by Davis Bunn
“I’m not interested in what you may or may not think you know, Royce. I am telling you how it is. The man you were tracking, Hesam al-Farouz, has cleared customs at the Paris Airport and is boarding a flight for Abu Dhabi. Your high jinks have done nothing but endanger lives and property. Your remit is suspended. Permanently.”
Marc watched as Amin set down his phone and stared across the room. Straight into Marc’s eyes. Marc said into his phone, “Abu Dhabi would serve as a perfect gateway to the Iranian ports, sir.”
“We’re all over that.” The man’s tone carried the deep resonance of a long-ingrained command. “We’ve completed a full work-up on al-Farouz. He’s a rising star in their nuclear program. Which is all the confirmation we require.”
“Sir, with all due respect, continuing the hunt at this end—”
“Would only risk clouding the picture. Brains a great deal sharper than yours, and who are authorized, are taking care of this as we speak. We’ve wasted valuable time chasing our tails here. There are nukes on the high seas. We’re going to board all suspect vessels entering the Strait and eliminate this threat to our nation.”
The admiral was as one-track as every other senior defense intel officer Marc had ever known. Willits had his sights on the target. With officers like him, evidence played less of a role than his own conviction. The man had identified his enemy and was looking for a reason to take him out.
Marc nonetheless felt a need to say, “Sir, evidence suggests the funds we’ve been tracking are playing a significant role—”
“Royce, I am ordering you to stand down. In my book, that means you zip it tight. You’re on your way back home when this conversation ends. You lay low. You hope against hope that we don’t find a reason to lock you away.”
“Sir, I was sent into the field by Ambassador Walton. He would need to issue my return orders.”
“Walton is out of the picture.”
“Sir, he is the only one authorized to order me anywhere.”
The man gave two quick grunts. “We’ll see about that.”
As Marc ended the call, Kitra reentered the room, her expression one of worry. Marc quickly asked, “Problem?”
She looked over without really seeing him. “My brother says I need to return to the kibbutz. There’s a problem at the plant.”
“Maybe you should go.”
She gradually drew him into focus. “What is it, Marc?”
“Washington wants to shut us down.”
“But why?”
“They’re totally focused on a nuclear threat riding the high seas. They’re readying for the attack.” Marc relayed the conversation. He knew he was breaking protocol. As far as the admiral was concerned, Amin belonged well inside the enemy camp.
The man summed it up. “The admiral considers you to be nothing more than a distraction.”
“I don’t understand.” Kitra looked from one to the other. “With Hesam gone, what good can we do now?”
“None at all.” Rhana rubbed a weak hand across her forehead. “I have put my life on the line. I have prodded the tiger with a blunt spear. And for what?”
Amin rose from his seat. “All is not lost.”
Rhana looked at him. “I have signed my own death sentence.”
“Not necessarily.”
“He will achieve his deadly aim, this Hesam. And then he will come for me.”
“We must stop him,” Marc said, watching Amin.
“How?” Rhana asked, her voice catching.
Amin said to Marc, “My associates told me of Ms. Korban’s conversation with you this morning. Of how you meet together and pray. Of the passage in Scripture that you found. They were very moved.”
“Where are we going?” Marc asked.
“A place that may hold the answers we require.” Amin gestured to the door. “Come. You will see.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
They drove along the lake and entered France by the Divonne border, joining a line of elegant vehicles—Rolls and Maseratis and Daimlers and Porsches all headed for the palatial casino, the surrounding bars, dance clubs, and restaurants. Then Amin’s car ahead of them turned to the right and wound through an industrial zone, finally entering a slum. The markets and the shop fronts turned tawdry, the people not so much furtive as bowed. The eyes that glanced their way were mostly dark and very angry. And why not? They rode in a pair of armored Mercedes, the vehicle of oppressors everywhere.
Amin pulled up in front of a nondescript apartment building. Three dark-suited men stepped across the sidewalk. Two opened the doors while the eldest waited for Amin to rise from the lead car. They embraced in the manner of Middle Easterners, smiling as they met each other’s gaze, speaking softly for a moment, Amin touching the spot by his heart before turning it into a gesture that encompassed everyone rising from the cars. The elder responded with a smile that Marc found almost moving, a gentle reminder that here in this one corner of a French slum, there was hope. There was light.
