by Davis Bunn
“You or the Swiss agent?” Rhana asked.
“Both of us, and our ally in the United States.”
Kitra gave her first smile of the day. “Which means it is Marc’s idea, and the others agree. He dislikes taking credit.”
Marc asked Rhana, “When are you expected to transfer the money to Hesam’s account?”
“This morning as soon as the banks open. Why?”
Marc sketched out what he had in mind. But by the time he finished, Rhana felt the day had congealed into a solid lump of ice inside her. As though she could glimpse her demise lurking out there, beyond the sunlit city, hidden in shadows only she could see.
Then she felt something, and looked down to discover that Kitra had reached over and taken hold of her hand. She saw in those lovely features the same caring depths as she had heard in her description of the morning.
Rhana heard herself say, “I will do this thing.”
Hesam al-Farouz parked a block and a half from the Pakistan Embassy, still smarting from the debacle at the gallery in Geneva. He loathed how he had been forced to flee on foot through the night, hiding like a refugee in the alley, skulking back to the main road, splitting from his men, flagging a taxi, watching every passing car in fear. The recollection burned like bile all through his abdomen and chest.
He sat waiting for the call from the Geneva banker, who was late. The banker had been given specific instructions to phone him precisely at nine. There were a dozen events that needed to take place in precise order. Beginning with this contact. The diplomat Hesam was meeting inside the Pakistan Embassy was nervous. The diplomat expected Hesam to soothe his nerves with a massive dose of ready cash. Which meant the banker’s call was more than vital. It was the first step to victory.
The term Aryan came from Sanskrit, the oldest language still in use and from which the Farsi tongue was derived. This was completely different from the Arabic language, which was drawn from the same roots as Hebrew, the vile tongue of Persia’s greatest enemy. Some of course would claim America held that spot, but in the view of many Persians, including Hesam, there was no difference between the two. Those nations marched in lockstep. To destroy one was to strike a killing blow to both. And that was precisely what Hesam intended.
The original meaning of Aryan was noble race. The Greek word aristos derived from Aryan, and from this came aristocracy, referring to the upper class, the rulers, the elite. Aryan was also the root from which Iran was formed. A noble race that ruled a noble country. The elite of the world. The unspoken element to this term was that anyone who was non-Aryan was beneath notice, contemptible, created to serve the master race. Non-Aryans who disobeyed direct orders were to be punished with the utmost savagery. Just as he intended to do to this pesky banker, who was now twelve minutes late.
As if responding to Hesam’s rising irritation, his phone rang. Hesam punched the connection and declared, “I despise tardiness.”
“My sincere apologies, Mr. al-Farouz.”
“You are Swiss. You are paid to be punctual.”
“There was nothing I could do about the matter, I’m afraid. I can only offer you my earnest regret.”
But the man did not sound at all sorry. If anything, his demeanor was indifferent. Hesam demanded, “You were to confirm the transfer of one hundred and fifty million dollars to my account.”
“But it has not occurred, sir.”
“Repeat that.”
“No transfer of any funds has come through,” the banker replied. “Because you were so certain, I called my associate at the bank in question. He reports that he has been instructed not to release a single penny.”
“But I spoke with the account holder yesterday! She confirmed that the transfer would be made!”
“Perhaps so. I am unable to confirm any of this. All my associate at the other bank would tell me was, the account holder has placed a stay upon all transfers.”
“What?”
“I too thought there might have been a mistake. At my request, the banker tried to contact his client. To no avail.”
“Stay where you are.”
“Naturally, sir. I am here until precisely five o’clock every—”
Hesam cut the connection and roared at the busy street, “I will murder that woman!”
He took a breath, another, then decided, no. That was not it at all. First he would crush Rhana’s spirit. He would make her beg for death. Then and only then would he end her life.
