Rules of Betrayal

29

Ashok Balfour Armitraj, better known as Lord Balfour, sat in a cramped, untidy office on the second floor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, running his fingers along the razor-sharp creases in his trousers. He was hot and impatient and perilously close to losing a grip on his precious manners.

“The decision is final,” said the colonel with the immigration police. “Your permit has been revoked. You have thirty days to leave the country.”

“The entire matter is a misunderstanding,” said Balfour, for the umpteenth time. “I’m sure if you review my paperwork, you’ll see that I’ve received all necessary approvals. I was promised by the highest authorities that my stay was open-ended.”

With care, he removed a linen handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his brow. It had been a difficult day from the start. He had arrived at the meeting punctually at nine a.m., only to be kept waiting an hour without explanation or refreshment. When the meeting did begin, it was not with the usual simpering functionary who faithfully executed his superior’s orders but with a gold-frocked colonel who’d descended from his lofty perch on the top floor to deliver the bad news. For the better part of an hour, Balfour had been trying to talk sense to the man, all to no avail.

“I am the sole individual with the right to grant an open-ended residence permit,” said the colonel. “And I’ve never seen your papers before.”

“Be that as it may,” Balfour countered, light as ever, “promises were made. Assurances were given. I’ve made a sizable investment in your country.”

“And we’re grateful,” said the general, without the least sincerity. “But that does not change how things stand. You have thirty days.”

Balfour sighed and raised his hands. He did not like to pull rank, but it was clear he had no choice. “Perhaps we need to speak with General Gul.”

“General Iqbal Gul?”

“That’s correct. I made my agreement with him. The general is a personal friend.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“General Gul is no longer with the ISI.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Balfour. “Of course he’s with the ISI. He’s deputy director.”

The colonel leaned across the desk. “So you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? Has something happened to him? Is he all right?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about his health,” said the colonel. “General Gul is in prison. He was removed from his post one week ago.”

The room rocked beneath Balfour’s feet. “What for?”

“Bribery and corruption.”

Balfour looked at the documents on the desk in front of him. The stack was encyclopedic and contained the official history of his stay in Pakistan, down to the receipts for every niggling fee he’d paid to the state. Nowhere in the overflowing dossier, however, was there a receipt for the $1 million he’d paid General Iqbal Gul to gain residency or the monthly retainer of $50,000 he wired to Gul’s account in Liechtenstein to keep it.

Balfour leaned across the table and put his hand on the colonel’s arm. “Perhaps you and I might discuss this matter between ourselves. I’m certain we can find a mutually satisfactory agreement. May I suggest dinner this evening?”

The colonel’s stare did not waver. “Your status is no longer in my purview,” he said. “It has been taken up by the federal police. There is nothing more to discuss.”

Thirty days.

Balfour thought of his home and his operations at the airports in Islamabad and Karachi. Arms trafficking was not a cheap business to get into. He owned seven aircraft and maintained an entire workshop full of spare parts. If he left, he would lose them all. Not counting the amount he’d paid to Gul over the years, the loss would total in the tens of millions of dollars. Yet it wasn’t the money that upset him so and left his heart beating frantically. It was the thought of having to physically leave the country. Ashok Balfour Armitraj had nowhere else to go.

“Look here, colonel,” he said amicably, “my visa is good for another year.”

“Really? Valid for another year, you say?” The colonel met his smile with one of his own. “May I see your passport?”

Relieved, Balfour placed his Indian passport on the table. Finally he was getting somewhere. “I’ve another eleven months before it runs out.”

The colonel thumbed through the pages. The smile had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Finding the visa, he set the passport on the table, took a ruler from his desk, and, using it as a straightedge, ripped out the offending page.

“Hey!” shouted Balfour, rising from his chair. “What are you doing?”

The colonel crumpled the paper in his fist. “Your visa has expired.”

Standing, Balfour took back the passport and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Do you know who I am?” he said, his face quivering with contempt.

“An embarrassment to the government of Pakistan. Good day.”