Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

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.

Now was the time.

Jonathan stood with his back to the door, listening as footsteps pounded through the hallways and the jeeps peeled out of the motor court and the heavy machine gun he’d seen on the roof continued its basso profundo assault. He ran to the window in time to make out Balfour and Singh climbing into a Range Rover, machine guns in hand, and roaring through the portico. Balfour was no coward. Jonathan had to give him that.

Jonathan opened the window and poked his head outside. The estate was cloaked in darkness. No lights burned in the main house or the maintenance shed. Even if the security system was operational, there were more pressing concerns than keeping tabs on the visiting doctor.

And then he was moving. Jacket off. Shoes off. In the bathroom, he snapped the blade off his razor and slipped it into his pocket. Talcum powder for his hands, extra on the fingertips. He was out the window and standing on the sill thirty seconds later. The motor court was deserted. In the stables, the horses neighed frantically as the sound of small-arms fire punctured the night sky.

Extending his right foot, he wedged his toes into the groove cut into the building’s stone facade. Testing his weight, he found he could support himself. He lifted his left knee and placed the ball of his foot on the lintel above the window. The lintel was ten centimeters wide, practically a stair step for someone of his skill. He stood tall and, reaching up, grasped the ledge outside Balfour’s office window.

Another toehold. Right hand extended. Fingers on sill. He pulled himself higher until he could peer into Balfour’s office. His toes found the next groove and he was able to support himself as he checked whether Balfour’s window was open. It was not.

Jonathan struggled to lift the sash, to no avail. The motor court remained deserted, but he couldn’t count on its staying that way. The next window was three meters to his left. He shimmied across the wall. This time the window opened easily.

Relieved, he hauled himself inside the house. For a moment he remained stock-still, his shirt clinging to his back. The door to the hall was closed, and he sensed that the room was empty. He slid a penlight from his pocket and activated the beam.