by Davis Bunn
“I know you’re right. I feel this is what we need to do.” She studied him. “Why does that frighten me so?”
“I don’t know. But I’m glad you agree.”
She nodded. Once. Twice. Then she looked at the door. “The agent is waiting.”
“You folks have certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. Several, in fact.”
Ambassador Walton’s voice sounded far more reedy than the previous day, his wheeze as pronounced as his words. “Agent Behlet, on behalf of my government, I offer my official apologies for causing further mayhem in your lovely city.”
“Let us wait until we have successfully concluded this matter,” Bernard replied. “Then we can worry about such issues as regret.”
“Duly noted. Then there is the matter of trusting Rhana. Which I must tell you is facing considerable opposition here.”
“It is happening,” Marc said.
“You do not yet have—”
“I am front man on this operation. And I am telling you the woman is central to our operation.”
Walton gave that a moment’s silence, then went on, “And finally there is the matter of the new gentleman and his information. How, precisely, did Ms. Mandana come into contact with him? Does anybody know?”
“I checked on this,” Marc replied. “Amin Hedayat is on the board of an Iranian refugee center based in Toronto. The newcomers arrive there, gain Canadian papers, then continue on to Persian communities in half a dozen different locations. Calgary and Montreal in Canada, the rest south of the border. Rhana started making sizable donations. She met Amin personally about a dozen years ago. Trust was built up over time.”
“Hedayat operates a successful limo service in San Diego, and tax records show part ownership in four others around the country.” Walton coughed noisily. “There is no record of the man on any international watch list. Which may mean nothing more than that he has managed to stay under the radar.”
“What about his concerns over Iranian aims?” Marc asked.
“I have to tell you, this stranger’s knowledge of what we thought was a highly classified operation leaves us seriously worried.”
“We know there are leaks,” Marc pressed. “We also know there’s a ticking clock.”
“There is serious disagreement over here. The majority opinion is that the Iranians have gone to the North Koreans because their own nuclear weapons aren’t ready. But some are saying this doesn’t make sense. If the North Koreans wanted to set off a bomb, they could annihilate Seoul and the two U.S. bases with one fell swoop. But they don’t. And the reasons they don’t are the same reasons it would be ludicrous for them to involve themselves with the Persians in an act of global terrorism. They’d be wiped off the map, and they know it.”
“Our reports suggest the Persians lack crucial bomb components, such as detonators,” Behlet offered. “Something the North Koreans now possess.”
“Again, on paper it is all possible. But nine containers? You could build an arsenal with that many components.” Walton coughed again, a wracking sound that ended in a wheeze and a struggle for breath. “I must warn you, the commander of DOD intel considers you and I to be his foes.”
Behlet protested, “Your man is doing excellent work, Mr. Ambassador.”
“That only heightens the admiral’s concerns. The last thing he wants is a source over which he has no control throwing doubt into the mix. He has identified an enemy, and he is intent upon military action. He fears you will find some reason for our blockade to be put on hold. Make no mistake. Unless you find incontrovertible evidence, in four more days we close the Strait of Hormuz, and the world will be at war.”
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Kitra called Marc’s room as soon as she had washed her face. “Were you serious about what you suggested?”
“You know I was. Did you sleep?”
“Some. Not a lot.”
“The whisper of near death can be very loud when you’re alone in the dark. Next time call, and we’ll get together and pray. It helps.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“I was waiting for your call.”
“And doing what till then?”
“Looking for something in the Scriptures. Preparing for our time together.”
That was what defined him, she knew. The willingness to make infinite effort and be prepared for anything. Even this. A dawn prayer time with a woman he should not love. “Give me ten minutes.”
She ordered a breakfast for two, dressed, and was ready to greet him when he knocked. Breakfast arrived soon after he did. Both sets of French doors were open to the rising sun. The traffic was a constant rush somewhere out of sight. From where she sat, Marc was framed by the lake and the hills and the growing light of day. The air was freshened by a sweet morning chill. Birdsong pierced the room’s silence. The gilded ceiling and polished wooden floor reflected the beauty of another day. They ate from embossed china and drank fresh coffee from a silver thermos. Kitra tried hard to convince herself it was close enough to her dream come true.
When she declined his offer of more coffee, Marc said, “I was looking for a passage that might frame what we were going to be doing here.” He pulled a hotel notepad from his pocket. “This comes from the twenty-fifth chapter of Proverbs. ‘It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.’”
He shifted his coffee cup over and placed the pad on the table between them. “Sitting here in this amazing place. The fate of nations in the balance. I would say we’re as close to royalty as we ever need to come, both in terms of beauty and responsibility.”
She could see he had spent a long time on this, measuring out the words, taking aim at the objective. Curious, she asked, “Did you sleep at all?”
“Some. Enough.” He touched the pad. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot. But do you have a Scripture passage you’ve been thinking about?”
“Something I thought of just before I fell asleep. A prayer my father used to say when I was young. Every night when he tucked me into bed. It’s a revision of the hundred and twenty-fifth Psalm. ‘Lord, as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so surround my family and me, both now and forevermore.’”
