Rules of Betrayal

56

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 Dezaley.”

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

“The wine-a Dezaley. 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.”

“Oh?” said Jonathan, staring directly into Haq’s dark eyes. “Why is that?”

“A doctor killed my father.”

“I’m sure he did not do it intentionally.”

“What else would you call a knife across the throat?”

“Do you mean that there was an error during surgery?”

“I mean that the doctor I trusted to care for my father cut his throat.”

Jonathan looked to Balfour for support. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“My father was a warrior,” continued Haq, emphasizing the word so as to leave no question about whom he was fighting against. “The Americans wanted him dead. They sent a doctor to do their dirty work. You’ll excuse me if I don’t share Mr. Armitraj’s respect for the profession.”

“I cannot comment on that, except to say again that I am sorry for your loss.”

“Are you?” asked Haq, leaning closer, the eyes honing in on Jonathan’s. “You are Swiss. A European. I’m sure you have the same one-sided views of my people as the rest of the West.”

“I try to keep out of politics,” said Jonathan.

“Even worse,” said Haq, dripping with contempt. “You are without principles.”

“I promise you that I have principles,” retorted Jonathan. “I simply choose not to force them on others. Especially those I’ve just met.”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Balfour, a hand to either side to calm the waters.

“It is all right, Ash,” said Jonathan. “Mr. Shah is entitled to his anger. Clearly he is still grieving for his father.”

“My grief has nothing to do with my hatred for a people who have invaded my country on the pretext of guaranteeing their freedom when actually they seek to enslave my sisters and brothers.”

“The only thing that enslaves your people is ignorance and poverty, which, from what I understand, are both conditions you promote enthusiastically.”

“Really, Michel, must you…” said Balfour, pained.

Haq threw down his napkin. “You, sir, do not know my country, and so you have no business commenting on our policies.”

“I do know that until you build schools and educate your young, both boys and girls, your country will not progress from its current lamentable state.”

Haq stood, glaring at Jonathan from behind a pointed finger. “My country’s welfare is none of your concern.”

“Unfortunately, it is,” said Jonathan. “If your politics bring chaos and ruin to your neighbors and thus instability to the world, it is everyone’s con-”

Somewhere outside there was an explosion and the house shook. The chandelier swung and the lights flickered. Balfour froze, his eyes wide. The sound of gunfire crackled from outdoors. There was a second explosion, this one either bigger or closer. A window shattered in the next room and a painting fell from the wall. A heavy machine gun opened up, assaulting the eardrums, and Yulia screamed. The assembled guests abandoned the table, some running toward the door, others dashing this way, then that, and still others just standing and staring. Jonathan was back on the hilltop in Tora Bora.

“Bloody Indians,” said Balfour, calmly placing his napkin on the table. “They’ve finally come, the cheeky bastards.”

“Is it safe?” Haq was on his feet, addressing his host from a distance too close to be anything but confrontational. Any interest he’d had in Jonathan was replaced by a more pressing concern.

“It’s me they want,” said Balfour. “But if you’d like, I’ll have Mr. Singh accompany you to the maintenance building. You can keep watch yourself.”

Mr. Singh led Haq from the room as a new cascade of gunfire broke out. Balfour’s two-way radio buzzed. “From Runnymede? You’re certain? How many are there? Five? Ten? What do you mean you don’t see anyone? Call me when you know.” He hung up and turned to Jonathan. “Dr. Revy, I suggest you go to your room and lock the door. Stay away from the windows. I’ll be in the security shed. Don’t worry. I’m sure this will all be over in time for us to enjoy our dessert.”

Another explosion rocked the house, and the lights went out.