Rhana was ready when the call came. She had sensed an inevitability behind Marc’s words, as though his request had carried a hint of her own fate. All last night Rhana had lain awake and thought of how danger and even revenge had lost their appeal. She was so close to fulfilling her life’s ultimate aim, and yet life itself no longer held any interest.
Rhana let Hesam scream at her in Farsi for a minute or so, then said, “Be quiet.”
Hesam cut off. “How dare you—?’’
“No, Hesam. How dare you? How dare you fail again. How dare you threaten me. After everything I have done, fulfilled your every wish. Last night you meet me in public, and you say you are going to punish me?”
“You have no idea what I am capable of. Yet. But you will. Very soon. I promise—”
“Oh, stop with your empty promises and your failures. Now you will listen to what I have done. I have written out everything I know about you and your organization and your plans. This morning I gave a sealed copy to my attorney. I have left another copy in the care of my bankers. And both have instructions to pass the information along to the CIA, to Mossad, to FIS, the instant I go missing, or die. If I am struck by a car, the information goes out. If I am struck by lightning. If a whirlwind lifts me from the face of the earth, it all goes public. Everything.”
“You do not know everything.”
“But I know enough, don’t I?” Her voice was calm. Flat. She had practiced for this conversation all her adult life. Every negotiation to acquire a work of art, every attempt made by buyer and seller alike to wrest away her profit, it all came down to this. Facing death, and speaking with the calmness she would use to order her next meal. “I know enough to bring you down. Or at least to slow you down. Which would be the end of you as well. Wouldn’t it, Hesam?”
“You talk nonsense.”
“Do I? I know you urgently needed a hundred million dollars. Such an immense sum at such short notice must mean you have something truly enormous in the works. Something vital to your master plan. But you could no longer trust Sylvan. Because of his gambling and his debts and his forgeries, you knew he was a risk, you suspected he might sell your plans to the highest bidder. Is this correct so far, Hesam?”
The man did not respond.
“So you came to me. Your secret source. The one you used sparingly, the one you could always trust to be there for you, to be discreet. You off-loaded an entire gallery of stolen goods, and you demanded immediate payment of a hundred million dollars. Money you could get through no other source, because of the Americans and their choke hold on the Persian economy. And I succeeded. How am I doing, Hesam?”
The man was silent.
“So I supply you with the funds, and I give you a place and a time where you can wipe out all the loose ends. But you failed, didn’t you, Hesam? Not me. I succeeded at everything. You failed. But you couldn’t accept that. So you blamed me. And you threatened me with punishment. And then you failed again.”
His voice was drawn low by the effort required to hold back. “I will not fail the next time.”
“There will be no next time, Hesam. I hope you are listening very carefully. Because if you dare threaten me with anything, I will go public. If I have to walk through life looking over my shoulder, why not do what I can to exact a price? At least I will have the pleasure of taking you down. Which I will. Because we both know that I do not fail.”
The breathing was as ragged as the words, “What do you want?”
“Three things. First, you give me y
our solemn oath that you will never threaten me in any way, ever again.”
A silence, then, “Agreed.”
“Second, from now on you will treat me as the equal that I am, with the respect and admiration I deserve. You will not order. You will request.”
The silence was longer still. “And the third?”
“Yes or no, Hesam?”
“Very well. Yes. As an equal. With respect.” The effort required to speak the words ground his voice to shreds.
“Now for the third item. My commission. I will have it. Every dollar. Fifty million. It is mine. And you will never seek to take what is mine, what I have earned, again.”
This caused the longest silence of all, followed finally by, “Release the funds.”
Rhana phoned her banker and confirmed that the account could be unfrozen and a hundred million dollars transferred to the Geneva account. The sum, she said, was correct. No, not the hundred fifty as initially instructed. One hundred million only. She would call later with instructions for the other fifty. She cut the connection. It required utmost concentration to fit her shaking finger onto the proper button. She found it harder still to draw a full breath.
Bernard Behlet now sat beside Marc in the front seat while the driver and guard stood duty on the sidewalk fronting the gallery. The Swiss agent said, “That was excellent work, Madame Mandana.”
