A man waited by the stairs to relieve them of their overcoats. Jonathan took Danni’s arm. “Which one of us is the patient?” he asked.
“Me,” she said, as she slipped her hand into his and interlocked their fingers. “I need a nip and a tuck.”
“Not likely,” replied Jonathan, with a surgeon’s outrage.
“Why, thank you, John. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in years.” Danni dropped her voice. “Keep your eyes on Revy. Look for any habits or mannerisms. Engage him in conversation. Turn on the recorder as soon as you get close. We’re here to listen and learn. He and Balfour have been exchanging calls three times a week for a month, but that’s all we know. We have no idea what Revy may have told Balfour about himself.”
The dining room was already full. Jonathan’s fellow guests comprised a cross-section of the international elite. In the course of twenty minutes, he shook hands with a German Graf, an Argentine cattle baron, and a Norwegian oil magnate. Jonathan was unfailingly polite. He smiled. He made small talk. But all the while he kept his eye trained on the animated form of Dr. Michel Revy as he held court in the corner, talking to a succession of pinched, pulled, and primped matrons.
Revy was of medium height, stocky, with thinning blond hair and avuncular eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a dinner jacket and black tie. According to Connor, he and Balfour had never met. Revy’s website did not offer any photos of the doctor himself, only the usual before-and-after shots of his patients. A thorough search of the Internet confirmed Revy’s preference for anonymity.
At eight-thirty, the lecture began. Revy spoke for an hour about the latest procedures to halt and reverse the aging process. He began with the necessity of better nutrition, moved his way to the latest dermatological advances in acid peels and laser treatments, and finally delved into his own specialty, the field of cosmetic surgery. Each body part was covered, from the ass to the eyebrows, with plenty of before-and-after slides to make his point. Jonathan had a sense for a doctor’s skills, and he didn’t for a moment doubt Revy’s competence. The man was a gifted surgeon, no question.
“He’s a gambler,” Danni had explained. “He’s made a fortune and lost it ten times over. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. The banks took his homes and his toys. He owes the bad boys big-time. A few years ago he operated on the head of the Corsican Mob, and since then he’s gotten a name as a knife for hire.”
Revy concluded his remarks, saying, “I’m happy to speak with you personally after our dinner.”
The guests applauded politely, then turned toward their place settings to await their meal. White wine was poured, a local Fendant, followed by an amuse-gueule of terrine de foie gras with fig and pistachio. A first course of Bouillon mit Mark, or beef broth with marrow, was followed by Kalbgeschnetzeltes nach Zurcher Art, morsels of tender veal and thinly sliced mushrooms bathed in a white wine cream sauce, accompanied by a side dish of rosti (which Jonathan had always considered to be hash browns with an attitude). A green salad was served. Waiters bearing countless bottles of Dole des Monts made sure no glass remained empty. Fruit and cheese came next. And finally, a dessert of Apfeltorte mit Schlagrahm, warm apple tart with whipped cream. Cognac and eaux-de-vie were offered. Conversation grew louder. Finally Revy rose, signaling that dinner was at an end.
“Now’s your chance,” said Danni. “Go get him. And don’t worry about asking personal questions. You’re an American.”
Jonathan pushed back his chair and made his way to the front of the room. A group of fawning women had formed a circle around the doctor. Arms crossed, Jonathan waited until the women cleared away and he was face-to-face with the physician.
“Restylane,” said Michel Revy.
“Pardon me?” Jonathan looked over his shoulder, thinking that someone else was the target of Revy’s outburst.
“You need Restylane.” Revy raised his chin as he examined Jonathan’s face. “Yes, yes, yes-one syringe for your nasal labial folds and another for those terrible frown lines. You’ll be amazed how refreshed you’ll appear.”
“Refreshed?”
“Mm-hmm. It will take off ten years. I insist you come and see me. Yes, yes.”
“I will,” said Jonathan. “I wanted to ask-”
Before he could finish, Revy turned his attention to a more promising client, a flat-chested woman in her fifties with flaming red hair and skin so sun-damaged it had the texture of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Jonathan stayed close, watching and listening as the doctor poked and prodded the woman’s deflated bosom with his pen and went on about the merits of silicone versus saline implants. Jonathan noted that Revy had the habit of saying “Yes, yes, yes,” that he constantly ended sentences with “isn’t it?” and that he couldn’t let someone speak for more than five seconds without a “Hmm, hmmm, hmmm.” And all this with his thick Suisse Romande accent.
“What did you learn?” Danni asked when Jonathan broke away.
“Nothing. He’s too busy drumming up business. He’s lined up two facelifts, a boob job, and a tummy tuck inside of ten minutes.”
“Not good.” Danni touched Jonathan’s sleeve and led him to the stairs. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Revy’s hotel. Maybe I’ll find something there.”
“How do you know where he’s staying?”
“Von Daniken told me. Grand Hotel Park. Room 333.”
“Did he give you the key, too?”
“No,” said Danni. “I got that all by myself.” And she brushed his leg with the card key.
“How did you-”
“We didn’t have time for the class about picking pockets. Maybe when you get back.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “If anyone asks, say I’m indisposed. Don’t let him go until I get back. I’ll need an hour.”
“What if I can’t delay him?”
Danni put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” she said. “In this business, there are no what-ifs.”
38
It was an excavation site. They had erected a large tent to protect them from the snow and the howling wind and to guard against unwanted eyes gazing down from high above. A pair of sodium floodlights cast a harsh light on the missile. The porters stood up to their knees in a ditch next to it, swinging their pickaxes in rhythmic succession. The men had been digging for an hour, and despite the cold, they had stripped down to sweaters and their dark faces shone with sweat.
“How much deeper?” asked Emma, standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the pit.
The snow had come away easily. The soil, hardened to a diamondlike permafrost, less so. The ditch was a meter deep and twice that in length, but still it wasn’t large enough.
“Another half meter,” answered the stocky engineer. “Or I won’t be able to open the access panel.”
The Boeing AGM-86 was divided into three sections. The rear third of the missile housed its power plant, a Williams F107 turbofan jet engine and fuel. The nose and forward section held a terrain contour-matching guidance system, the predecessor to GPS-based navigation systems. The payload, in this case a 150-kiloton nuclear weapon, sat in the center of the missile. Access to it was gained through a panel in the missile’s underbelly.
Emma envisioned the panel swinging open, releasing the dangerous cargo. “Will it fall out?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so,” said the engineer. “The weapon is bolted to the interior wall. Anyhow, you needn’t worry. The bomb cannot detonate until a high-explosive charge drives a pellet into the uranium core, initiating a chain reaction.”
“What kind of charge are you talking about?”
“Approximately one-half kilo of plastic explosives.”
A half kilo of Semtex was more than enough to obliterate everyone standing within seven meters of the missile. “And could that explode if it dropped?”