And there, high in the corner, taunting him when the hood was removed and he could breathe again, the undying television, blaring on and on, playing the same dreadful images, the dancing sailors crossing New York City, belting out cheery, hopeful songs. American songs.
Haq closed his eyes to ward off the memories, but they persisted. Images from a different world. A barbarous, deceitful world. A world Haq swore to end.
The interrogator was a soft, weak man, but the blue eyes staring back at him in the darkness were neither soft nor weak. They were formidable adversary’s eyes. And so Haq asked what it was that Revy demanded of him. For what purpose had he lured him from his sleep?
Haq believed in the power of dreams.
Revy didn’t answer, and Haq knew he was baiting him, daring him to guess his secret.
Sultan Haq stared into the darkness until the face receded and there was nothing but black, and a terrible gnawing settled on his soul.
62
Emma came to him in his sleep. He felt her warmth beside him and his body responded. He touched her and she moaned. Jonathan was dreaming, of course. It was only there that he could see her as she was, or perhaps as he wanted her to be. He ran his hands over his wife’s body, and he stirred as if discovering her for the first time. He saw her lying on the grass beneath him. It was night in the green hills of West Africa where they’d first met and he’d fallen irrevocably in love with her. He undid her belt buckle, yanking the leather strap free, and slid her jeans over her strong, eager hips. She parted her legs and whispered his name. Jonathan. Love me. A warm breath caressed his ear, his neck. His heartbeat quickened. He met her eyes, and as he entered her, she nodded to say it was all right. More than all right.
“Jonathan.”
He woke with a start. Emma sat on the bed beside him, her hair down, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. “Shhh,” she said as she removed her clothing.
She pulled back the sheets and climbed on top of him, back arched, eyes locked on his as he pushed into her. He gasped, and she covered his mouth with animal swiftness. She said nothing but shook her head, always watching him, her breath quickening. Light from the approaching dawn fell over her breasts, which appeared fuller than he remembered, her nipples exceptionally pert. Grasping her hips, he drove into her and she fought back, their tempo growing more rapid, more violent, Emma lowering her head, letting her hair fall on his chest, sweating now, her breathing labored, hard fought, her motions unrelenting, urging him on, demanding his attention, until he could match her no more and he surrendered and allowed himself release.
A moment later her body began to tremor and a languorous moan issued from her clenched teeth and she buried her face in his neck and expelled a long, hot breath.
“Come with me,” she said, still gasping. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I can get you out.”
“No.”
“You’ll die here.”
“Maybe.”
She pushed herself off him. “For me?”
“I’m not on your team, Emma.”
“And for your child?”
Jonathan pushed himself up on an elbow. “What? You’re-”
“I’m pregnant.”
“How far?”
“Four months.”
Jonathan sat up, stunned. “London?”
Emma nodded.
“You’re sure that’s when it happened?” The words came of their own volition, a reminder of his distrust. Emma slapped him very hard and slid to the edge of the bed. Jonathan stared out the window. His room faced east, and he saw the first sliver of the sun edge above the horizon. “Then why are you here? Why are you doing all this?”
“To save myself.”
Jonathan caught something in her voice, an intimation of a task yet to be accomplished. “What does that mean?”
Emma met his gaze and held it. “Come with me and you’ll find out. But you have to trust me.”
Jonathan looked at her belly and saw that it was round where before it had been flat. Her breasts were larger, fuller. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she clutched his hand and turned it away. Joy and sadness filled him in equal measure. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
And she rolled off the bed and left as silently as she had come.
63
It was eight a.m. and Blenheim was in full swing. In the motor court, the Range Rovers had been pulled from their garage bays and were being washed and waxed. The sound of horses being led to and from the stables carried in the sunlit air. The house trembled with the comings and goings of its many residents. Strangely, the area by the maintenance building was lacking any activity. There were no trucks nearby. No sign of the armed guards Jonathan had observed yesterday keeping watch on the entrance.
At first Jonathan surmised that the warhead had been moved. The previous evening’s attack had spooked Balfour, and he’d wasted no time in spiriting his crown jewel to a safer location. Then another idea came to him. It was precisely because the attack had spooked Balfour that he would not risk moving it. The calm was a facade, Balfour’s effort to avoid drawing attention to the shed. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and Jonathan gained proof that his hunch was correct. A pair of snipers lay flat on the garage roof, keeping an eye on the shed’s perimeter. Snipers did not guard an empty building.
All this Jonathan took in from his second-floor window. Freshly shaved and showered, and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for a morning run, he felt himself in the grip of a feeling unlike any he’d known. Part call to action, part thirst for revenge, a manic desire stirred inside him to do whatever was necessary to see his job through. His own safety and well-being did not come into play. He would pass along the information he had gathered to Frank Connor. It was that simple. He wasn’t sure if it was a fool’s courage or a father’s first and last duty to his unborn child. He knew only that actions defined a man, and that waiting was not an option.
It was Emma, of course. Her visit had awakened feelings he’d thought dead. Or maybe he had preferred them that way. The ego’s almighty and seductive trickery. No matter the scope of her betrayal, the enormity of her crimes, he could not rid himself of his love for her. She was poison, yet he tasted her incautiously. He was a man of discipline, yet she defeated his will. Her essence tormented him. Her competence inspired him. And now he had learned that she was the mother of his child. For that, he swore allegiance to her forever. Allegiance, but not assistance. If he could not defeat her in love, he would defeat her in war.
Turning, Jonathan strode to the dressing area and removed a platinum American Express card from his wallet. The card bore Michel Revy’s name but it was not a credit card, nor had it ever belonged to him. The card was one of Frank Connor’s neatest tricks. Embedded in its skin was a powerful counterjamming device capable of defeating the wireless cage Balfour had erected over his estate.
Connor’s instructions were clear. As soon as Jonathan came into possession of information relating to the warhead’s location and its sale and transfer to Balfour’s client, he was to transmit it to Division. This could be done in one of three ways. If Jonathan was able to free himself from Balfour and get liberty outside Blenheim, he could simply call the secure line programmed into the phone. If that were not the case (and Connor had been plainspoken about his belief that Balfour would not permit Jonathan to leave the compound), Jonathan could transmit the encrypted information to a secure site via his laptop. As there was no wireless service and no Internet connection in his room, the laptop was also out.