Authors: Christopher Reich
The flight controller dropped his flag. The lights on the meatball went from red to green. The F-18 shuddered, then burst from its chocks and thundered down the flight deck, shooting like an arrow into the sky. The engine glowed orange, then red. Connor watched the fighter bank hard right and assume its direction to the north. An amateur, he thought darkly. He had sent a rank amateur without a day’s training to do a professional’s work. He thought of Balfour and the
men that protected him, hardened criminals all. One in particular stood out, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Sikh named Mr. Singh who did Balfour’s dirty work. Ransom was entering a nest of vipers, and he didn’t even know it. Connor stood rooted to the spot until the plane was nothing but a gray speck. Finally it disappeared altogether, swallowed by the sky.
Connor turned and began to walk back to the Island. He had his own flight home to arrange, and he was in no condition to sit like a goddamned daredevil in the back of one of those jets. A helicopter to the nearest major airport would be fine. He walked to the hatch and stopped a step shy, a force beyond him compelling him to take a last look into the sky.
“Godspeed,” he whispered.
Midday traffic in Islamabad was
no more horrendous than usual. Cars, vans, light trucks, and juggernauts, motorcycles, bicycles, tuk-tuks, and auto rickshaws clogged the broad, well-manicured boulevards of the government district, everyone vying with everyone else for the right to advance another ten meters. Horns blaring, the convoy of white Range Rovers peeled away from the curb in front of the Colonial Building and fought its way onto Kitchener Road.
“Where’s our escort?” asked Lord Balfour, checking over his shoulder for a sign of the ISI agents who had been their constant companions for the past two months.
“They haven’t been on us all day.” The driver caught Balfour’s eye in the rearview mirror and grinned. “We’re safe now, boss. No one’s coming after us.”
Balfour said nothing. The truth was the opposite. He was as safe as a wounded fish in a shark tank.
“What did the solicitor say?” asked the driver, a young man he’d brought in from the streets and trained himself. “All good, I’m sure?”
“Everything’s fine,” said Balfour, forcing a pleasant tone. “Just get us home, will you? There’s a good chap.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver smiled broadly and leaned on the horn to show he meant business.
Balfour sat back, the polite smile vanishing as he replayed the meeting from start to finish.
“The Indian police have furnished the Pakistani police with proof of your involvement in the raid,” the solicitor had begun nervously, as soon as Balfour sat down. “The serial numbers from two of the
machine guns used by the terrorists in Mumbai match those on a shipping manifest that passed through your warehouses a month before the attack.”
“How the hell do they know that?”
“They possess a copy of the shipping manifest.”
“Impossible,” said Balfour, restraining himself from saying that he alone had a copy of the manifest. “But those guns could have gone anywhere in between. A month is a long time.”
“Not likely,” said the solicitor. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Balfour didn’t bother protesting. His dislike of his native government was well known. It had been a private pleasure to arm the band of fighters and point them in the direction of his homeland. The surprise came in learning how successful their attack had been. One hundred eighty killed, dozens more wounded. Mumbai, or Bombay, as he and anyone who had ever lived there still called it, held hostage for three days. A metropolis of millions paralyzed by the actions of twenty brave men. A pleasure indeed.
The solicitor, however, was not so sanguine. “Your meddling has become a political football. Delhi is willing to forgive several border incursions in Srinagar if you are promptly turned over to the government.”
“And Islamabad?” asked Balfour, meaning the Pakistani government.
“I’ve placed a call to General Gul. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard back.”
“He’ll call back. He enjoys his fifty thousand U.S. a month.”
“It may be beyond even him.”
“Nonsense,” said Balfour. “This is Pakistan. Everyone’s for sale. Call the PM.”
“I have,” said the solicitor. “He refused the call.”
Balfour had nodded and put up a good front. “I hope to hell you got a copy of the evidence.”
The solicitor said that he did, and produced a copy of the shipping manifest. “I’m afraid there’s very little we can do except wait. I
trust you’ve taken precautionary measures. The Indians will know immediately that you’ve lost your official protection. I wouldn’t put it past them to come after you. Do be careful.”
Balfour had not answered.
That had been thirty minutes ago.