Marc asked Bernard, “You speak Persian?”
“The correct term is Farsi. And the answer is, not nearly well enough.”
Kitra did not speak. But she reached over and took hold of Rhana’s hand. And sat there beside her, offering far more than words ever could.
Rhana’s cellphone was connected via Bluetooth to the speaker system of the Mercedes. The Swiss agent’s phone was open on the central console, connecting them to the bedside of Inspector Reynard, who maintained his point position with the Geneva Police.
Marc raised his voice and demanded, “Ambassador Walton, did you get that?”
“Loud and clear. Hold, please.” There was a silence, then, “We have a confirmation that our code is embedded in Hesam al-Farouz’s phone. Even if he turns off his phone, unless he takes out the battery, it will continue to serve as our monitor and GPS. He is on a street in Bern.” There was another pause, then the ambassador continued, “Our man has received a call from a bank in Geneva. The banker has confirmed that a transfer has been effected. One hundred mil.”
More silence, punctured by the ambassador’s labored breathing. Then, “Hesam al-Farouz has just entered the Pakistan Embassy.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I despise the Swiss,” the Pakistani diplomat declared. “They dress their world in cleanliness and smugness and superiority. But underneath their fine clothes and their arrogant talk, they are corrupt. They only hide it better.”
Hesam al-Farouz flicked the dregs of his tea over the edge of the embassy’s flat roof. He needed the diplomat too much to point out the absurdity of complaining about Swiss corruption when Hesam was here to deliver a massive bribe.
“I particularly despise Bern,” the diplomat went on. “It defines boredom. The stench of cleaning fluid and smugness follows me everywhere. I was delighted to see them scurry about in fear after you bombed the gallery in Geneva. It was a proper blow for us all. Delighted.”
They were seated in plastic chairs so overused the legs splayed like weary fat men. The plastic tabletop between them was supported by rusting metal legs. They were surrounded by a sea of satellite dishes and microwave antennae. A dingy cupboard held an electric kettle and an assortment of mismatched tea glasses, a jar of sugar cubes, and another of teabags. Hesam let the Pakistani man drone on about what a great moment this was, how wonderful to strike a blow against the West, on and on. The man loved the sound of his own voice. It was his only weapon. All oily talk and squabble and wasted actions.
But Hesam had years of experience at biding his time. He had endured endless hours of imams brooding and arguing. He considered most of Iran’s religious leaders to be ridiculous. But he kept his sentiments hidden far down, in the secret recesses that every Persian was born with. The gift of selling lies as truth was never so important as now.
So Hesam fitted his face with a polite mask and let his thoughts roam over the havoc he intended to wreak upon that diabolical woman. The very instant this mission was successfully completed.
The Pakistani invaded his thoughts by placing a hand on his shoulder. “It is an honor and a delight to assist you in this great task. We are all brothers in the battle, yes?”
“Indeed so.” Hesam knew his expression was as sincere as his voice. The life of sincerity was how he had managed to survive the years of serving the imams and enduring their endless drivel. But deep down in his heart, he boiled. To have this flunky official of a failed state call him brother was the worst of insults. “I would have it no other way.”
“Thanks to Agent Behlet, the Swiss authorities report that we have movement on the account.” Walton’s wheeze had grown worse in the passing half hour. His labored breathing followed every word over the car’s central speakers. The vehicle held Bernard, Kitra, Rhana, and Marc. The guards remained stationed outside. “A hundred million has been transferred into the Geneva accounts of one Helmut Schmidt. I think we can all assume they don’t belong to the former leader of West Germany. The funds were then split into seven blocks of ten million dollars, and one of thirty. All have been dispersed into numbered accounts around the globe. Luxembourg, Singapore, Guernsey, Liechtenstein. Our money trail goes cold there. It would take years to ferret out who owns those accounts. If ever.”
