by Davis Bunn
Marc said, “You drive beautifully.”
“Thank you, Marc. My brother, Serge, is the car fiend. He will turn absolutely green when he hears what I have been doing.”
He studied the castle up ahead. “You will be meeting with a Persian art dealer who has sold an entire gallery of stolen goods to our ally. Washington is split down the middle about this Rhana Mandana. Half think she is actively supporting terrorism. The other half thinks she’s just another parasite who couldn’t care less what side of the law she stands on, so long as she gets paid.”
“What do you think?”
He settled back in his seat. “Either could be right. But of all the clients she could have approached with this deal, she went to the one man who’s connected to U.S. intelligence. And possibly to Mossad.”
“Aren’t those connections secret?”
“Yes. Just like my mission to Geneva.” He looked at her. “Ready?”
Chapter Ten
Rhana’s first thought upon meeting Sir Geoffrey’s young friend was, she is as lovely as she is sad, and she is very sad indeed. Sir Geoffrey played the doting patron well, but Rhana was not convinced. “Rhana, may I have the pleasure of introducing Dominique Deschamps. My dear, this is the lady I mentioned, Rhana Mandana.”
The beautiful young woman spoke in French, “A distinct honor, madame.”
Rhana detected a slight accent, the heady flavor of desert spices. “What a delightful flower you are. I am certain we will soon be the very best of friends.” She turned to the hovering attendants and announced, “Sir Geoffrey will have the treatments we discussed.”
“Of course, madame.”
She pretended not to notice the man’s worried frown. “Have a good time, Geoffrey.”
“But . . . I had hoped to join you.”
“Don’t be absurd. Why on earth would you want to enter the women’s section?”
“I’m responsible for the young lady’s safety.”
“The spa is as private here as a harem, and just as safe. You should feel completely reborn by the time we meet you again in three hours for a meal.” She beckoned Kitra forward. “Come along, my dear.”
The dressing cubicles were lined in fragrant sandalwood. Rhana slipped into a spa robe and sandals and was waiting when the young lady emerged. She made the fluffy robe appear as elegant as an evening gown. Rhana said, “With your youth and natural beauty, you need very little pampering. But my bones ache, and a sauna and a whirlpool will do me a world of good. Would you indulge an old woman?”
“I am in your hands, madame.”
“I insist you call me Rhana.” She led Kitra down the winding stone stairs, into what once had been the castle crypts. The ancient stone had been polished, careful lighting warmed the place, and the chambers were opulent. Rhana waited until they were inside the sauna to ask, “And what should I call you?”
“My name—”
“Please wait a moment. We are thirty feet below the surface, surrounded by solid granite. No one can hear us. It may be our only chance for utter confidentiality. So I want you to think carefully. Do you truly want to waste this time on a lie? Because we both know that you are not born to wealth. You might have the clothes and the car and the bodyguard. But frankly, you wear them like someone else’s fur stole.”
The young woman hesitated briefly, then replied, “If people have gone to all this trouble to create a fiction—and I am not saying that it is—why should I trust you?”
“An excellent question. You have requested that I grant you trust in return. Very well. I agree. Do you know my true name?”
The young woman did not hesitate. “You were formerly known as Maliheh Masoumeh.”
“Correct. So here is my most precious secret.” Even though she had come knowing such a moment would probably arise, even though she had invested much into making it happen, still she felt her throat constrict with the effort of revealing secrets she’d held close for decades. “My father, blessed be his memory, was one of the largest purveyors of carpets in all Iran. But my father also had a secret. One that only a handful of people knew. He was a pastor.”
The news rocked the young woman. “What are you saying?”
“In the final years before the imams took power, missionaries roamed far and wide throughout Persia. They came in as teachers and businessmen. But they brought with them Bibles, and they stayed to teach. Many of my people became followers of Jesus. But all in secret. Such secrecy you cannot imagine. They hid from the shah’s secret police, from the imams, from their own families.
“The best carpets are woven by women in small villages, who learn the art of weaving from their mothers and grandmothers. All winter they weave, and perhaps they finish one carpet. One carpet per family per winter. So my father traveled, and he became the, how you say . . . ?”
“Conduit,” she replied softly. “The go-between.”
“Thank you. My father was the one safe channel between these small gatherings. Home churches, they are called in the West. In Iran, they were havens. The only place of safety many of these believers ever knew. And then, well, you know what happened.”
“The shah fell.” The younger woman almost chanted the words. The singsong way she expressed her sympathy made Rhana sure she carried Middle Eastern blood.
“The shah fell and chaos resulted,” Rhana agreed. “But my father continued to travel. He had to. Families depended upon him. Even though we knew we were being watched, he went. Everyone who had money was under surveillance.” Rhana became silent, remembering the long, dark hours of worry. The concerns, the fears that grew and grew until they finally blossomed with the inevitability of death. “Seventeen months after the shah fell, my father went on another journey. He never returned.”
“I’m very sorry, Rhana.”
