“At which point the Joint Chiefs will convene a crisis meeting in the Situation Room at the White House. The Oval Office will call me on the carpet and ask where in hell I came up with this information. I’ll tell them about Emma and Prince Rashid and about Congressman Grant’s confirming the missing bomb, and then we’ll all look at the satellite imagery and someone will ask how I managed to task a KH-14 satellite without a written order. And finally, after all this crap, I’ll have to identify Emma and admit that one of my agents has apparently lost her mind and is leading the team of bad guys up the mountain to retrieve the nuclear payload.”
Connor unbuttoned his collar and stretched his neck. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and his face felt flushed as red as a beefsteak tomato. “Four days from now, the president will authorize a strike. A SEAL team will go in and find absolutely nothing, because Emma will already have removed the payload, and if she’s smart-which we know she damn well is-she will have blown the rest of the missile to kingdom come. The president will call me over to the White House and personally fire me and shut down Division once and for all.”
“That’s a worst-case scenario,” said Erskine.
“No,” railed Connor. “The worst-case scenario is that Balfour gets the nuclear payload, the thing actually still works after all these years, and he sells all one hundred fifty kilotons of it to a group of bloodthirsty terrorists slobbering at the mouth to use it.” Connor slumped in his chair. “You know, I don’t even care if the president does fire me, but I’d like for him to do it after he authorizes a strike to stop Balfour from getting that WMD. She’s there, Pete. She’s up in those mountains making her way to the missile right this second.”
“Tell me this. Why is Emma helping him?”
Connor pushed himself out of his chair and circled the table. Gazing through the glass panel that made up one wall, he counted seven men and women hard at work. With a flick of a switch, the glass wall grew opaque. He looked over his shoulder. “One word: revenge.”
“For what?”
“Haven’t you asked yourself how Rashid knew about the gun?”
“He didn’t. He just assumed it was booby-trapped when the bullet backfired. We already know he’s paranoid-and with good reason.”
“Maybe,” said Connor, softly and with conviction. “Maybe not. But tell me how Rashid knew that she was a double agent working for us. I’ve been getting an earful from the FSB ever since. They’re threatening to expose the entire operation to the press unless we release two of their agents from custody.”
Erskine pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose as his brow worked furiously. Finally he raised his hands in defeat.
“Emma’s working with Balfour because she’s convinced we betrayed her,” said Connor.
“What you’re suggesting is impossible,” said Erskine. “Too few people knew.”
“It’s never impossible, Pete. If you start counting, at least twenty people knew of the op, one way or another.”
Erskine’s pale, boyish face grew flushed. Suddenly he flew out of his chair. “You don’t think it’s me?”
Connor let him hang for a good long time, all the while taking careful note of his deputy’s reactions. Erskine was quaking. Not with fear, but with a heartfelt and entirely merited indignation. “No, Pete. I don’t. But I’ve thought about it.”
“I don’t appreciate that, Frank,” stammered Erskine. “Not one bit. I’ve given everything I have to this organization. Why, my grandfather worked for Franklin-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know about your grandfather.” Connor waved him down. “And I know you didn’t tip off Rashid. You’re very good at a lot of things, but you’re the lousiest goddamn liar I’ve ever met. You couldn’t pull it off, Pete. You’re too honest.”
“Thank you, Frank. That’s good of you to say-I think.” Erskine spent a minute cleaning his scholar’s horn-rimmed spectacles, and Connor saw that his hand was still shaking. It took real guts to spy on your own. No mole could be so easily rattled. Erskine replaced his glasses. “So who?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I’ll find out for her, because you know what, Pete? Emma won’t forget this. They always say that it’s the ones who move to this country who are the most patriotic. No one was more loyal to us than Emma. But deep down she’s Russian, born and bred. She’ll get her revenge. I have no idea what’s on her mind right now. But I’m scared. I truly am.”
“So what exactly do you propose?” asked Erskine.
Connor rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Immediate action. We found it. We nip it in the bud. Keep this whole situation in-house. The quicker we clean it up, the fewer people will ever know about it.”
“That’s quite some mantle of responsibility. Even for you.”
“Yeah, well. You do what you gotta do.”
Erskine leaned forward, appraising Connor. “Are you all right, Frank? I mean, you sure you’re up to this?” His concerned tone did not inspire confidence.
“If I drop dead, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”
“You’re immortal, Frank,” said Erskine, much too smoothly.
“So they tell me.” Connor finished up the can of diet soda and felt a little better. “You with me? As you said, it’s quite some mantle of responsibility. I wouldn’t mind sharing it.”
“You know I am, Frank. It’s my job to make you aware of our options.”
“I understand. I just wish we had more of them in this instance.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Connor sat stock-still for nearly a minute before answering. “I’m going to take her out,” said Connor. “Right now.”
31
Balfour walked the length of the hall and passed through the anteroom into his bedroom. The desk was too neat for his liking. The global arms bazaar was busier than ever, but his share of it was diminishing rapidly. The sum total of orders from Libya, Sudan, Malaysia, and Georgia reached a paltry $10 million. His commission was 10 percent of that. He leafed through the papers with growing disinterest. His days as an arms merchant were behind him. His clients could not follow him into his new life.
He flipped open his laptop and logged on to his account at a private bank in Geneva. The balance stood at $90 million. With disgust, he observed the red asterisk placed at the top of the page and the notice that read, “Funds in account are frozen until future notice, pursuant to Judicial Order 51223, Office of the Federal Prosecutor, Bern.”
The Swiss government had slapped a freeze on his funds the day Interpol placed his name on its Red List. Accounts in other countries were likewise blocked. His only accessible funds were the commission he’d earned from Prince Rashid and the money he kept in his local accounts. It wouldn’t last long. Monthly operating costs ran to $100,000 for Blenheim alone.
Balfour considered how his good fortune had run out, the fruits of his years of hard labor yanked out from beneath him. But he was a shrewd man. He had a plan. If all went well, in a few days he would be guaranteed years of anonymity and safety lived in the plush style to which he was accustomed, and which he so richly deserved.
Balfour pulled off his jacket and kicked his shoes onto the carpet. Two inches shorter, he crossed the room and opened the French doors. A sweeping vista of the foothills and mountains of the Hindu Kush greeted him. Somewhere up there was Emma Ransom. She had radioed that she was en route to the site of the weapon. In hours, she and her team would begin dismantling the missile.
Balfour returned to his desk and unlocked the top drawer. There, on top of his personal papers, lay the photograph of the American cruise missile. If the nuclear core could be successfully removed and brought down the mountain intact, its sale would earn him enough to live comfortably for quite some time.