Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

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.”