Rules of Betrayal

54

Jonathan unpacked his clothing with care, placing socks and underwear in one drawer, shirts in another, and hanging his suits in the closet. The room was enormous. A tartan carpet covered the hardwood floor. The canopy bed was big enough to sail across the Atlantic, and the ceiling was high enough for a regulation basketball net. Connor had instructed him to act as if he were being watched every second of every day. There was no need to act. A bulky surveillance camera perched high in one corner dispelled any doubt about his privacy. Taking a towel from the bathroom, he leaped and managed to drape the cloth over the camera’s lens.

The blood panel lay inside a folder on the desk. Standing, Jonathan studied the results, but not before starting the chronograph on his wristwatch. A cursory study showed Balfour to be in moderately good health. His cholesterol was high. Enzymes indicated a problem with his liver. Maybe he had an ulcer. Still, there was nothing to prevent him from having reconstructive surgery.

Jonathan put away the blood panel and crossed to a sash window that looked down on the rear of the house. The motor court was directly outside, and to his right lay the stables and a large grassy meadow. To his left he could see the maintenance shed that had been the hub of so much activity. A van pulled up to the far entrance, and workers in blue coveralls unloaded a piece of machinery and dollied it into the shed.

He observed this for a minute. The activity, combined with the presence of so many armed guards and Balfour’s agitated behavior, convinced him that the arms dealer had taken possession of the nuclear warhead and that it stood at this very moment barely fifty meters away in the maintenance shed. He could also conclude that if Balfour wanted to move up the surgery to tomorrow evening, he expected his official business to be terminated by then, and that therefore he meant to deliver the warhead to his buyer sometime tomorrow.

An icon on Jonathan’s phone indicated that there was no wireless service. Connor had been correct in assuming that Balfour maintained a strict digital net over his home, jamming all incoming and outgoing calls. Cell phones were an intelligence agency’s preferred tracking system and could be hacked to act as a microphone or a homing device, or, more simply, just eavesdropped on.

Jonathan lifted the window and ran a hand over the exterior wall. The surface was rough and pitted, with smooth grooves cut horizontally into the stone a meter apart. According to the floor plans, Balfour’s office was directly above Jonathan’s room. The windows farther along the house looked to be about four meters, or twelve feet, above his own. He ran his fingers inside the grooves and judged them to be five centimeters deep. That was fine for his toes, but precious little for his fingers to work with.

A knock at the door interrupted his impromptu recon. “Yes?”

Before he could close the window, the door opened and two of Balfour’s tan-suited security men stepped into the room. Immediately Jonathan checked his watch. It had taken security six minutes and thirty seconds to notice that the camera in his room had gone black and to arrive to investigate the cause. “Is there something you need?”

One of the men marched directly to the obscured surveillance camera. He tried twice to jump and snatch the towel, but he was too short. “Sir, you will please remove,” he said.

Jonathan stood with his arms crossed. “Tell Mr. Armitraj that the only way he can watch me all day and all night is if he moves in here with me. Otherwise, the towel stays.”

The security men exchanged words. One placed a call on his two-way radio, speaking in Hindi, a language Jonathan did not speak or understand. The man frowned, then bowed and left the room with his colleague, closing the door softly behind them.

“Nice meeting you, too,” said Jonathan as he walked to the bed and lay down.

Just then he heard a horse neigh from the stables. The animal did not sound happy. He closed his eyes for a nap, but sleep would not come. He was thinking about his ride with Balfour and what a big mouth he had.

Balfour was dressed to ride to hounds in a guard’s red blazer, white jodhpurs, and knee-high leather boots. A groom held his mount, a tall dapple-gray mare with a calm disposition. “This is Copenhagen,” he said. “You’ll be riding Inferno.”

“The stallion,” said Jonathan. “Let’s have a look at him.”

A groom emerged from the shadows of the stable, leading an imposing black horse with a broad chest and fiery eyes. Jonathan swallowed, and approached the animal. “Hello, Inferno,” he said, touching its nose.

The horse bared its teeth, backing away nervously.

“Do you think you can handle him?” asked Balfour haughtily.

Jonathan grabbed the halter with something he hoped approached authority. “I shouldn’t see why not,” he said.

“Excellent,” said Balfour. “Shall we?”

It was four p.m. The physical was over and done with. Balfour had passed, as Jonathan knew he would, but he was far from the model of health. His blood pressure was elevated. He carried fifteen pounds too much weight. His flexibility was terrible, and his resting pulse hovered at eighty beats a minute, hinting at below-average conditioning. He admitted to drinking two cocktails a day, but the first rule any doctor learns is to double whatever a patient tells you about booze. One look at his liver panel suggested that the two drinks a day might really be four. Still, with the right mix of statins and beta-blockers and all the other wonder drugs available for those who squandered their health, Balfour would probably live to see eighty.

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?”