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.”
Jonathan met Balfour’s eye but didn’t respond. He rubbed his sore shoulder, finding the spot where he’d bruised the muscle.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” asked Balfour.
“A long while,” said Jonathan, as if admitting his guilt.
Balfour laughed, and Jonathan realized that Balfour couldn’t care less that he’d lied about his riding skills. He was happy to have demonstrated his superiority over the European doctor in at least one domain. For a moment he could consider himself Dr. Revy’s equal.
Lord Balfour whistled, and Inferno trotted back. Offering a friendly pat on the back, Balfour helped Jonathan into the saddle and suggested they walk home.
As Balfour set off, he looked over his shoulder and shook his head in disbelief. “Who ever heard of a Swiss horseman anyway?”
55
It was a thing of beauty.
Sultan Haq stared in awe at the cylindrical stainless-steel object set on the table in front of him. The device measured eighty centimeters in height and had a maximum diameter of thirty centimeters, tapering slightly at either end. A faint line barely a finger’s distance from the top indicated where the device could be opened. “That is it?”
“Indeed,” said Balfour. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“May I?” asked Haq, gesturing toward the reconfigured warhead. Balfour nodded, and Haq picked it up in his hands. The device was heavier than it looked but weighed no more than twenty kilos.
“Just don’t drop it,” said Balfour.
Haq quickly set the device back on the table.
“Actually, I’m told it’s quite sturdy,” Balfour went on. “Nearly indestructible, in fact. My men will instruct you in its use. Just promise not to blow us all up. I must run, but I will see you this evening, yes?”
Haq nodded, never taking his eyes off the nuclear warhead as Balfour left the workshop. “And so?” he asked, more gruffly, addressing the physicists dressed in lab coats. “How does it work?”
Haq listened intently as the scientists educated him in the use of the weapon. For all its devilish complexity, the warhead was simplicity itself to activate. The control panel was accessed by flipping open the cover. Inside were two keypads, each set below an LCD display. To arm the weapon, the user must correctly enter a six-digit code. Once the bomb was armed, it could be detonated by means of a timer or manually, with a small red button protected by a plastic casing.
“How large is the yield?” he asked, the technical vocabulary awkward on his tongue.