“Where is Hesam?” Marc asked.
“Still in the Pakistan Embassy. The Swiss have forwarded a video link. I’m looking at him and a senior consular official seated at a rooftop table, drinking tea.”
“Can we hear what they’re saying?”
“Negative. They are surrounded by a battery of antennae. It’s a perfect location for a private little chat. The microwave transmissions cut our ability to link up from any angle, including a drone.”
“I don’t understand,” Bernard said. “Why would they hold their conference out in the open?”
“That is simple enough,” Rhana answered. “To be seen.”
Bernard frowned. “But why?”
Marc pondered that. His cellphone was connected to the Mercedes radio by Bluetooth. He asked Walton, “Any chance our missing containers have been transshipped to Pakistan?”
“Most certainly. Our senior decision makers are fixated on Pakistan’s involvement in preparing a dirty bomb. I am concerned over their single-minded focus. What has me awake and sweating at night is the risk that they’re wrong.”
“What do you want from us?”
“Concrete intel. A clear answer to the key question.” Walton’s words sounded almost strangled. “Intel. Evidence.”
“We’re on it,” Marc replied, though he had no idea how.
“And fast. We are down to seventy-two hours. The warships are now moving into position.” A muffled voice drifted over the loudspeakers. Walton said, “Hold one.”
They waited in tense silence until the intel chief came back on the line. “Hesam al-Farouz has left the embassy. We are tracking his vehicle.”
“He was waiting for something,” Marc said. “Confirmation that an event has taken place. Something big enough to justify a ten-million-dollar bribe.”
“I agree,” Walton said.
“Can you see if a ship has left a Pakistani harbor in the past few minutes?”
“We have been monitoring all shipments to and from Pakistan’s ports since Hesam stepped inside the embassy. One container vessel just slipped from its moorings, next port of call . . .”
There was the soft muttering of numerous voices, then, “No dice. Rio.” Walton coughed hard. “I’m due at a White House briefing.”
Marc cut the connection. And sat there. Thinking.
Finally Kitra asked, “What do we
do now?”
Marc saw no reason not to give them the truth, which was, “I don’t know.”
Everything went silent. The two women and Bernard retreated to Kitra’s suite and ordered room service. The balcony doors were open to a beautiful afternoon.
At three thirty, Marc joined them to report on a call from some White House assistant, who informed them that Hesam al-Farouz had returned to Geneva, where he had spent ten minutes in yet another faceless private bank, then driven to the airport where he boarded a private jet, the manifest claiming it was headed for the Paris Roissy Airport.
At four, Bernard left to pay the injured inspector a visit. At four thirty, Rhana requested tea, which she drank seated in a high-backed chair that took on the aura of a throne as she gazed out the doors into the setting sun. At five, they received a call from her friend Amin Hedayat, who was downstairs and asked if he might come up. Three minutes later he knocked on the door and joined Rhana for tea. It was all very calm, very civilized, at least on the surface. Marc sat at the parlor table and resisted the urge to pace. This was the worst part of his job, the moments of sheer helplessness when boredom was only heightened by the ticking clock.
Ten minutes after Amin’s arrival, everything changed.
Three phone calls came through simultaneously. Amin’s cellphone might have rung half a second before Marc’s. “This is Royce.”
A deep, grating voice said, “This is Admiral Willits. We spoke soon after you blew up half of the Geneva lakefront. Remember?”
Marc knew there was nothing to be gained from pointing out that he had been the victim of that blast, not the cause. “You’re head of DOD intel?”
“One of them. All right. Here’s how it’s going to play. You are hereby ordered to stand down. Do not, I repeat, do not engage in further actions of any kind. Send your lady friend back to her desert kibbutz. You will return to the U.S. immediately. That is an order.”
Marc heard another phone begin to ring. Across the room, Kitra fumbled in her purse, saw the readout, frowned, and carried her cell out onto the balcony. Marc said, “Admiral, we have clear evidence—”