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Antonova,” said Balfour, who greeted everyone as if he’d just run into them at a cocktail party. “I see that you’ve found us.”
    “Where’s the prince?” asked Emma.
    “Due any minute. Where’s the plane?”
    “On schedule.”
    “So we wait,” said Balfour.
    “So we wait,” said Emma. “I’ve never seen you without your pack of wolves. Don’t you feel naked?”
    “I have Mr. Singh. Besides, the prince and I have a relationship of long standing.”
    Emma raised a brow. She was skeptical of such relationships.
    “And,” said Balfour, “I have something the prince wants.”
    “I thought I was providing the merchandise.”
    “Not that,” said Balfour. “Those are just guns. Playthings. I have something else. Something far more interesting.”
    “I’m sure you do,” she said. But instead of probing further, which was an intelligence officer’s first instinct, she walked out of the hangar and stared into the black sky. The air buzzed with aircraft taking off, one after another.
    “They’re mine,” said Balfour. “Cargo planes. They’re on their way to Iraq. For eight years the Americans pumped that country full of everything you can imagine. Now they want to take it all home in eighteen months. I’m more than happy to help.”
    To the east, Emma made out a set of red landing lights. She checked her watch. The time was 11:58. It was the Tupolev, inbound from Tehran.
    “Is that our plane?” asked Balfour.
    “The prince said midnight. The Swiss aren’t the only ones who are punctual.”
    “So you can be relied upon?” The promise of conspiracy lay heavy in his voice.
    “Have I ever failed you?”
    Balfour smiled his fox’s grin. “No. But that doesn’t mean I can trust you.” He stepped closer and lit a cigarette. “Just how high do your contacts reach in Moscow?”
    “As high as necessary.”
    “The director? General Ivanov?”
    Emma met Balfour’s eye. She said nothing. She knew that she had something he wanted.
    Balfour glanced over his shoulder at the cadre of policemenstanding near their vehicles. Taking her arm, he led her toward a grass berm bordering the runway. “I’ve found something,” he said. “Something in the mountains. A device of some sort. I need help to extract it and bring it down.”
    Still Emma refused to exhibit the least interest. “That’s not what we do,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
    “It is an explosive,” Balfour continued. “American.”
    “Really? What kind?”
    “I don’t know. I only have a photograph. It’s much too far away for me to venture. I suffer from asthma, and it’s at high altitude. All I can tell you is that it is large and appears to be very heavy.”
    “I’m an intelligence agent, not a mountain guide. What kind of help do you think I could provide?”
    “Equipment. Experts. A whole team, I should think.”
    Beneath her veil of nonchalance, Emma was keen to learn more. The words “large American explosive device” had coalesced into a tempting image. “Do you have the photograph with you?”
    Balfour glanced over his shoulder once again. “Quick. Before he gets here.” A hand delved into the inner pocket of his cream-colored sports jacket. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”
    Emma studied the photograph. It showed a length of silver metallic skin buried in snow. Stenciled in black paint were the letters “USAF.” A few feet away, a square fin protruded. She brought the photograph closer. The problem was scale. There was nothing to indicate the object’s size. It could be one meter or ten. “Looks like a bomb or a missile.”
    “Yes, but what kind?”
    “Don’t you have one with a little less snow on it?”
    Balfour hesitated. “Unfortunately not.”
    Emma kept her eyes on the picture, fully aware that Balfour was lying to her and that he knew more than he was letting on. “Where exactly did you say you found this?” she asked.
    “I didn’t.” There was noise of motors approaching. Balfour