Now, in the safety of his automobile, Balfour unfolded the manifest and studied it closely. It was genuine—no doubt of it. Aware of the sensitive nature of the order, Balfour had chosen to oversee the shipment himself. Only one person besides him had access to the paperwork. He placed a call to his personal aide.
“Yes, Mr. Medina, I’m just on my way back from the city. Tell the grooms to tack up Copenhagen. No, it’s not a special occasion. My solicitor gave me some good news, that’s all. This whole thing about Mumbai looks to be blowing over nicely. An afternoon ride is just the ticket.”
Balfour placed a second call. The respondent was his Sikh chief of security, Mr. Singh. “We have a problem. Mr. Medina has been talking out of school. I’ll be meeting him at the stables in an hour. Make sure our guest has an unobstructed view of the punishment. It’s important to send a clear message about the rules of betrayal. Have the thoroughbreds ready. Thank you, Mr. Singh.”
The Range Rover slammed to a halt as a string of porters carrying bales of saffron-colored cloth on their heads crossed the road in front of them. Balfour looked out the window at a boy crouched beside a brazier, selling chicken kidneys at ten rupees a skewer. Beside him a woman with crippled legs sat in the dirt.
Balfour rolled down the window. “Two skewers,” he said.
The boy chose his two finest and thrust them into the car. Balfour handed him a five-hundred-rupee note. “Give the rest to your mother,” he said.
The boy took a closer look at the banknote and cried out in delight, jumping up and down.
Traffic picked up. Balfour waited a few seconds, then rolled down the opposite window and chucked the kidneys out. A passing cement mixer blasted a cloud of exhaust into the car. Balfour sank back into
his seat, coughing. He couldn’t get out of this damned country fast enough, he thought to himself.
But where to go?
To calm himself, he ran a hand over the buttery leather upholstery. It was Alcantara leather special-ordered from Spain at a cost of $51,000. The Range Rovers were armored by Alpha Armouring Panzerung of Munich and equipped with supercharged V-12 engines, at a cost of $225,000 apiece. There was little chance he’d be allowed to export them.
Balfour caught sight of his reflection in the window. He had dressed for his meeting in a Brioni suit, Egyptian cotton shirt from Ascot Chang, and Hermès tie. His shoes were handmade, from John Lobb of London. Even his underwear was tailor-made: monogrammed silk boxers from Hanro of Switzerland.
His obsession with luxury was hard-earned. His work demanded a steady state of paranoia and forbade him friends. He had only associates and colleagues, and too many underlings to count. He enjoyed the company of women, but distrusted them on principle. Material possessions offered lasting tactile satisfaction while providing an ever-visible reminder of his success. He had sold chicken livers on the street once, too.
The convoy left the highway and followed a razor-straight two-lane road toward the rolling Margalla Hills. After a few kilometers, they approached an armed checkpoint. Guards clad in black utilities and Kevlar vests, with Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns at their sides, ran to lift the barrier. The cars passed without slowing. A sign nearby read, “Private Property—No Trespassing” in Urdu, Hindi, and English. The skull and bones below needed no translation. The road continued dead straight for exactly two kilometers. Apple orchards gave way to oranges and then almond trees. Balfour rolled down his window to smell the sweetly scented air. His desire to leave Pakistan faded.
Ahead, he made out the stately gateposts that signaled the official entry to his property. A guard box painted with black-and-white diagonal stripes no different from those at Buckingham Palace stood to
one side. No Queen’s Guard in a bearskin cap; just another member of his private army, clad in black head to toe, his machine gun at the ready. The ornate wrought-iron gate rolled back. Balfour waved to the guard, and the guard threw his best parade-ground salute in return.
The Range Rover drove for another two minutes before Balfour caught sight of the man-made lake. The cars crossed a plank bridge and swept into a gravel courtyard, continuing past the front entry and around the back to the stables.
Balfour had named his home Blenheim, in reference to the Duke of Marlborough’s grand palace in England. And Blenheim was a two-thousand-square-meter Palladian palace built to rival its namesake.
Mr. Medina was waiting beside the cross ties as a black stallion was being saddled. Medina was a thin, meticulous man with pince-nez glasses and hair swept off his forehead in a pompadour. Balfour had originally hired him as an accountant, only to be impressed by his near-photographic recall and his willingness to work all hours.
