Rules of Vengeance

And still more photographs. Private ones. Photographs taken in the line of duty for purposes of extortion. Photographs that sickened him. All with the stamp “Nightingale” laid across the bottom in small black script.

Nightingale. It had been her code name with Division, too.

“You are surprised?” asked a soft, cultured male voice.

Jonathan jumped in his chair. He spun and saw Alex at the door, a pistol trailing from his right hand.

“Who did you think she worked for?”

“I didn’t know,” said Jonathan. “Not you, anyway.”

“She’s Siberian. Who else would it be?” Alex waved the pistol. “Stand up. Come with me. Don’t worry. We don’t want to harm you. You were good to Lara. We are not the kind who do not show their appreciation.”

“If you want to show your appreciation, you can start by putting away the gun.”

“A precaution.”

Alex frisked Jonathan, and when he found no weapon, motioned for him to walk down the hall. “You would like some water, perhaps? Some cheese?”

“I’m good,” said Jonathan. “You can tell me one thing. What do you have Emma doing?”

“You mean Lara? I thought you knew. Isn’t that why you dragged me down to Monaco?” Alex nodded toward the living room. “Alarms everywhere. I wasn’t gone ten minutes before I was notified.”

“You paid twenty-five thousand euros to get her out of the hospital. It wasn’t for nothing.”

Alex answered with a cryptic smile.

In the kitchen he placed a phone call. He spoke rapidly. Jonathan was unable to comprehend a word. When he hung up, his face had hardened. “What did you read on the computer?”

But Jonathan had a question of his own. “Where’s Simenon?”

“Please, Dr. Ransom. You are in my home. It is my turn to ask the questions. What did you read?”

“Nothing. I don’t speak Russian.”

“Really? Tell me, then, how did you teach the doctors in Kabul?”

Of course they knew about him, thought Jonathan. Their surveillance didn’t stop with the pictures taken at Oxford. “Her perso

“That is all? You are certain?”

“It was enough.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about. You’re sure you don’t want anything? Take an orange. They are blood oranges from Israel. We must make a drive now.” The Russian slipped his keys out of his pocket. “Stairs at the end of the hall. After you…”

“Gendarmerie. Ouvrez la porte.” The forceful voice was followed by a series of violent raps against the door.

The Russian stepped past Jonathan, his eyes going to the door.

“Stay here,” said Alex, as he advanced toward the entry.

The police knocked again. Louder this time.

Glancing around the kitchen, Jonathan picked up the first thing he saw that might serve as a weapon. It was a large cut-glass fruit bowl, and he rushed forward and brought it in a roundhouse against the side of the Russian’s head. The agent staggered and fell against the counter. Jonathan brought the bowl down on the back of his skull, sending Alex crashing to the floor. And then, possessed by an animal fury, he struck the Russian again. There came an expulsion of breath. The body shuddered and was still. The Russian was dead.

“Police! Ouvrez la porte! Maintenant!” The pounding at the door increased in urgency, the voices demanding that he open the door.

Jonathan eyed the pistol. He’d left Prudence Meadows’s gun in Rome, and he’d sworn never to touch one again. It was, he decided, a rash promise. He scooped up the pistol and ran down the hallway. The door to the stairwell stood open. A flight of stairs led steeply down to a dusky basement. He ran down several steps, then abruptly stopped. He gazed up. From where he stood, he could see the door to the office half open, and beyond it the laptop computer.

“Police! Ouvrez!”

Jonathan hesitated for a moment longer, then moved.

63

Kate Ford jumped from the Écureuil helicopter as soon as the skids touched ground. Head bowed, she ran to a small contingent of policemen gathered across the road. “Where is everyone?” she asked.

“At the house,” called one of the men as he led her toward a Renault painted with the fluorescent orange stripes and white body of the French state police. “You’re late. Come with me. I take you there. My name is Claude Martin.”

Kate shook hands and introduced herself. “What do you mean, late? You were supposed to wait for me.”

“Monsieur le Commissaire grew nervous. He will not permit Ransom to escape from us.”

The barb cut deep. Ransom had escaped from the English. He’d escaped from the Italians. Monsieur le Commissaire intended to show that the French at least were competent. History writ small. “So Ransom is there?”

“We’re not certain, but we found a motorcycle parked up the road.”

Kate nodded and looked away, struggling to mask her disappointment. The flight from Italy had passed in a flurry of diplomatic wrangling. Calls had passed from the Met to the French National Police, from Five to the DST-the Directorate of Territorial Security, France’s internal special forces-and then crisscrossed between the four of them. The French were wary about launching what they termed a wild goose chase to capture a foreign fugitive who most likely was nowhere near their borders. A full hour had been wasted debating the likelihood that Ransom could have covered such a long distance in so short a time. Another hour had passed discussing who would pay for the operation, England or France. It was finally decided that the police of the Alpes-Maritimes would coordinate the operation with the local brigade of the DST, to be flown in from Marseille. The bill would be settled later.

“How many men do you have in place?” asked Kate, feeling the knot that had been in her stomach during the entire flight from Italy tighten.

“We ordered two of our best men up to the house five minutes ago,” said Martin, who by his shoulder boards was a corporal, and by his peach fuzz and hulking shoulders barely out of university. “We have a dozen more setting up a perimeter.”

Kate wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “I’d requested a tactical team from the DST. I thought this had been settled.”

“I wouldn’t know. We only arrived fifteen minutes ago.”

“So it’s just local?”

“So far, yes.”

Kate didn’t know why she was surprised. She wasn’t in London calling out a team of her own to set up a blind on a suspected bank job. This was international, and international things rarely went smoothly or quickly.

“How far is it to the house?” she asked.

“Five minutes, but I get you there faster.”

Kate climbed into the front seat. Martin left a yard of rubber on the pavement as he pulled away and attacked the road as if it were a Formula One track. “You said there was a motorcycle parked up the road, but did anyone get an actual sighting of Ransom?”

“I’m not certain, but I do not believe so. We are setting up a surveillance position across the hill, but it is getting dark.”

The car negotiated a last hairpin turn and slammed to a halt. Parked on a steep section of pavement in front of them was a cluster of vehicles-a van, two police cars, and an unmarked sedan-but nothing that looked remotely like it belonged to the DST.

Kate left the car and hurried to a circle of uniformed policemen. In short order she was introduced to the chief of the state police and his lieutenants. There wasn’t a woman in the bunch.

“We sent two men to the front door five minutes ago,” explained the commissaire. “No one answered.”

“Do you have a visual?”

“No,” responded the commissaire. “But no matter. We have the residence surrounded. If he is there, we will get him.”