She inspected the lovely face and thought she saw tears. Remarkable, coming from a stranger. “The Revolutionary Guard claimed bandits killed him for the money he carried. We accepted this, and we mourned our loss. We escaped, my mother and I. We came to Switzerland, where my father had established a carpet business as a haven, in case of just such an event. It took four years for me to learn what truly happened. By that time, my mother, thankfully, had passed on. My father was betrayed by someone in one of the home churches. He was taken. He was questioned. He did not give up any other church. But he paid for his silence. Oh, how he paid.”
Rhana stopped, forcing herself to find a way to breathe. How could it happen, that grief could emerge so fresh and raw after all these years? Why was there no healing?
Kitra finished for her, “All the other churches managed to escape because of your father’s sacrifice.”
Rhana rose to her feet. “Come. We have been in here too long. The heat has gotten to my head.”
“My name is Kitra Korban.”
“You are indeed French?”
“Through my mother. And Jewish American through my father. I was born and raised in Israel.”
“What are you doing here in Switzerland?”
“I have wondered that,” Kitra finally said, “from the moment I arrived.”
They were seated in the walled garden connected to the women’s changing rooms. One other table was occupied by a young woman and a crone in a wheelchair. Rhana had seen them here before. The old woman was the matriarch to one of Switzerland’s oldest banking families. She and her live-in caregiver came to the spa once each week because the waters rising from the springs helped the woman’s rheumatism.
Rhana asked, “Your father has connections to Mossad?”
“Apparently so. I never knew of such a thing until he called and said I should trust a man who never told me his name. It’s all very confusing.”
“Of course it is. What does your father do?”
“He runs a kibbutz.”
“I know the word, but I do not understand. This is a communal farm, no?”
“We have a farm. But we also run high-tech industries. My father founded the kibbutz t
o make a home for followers of Jesus who have been shunned by Israeli society.”
It was hard to say what shocked Rhana the most, the news of their shared faith, or the matter-of-fact way Kitra spoke the words. “Shunned?”
“Banished, fired, disowned. There are several kibbutzim that serve as such havens. My father wanted more. He sought to give believers a place where they could grow and prosper, where their talents could be fully utilized.”
“And the man who waits by your lovely car, he is connected how?”
“Marc Royce is a former intelligence officer with the U.S. State Department. He was fired four years ago because he took leave to care for his wife, who was dying. She did eventually die.”
Rhana heard the affection in Kitra’s voice, though the young woman did her best to retain the neutral tone. But the love and the anguish were there, for someone who had a lifetime’s training at perceiving secrets. Rhana said, “And now he protects you.”
“Actually, in the beginning it was the other way around.” Kitra described how she had been sent to warn him of the attack, and how he had barely managed to survive the blast. Then she asked, “Did you cause the bomb?”
“No, my dear, I did not.”
Kitra nodded, a simple gesture that carried a world of meaning. As did her words, “I believe you.”
“And for that, I am sincerely grateful.”
“Who was behind the attack?”
“That answer requires my receiving permission from others. You understand, yes? My allies must decide for themselves to offer you the hand of trust.”
“Marc will also want to ask you questions before he accepts you as an ally. There are many in Washington who wonder if you are the enemy.”
Rhana shivered at the words. “Though that news is hardly unexpected, it fills me with fear.”
Kitra nodded solemnly. “It should.”
Chapter Eleven
The castle’s circular drive ran between the main building and the front gates. Remnants of a moat formed a narrow channel between the rear gardens from the green landing strip and was crossed by a carved stone bridge. One of the gatehouses was used by the bodyguards. Its coffee table held a variety of magazines, and a flat-screen television aired a soccer match. Broad windows overlooked both the castle’s front drive and the road leading back to Chamonix. Marc poured himself a cup of coffee, checked in with Walton, and waited. Ten minutes later, a Citroen sporting the flat blue color used only by police parked next to Kitra’s Ferrari. Marc approached as Agent Behlet rose from the passenger side and Chief Inspector Reynard opened the driver’s door.
Behlet smirked as he said, “You of course remember Inspector Reynard.”
“Inspector.”
“If it isn’t the American secret agent.”
“Remy, please. There is no need—”
“I completely agree. There is no need for this secret agent to remain on Swiss soil. Have you blown up any businesses lately, Agent Royce?”
Behlet sighed.
“You were right to bring him. And I’d appreciate it if you both please call me Marc.”
“Remy, you see? This gentleman is being as nice as he possibly—”
“This is not a discussion about manners. This is about murder. This is about bombings on Swiss soil.”
“And we are all looking for the killers. Are we not, Marc?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Marc replied. “Before we go any further, I need your agreement that nothing will be passed on to anyone, at any level, without my express permission.”
Inspector Reynard colored, but before he could erupt, Agent Behlet said, “I agree for the both of us.”
The Geneva police officer rounded on him. “How dare you say such a thing. You are no longer even a true agent.”
“Our federal government disagrees.” Bernard remained unruffled by the policeman’s ire.
