Rules of Betrayal

37

The lecture was titled “Advances in Aesthetic and Cosmetic Treatments: A Clinical Perspective,” and the speaker was to be one Dr. Michel Revy, diplomate of the Swiss Board of Plastic Surgery, FACS, member of the International Society of Cosmetic Plastic Surgery, and recipient of a half-dozen awards and fellowships that Jonathan had never heard of. The venue was not a university or a hospital but the second-floor private dining room of the Restaurant Chesery, at the southern tip of the village. A plaque by the door indicated its membership in the Chaine des Rotisseurs as well as a score of 18 of 20 as awarded by the Gault Millau. Jonathan needed only a single whiff of the richly scented air to tell him he was in culinary heaven.

A man waited by the stairs to relieve them of their overcoats. Jonathan took Danni’s arm. “Which one of us is the patient?” he asked.

“Me,” she said, as she slipped her hand into his and interlocked their fingers. “I need a nip and a tuck.”

“Not likely,” replied Jonathan, with a surgeon’s outrage.

“Why, thank you, John. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in years.” Danni dropped her voice. “Keep your eyes on Revy. Look for any habits or mannerisms. Engage him in conversation. Turn on the recorder as soon as you get close. We’re here to listen and learn. He and Balfour have been exchanging calls three times a week for a month, but that’s all we know. We have no idea what Revy may have told Balfour about himself.”

The dining room was already full. Jonathan’s fellow guests comprised a cross-section of the international elite. In the course of twenty minutes, he shook hands with a German Graf, an Argentine cattle baron, and a Norwegian oil magnate. Jonathan was unfailingly polite. He smiled. He made small talk. But all the while he kept his eye trained on the animated form of Dr. Michel Revy as he held court in the corner, talking to a succession of pinched, pulled, and primped matrons.

Revy was of medium height, stocky, with thinning blond hair and avuncular eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a dinner jacket and black tie. According to Connor, he and Balfour had never met. Revy’s website did not offer any photos of the doctor himself, only the usual before-and-after shots of his patients. A thorough search of the Internet confirmed Revy’s preference for anonymity.

At eight-thirty, the lecture began. Revy spoke for an hour about the latest procedures to halt and reverse the aging process. He began with the necessity of better nutrition, moved his way to the latest dermatological advances in acid peels and laser treatments, and finally delved into his own specialty, the field of cosmetic surgery. Each body part was covered, from the ass to the eyebrows, with plenty of before-and-after slides to make his point. Jonathan had a sense for a doctor’s skills, and he didn’t for a moment doubt Revy’s competence. The man was a gifted surgeon, no question.

“He’s a gambler,” Danni had explained. “He’s made a fortune and lost it ten times over. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. The banks took his homes and his toys. He owes the bad boys big-time. A few years ago he operated on the head of the Corsican Mob, and since then he’s gotten a name as a knife for hire.”

Revy concluded his remarks, saying, “I’m happy to speak with you personally after our dinner.”

The guests applauded politely, then turned toward their place settings to await their meal. White wine was poured, a local Fendant, followed by an amuse-gueule of terrine de foie gras with fig and pistachio. A first course of Bouillon mit Mark, or beef broth with marrow, was followed by Kalbgeschnetzeltes nach Zurcher Art, morsels of tender veal and thinly sliced mushrooms bathed in a white wine cream sauce, accompanied by a side dish of rosti (which Jonathan had always considered to be hash browns with an attitude). A green salad was served. Waiters bearing countless bottles of Dole des Monts made sure no glass remained empty. Fruit and cheese came next. And finally, a dessert of Apfeltorte mit Schlagrahm, warm apple tart with whipped cream. Cognac and eaux-de-vie were offered. Conversation grew louder. Finally Revy rose, signaling that dinner was at an end.

“Now’s your chance,” said Danni. “Go get him. And don’t worry about asking personal questions. You’re an American.”

Jonathan pushed back his chair and made his way to the front of the room. A group of fawning women had formed a circle around the doctor. Arms crossed, Jonathan waited until the women cleared away and he was face-to-face with the physician.

“Restylane,” said Michel Revy.

“Pardon me?” Jonathan looked over his shoulder, thinking that someone else was the target of Revy’s outburst.

“You need Restylane.” Revy raised his chin as he examined Jonathan’s face. “Yes, yes, yes-one syringe for your nasal labial folds and another for those terrible frown lines. You’ll be amazed how refreshed you’ll appear.”

“Refreshed?”

“Mm-hmm. It will take off ten years. I insist you come and see me. Yes, yes.”

“I will,” said Jonathan. “I wanted to ask-”

Before he could finish, Revy turned his attention to a more promising client, a flat-chested woman in her fifties with flaming red hair and skin so sun-damaged it had the texture of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Jonathan stayed close, watching and listening as the doctor poked and prodded the woman’s deflated bosom with his pen and went on about the merits of silicone versus saline implants. Jonathan noted that Revy had the habit of saying “Yes, yes, yes,” that he constantly ended sentences with “isn’t it?” and that he couldn’t let someone speak for more than five seconds without a “Hmm, hmmm, hmmm.” And all this with his thick Suisse Romande accent.

“What did you learn?” Danni asked when Jonathan broke away.

“Nothing. He’s too busy drumming up business. He’s lined up two facelifts, a boob job, and a tummy tuck inside of ten minutes.”

“Not good.” Danni touched Jonathan’s sleeve and led him to the stairs. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Revy’s hotel. Maybe I’ll find something there.”

“How do you know where he’s staying?”

“Von Daniken told me. Grand Hotel Park. Room 333.”

“Did he give you the key, too?”

“No,” said Danni. “I got that all by myself.” And she brushed his leg with the card key.

“How did you-”

“We didn’t have time for the class about picking pockets. Maybe when you get back.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “If anyone asks, say I’m indisposed. Don’t let him go until I get back. I’ll need an hour.”

“What if I can’t delay him?”

Danni put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” she said. “In this business, there are no what-ifs.”