Jonathan unpacked his clothing with care, placing socks and underwear in one drawer, shirts in another, and hanging his suits in the closet. The room was enormous. A tartan carpet covered the hardwood floor. The canopy bed was big enough to sail across the Atlantic, and the ceiling was high enough for a regulation basketball net. Connor had instructed him to act as if he were being watched every second of every day. There was no need to act. A bulky surveillance camera perched high in one corner dispelled any doubt about his privacy. Taking a towel from the bathroom, he leaped and managed to drape the cloth over the camera’s lens.
The blood panel lay inside a folder on the desk. Standing, Jonathan studied the results, but not before starting the chronograph on his wristwatch. A cursory study showed Balfour to be in moderately good health. His cholesterol was high. Enzymes indicated a problem with his liver. Maybe he had an ulcer. Still, there was nothing to prevent him from having reconstructive surgery.
Jonathan put away the blood panel and crossed to a sash window that looked down on the rear of the house. The motor court was directly outside, and to his right lay the stables and a large grassy meadow. To his left he could see the maintenance shed that had been the hub of so much activity. A van pulled up to the far entrance, and workers in blue coveralls unloaded a piece of machinery and dollied it into the shed.
He observed this for a minute. The activity, combined with the presence of so many armed guards and Balfour’s agitated behavior, convinced him that the arms dealer had taken possession of the nuclear warhead and that it stood at this very moment barely fifty meters away in the maintenance shed. He could also conclude that if Balfour wanted to move up the surgery to tomorrow evening, he expected his official business to be terminated by then, and that therefore he meant to deliver the warhead to his buyer sometime tomorrow.
An icon on Jonathan’s phone indicated that there was no wireless service. Connor had been correct in assuming that Balfour maintained a strict digital net over his home, jamming all incoming and outgoing calls. Cell phones were an intelligence agency’s preferred tracking system and could be hacked to act as a microphone or a homing device, or, more simply, just eavesdropped on.
Jonathan lifted the window and ran a hand over the exterior wall. The surface was rough and pitted, with smooth grooves cut horizontally into the stone a meter apart. According to the floor plans, Balfour’s office was directly above Jonathan’s room. The windows farther along the house looked to be about four meters, or twelve feet, above his own. He ran his fingers inside the grooves and judged them to be five centimeters deep. That was fine for his toes, but precious little for his fingers to work with.
A knock at the door interrupted his impromptu recon. “Yes?”
Before he could close the window, the door opened and two of Balfour’s tan-suited security men stepped into the room. Immediately Jonathan checked his watch. It had taken security six minutes and thirty seconds to notice that the camera in his room had gone black and to arrive to investigate the cause. “Is there something you need?”
One of the men marched directly to the obscured surveillance camera. He tried twice to jump and snatch the towel, but he was too short. “Sir, you will please remove,” he said.
Jonathan stood with his arms crossed. “Tell Mr. Armitraj that the only way he can watch me all day and all night is if he moves in here with me. Otherwise, the towel stays.”
The security men exchanged words. One placed a call on his two-way radio, speaking in Hindi, a language Jonathan did not speak or understand. The man frowned, then bowed and left the room with his colleague, closing the door softly behind them.
“Nice meeting you, too,” said Jonathan as he walked to the bed and lay down.
Just then he heard a horse neigh from the stables. The animal did not sound happy. He closed his eyes for a nap, but sleep would not come. He was thinking about his ride with Balfour and what a big mouth he had.
Balfour was dressed to ride to hounds in a guard’s red blazer, white jodhpurs, and knee-high leather boots. A groom held his mount, a tall dapple-gray mare with a calm disposition. “This is Copenhagen,” he said. “You’ll be riding Inferno.”
“The stallion,” said Jonathan. “Let’s have a look at him.”
A groom emerged from the shadows of the stable, leading an imposing black horse with a broad chest and fiery eyes. Jonathan swallowed, and approached the animal. “Hello, Inferno,” he said, touching its nose.
The horse bared its teeth, backing away nervously.
“Do you think you can handle him?” asked Balfour haughtily.