“I like that. A lot.” He turned to a new page and wrote it down. “I have an idea how we could proceed. But that’s all it is. An idea. If you don’t like it—”
“Tell me.”
“It goes back to the passage from Proverbs. We don’t know what to do, where to go, or how. So I thought we’d try and take this time to find out what we want, and what God wants, and pray for each other.”
He was so handsome sitting there. The blue shirt accented the smoky depths of his eyes. His tanned skin was stretched taut over strong features. She doubted he had an ounce of excess poundage on his entire frame. And yet he comported himself with an immense gentleness. Something that did not come naturally, she knew. He was and always would be a warrior. Still, he had learned how to approach the moment with tenderness. She blinked against the burning behind her eyes and said, “I like this.”
“So do I.”
“Yes, Marc. It’s an excellent idea.”
“Okay, then I’ll go first.” He turned to another fresh page. “The issue we’re talking about here is, what do I want most from life. I feel like we need to look at this honestly before we can work out what God wants. So far, I’ve only come up with two things. I want a new course in life. Right now it feels like I just tread water between assignments, until Walton calls and sends me out again.”
“Go to Geneva and save the world.” They both smiled.
“It’s still somebody else’s concept. After this is done, assuming we come out in one piece, I go back to Baltimore and sit in an office and bide my time. And wait for another phone call. It’s not a life. It’s not my life.”
“That’s one.”
“I want a new reason to hope. A new reason to be fulfilled. I haven’t felt that way since my wif
e died. I thought . . . you know.”
“Yes.” The unspoken was enough for another fierce blink. She hardly ever cried. And yet it seemed like it was all she had been doing lately, in those moments when she had not been assaulted by sheer, unbridled terror. She watched him turn to a new page and wait. She knew he would wait there all day. But there was no need. She knew what she needed to say. “I want to stop yearning for what I can’t have.”
His hand tracked slowly across the page as he wrote. “That’s a good one.”
“I want to be happy with my world and my purpose. I want the old ways to feel right again.” She noticed that he had stopped writing entirely. “I want to stop seeing the kibbutz as a prison.”
Surprise creased his features. “You feel that way?”
“I didn’t. Not once. Not ever. Until . . .”
“Until I didn’t come. Until I didn’t join you.”
“I know these feelings are part of the process. That’s my prayer. To move on.”
“I understand, Kitra. Thank you for sharing this. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“In a way, it is.”
“We’re beyond all that now.”
“Yes.” The sadness was clear as the tolling of a bell. “We are.”
She knew merely blinking would not be enough this time. She pounded her fist on her leg. “I want to stop yearning for the impossible.”
He waited until she calmed to say, “Why don’t we pray.”
She bowed her head, which was good, because when he shut his eyes she could surreptitiously wipe her cheeks.
She did not hear his words so much as the way he prayed. The moment and his quiet appeal to God became a mirror. She saw with utter clarity that a part of her had hoped he would be insincere. There remained a faint and bitter mockery in her brain. Part of her had expected him to show up and give her the standard line of how they should still be friends, only add God to the mix.
But Marc was real in this. And she knew, in this moment of internal honesty, that was one of the things she loved so much about him. He was always real. He most resembled her beloved father in this, the integrity that was so ingrained, so much a part of him that no one even spoke of it or questioned it. Others followed him, even when they disagreed with him over one point or another. They trusted him, even . . .
At that moment, she realized Marc had gone silent. The internal clarity remained with her, such that she knew precisely what it was she needed to say. “Heavenly Father, I have never been good at asking you what I should do. Most of my time in prayer has been spent telling you what I want. Even speaking these words is an effort. It makes me scared. What if you want me to do something . . . ?” She took a long, hard breath. “I am asking, God, what do you want?”
She heard Marc say, “Lord, I join my prayers with Kitra’s. I ask for us both the answer to the impossible question. This is the hardest thing a strong person can ever do, to be weak in the face of uncertainty. She has led me to the point I could not come to on my own. I ask for Kitra and for myself. In our weakness, we join in this prayer. Show us your will.”
Rhana watched a lovely sunrise from the Hotel de la Paix’s veranda. The morning chill was kept at bay by heaters flanking the retractable roof. Rhana considered this terrace one of the most beautiful settings in Switzerland. She would often come here to celebrate a sale or entertain a special client. When Kitra appeared in the doorway, Rhana nodded her approval. Kitra wore the raw-silk outfit, slacks and a high-necked blouse and long woven pashmina, all in shades of cocoa and cream. The color highlighted the golden glow of her skin. In greeting, Rhana tilted her chin, offering Kitra a cheek to kiss, and said, “You make me feel a decade younger, my dear, just by joining me here.”
“Thank you, Rhana.”
She liked how the young woman seemed unaware of the glances cast her way. “This morning we will be visiting two galleries before they open. We are being observed, of course. It is inevitable. For me to remain in your company after the warning is a declaration of sorts.”
“I understand.”
Rhana paid her tab and led Kitra from the café. Two bulletproof Mercedes were pulled up in the hotel’s front circle. Marc was stationed by the second car. Rhana led Kitra to the first vehicle, where both the driver and the guard held the rear doors. Rhana’s Bentley was stowed away for the duration.