Balfour walked directly to Mr. Medina and handed him the copy of the shipping manifest. “Did you supply this to the Indian police?”
Medina examined the paper and his hand began to tremble. He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Singh stood a few feet away, clad in immaculate white attire, except for his turban, which was maroon. Medina nodded.
“Why?” asked Balfour.
“A man from Delhi contacted me. A policeman. He paid me to get the information. I’m Hindu. When you fight against my countrymen, you fight against me.”
Balfour took back the manifest. “I will care for your family.”
Medina thanked him. With care, he took off his glasses and handed them to Balfour.
Mr. Singh bound Medina’s hands and feet. Two horses were brought from the stables, thoroughbreds rescued from the racetrack in Abu Dhabi. One cable was passed through the ropes binding the hands and another through the ropes binding Medina’s feet. Medina
began to cry. Sensing death, the horses grew agitated, neighing and tugging at their bits. Each cable was attached to a saddle. Riders mounted the thoroughbreds and turned them in opposite directions. Balfour raised his hand, and the riders whipped their horses.
Medina was flung into the air. He remained horizontal for less than two seconds before falling back to the ground. The horses dragged his arms and legs for a half-mile. They were very spirited.
Medina lay on the ground, very much alive. Mr. Singh beheaded him with a kukri, the curved machete favored by Nepalese Gurkhas. Balfour regarded the head, then said to Singh, “Find the family. Kill them, too. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
Mr. Singh strode away, the traitor’s head dangling by its hair. The head would be placed on a spear and displayed at the entrance to Balfour’s property. Fair warning to those who thought of following a similar course.
Satisfied that justice had been done, Balfour turned and looked behind him. Gazing down from a second-floor window stood a European woman with unruly auburn hair. He noted that her bruises had faded and the bandages were no longer on her cheeks. She would be ready to leave for the mountains any day.
The sooner, the better.
Jonathan had exchanged the blue
of the Persian Gulf for the brown of the Negev Desert. The F-18/A landed at exactly twelve noon at Tel Nof Air Force Base south of Rehovot, Israel. The aircraft taxied past the control tower, past a squadron of F-16 Falcons, and past a dozen hangars, continuing to the farthest tip of the airfield. The pilot pushed back the canopy but did not kill the engine. A ground crew of one waited beside a white utility truck. Without delay, he positioned a ladder against the fuselage and helped Jonathan unbuckle and descend from the cockpit. The pilot slotted the canopy, pushed the plane through a tight 180-degree turn, and took off to the south. The ground crewman climbed back into his truck and drove away. Sixty seconds after setting foot on the tarmac, Jonathan stood alone, wind peppering his face with dust and grit.
And then, in the distance, a glint of blue beneath the midday sun. An automobile approached and stopped next to him. Two men got out.
“Welcome to Israel,” said the driver, who was short and stocky and had curly black hair.
The other man was short and stocky and bald, and reminded Jonathan of an artillery shell. He held open the rear door.
“Are you Frank Connor’s friends?” Jonathan asked.
The answer was an incline of the shaved head toward the open door. Jonathan got in.
They drove for an hour, climbing out of the desert on a series of long switchbacks, and then descending toward the coast and the Mediterranean Sea. Road signs read, “Tel Aviv,” “Haifa,” and “Herzliya.”
Jonathan tried several more times to engage the men in conversation, but neither responded.
The car left the highway at the town of Herzliya. Five minutes later they pulled into the forecourt of a small, whitewashed building. A sign on the facade advertised it as the Hotel Beach Plaza, but there was no beach to speak of, rather a stone promontory plummeting into the sea and below, at water’s edge, a jetty of sharp, inhospitable rocks.
They passed through the lobby and went directly to the elevator. No one at the front desk uttered a word, or even glanced in his direction. Check-in had been taken care of. Jonathan’s room was on the third floor. In the hall, the men handed Jonathan the card key. The driver stood with crossed arms, looking Jonathan up and down. “Suit, forty-two long. Pants, thirty-four by thirty-four. Shoes, size twelve.”