The last option involved activating the counterjamming device in the credit card. Once activated, the card possessed sufficient power to defeat the most robust jamming system for five to eight minutes. During that time Jonathan would be able to place a call to Division, transmit his information, and receive instructions as to his further actions. There was only one catch. Connor had been up front in explaining that Balfour’s security team would immediately notice the disruption in the jamming system, and, as important, would be able to triangulate the location of the counterjamming device within sixty seconds. Use of the credit card meant certain detection, and thus certain death.
Jonathan slipped the card into his shorts along with his phone and quietly left his room. He paused in the hallway, looking left and right, and decided to use the back stairs, which passed adjacent to the kitchen. The hallway was empty, and with every step his confidence grew. Once outside, he would jog past the stables and across the meadow Balfour had named Runnymede to the farthest corner of the estate. The farther he was from the jamming signal, the greater the counterjamming device’s ability to defeat it. He passed the reproduction of Blue Boy and the framed collection of medieval fighting irons and wondered what was going to happen to all of Balfour’s possessions.
To his right a door opened and Mr. Singh stepped out, blocking his path. Jonathan offered a polite good morning and walked around the man-mountain, not slowing his stride. Mr. Singh’s phone rang, and Jonathan heard him say in the queen’s English, “Good morning, m’ lord.”
Reaching the stairs, Jonathan put his hand in his pocket, fingering the credit card for reassurance. As he descended the stairs, he was met by the smell of sausage and eggs and all the wonderful scents of a country breakfast. The chef stood by the stairs, clutching a basket of muffins. Jonathan was forced to engage her in conversation, politely declining the offer of a muffin, French toast, and eggs Benedict. He secured his escape by accepting a red apple from the fruit bowl and promising to return after his run. Mollified, the chef attended to her stove and he crossed the last few meters to the door.
“Ransom.”
His name was spoken, not shouted, in a faultless American accent that he had once admired. Danni had trained him how to spot a tail and how to memorize a roomful of objects. But she hadn’t said a word about how to react when someone unexpectedly called your name and you were thousands of miles from home and surrounded by the enemy.
Jonathan froze, his shoulders stiffening, and at that moment he knew that all was lost. He looked over his shoulder. Sultan Haq stood at the opposite side of the kitchen. Their eyes met. The spark of recognition passed between them and an image flashed in Jonathan’s mind of Haq standing on the mountain plateau surrounded by flames, the Kentucky hunting rifle in his hands, crying out for revenge. Jonathan remembered Hamid and the brave soldiers who had died in the complex of caves at Tora Bora, and for a glorious moment he considered killing Haq then and there.
Footsteps approached from the stairs behind him. Mr. Singh and Balfour.
Jonathan bolted out the door and slammed it behind him. He ran past the line of Range Rovers, the car attendants shooting him confused looks, past the garage and toward the stables.
“Ransom!” shouted Haq.
“Stop him!” ordered Balfour.
A security guard astride an ATV motored in his direction, standing tall on his pedals, trying to make sense of the situation.
Lowering a shoulder, Jonathan knocked him headlong off the four-wheel vehicle and jumped into his seat.
“Shoot him!” Balfour was saying.
Jonathan spun the ATV in a tight turn and accelerated out of the motor court and past the stables. There was a shot and the ATV jumped as a bullet struck the chassis. Jonathan hunkered low over the handlebars, keeping the throttle full out, building speed. Another bullet struck the fender. He bounded into the meadow, putting distance between himself and the main house. A look behind him showed that no one had followed. He slowed enough to pull the credit card out of his pocket and activate the counterjammer. Trading the credit card for his phone, he hit the speed-dial for Frank Connor. There was a hissing sound, and the call failed.
“Dammit.”
It was then that he saw a black shadow advancing over the terrain. Looking again, he saw that it was Sultan Haq on Inferno, the black stallion, galloping in his direction. Jonathan hit the speed-dial again. The hissing erupted and Jonathan swore. Abruptly the white noise died and the call went through. Jonathan revved the throttle and the ATV hurtled over the grass, rocking considerably, lifting him out of his seat. He could not control the vehicle and hold the phone at the same time.
Behind him, Haq was gaining ground. Jonathan returned his left hand to the grip, clutching the phone in his palm. An ATV appeared at the far end of the meadow, blocking his escape. Jonathan veered right, cutting a diagonal path away from it, then braked to a full stop.
“Frank, it’s me, Jonathan. Can you hear me?”
“Jonathan… yes, I can, just barely. What the hell are you doing?”
“Frank, it’s here. The warhead is at Blenheim. You have to get here fast. They’re moving it today. The buyer’s Sultan Haq.”
“Say again? You’re cutting out… can’t quite pick you up…”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. Haq was charging at him, the horse breathing furiously. Jonathan grabbed the handlebars and squeezed the throttle, steering the ATV toward a spot in the fence where he’d glimpsed a jeep and some workers. He willed the all-terrain vehicle faster, but it could not outpace Inferno. The black stallion neared, close enough for Jonathan to hear his hooves thudding the ground, to feel his presence. He looked over his shoulder. Haq was five meters behind and closing fast. Jonathan searched the field ahead, observed that there was a tear in the fence, and aimed the ATV toward it.
Suddenly Haq was beside him, leaning off the horse and striking him with an enormous fist. Jonathan yanked the handlebars to the right, but Haq stayed with him, one hand clutching the horse’s mane, his legs wrapped around the beast’s flanks. Again his fist connected with Jonathan’s cheek. Jonathan lashed out with his left arm, hitting the side of Haq’s head. The horse slowed, and Jonathan was clear.
Fifty meters separated him from the fence.
He leaned low over the handlebars, eking out every ounce of power from the throttle.
A blur appeared to his right. A jeep barreled in front of him, blocking the fence. Mr. Singh was at the wheel, and Balfour stood in the back, manning the. 30 caliber machine gun.
Jonathan spun the ATV to avoid colliding with them. The ATV bucked at the violent change of direction, two wheels lifting off the ground. Jonathan shifted his weight, but he was traveling too rapidly and the meadow’s soil was too soft. The ATV flipped, and Jonathan tumbled headlong through the tall grass.
Spitting out a mouthful of turf, he pushed himself to his knees, only to see Balfour swing the machine gun around and cock the firing pin.
“Don’t shoot!” shouted Haq as he dismounted and approached Jonathan. “Hello, Dr. Ransom. I hoped that we would meet again, but didn’t dare believe it. This time I don’t think you can rely on the cavalry to rescue you.”
“Probably not,” said Jonathan.
Haq kicked him in the ribs, and Jonathan fell to his side. The tall Afghan reached into the grass and picked up Jonathan’s phone. He pressed several buttons but drew no satisfaction. “Who did you call?”
Jonathan remained silent.
Haq looked at Balfour.
Balfour said, “I have the world’s most sophisticated jamming system. No one can make a wireless call from anywhere within five kilometers unless I clear the number beforehand. This man-Revy, Ransom… whatever his name is-could not have placed a call.”