Beside Marc stood Agent Bernard Behlet.
“Your friend does not ride with us?”
“Marc wants to talk with Bernard,” Kitra told her. “He asks if the driver is trustworthy.”
“Utterly. And the guard. Both are allied to our friend. You understand?”
“Of course.”
Rhana waited until they were under way to ask, “You are not afraid?”
“I was. Last night I hardly slept.”
“And now?”
Kitra hesitated, glancing at the driver and the guard.
“My dear, if you are going to exist comfortably in this world, you must learn that either your guards are discreet or they are to be replaced.”
Kitra nodded, but her voice turned soft as she said, “Marc prayed with me.”
Of all the things Rhana might have expected this astonishing young woman to say, this was most certainly not one of them. “He prayed?”
“This morning. It helped. A lot.”
“But . . . is this not the young man who broke your heart?”
“In a way. Yes. But it’s not . . .” Kitra touched the window, which was almost half an inch thick. “Does this come down?”
“No. It is one of the unfortunate costs of traveling in safety.”
Kitra settled her hands about her purse, a chalky pearl that matched her shoes. She described the events in Kenya, some of which Rhana already knew. Marc’s venture with Lodestone, the rare earths, the relocation of the villages, the partnership between Kenyan tribesmen and Israeli followers of Jesus, the role of faith in their lives. She finished, “I wanted him to come join me on the kibbutz. I wanted him to lead it with me. I wanted . . .”
Rhana nodded slowly. She knew all there was to know about impossible desires. “His answer was no.”
“Only after he had prayed about it for almost six months,” Kitra corrected. “He felt God telling him to stay in America. As soon as he told me, I knew he was right. He is a patriot and a warrior. I could not ask him to simply give up his life’s direction and join me.”
“And you would not leave Israel?”
She shook her head. And yet Rhana detected a faint hint of doubt in her next words. “My brother and I lead the kibbutz my father founded. Our goal is to grant Jewish followers of Jesus a haven in a country where they are not welcome.”
Rhana could tell this discussion interested the guard and the driver far more than was proper. But she could not bring herself to scold them. Which surprised her, in a mild and secret manner. For she had become very adept at keeping employees in their place. And yet these two men were far more than that. They were representatives of her ally, Amin Hedayat, the honest guide. They shared her heritage. What was more, they shared this young woman’s faith in Jesus. Rhana decided to allow the two to listen and asked, “So what happened?”
“Last night Marc suggested we pray together and ask for direction. I expected . . .” She smoothed the purse in her lap. “I was half hoping it would prove false. That he was hiding his own desires behind this claim to faith. I was wrong. And it shames me that I thought as I did.”
Rhana turned and stared. She was unaccustomed to this kind of transparency. It was not just the discussion of faith that felt so alien. No, it was Kitra’s honesty.
Kitra continued, “Marc started with a Bible verse. Something to surround and structure the time. Then he asked me to say what I wanted most from life. Then he prayed for me. To have what I wanted. Even when it meant we would never be together, never have a future. He prayed for me.”
Rhana nodded as though she understood and faced the fr
ont. The driver had shifted the rearview mirror so he could see Kitra. Rhana did not say anything. She understood their bewilderment. She felt it herself.
Rhana tried to tell herself that she had endured far more than this young woman could ever fathom. Rhana had herself been repeatedly wounded by life. She had been taught to trust no one, and now that included God. Her only way to punish God for all life’s unfairness was to banish him. Politely. With elegant disdain. And in his stead, allow revenge to consume her.
She glanced over and realized the young woman was crying. Rhana opened her purse and offered a tissue. When Kitra did not see it, she pressed it into Kitra’s hands. The connection was like an emotional fission. Rhana could not recall the last time she had permitted herself to have real feelings, real joy, real love, even real sorrow. She stared out the side window and tried to bring up the faces of those she had lost. The reasons for her lifetime quest for revenge. The hardened glass reflected nothing but the hollowness behind her gaze.
The guard cleared his throat. “Forgive me, mistress. But the passage of the Bible. The one your friend spoke of this morning. What was it, please?”
Kitra used the tissue to dab at her eyes, trying to keep the liner from smearing. “Something about mysteries and kings.”
The guard and the driver switched to Farsi and spoke softly. The driver said, “Proverbs, no?”
“Yes.”
The guard said, “The twenty-fifth chapter. The power of God to conceal, the power of man to discover.”
The driver nodded. “It is a good verse for us and for our quest.”
Rhana found it necessary to fumble with the clasp to her purse and draw out a second tissue. There was no reason why the words of two guards should affect her so.
Chapter Twenty
As they pulled up in front of the gallery, the guard’s phone rang. He answered, listened briefly, then halted the driver from opening his door. Rhana demanded, “What is it?”
The guard lifted his hand. “One moment, please, mistress.”
Then he rose from the car and held his door while Marc slipped into the guard’s seat. The guard shut the door and stood sentry. Marc turned around and said, “We have an idea.”