“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.
57
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.
He was not in Balfour’s office but in a bedroom decorated similarly to his own. A suitcase stood open on a luggage stand near the armoire. Inside were men’s clothes-shirts, underwear, socks. On the ground was a pair of men’s loafers. Very large men’s loafers. He examined the clothing and noted that the labels were from foreign brands he did not know.
A Quran sat on the desk, and below it a manila folder stuffed thick with papers. A ticket jacket for Ariana Airlines lay to one side. He opened it and saw a reservation from Kabul to Islamabad. He was standing in Sultan Haq’s room.
Aware that he had little time, Jonathan rummaged through the folder. There were papers downloaded from Islamic websites and others written in Pashto. There was a map of Islamabad Airport, with some numbers and letters written across the top. A letter written in a child’s hand on pale blue paper demanded his attention. Though it was in Pashto, he was able to understand a few words here and there: “Dearest Father, I miss you already… I am sorry you will not see me grow up… I hope to make you proud… Your loving son, Khaled.”
Peeking out from beneath it was a paper bearing some kind of logo: METRON, and below it HAR and NEWHA.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Hurriedly Jonathan closed the folder and went to the door. The footsteps faded. After a moment he cracked the door. The hallway was empty. He stepped out of the room, walked to the door leading to Balfour’s office, opened it, and stepped inside.
Back pressed to the door, he directed the penlight’s beam around the office. An imposing mahogany desk ran the length of one wall, with three monitors arrayed side by side taking pride of place. To one side was a rattan basket filled with used mobile phones, and above it shelves stacked with new ones still in their boxes. Cabinets occupied the other walls. And everywhere paper. Reams of paper, bundled and tied and stacked high. Balfour’s records, made ready for the shredder.
Placing the penlight in his mouth, Jonathan studied the papers arrayed on Balfour’s desk. Connor had told him to act as if he were a reporter. He must look for the where, when, who, and how. Names, places, dates, times. Connor had suspected Balfour had the bomb, and Jonathan now knew that suspicion was correct. Somewhere there was information regarding the buyer and the time and place of the exchange. Was Sultan Haq the end user, or was he passing it along to someone else? Was the exchange to take place at the airport?
One stack contained banking confirmations, another telephone bills, and a third credit card bills. The problem wasn’t too little information, it was too much. He remembered Danni’s instructions about opening his mind to see everything at once and trusting his memory to mine the valuable nuggets later. He scanned the information, committing accounts and phone numbers and transfer instructions to memory, assigning each an individual locker in his mind and ordering it to remain there until needed.