Jonathan grabbed the halter with something he hoped approached authority. “I shouldn’t see why not,” he said.
“Excellent,” said Balfour. “Shall we?”
It was four p.m. The physical was over and done with. Balfour had passed, as Jonathan knew he would, but he was far from the model of health. His blood pressure was elevated. He carried fifteen pounds too much weight. His flexibility was terrible, and his resting pulse hovered at eighty beats a minute, hinting at below-average conditioning. He admitted to drinking two cocktails a day, but the first rule any doctor learns is to double whatever a patient tells you about booze. One look at his liver panel suggested that the two drinks a day might really be four. Still, with the right mix of statins and beta-blockers and all the other wonder drugs available for those who squandered their health, Balfour would probably live to see eighty.
A cosmetic consultation followed the physical, and Balfour was specific in his demands. In one hand he had a picture of Alain Delon and in the other a picture of Errol Flynn, and he made Jonathan swear to do his best to make him look like both of them. With the help of the latest software, Jonathan was able to create a digital facsimile of Balfour’s face-to-be. It was decided to narrow his nose, place implants in his cheeks and chin, slim the lower lip, and perform a mini-face-lift. With the help of hair dye and contact lenses, Balfour would be another person entirely—at least in the eyes of the law and the increasingly sophisticated facial recognition software deployed to identify wanted criminals the world over.
The stallion, Inferno, whinnied and backed away, and Jonathan was aware of the animal’s strength. “Be a good boy,” he said, rubbing the horse’s neck. Inferno calmed. A groom made a step with his hands. Jonathan put his left foot into it and threw his right leg over the saddle. He took the reins in both hands and squeezed his legs. Inferno followed Balfour on Copenhagen out of the stable and into the field. The stallion walked calmly, and Jonathan grew more at ease. He let his hands fall onto the saddle, but there wasn’t a second he didn’t wish to God there was a horn he could grab.
“I’m glad you could come,” said Balfour as the two rode side by side. “I realize it was an imposition.”
“Not at all. It’s what I do, after all.”
“You have no idea the relief. After all these years—the running, the hiding, the constant worrying if you’ve paid someone off or haven’t, or if they’re even the right person to begin with … Frankly, I’m glad to be leaving it all behind.”
“What will you do?”
“Relax,” said Balfour. “Enjoy life. Read. Maybe I’ll take up golf.”
“Nonsense,” said Jonathan. “You’re like me. You’ve never relaxed in your life. You couldn’t if you wanted to. Your brain is too busy. You have to have something going to feel alive. For me, it’s my work and gambling. I’m good at one and a disaster at the other. But do I stop? No. Stopping isn’t the answer. I only work harder.”
“You’re right, of course. I already have a venture set up.”
“Really? Are you free to talk about it?”
“Not guns this time, but chemicals. Bioweapons are the next big market. Sarin, ricin—those are just toys compared to what chemists are cooking up these days. The genius is that even a small amount of these new substances can wreak tremendous destruction. And no one has the faintest notion how to look for them. The profit margins are incredible.”
“A
re you working alone?”
“As always,” said Balfour. “I don’t have partners. Too difficult to find someone you can trust. I only have clients. You’ll meet one of them tonight. We’re dining together—if you don’t mind.”
“It would be a pleasure,” said Jonathan, anxious to learn the identity of Balfour’s guest.
“Just be glad you’re not an American,” said Balfour as he broke into a canter. “He wouldn’t like that one bit.”
Jonathan dug his heels into Inferno’s sides, but the horse didn’t respond. “Come on,” he said. “Giddyup! Let’s move it.” Still the horse maintained its leisurely walk. Jonathan squeezed his legs hard against the flanks and dashed the reins. “Come on. Go.”
Inferno stopped altogether, and Jonathan sighed. He’d been worried about falling off the powerful stallion, not it falling asleep. He kicked the horse again. The horse lurched forward and broke into a headlong gallop. Jonathan held the reins tightly, struggling to stay in the saddle. Heels down, Emma had taught him. Never hug the horse if he breaks out of control. He’ll only go faster.
