igor Ivanov was not the target?” said Sir Tony as he peered at Charles Graves.

“The bomb was a diversion. It was meant to precipitate the evacuation of the ministry building in order to steal some laptop computers that the visiting IAEA team had brought with them.”

“You’re certain?”

Graves looked at Kate. They nodded. “We are,” she said.

“Interesting. Very interesting indeed.” Allam leaned back in his seat. “But if you want me to go to the PM with this, you’re going to need hard evidence. He’s got himself convinced that it was the Chechens or some group pushing for democratic reforms in Russia. Rather likes the idea, too. Feels it takes him off the hook somehow.”

“We’ve got evidence,” said Kate. “May I?” She picked up the remote control and punched the play button activating the DVD player.

Graves narrated. “This feed is from the ministry building at One Victoria Street. Third floor, corridor seven, east. The camera covers the hall directly outside the conference room where the team from the IAEA and our lads from the Safeguards Authority were holed up.”

“Is it in focus?” asked Allam as he slipped on a pair of glasses. “Half the time the lenses are fogged.”

“Crystal-clear,” said Graves. “We’ve got the woman going into the room at eleven-eighteen and coming out at eleven-twenty.”

“Two minutes. She moved fast,” said Allam.

“Yessir,” said Kate. “She knew what she was looking for.”

Onscreen a corridor appeared. It was a typical government office building: linoleum floor, message boards on the wall. The color picture was grainy but in focus, as promised. A time code ran in the upper right-hand corner. At 11:15 the camera shook violently.

“There goes the bomb,” said Graves.

Seconds later the first of the building’s occupants began to file out of their offices. The trickle grew to a flood, and by 11:18 the corridor had emptied.

“Here she comes now. Keep your eye on the bottom of the screen. Can’t miss her.”

At 11:18:45, a figure entered the screen from the bottom left, moving against the current of workers, and walked directly to conference room 3F. The figure was moving rapidly, her face ducking the camera. Still, her attire was easily identifiable. Jeans. Black T-shirt. And, of course, there was the hair.

At 11:20:15, the door to the conference room opened and the woman stepped back into the hallway. She walked toward the camera, her head kept deliberately down, her face hidden in the shadow cast by her long auburn hair. Over her shoulder she carried an overnight bag.

“She’s got the laptops in the bag,” said Kate. “It’s one of those collapsible ones that fold down to nothing when they’re empty but are extremely sturdy.”

Allam kept his fingers steepled to his chin, saying nothing.

“Now look at this.” Graves replaced the disk showing footage from the closed-circuit television at 1 Victoria Street with another containing footage from the camera at the corner of Storey’s Gate. The pictures showed a woman dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans standing at the crosswalk holding a cell phone to her ear. The lead SUV in Ivanov’s motorcade crossed the screen, then the second. The woman stepped away from the curb and turned her back. At that moment the screen blanched. For two or three seconds, all remained white as the camera struggled to correct its exposure. When the picture returned, the woman was gone.

“It’s the same woman,” said Graves. “She’s the one who stole the laptops. I’d wager on it.”

“You know her?” said Allam.

“Her name is Emma Ransom.”

“Ransom? Wife of the doctor whom you allowed to get away?”

Graves held Allam’s eye. He’d been on the receiving end of Allam’s temper twenty-four hours earlier and he’d be damned if he showed that it had fazed him. “According to her husband, she used to be in the employ of a secret United States government agency called Division. Something attached to the Pentagon. I spoke with my oppo at Langley. They deny it. Never heard of Division or Emma Ransom.”

“They would, wouldn’t they?”

“There is something else. When we first pulled in Ransom, he mentioned that his wife had thwarted some kind of attack in Switzerland back in February. I called Marcus von Daniken in Bern. Strictly off the record, he confirmed that there was some sort of dust-up involving a plot to bring down an El Al jetliner and that Ransom and his wife were up to their necks in it. No civilians involved, so they were able to keep it quiet. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”

Allam considered this. “Well, she doesn’t look like a Chechen black-arse, that’s for sure.”

Graves frowned. “Which brings us back to the first question. Why was Ivanov visiting London in the first place? Everyone’s been damned closemouthed on the issue.”

“With good reason. He came over to meet with some wallahs in our petroleum business. Wanted to get them jazzed up about restarting some old joint ventures to tap all that oil that’s still lying under the ice in Siberia, modernize their existing infrastructure, that kind of thing. It’s a sensitive topic, seeing as how the Russians chased all our firms out several years ago and pocketed their profits. The boys at the Foreign Ministry are viewing Ivanov’s approach as a major policy shift on the Russians’ part. Either their oil industry’s falling apart and they’re desperate for revenue or they’ve decided to rejoin the international community.”

Allam sighed. “The question remains, however, just who Mrs. Ransom is working for.”