Marc asked, “You are seconded to the insurance industry?”
“Very good, Marc. I am impressed. Actually, in this country we make a clear differentiation between insurance and reinsurance. You understand the term?”
“You insure the insurers.”
“Correct. The Swiss reinsurance industry is third in size only to banking and tourism.”
“And your investors have a great deal at risk with this recent bombing.”
“Over half a billion dollars.” Bernard smiled thinly. “Needless to say, we are eager to get our hands on any information that might assist us.”
Marc said, “We have evidence that the original artwork was replaced with forgeries before the blast.”
Bernard’s eyes widened. “You are certain of this?”
“I have no knowledge of art. But since the bombing I have seen a bronze statue of Rodin’s dancer that looked genuine to me.”
Bernard returned to the car, pulled a file from his briefcase, and extracted a photograph. “Does this look familiar?”
Marc inspected it carefully. “It appears to be exactly the same. But so did the one I saw inside the gallery.”
“To create a copy of that quality means this has been planned for some time.”
“It would be hard to find a forger?”
“Very difficult indeed. There are two, perhaps three people in the world who could duplicate a Rodin bronze.”
Marc said, “What if . . . ?”
“Yes? Do please continue.”
“What if they used the gallery owner to obtain the forgeries?”
Bernard showed no surprise whatsoever. “There is a vicious irony to the thought, no? But to reply, we have been hearing rumors. Which my superiors tend to disregard. But I heard that our dearly departed gallery owner was feeding a gambling addiction through illicit activities.”
“Which would explain why Sylvan was murdered,” Marc said. “If his cohorts discovered his gambling was out of control, putting their plans at risk.”
“Sylvan Gollet had business in Hong Kong. He always stayed in hotels with large casinos. Where he gambled. Nightly. And lost. His losses are hidden by the casinos, who are almost as secretive as our native banks. But yesterday a source confirmed that Sylvan has managed to lose several fortunes.”
“So the bad guys learned of his habit,” Marc said. “And how he was making extra money by selling well-executed forgeries. And started drawing the attention of federal authorities.”
“So they decided to use his errors against him,” Behlet continued. “They made him forge duplicates of everything in his shop.”
“And then they replaced the originals with the forgeries. And then killed him. And set me up.”
The inspector’s gaze shot back and forth between them. “All right, that is enough. Who is ‘they’?”
Behlet gave him mock surprise. “Why, that should be self-evident, Inspector. The killers.”
“And who are these killers?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Marc said. “To find out.”
“And the original artwork?”
“Most of it is in a Geneva Freeport vault, waiting for you to collect it,” Marc replied. “The gentleman who helped us is very certain he has been given the originals. I am proceeding on his word.”
“You say, most of the items.”
“The Rodin bronze is elsewhere. I would like to ask that you lease this item to the man who has helped you retrieve the others.”
“Lease this to him.”
“That’s correct. For a dollar.”
“For how long?”
“The remainder of his life.”
Behlet pretended to give this careful thought. “Does he know of this request?”
“No. I thought of it myself. If you can’t do it, he will never know.”
“He is important to you?”
“Very. Oh, and you’ll need to repay him for the cost of acquiring your articles.”
“How much?”
“A hundred and fifty million dollars.”
Bernard Behlet stifled the inspector’s p
rotest with an upraised hand. “I will need to pass the lease arrangement by my superiors, but I see no problem with either—”
“I need something else.”
The Swiss agent had a truly pleasant smile. “I thought there might be more.”
“Several things, actually. One now, the others later. I want your government’s permission to fly a drone over this region.” Marc relayed the activities that had drawn them to the spa. “We are hoping to be used as bait.”
The inspector wheeled about. “We are trapped?”
“Don’t stare, Remy. Of course we’re not trapped. Marc has no intention of dying. Isn’t that right, Marc?”
“Hopefully not today.”
“Where is the drone now?”
“Hovering above the NATO base in Strasbourg, waiting for your green light.”
Behlet fished the phone from his pocket. “One moment.”
The two spent the next hour together in adjoining cubicles, worked over by women who were trained to take every muscle in the body apart, then put them back together, doing so with a minimum of discomfort. Rhana could sense Kitra’s presence through the shoji-screen wall, and knew the young woman would not speak unless Rhana did first. Kitra was a product of many cultures but had learned respect for her elders and was polite by nature. And honest. Behind her closed eyes, Rhana saw again how Kitra released a great burden simply by telling the truth. Which was so alien to Rhana’s world that she felt threatened.
Kitra’s character formed a mirror, in which Rhana saw clearly the truth about herself. She had sensed it for years in odd, quiet moments. It was one reason why she gave herself so fully to whatever indulgence was closest, and why danger had always held such a heady allure. Everything about Rhana’s life had been structured so as to push away the truth.
Spending time with Kitra had heightened Rhana’s awareness of how the corruption had eaten away at her soul. She was tainted. She was lost. She had created such a distance that she could condemn good people, even lay here in coddled opulence while they faced death.