I save lives, he told himself. This is just a different way.
“In.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Connor nodded momentously, and a great sigh sent a shudder through his shoulders and his back, right down to his thick workingman’s hands. “We believe Lord Balfour to be in possession of a nuclear weapon. A warhead from one of our cruise missiles lost in the mountains near Afghanistan about twenty-five years ago, to be specific.”
Silence followed, as only silence could.
“A WMD?” asked Jonathan, finally.
“A nice little one-hundred-fifty-kiloton WMD in a stainless steel warhead not much bigger than a ripe summer watermelon.”
Connor was still leaning forward, still staring at him a little too hard. Jonathan sensed that there was more, and that it was going to be awful. “And Emma?” he asked.
“Emma helped Balfour bring it down from the mountains. A peak called Tirich Mir.”
“Tirich Mir?”
“Name mean something to you?”
“Never mind.” It did, but this wasn’t the time to bring up the past. Jonathan looked away, a curtain of horror falling over him. He didn’t ask if Connor was sure. They were past the bullshit. Past the untruths and the posturing and the deception. This was the real deal. This was “operational,” as Connor might say.
“When I learned where the missile was lost, I tasked a spy satellite to give me a close-up view of the area. I saw her with my own eyes. She was leading a recovery team to the site. I tried to get a special ops team there in time to intercept her, but the weather didn’t cooperate. One of the Marines leading the mission was killed.”
“By Emma?”
“She set a charge to blow up the remnants of the missile. She knew that without proof, I couldn’t raise much of a hue and cry. Captain Crockett didn’t get out in time.”
Jonathan sat up straighter, forcing himself to speak in a measured voice. It was his doctor’s voice, the one he used when delivering the worst of news. He’d learned long ago that professionalism was the first refuge of shame. “But why would she help Balfour? You told me he was present when Rashid tortured her.”
“We’re guessing that Balfour rescued her from the desert and this is some sort of way she’s paying him back. It’s my fault. We got her wound so tight she didn’t know who she was any longer. The torture pushed her over the edge. If I hadn’t seen her myself, I wouldn’t believe it either.”
“Is she there?”
“No idea. We’re surmising she brought the weapon down from the mountain and delivered it to Balfour. There’s no reason for her to stick around, but I wouldn’t have said she’d jump ship to Balfour either.”
Jonathan returned his eyes to the blueprints. He needed to focus. For the mission and for his sanity. “Any idea where on the premises it might be? The warhead, I mean?”
“I doubt Balfour will keep it in the main house. It’s not the kind of thing you tuck under your pillow. My experts tell me there’s no way the bomb is still functional after all these years. If Balfour wants to sell it for top dollar-and we’re certain that is his intention-he’s going to need to bring it back up to working condition. For that, he’ll need a secure workshop away from prying eyes.”
Jonathan pointed to the two outbuildings and suggested they might serve as acceptable spots. And for the next ten minutes he and Connor discussed the other places where the bomb might be kept, general security at Blenheim, and Balfour’s working habits.
Then Connor fished in his jacket and came out with a small razor cartridge cradled in his palm. “See this? As far as you’re concerned, it’s the crown jewels, and you will guard it accordingly. Looks like a razor blade, but it’s really a flash drive. All you need to do is put this in Balfour’s computer for ten seconds-laptop or desktop, doesn’t matter as long as it has wireless or Ethernet connection. It will install spyware on the computer and send us the entire contents of his machine and every machine it makes contact with. If Achilles built the Trojan Horse today, it would look like this.”
Jonathan held the compact flash drive in his hand. He felt relatively comfortable with the parameters of his mission. He knew Pakistan fairly well from his salad days climbing in the Hindu Kush and the Himalayas. He was a doctor impersonating a doctor, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Even the thought of inserting himself into Balfour’s inner sanctum didn’t scare him much. He’d been in arduous circumstances before and kept his cool. As a surgeon, he was constantly operating under a microscope, so to speak.
There was only one wild card.
“What if I see her?” he asked.
Connor leaned forward, making a steeple of his fingers. “Talk to her. Find out why she’s doing what she’s doing. See if you can get her to tell you where the bomb is. Try to bring her back.”
“And if she threatens to expose me?”
Connor wrinkled his brow. “I suppose you’ll have to kill her.”
Jonathan said nothing. Surprisingly, no protest welled up inside him. There was no cry of indignation. Instead, he remembered the feel of the blade in his hand, the cold, heavy heft of it. Now he knew why Danni had been so insistent on teaching him how to use the knife.
But it was Connor who had the last word. “If, that is, she doesn’t kill you first.”
45
The two stood side by side watching Emirates Flight 221 climb into the sky. The observation deck was deserted except for an elderly woman standing at the far end of the concourse. All the same, they spoke in hushed tones. For Connor, it was habit. For Danni, it was necessity. There was no other way to mask her feelings.