Inferno sped past Balfour and Balfour pushed his horse into a gallop, too, thinking it was a challenge. The gray mare came alongside and Jonathan saw Balfour standing comfortably in the stirrups, grinning at him. Inferno raced even faster and Jonathan bounced hard in the saddle, falling to one side, losing a stirrup. He righted himself and yanked the reins, but the horse was too strong for him. Inferno ran.
“He’s a strong boy,” said Balfour, catching up again. The mare’s flank rubbed against Inferno’s shoulder. The black stallion juked to the right, then regained its mad forward stride. But Jonathan continued horizontally, leaving the saddle and Inferno behind and flying through the air. He met the ground unceremoniously, landing on his shoulder and toppling onto his side.
“Quite a tumble,” said Balfour, who had stopped his mount on a dime. “Are you all right?”
Jonathan stood and dusted himself off. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, before catching himself. “Yes,” he added in his accented voice, the Swiss doctor once more. “Fine.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.” Balfour dismounted and helped to brush the grass and dirt off Jonathan’s fleece jacket. “Inferno can be difficult to control,” he added. “Especially if you haven’t ridden in a while.”
Jonathan met Balfour’s eye but didn’t respond. He rubbed his sore shoulder, finding the spot where he’d bruised the muscle.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” asked Balfour.
“A long while,” said Jonathan, as if admitting his guilt.
Balfour laughed, and Jonathan realized that Balfour couldn’t care less that he’d lied about his riding skills. He was happy to have demonstrated his superiority over the European doctor in at least one domain. For a moment he could consider himself Dr. Revy’s equal.
Lord Balfour whistled, and Inferno trotted back. Offering a friendly pat on the back, Balfour helped Jonathan into the saddle and suggested they walk home.
As Balfour set off, he looked over his shoulder and shook his head in disbelief. “Who ever heard of a Swiss horseman anyway?”
55
It was a thing of beauty.
Sultan Haq stared in awe at the cylindrical stainless-steel object set on the table in front of him. The device measured eighty centimeters in height and had a maximum diameter of thirty centimeters, tapering slightly at either end. A faint line barely a finger’s distance from the top indicated where the device could be opened. “That is it?”
“Indeed,” said Balfour. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“May I?” asked Haq, gesturing toward the reconfigured warhead. Balfour nodded, and Haq picked it up in his hands. The device was heavier than it looked but weighed no more than twenty kilos.
“Just don’t drop it,” said Balfour.
Haq quickly set the device back on the table.
“Actually, I’m told it’s quite sturdy,” Balfour went on. “Nearly indestructible, in fact. My men will instruct you in its use. Just promise not to blow us all up. I must run, but I will see you this evening, yes?”
Haq nodded, never taking his eyes off the nuclear warhead as Balfour left the workshop. “And so?” he asked, more gruffly, addressing the physicists dressed in lab coats. “How does it work?”
Haq listened intently as the scientists educated him in the use of the weapon. For all its devilish complexity, the warhead was simplicity itself to activate. The control panel was accessed by flipping open the cover. Inside were two keypads, each set below an LCD display. To arm the weapon, the user must correctly enter a six-digit code. Once the bomb was armed, it could be detonated by means of a timer or manually, with a small red button protected by a plastic casing.
“How large is the yield?” he asked, the technical vocabulary awkward on his tongue.
“Twelve kilotons,” answered one of the scientists.
“How large is that?”
“Large enough that everything within one kilometer of the detonation will be instantly obliterated by a fireball with a core temperature of over ten million degrees. Within three kilometers, say twenty-five city blocks, the blast wave will ravage every structure and annihilate almost every living creature. No building will be left standing. Those that aren’t killed by debris will be consumed by the firestorm. Within five kilometers, fatalities will fall to seventy percent, with those surviving sure to die from radiation poisoning within a short time. I can go on if you like.”
Haq shook his head, regarding the warhead with new respect.
“Perhaps you would like to learn how to operate the timer,” inquired one of the men.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Haq.
