The flight controller dropped his flag. The lights on the meatball went from red to green. The F-18 shuddered, then burst from its chocks and thundered down the flight deck, shooting like an arrow into the sky. The engine glowed orange, then red. Connor watched the fighter bank hard right and assume its direction to the north. An amateur, he thought darkly. He had sent a rank amateur without a day’s training to do a professional’s work. He thought of Balfour and the men that protected him, hardened criminals all. One in particular stood out, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Sikh named Mr. Singh who did Balfour’s dirty work. Ransom was entering a nest of vipers, and he didn’t even know it. Connor stood rooted to the spot until the plane was nothing but a gray speck. Finally it disappeared altogether, swallowed by the sky.
Connor turned and began to walk back to the Island. He had his own flight home to arrange, and he was in no condition to sit like a goddamned daredevil in the back of one of those jets. A helicopter to the nearest major airport would be fine. He walked to the hatch and stopped a step shy, a force beyond him compelling him to take a last look into the sky.
“Godspeed,” he whispered.
16
Midday traffic in Islamabad was no more horrendous than usual. Cars, vans, light trucks, and juggernauts, motorcycles, bicycles, tuk-tuks, and auto rickshaws clogged the broad, well-manicured boulevards of the government district, everyone vying with everyone else for the right to advance another ten meters. Horns blaring, the convoy of white Range Rovers peeled away from the curb in front of the Colonial Building and fought its way onto Kitchener Road.
“Where’s our escort?” asked Lord Balfour, checking over his shoulder for a sign of the ISI agents who had been their constant companions for the past two months.
“They haven’t been on us all day.” The driver caught Balfour’s eye in the rearview mirror and grinned. “We’re safe now, boss. No one’s coming after us.”
Balfour said nothing. The truth was the opposite. He was as safe as a wounded fish in a shark tank.
“What did the solicitor say?” asked the driver, a young man he’d brought in from the streets and trained himself. “All good, I’m sure?”
“Everything’s fine,” said Balfour, forcing a pleasant tone. “Just get us home, will you? There’s a good chap.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver smiled broadly and leaned on the horn to show he meant business.
Balfour sat back, the polite smile vanishing as he replayed the meeting from start to finish.
“The Indian police have furnished the Pakistani police with proof of your involvement in the raid,” the solicitor had begun nervously, as soon as Balfour sat down. “The serial numbers from two of the machine guns used by the terrorists in Mumbai match those on a shipping manifest that passed through your warehouses a month before the attack.”
“How the hell do they know that?”
“They possess a copy of the shipping manifest.”
“Impossible,” said Balfour, restraining himself from saying that he alone had a copy of the manifest. “But those guns could have gone anywhere in between. A month is a long time.”
“Not likely,” said the solicitor. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Balfour didn’t bother protesting. His dislike of his native government was well known. It had been a private pleasure to arm the band of fighters and point them in the direction of his homeland. The surprise came in learning how successful their attack had been. One hundred eighty killed, dozens more wounded. Mumbai, or Bombay, as he and anyone who had ever lived there still called it, held hostage for three days. A metropolis of millions paralyzed by the actions of twenty brave men. A pleasure indeed.
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.