Rules of Betrayal (33 page)

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.”

“Are 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?”

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.

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.

Mr. Shah was Sultan Haq.

“Michel, have you tried the wine?” asked Balfour. “In your honor, I chose a Swiss Dézaley.”

“Excuse me?” Jonathan snapped his eyes away from the curling, yellowed fingernail.

“The wine—a Dézaley. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Merveilleux,”
said Jonathan after he drank from his glass. His accent was too thick, his response too exuberant. Any second, Haq would recognize him. He would spring from his seat and expose Jonathan as an American agent and execute him on the spot.

Putting down the glass, Jonathan anxiously resumed his conversation with the striking Ukrainian girl. He had no real idea what they talked about. He was too busy snatching glances at Haq from the corner of his eye. It was nearly impossible to recognize him without his towering headdress and beard and the kohl smeared beneath his eyes. Time passed. Haq said nothing, but Jonathan felt no relief. He was certain that Haq had shared his initial flare of recognition and was struggling to place the dimly familiar face.

“Michel, Shah recently lost his father,” said Balfour. “I told him
that you were a doctor and that his countrymen would do well to train more physicians.”

Jonathan had no choice but to gaze at Haq. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, seeking refuge behind his Swiss accent. “Where are you from?”

“Afghanistan,” said Haq, in the same unaccented English that had so impressed him two weeks earlier. “Just across the mountains, actually. To tell you the truth, my faith in doctors does not match Mr. Armitraj’s.”