“How’d he do?” asked Connor.
“What kind of question is that?” Danni snapped. “We’d hardly even begun.”
“And?”
“Not bad, but not good, either. He’s got a mind like a steel trap. The memorization came easily to him. He’s got a fine eye indoors. If he gets into Balfour’s office, he’ll do a good job finding what he needs. But he’s no field agent. Not by a long shot. He needs another month at least.”
“Too late for that.”
“It’s not right. He’s a rank amateur.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“I’m not. You’re underestimating Balfour. All those good manners and fancy clothes-it’s a disguise. He’s a cold-blooded killer from the worst streets you can imagine. My people tried to put a man into his organization two years ago. He lasted a month before his corpse turned up in a Pindi slum with his throat cut and his testicles stuffed into his mouth. And he was good, Frank. Sayeret. You’re putting a novice with no operational experience into a gangster’s household in a foreign country without any backup. How long do you think he’s going to last?”
“Long enough to tell us where Balfour is keeping that warhead and who he intends to sell it to.”
“Did you tell him about Revy?” asked Danni.
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“Can von Daniken keep it quiet?”
“He’s working on it. So far, so good, but he’s not as confident as I’d like.”
“You owe Jonathan the truth.”
“The truth will ruin his nerves.”
“And Emma?”
“He knows what to do if he sees her.”
“Think she’s there?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“He won’t do it. She’s his wife, for God’s sake.”
“He’s killed before. I’ve seen that look in his eye. He’s not as averse to it as you think.”
“Not like this, he hasn’t. You’re asking too much.”
“All the same, it needs to be done.”
Danni put a hand on Connor’s arm. “Don’t make him go through with it. You can reach him in Dubai. He has a six-hour layover.”
“That’s not an option. You of all people should know that.”
“He isn’t ready.”
Connor heard something in h
er voice. Something that he’d never heard before. “I’m sure you did a fine job, Danni.”
“He needs backup. You can’t just send him in there alone. He’ll never get out.”
Connor looked at her. The job had never sat so heavily upon him. Suddenly he felt very old and very tired. He sighed. “I never expected him to.”
46
The sale took place in a one-room shack in a settlement one kilometer from the Tajikistan border. Sultan Haq’s annual production of morphine paste would finance the final piece of the transaction. Outside the shack, rolling hills the color of red alkali dust stretched to the horizon. A postcard of desolation.
Inside, the atmosphere was formal but without tension. The parties had done business with one another for too many years to count. If they still did not trust each other, they had long ago settled on a grudging respect. The arrangement was far too profitable for either side to risk anything but the utmost professionalism. To make sure, each had brought a private militia of fifty men armed to the teeth.
Sultan Haq’s counterparty was a man named Boris, chief of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, an organization as intent on ridding its country of despotic rule as Haq and the Taliban were of their own. The two men sat facing each other across a low round table with an ornately inlaid brass serving tray, sharing tea and sweet pastry. Boris had dressed as slovenly as usual, with a sweat-stained T-shirt and a leather jacket concealing his hog’s belly. Haq wore his best robes and had smeared extra kohl beneath his eyes for the occasion. He kept the Kentucky hunting rifle slung over his back as a reminder to all that, unlike Boris, he was a warrior first and foremost and a businessman only second.
“I can offer six thousand dollars a kilo,” said Boris. “It is the best I can do, my friend. The market is saturated. Your country is producing twice the product of last year. It is a question of supply and demand.”
Haq sat without moving, a fierce sphinx clad in black. Six thousand dollars represented exactly 60 percent of what he had earned the year before. Boris’s offer was low, but he could not in good conscience consider it insulting. Production of raw opium had skyrocketed in the past year. Despite the American invasion, total opium production in Afghanistan equaled 6,100 tons, an amount so mammoth that it exceeded global consumption by 30 percent. Countering this, Haq knew that Boris had a growing market on his hands and needed every last ounce of Haq’s morphine paste if he were to satisfy demand. It was Boris’s practice to transport the morphine paste to his own laboratories and refine it into heroin no. 4, after which his organization would smuggle the product into Russia, where drug use was expanding at an astronomical pace.
“Nine thousand,” said Haq, after much deliberation.
Boris scowled and ran a hand with bitten nails over his unshaven jowls. “Seven.”
“Eight,” said Haq, and thrust out his hand.
Boris grabbed it immediately. “Eight.”
The deal was struck.
Boris snapped his fingers and a younger man entered, holding a BlackBerry. Instructions were given to transfer $32 million to Haq’s account at a family-controlled bank in Kabul. Ten minutes later all formalities were concluded.
Haq stepped outside and placed a call. “Hello, brother.”
“And?” said the deep, familiar voice.
Haq related the details of his business with Boris. “Was it enough?” he asked.
“After we pay off our tribesmen, we will be left with twelve million. That should more than suffice.”