56
Dinner was served in the great hall. White linen napkins blossomed from crystal goblets. There were pewter plates and sparkling cutlery. A pair of candelabra supplied the intimate lighting, helped by an enormous iron chandelier overhead. Entering the room, Jonathan counted sixteen place settings. He was dressed in a blue suit and necktie, his blond hair rich with pomade and parted neatly. Dr. Revy wore his black-framed glasses for the formal occasion.
A waiter in a white waistcoat approached, bearing champagne on a silver tray. Balfour intercepted him, taking two flutes and offering one to Jonathan. “I’ve decided to follow your advice,” he said. “We’ll wait till the following morning for the surgery rather than force things tomorrow. Better safe than sorry. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Jonathan, lifting his glass in salute. “I didn’t realize it was open for discussion.”
“Isn’t everything?” Balfour polished off the champagne and availed himself of another. “And the shoulder? Not going to keep you from operating?”
Jonathan noticed a glazed look to his eyes and wondered if he’d already ingested something stronger than champagne. “It’s fine. Just a little sore. Remember, no food after six o’clock tomorrow evening. It’s best to rest the day before major surgery. I hope you don’t have anything taxing planned.”
“Just business,” said Balfour. “I’m afraid I’ll be absent most of the day. You’ll be on your own.”
“Nothing too strenuous, I hope.”
“Not unless cashing a large check falls under that definition.”
Jonathan smiled. “Do you think I might have a tour of the city?”
“You’ll remain here,” said Balfour sternly. Then he softened, the smile arriving a moment late. “But do stay off Inferno. I can’t risk anything more happening to you.”
The guests arrived in a bunch, as if all let off the same tour bus. Balfour insisted that Jonathan remain at his side as he introduced them in turn. There was Mr. Singh, dressed in a white Nehru jacket and matching turban, followed by three Pakistanis named Mr. Iqbal, Mr. Dutt, and Mr. Bose, all of whom were visiting Blenheim to help with a “special project.” The women came next. There were the lovelies he’d met earlier and four more whose names he forgot as quickly as he heard them.
As for himself, Jonathan was introduced as “Mr. Revy from Switzerland,” with no mention made of his medical diploma.
Jonathan counted fourteen bodies, but there was no sign of Emma.
A waiter whispered something in Balfour’s ear, and Balfour cast a long look around the room, apparently searching for someone, before saying, “Shall we sit?”
Jonathan was placed at Balfour’s right, with a blond woman named Yulia from Ukraine as a buffer. (“Young, blond, and buxom,” just as Balfour had promised. As for “smooth,” he would have to leave that to his imagination.) The guests took their places, and Jonathan observed that two seats remained empty, one at the end of the table, the other directly across from him.
“Ah, there you are,” said Balfour, shooting from his chair and striding toward the entry. “I was beginning to wonder.”
She’s here, thought Jonathan, and, panicking, he realized that he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He turned his head to see the late arrival, but it wasn’t Emma. It was a tall foreign man dressed in a gray suit, and Jonathan guessed that he was Balfour’s client. Balfour seated the gentleman to his left. “Michel, meet my friend Shah. Shah, Michel is from Switzerland.”
Jonathan said hello and the man nodded back. He was not Pakistani or Indian—his skin was too pale, his cheekbones too high. The man stared at Jonathan and Jonathan stared back, but just for a moment. There was something familiar about him, something vaguely disconcerting.
Balfour addressed his client in Dari, while the beautiful Yulia from Ukraine touched Jonathan’s arm and asked if he had ever visited her country. Jonathan said that he had not and did his best to maintain a conversation while eavesdropping on Balfour and his client, whose words had quickly grown hushed and urgent.
Waiters arrived with a first course of potato-leek soup. Wine was poured by a sommelier wearing a tasting cup around his neck. Balfour took a sip and gave the wine his benediction. The sommelier moved to Balfour’s guests and made ready to pour. The man named Shah raised a hand to cover his glass. Jonathan saw the long fingernail extending from his pinkie, and he feared his composure would evaporate on the spot. He knew why the face had seemed familiar.
Rules of Betrayal Page 26