Haq appeared unconvinced. With mounting anger, he turned toward Jonathan. “Who were you calling?”
“I was trying to reach your father in hell. I wanted to tell him I was sorry I didn’t cut his throat myself.”
“I’ll let you deliver the message personally, but first I must know if you are telling me the truth. Mr. Singh, hold him.”
The Sikh wrenched Jonathan to his feet and locked his arms around his chest, imprisoning him.
Haq pulled an instrument from his pocket. It was a knife, but no ordinary one. A short, crescent-shaped blade extended from a scarred bulbous wooden handle. It was a poppy knife, used by farmers to slice grooves into the ripe poppy bulbs from which the precious opium could flow. “You have dark eyes,” he said. “I remember.”
Jonathan blinked several times, realizing then that the fall had knocked the colored lenses from his eyes. Haq raised the blade to the soft flesh just beneath his eye. “A surgeon cannot perform his duties if blind.”
The cold metal pressed harder.
Jonathan struggled to break free, but Singh only tightened his grip.
“So, my friend,” said Haq, moving the blade slowly back and forth, “as we do not have enough time for you to answer all my questions, I shall ask you to answer only one. Tell me the truth, or it will cost you an eye. And if you think I will kill you afterward, you’re mistaken. I have other plans. Did you tell your masters about our plans?”
“The call didn’t go through.”
A flick of the wrist and the blade ripped his skin. Jonathan flinched but did not cry out.
“I will ask one more time, and then I will feed your eye to the horse.”
Jonathan steeled himself. Emma, he knew, would not yield.
If not in love, then in war.
“Did you speak to your masters about our plans?” asked Haq.
“I did not.”
Haq looked at Balfour, who offered no expression. “I’m sorry,” said Haq, pushing the blade into the fold of skin. “But I can’t believe you. Not yet.”
“Try it,” gasped Jonathan. “Try the phone yourself. Hit the number seven and press Call. You’ll see.”
Haq lowered the knife. He thumbed the seven and called, bringing the phone to his ear. Jonathan watched, asking himself feverishly if five minutes had passed since he had activated the counterjamming device. Haq’s eyes opened wider, and Jonathan’s heart sank. But a moment later the Afghan put the phone into his pocket.
“Well?” asked Balfour.
“The call could not go through. Your jamming system was effective.”
“Move away, then,” said Balfour. “I’ll finish him.”
Haq stretched out a hand to stop him. “Not yet. I would like to take him to my brother. Dr. Ransom has much to answer for.”
Balfour considered this, then aimed the barrel of the machine gun toward the sky. “As you wish. I will make him my gift to you.”
64
Slumped in the rear of Balfour’s Range Rover, Jonathan read the large white letters painted on the wall of the hangar at Islamabad Airport and knew that they had arrived. Mr. Singh sat next to him. Ever-vigilant, the Sikh had not shifted his eyes off Jonathan for a moment during the hour’s drive from Blenheim. Sultan Haq occupied the front seat, while Balfour himself drove. Another vehicle led the way. Two followed behind. But the most important cargo sat in the rear compartment, barely an arm’s length from Jonathan. It was an unmarked olive-drab crate the size of the footlocker he’d taken to Boy Scout camp, inside which rested a nuclear warhead.
Built to accommodate large jets, Hangar 18 sat alone at the far corner of the airport. The words “East Pakistan Airways” ran above the closed doors. EPA. Another clue from his visit to Balfour’s office. There was no sign of activity, but as Balfour approached, a door built into the hangar slid open. Balfour didn’t slow as he maneuvered the car over the steel tracks. Shadow replaced the sun. There were no planes, but there were crates. Mountain after mountain of olive-drab crates piled to the sky. Stenciled on the sides in English, Cyrillic, and Arabic were words like “Ammunition:. 45 caliber. 5,000 rounds. Grenades: Antipersonnel. Rifles: Kalashnikov AK-47.” And there were other words, like “Semtex” and “C4” and “Bofors” and “Glock.” It was the United Nations of weapons.
Balfour navigated a winding path through the stacks. A welcoming committee waited at the far side. Jonathan counted ten men dressed in traditional shalwar kameezes, and one, an older, darker figure, wearing the black robes of an imam. Several vehicles were parked behind them: a Hilux pickup, two jeeps, and a van.
The Range Rover halted and Singh hauled Jonathan out of the car. At the same time Balfour’s men decamped from their vehicles and formed a perimeter. There were no fewer than twenty of them, all wearing identical tan suits, all carrying identical Kalashnikovs. Singh barked a command, and two of the men unloaded the crate and carried it to a large table.
Haq approached Jonathan and handed him a damp cloth. “Clean yourself up.”
Jonathan dabbed at his eye, and Haq patted him on the shoulder. It was the gesture of victor to vanquished, and Jonathan pushed his hand away. “I’m done,” he said, tossing the cloth back.
Haq walked to the man in the black robes and kissed him three times on the cheek. The men exchanged words and Haq pointed at Jonathan. The older man approached. “You are the healer who killed my father?”
Jonathan didn’t answer. The truth embarrassed him. He had been an unwitting pawn when he should have been an active participant. His fingers itched for a knife to plunge into the man’s gut.
“My name is Massoud Haq. I am the head of our clan. You will return with me to our tribal lands. We have a particular punishment for murderers. We bury them to the neck and allow the wronged family to cast stones until they are dead. I will cast the first in my father’s name.”
“I look forward to it,” said Jonathan, acidly.
“As do I.”
Two of the scientists Jonathan had seen at Blenheim supervised the removal of the warhead from the crate. The weapon did not resemble the pictures Connor had showed him. It had been reduced in size. Instead of an artillery shell, it resembled a larger version of a stainless-steel thermos. The scientists unscrewed one end of the device and performed a series of tests for the benefit of Haq and his brother. English was the lingua franca, and Jonathan heard the words “twelve kilotons,” “undetectable,” “timer,” and “detonation code.” Sultan Haq carefully punched six digits into a keypad. The device was resealed and placed in a second crate. Looking closely, Jonathan noted the words “U.S. Department of Defense” stenciled on the side.
Massoud Haq placed a phone call and issued a succession of instructions in Pashto. Jonathan understood enough of the language to know that a bank was involved and the subject was the transfer of $10 million. Massoud Haq hung up, and immediately thereafter Balfour made a call to his banker, speaking an account number that Jonathan recognized as one he’d memorized the night before. Balfour smiled broadly, and Jonathan knew that the transfer had been successful.
Balfour walked to Jonathan and extended his hand. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know of a good plastic surgeon?” He laughed loudly, showing his perfect white teeth, his eyes smiling with the knowledge that even though his chosen surgeon had been exposed as a spy, no harm had come from it, and he could still take pleasure in knowing that his retirement was gilded and that surely it would not be too difficult to find another physician to provide him with a new face and a new identity.
“Bastard,” said Jonathan, ignoring the outstretched hand, at which Balfour cocked his head and laughed even louder.
There was a harsh, slapping sound, and Massoud Haq’s face dissolved in a miasma of gore. Like a rag doll, he collapsed to the ground.