“I am pleased,” said Sultan Haq. “Is everything in place?”
“The transfer will take place in two days.”
“And the rest?”
“Our friend has seen to our every need. You will leave for the target directly from Pakistan. Are you ready?”
“As ready as anyone can be to become the enemy.”
“Your language skills will allow you to blend in perfectly. They will not know a viper is among them.”
“There are many things the Americans do not know.”
“And have you chosen the final target?”
Haq looked out across the dun-colored hills of his native land. “In America, there is only one.”
47
The drive to Kabul took twelve hours over tortuous roads. Haq rested in a safe house overnight. In the morning he rose and made his prayers, then prepared for the journey. A folder had been left for him. He studied its contents: maps of the target, timetables, schedules, and travel documents, including a British passport bearing a photo taken ten years before, when he was still a young man.
In the courtyard, he took a sponge bath and gingerly bathed his burns. Finished, he soaked his hands in a basin of warm water, allowing his fingernails to soften. Each represented a lesson learned on his life journey, and he clipped them with care.
Helplessness, from the younger brother who had died at three of an unknown illness.
Tragedy, from his mother, who had died a year afterward giving birth to the son who would have replaced him.
Surrender, from the boy who had died with her.
Honor, from his oldest sister, raped by the Russian invaders when she was pure; knowing herself to be dirty and unworthy of marriage, she had thrown herself into the river rather than disgrace her clan.
Grace, from his wife, the mother of his six children.
Wisdom, from his father, who had shown him how to lead men.
Humility, from the Prophet, peace be unto him.
Self-respect, from his clan, the noble Haqs, who had resisted invasion for a thousand years.
And finally, hope, from his young only son, whom he loved with a heart as wide as the Afghan sky, and who he prayed would fight for another thousand years.
He did not clip the last nail, for this represented courage, and courage was a lesson he would learn only at the very end.
Afterward, he sat in a chair while a young girl cut his hair.
“Short,” he said. “But leave enough to comb.”
The girl worked quickly, and in fifteen minutes her task was complete.
He shaved his beard and mustache himself, and this took longer. He had difficulty managing a comb. He had never before established a part in his hair. Inside his room, he dressed in the clothing left for him: a dark suit with a white shirt and a necktie. The leather shoes were constricting and painful.
Finished, Haq viewed himself in a mirror. It was then that he saw what he had forgotten. Dampening a cloth, he scrubbed the kohl from beneath his eyes. He stared at the reflection in the mirror, and a Westerner stared back.
Worse, an American.
He wanted to vomit.
He placed a call to Ariana Afghan Airlines. “I’d like to make a reservation on a flight this morning,” he said.
“May I ask your destination?”
“Islamabad.”
“Will it be round-trip?”
“No,” said Sultan Haq. “One way only.”
48
He had two days to live.
Lord Balfour bounded through the kitchen door and crossed the stone motor court. His stride was long and purposeful. In one hand he carried a mug of chai, and in the other a black leather crop. He was dressed for leisure, in linen pants and his favorite polo shirt, from the Highgrove team (on which Wills and Harry were regular players, along with their father, Prince Charles). Such was his buoyant mood that he’d permitted his hairdresser to straighten and part his coarse hair and to trim his mustache. He had a guest arriving, and guests were rare indeed, especially Europeans. And as he walked, he airily whistled the “Colonel Bogey March.” He did not look like a man at death’s door.
One half step behind followed Mr. Singh. His stride was longer and more purposeful. He did not carry a mug of chai or a leather quirt. Instead, he gripped an AK-47 assault rifle with an elongated banana clip. He was dressed for work in his everyday attire of white shalwar kameez and a Sikh’s turban. He did not whistle. He grimaced. And no one had combed his hair or straight
ened his beard or mustache. If they’d tried, he would have killed them.
The Range Rovers had been pulled from their bays for their daily wax and detailing. They sat in the morning sun, one next to the other, an imperial fleet of gleaming white destroyers. A team of attendants stood at attention nearby. Balfour handed his mug to Mr. Singh and, straight-backed, inspected the vehicles, circling each and pointing out areas that required attention. Seeing an errant water spot, he grabbed a chamois cloth out of an attendant’s hand and polished it himself. The punishment was a lash to the offending boy’s cheek with his crop.
Balfour inspected the interiors as well. Remnants of polish were found on the backseat of one vehicle, a trace of ash in the ashtray of another. He made it a policy to find fault. It was the only way to keep the staff on their toes. The crop flashed through the air and found its target twice more.
Finished, he called over the chief attendant. Make no mistake, he told the young Pakistani, the work was of low standard. He was lucky he didn’t have to clean the cars all over again. Balfour expected a marked improvement next time. He raised his crop, then smiled and handed the lad a $100 bill. The chief attendant bowed at the waist and spoke as he’d been taught. “Thank you, m’ lord.”
Rules of Betrayal jr-3 Page 23