Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“It is difficult for a Swiss to avoid formalities,” said Jonathan, amazed that he’d found any words at all.

“One more reason why I love your country.” Balfour took his arm and guided him toward the front door. “This way. I want to show you the operating theater. Everything is exactly as you specified. I hope you don’t mind if we get started right away.”

“Of course,” said Jonathan. “But I am here for two weeks.”

“My schedule has been advanced.”

“No problem at all. We can have everything ready in a few days.”

“Not in a few days, Dr. Revy. I’d like to undergo the procedure tomorrow evening.”

“Not possible,” said Jonathan, brooking no retort. “I operate in the morning. I’m freshest then. As for you, it’s essential that your stomach is empty. You’re not to eat a thing for twelve hours before receiving general anesthetic.” The actor in Jonathan wanted to bang a heel on the ground for good measure, but the ground was gravel, and he didn’t want to be melodramatic. “Besides,” he said, less forcefully, “that doesn’t even give us time to complete your blood work, let alone complete our consultations.”

“The blood panel is already back from the lab,” said Balfour. “The results are in your room.”

“Oh?” Jonathan hadn’t read anything about Balfour’s blood work being completed ahead of time. One of the last notes exchanged between the men suggested that Revy would oversee a blood panel upon his arrival. “Excellent, yes, yes, yes,” he said, summoning the verbal repetition that was Revy’s trademark. “Hmmm, it’s clear we don’t have any time to lose.”

Balfour guided him through the portico and into the foyer. As the heavy wooden door closed behind him, he saw the first of the armed men standing inside the cavernous minstrel’s gallery, and Jonathan knew he had just stepped into a prison.

Before the surgical suite came the tour of the estate.

Balfour had dropped Jonathan’s arm and strode a pace ahead through the long hallways, dropping tidbits of information about the rooms and decorations like a distracted docent. There was the library, where every book had been imported from the Duke of Bedford’s residence at Woburn Abbey. There was the living room, with a portrait by Sargent and a landscape by Constable. There was the study, and in it Winston Churchill’s desk from the office in Whitehall where he had written his “Nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat” speech at the beginning of the Second World War.

He’s an inveterate liar, Connor had told Jonathan. You’ll catch him out a dozen times, but don’t say a word. It’s his fantasy world, and he doesn’t like it disturbed.

As they continued through the house, Balfour pointed out those areas that Jonathan was free to visit and those that were off-limits. The media room was open territory, and Balfour stopped long enough to demonstrate his prowess at Call of Duty on a ninety-six-inch wall-mounted plasma screen and to boast about the ear-splitting surround-sound system.

The disco likewise was his to roam freely. It was barely one in the afternoon, but house music was blaring and three blondes dressed in beaded evening gowns and sipping flutes of champagne stood in the center of a black marble dance floor, moving their hips and trying hard not to appear bored. Balfour introduced them as Kelly, Robin, and Ochsana and told them that Jonathan was his most important guest and was to be shown every conceivable courtesy. The women offered soft handshakes and glances that left little to the imagination. For his part, Jonathan said he was delighted and estimated that the combined work done on the three of them exceeded $100,000 worth.

But when Balfour came to a staircase leading to the third floor, he stopped cold and addressed Jonathan in a singularly inhospitable voice.

“My office is upstairs. It’s where I conduct all my business and handle my personal affairs. You are to consider the entire third floor off-limits.”

Never kowtow to him, said Connor. You’re everything he aspires to be. Wealthy, educated, European. He’ll be looking to trump you any way he can, but don’t let him. It’s weakness he hates.

“But perhaps I may wish to view some more of your exquisite art collection,” said Jonathan. “Another Constable, perhaps?”

“All the art is downstairs.”

“And if we need to speak?” continued Jonathan, knowing he’d reached a boundary and was testing its strength.

“I can find you whenever necessary,” said Balfour. The smile returned, but this time to cloak a warning. “If I see you anywhere upstairs, I will have Mr. Singh kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

The outburst shocked Jonathan, and he could do nothing to conceal it. His eyes narrowed as he searched for a response, and for that instant he and Revy were one. His first reaction was to grab Balfour by his spiffy white lapels and threaten to kick his teeth in if he ever spoke to him that way again. Cover, urged Emma from a distant corner of his mind. Dr. Revy doesn’t get into fistfights. Jonathan followed his wife’s advice, but reluctantly. The novice spy was already chafing at the collar. So in the end he chose humor. A wealthy, educated European didn’t lower himself to a South Asian bastard’s level.

“But then who will there be to make your face even handsomer than it already is?” he asked.

Balfour considered this. Deciding to accept the diplomatic way out, he threw his head back and laughed much too loudly.

The two left the main wing through a back door and Balfour led the way along a garden path through a topiary of bears and deer and foxes. At the end of the topiary, the path forked. To the left was a low-slung concrete building with a shingle roof and no windows. A map of the premises had labeled the building a maintenance shed, but to Jonathan’s eye it looked more like a bomb shelter. Two guards with AK-47s held at their chests stood by the door. Another Range Rover was parked nearby, doors open, and four more security men stood at the ready. There was a hubbub as two men in white jackets rolled in a piece of mechanical equipment.

“What’s in there?” asked Jonathan.

“My future,” said Balfour.

“Looks dangerous,” said Jonathan, still smarting from their earlier exchange.

Balfour glanced over his shoulder. “Mind your own business.”

It was the surgical suite Jonathan had always dreamed of. Every time a ventilator clogged and a pulse oximeter failed, whenever there were not enough clamps or even a rudimentary crash cart in the OR, he would swear to himself, close his eyes, and imagine operating in a place like this. There was a Stryker operating table and a Drager anesthesia machine as big as a dryer. There was a brand-new crash cart and a defibrillator. There was a suction machine and monitors to measure cardiac function, pulse, blood pressure, and CO2 levels. And then there were the instruments. Arrayed on a tray was a rack holding scissors, needle holders, clamps, forceps, and hemostats, all polished to an exquisite gleam. At least one hundred in all, if not more.

“Adequate,” said Jonathan, as arrogantly as any spoiled surgeon to the rich and infamous should. “I think I can make do. Yes, yes, yes.”

Balfour’s brow knitted in concern. “Did I miss anything? I ordered everything you suggested.”

Jonathan recalled the shopping list taken from Revy’s computer. “Ventilator with a HEPA filter?”

Balfour rushed to a corner of the room. “A Guardian 400.”

“Very well,” said Jonathan. “And my assistants? You’ve found a trained anesthesiologist and a surgical nurse?”

Balfour explained that he had hired the chief of anesthesiology from the National Institute of Health and that the surgical nurse was the doctor’s daughter. Jonathan replied that he thought that was fine. “I am a little tired,” he said. “And I’ll need time to read the results of your blood work. Shall we say three p.m. for our initial consultation?”