Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

The solicitor, however, was not so sanguine. “Your meddling has become a political football. Delhi is willing to forgive several border incursions in Srinagar if you are promptly turned over to the government.”

“And Islamabad?” asked Balfour, meaning the Pakistani government.

“I’ve placed a call to General Gul. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard back.”

“He’ll call back. He enjoys his fifty thousand U.S. a month.”

“It may be beyond even him.”

“Nonsense,” said Balfour. “This is Pakistan. Everyone’s for sale. Call the PM.”

“I have,” said the solicitor. “He refused the call.”

Balfour had nodded and put up a good front. “I hope to hell you got a copy of the evidence.”

The solicitor said that he did, and produced a copy of the shipping manifest. “I’m afraid there’s very little we can do except wait. I trust you’ve taken precautionary measures. The Indians will know immediately that you’ve lost your official protection. I wouldn’t put it past them to come after you. Do be careful.”

Balfour had not answered.

That had been thirty minutes ago.

Now, in the safety of his automobile, Balfour unfolded the manifest and studied it closely. It was genuine-no doubt of it. Aware of the sensitive nature of the order, Balfour had chosen to oversee the shipment himself. Only one person besides him had access to the paperwork. He placed a call to his personal aide.

“Yes, Mr. Medina, I’m just on my way back from the city. Tell the grooms to tack up Copenhagen. No, it’s not a special occasion. My solicitor gave me some good news, that’s all. This whole thing about Mumbai looks to be blowing over nicely. An afternoon ride is just the ticket.”

Balfour placed a second call. The respondent was his Sikh chief of security, Mr. Singh. “We have a problem. Mr. Medina has been talking out of school. I’ll be meeting him at the stables in an hour. Make sure our guest has an unobstructed view of the punishment. It’s important to send a clear message about the rules of betrayal. Have the thoroughbreds ready. Thank you, Mr. Singh.”

The Range Rover slammed to a halt as a string of porters carrying bales of saffron-colored cloth on their heads crossed the road in front of them. Balfour looked out the window at a boy crouched beside a brazier, selling chicken kidneys at ten rupees a skewer. Beside him a woman with crippled legs sat in the dirt.

Balfour rolled down the window. “Two skewers,” he said.

The boy chose his two finest and thrust them into the car. Balfour handed him a five-hundred-rupee note. “Give the rest to your mother,” he said.

The boy took a closer look at the banknote and cried out in delight, jumping up and down.

Traffic picked up. Balfour waited a few seconds, then rolled down the opposite window and chucked the kidneys out. A passing cement mixer blasted a cloud of exhaust into the car. Balfour sank back into his seat, coughing. He couldn’t get out of this damned country fast enough, he thought to himself.

But where to go?

To calm himself, he ran a hand over the buttery leather upholstery. It was Alcantara leather special-ordered from Spain at a cost of $51,000. The Range Rovers were armored by Alpha Armouring Panzerung of Munich and equipped with supercharged V-12 engines, at a cost of $225,000 apiece. There was little chance he’d be allowed to export them.

Balfour caught sight of his reflection in the window. He had dressed for his meeting in a Brioni suit, Egyptian cotton shirt from Ascot Chang, and Hermes tie. His shoes were handmade, from John Lobb of London. Even his underwear was tailor-made: monogrammed silk boxers from Hanro of Switzerland.

His obsession with luxury was hard-earned. His work demanded a steady state of paranoia and forbade him friends. He had only associates and colleagues, and too many underlings to count. He enjoyed the company of women, but distrusted them on principle. Material possessions offered lasting tactile satisfaction while providing an ever-visible reminder of his success. He had sold chicken livers on the street once, too.

The convoy left the highway and followed a razor-straight two-lane road toward the rolling Margalla Hills. After a few kilometers, they approached an armed checkpoint. Guards clad in black utilities and Kevlar vests, with Heckler amp; Koch MP-5 submachine guns at their sides, ran to lift the barrier. The cars passed without slowing. A sign nearby read, “Private Property-No Trespassing” in Urdu, Hindi, and English. The skull and bones below needed no translation. The road continued dead straight for exactly two kilometers. Apple orchards gave way to oranges and then almond trees. Balfour rolled down his window to smell the sweetly scented air. His desire to leave Pakistan faded.

Ahead, he made out the stately gateposts that signaled the official entry to his property. A guard box painted with black-and-white diagonal stripes no different from those at Buckingham Palace stood to one side. No Queen’s Guard in a bearskin cap; just another member of his private army, clad in black head to toe, his machine gun at the ready. The ornate wrought-iron gate rolled back. Balfour waved to the guard, and the guard threw his best parade-ground salute in return.

The Range Rover drove for another two minutes before Balfour caught sight of the man-made lake. The cars crossed a plank bridge and swept into a gravel courtyard, continuing past the front entry and around the back to the stables.

Balfour had named his home Blenheim, in reference to the Duke of Marlborough’s grand palace in England. And Blenheim was a two-thousand-square-meter Palladian palace built to rival its namesake.

Mr. Medina was waiting beside the cross ties as a black stallion was being saddled. Medina was a thin, meticulous man with pince-nez glasses and hair swept off his forehead in a pompadour. Balfour had originally hired him as an accountant, only to be impressed by his near-photographic recall and his willingness to work all hours.

Balfour walked directly to Mr. Medina and handed him the copy of the shipping manifest. “Did you supply this to the Indian police?”

Medina examined the paper and his hand began to tremble. He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Singh stood a few feet away, clad in immaculate white attire, except for his turban, which was maroon. Medina nodded.

“Why?” asked Balfour.

“A man from Delhi contacted me. A policeman. He paid me to get the information. I’m Hindu. When you fight against my countrymen, you fight against me.”

Balfour took back the manifest. “I will care for your family.”

Medina thanked him. With care, he took off his glasses and handed them to Balfour.

Mr. Singh bound Medina’s hands and feet. Two horses were brought from the stables, thoroughbreds rescued from the racetrack in Abu Dhabi. One cable was passed through the ropes binding the hands and another through the ropes binding Medina’s feet. Medina began to cry. Sensing death, the horses grew agitated, neighing and tugging at their bits. Each cable was attached to a saddle. Riders mounted the thoroughbreds and turned them in opposite directions. Balfour raised his hand, and the riders whipped their horses.

Medina was flung into the air. He remained horizontal for less than two seconds before falling back to the ground. The horses dragged his arms and legs for a half-mile. They were very spirited.

Medina lay on the ground, very much alive. Mr. Singh beheaded him with a kukri, the curved machete favored by Nepalese Gurkhas. Balfour regarded the head, then said to Singh, “Find the family. Kill them, too. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

Mr. Singh strode away, the traitor’s head dangling by its hair. The head would be placed on a spear and displayed at the entrance to Balfour’s property. Fair warning to those who thought of following a similar course.