Amin escorted the older man to each person in turn. When they came to Marc, he turned to Amin and asked in English, “This is the American of whom you spoke?”
“His name is Marc Royce,” Amin said. “Mr. Royce, this is the elder Mina. From Cairo.”
“A very long time ago.” The man spoke with a distinct American accent, overlaid by his strong Arab roots. “I hear from my brothers that you and this lovely lady know a time of study and prayer, morning and evening.”
“To seek God’s will,” Marc confirmed.
“Then you will please come.” The elder gestured to where a fourth man held open the door. He scanned the dusk in every direction. “Let us seek and pray as one. You are all welcome.”
The third floor held three apartment doors. There was no name on the doors, nothing to suggest anything other than families residing within. Once inside, Marc saw how most of the interior walls had been knocked down. A very large room ran the entire length of the building. In the back was a small alcove holding a crèche, with several chambers for a kitchen, a narrow dining hall, and three offices. At the front of the main hall was a small dais, and on it was a podium, a table, and on the front wall a carved wooden cross.
Amin led them through rows of folding chairs toward seats near the front. As they settled, many questioning glances were cast their way. But the looks did not carry any hostility that Marc could tell. No doubt the attendees were simply being cautious. It was ingrained, probably a response that greeted every stranger who joined them. Amin said to Marc, “The apartments above and below us are occupied by members of this community. The windows have been replaced by reinforced glass. The other rooms stand between this hall and all the entrances.”
“You’re saying we can’t be overheard,” Marc replied.
“What I am saying, Agent Royce, is that all these precautions were taken for a very specific reason. Now I ask that you take a look around and tell me what you see.”
Marc turned in his chair and inspected the gradually filling hall. He was still searching when Kitra said quietly, “They are from many different cultures.”
“Very good, Ms. Korban. You are correct. What you see here is an impossibility. We are Kurds. We are Turks. We are Syrian and Lebanese and Ethiopians and Iraqi. We are Persians.”
“And enemies.”
“We were enemies. Our countries still are. In many cases, so are our tribes, even our families. Sworn to carry the burden of hate for all our lives, and then pass the weight to the next generation.” His dark gaze flickered to Rhana, then away. “You know what has happened here, yes?”
“Jesus,” Marc said.
“The gift of salvation carries a very special significance to such as these. They have spent their entire lives learning to hate, to seek revenge, to fight and die for a cause they often cannot even name.” Amin pointed to the rear of the room. “Look there.”
Seven Westerners had entered and were swiftly enveloped by a cluster of well-wishers. The four women all hid thei
r hair beneath colorful scarves. Marc asked, “Missionaries?”
“Only if they are approved by this group. They come here for a year. They are housed with families from the cultures where they intend to live. They learn the language and the customs. They are anointed and prayed over. Then if they are deemed worthy, they are sent on their way.”
“Where?”
“That is a question we never ask. Not even the families with whom they live. It is safest that way. Especially for them.”
“I understand.”
“Many of the people you see here have lost everything. Some are still hunted by their clans. If they are found, they will be taken back, and for most that would mean their end.” Amin settled back as the elder approached the podium. “We will talk later, yes?”
The elder greeted them in a rainbow of tongues. The words in English were clear enough: The blessings of Jesus upon you and yours. Then he began to pray, switching back and forth seamlessly between the languages. This was followed by a swift homily, and then one of the missionaries was invited forward. The elder explained that the young woman would soon be leaving them, to go and serve. The family with whom she had lived for a year was brought forward, as were the church deacons. They placed hands on the young woman and they prayed. Marc studied the faces of those standing and kneeling on the dais. He saw the intensity, the concern, the tears, and the determination. He closed his eyes and prayed with them.
When the group at the front dispersed, the elder motioned toward Marc. “We have several honored guests with us tonight, one visiting from America.”
At a signal from Amin, Marc rose and walked to the dais. The elder asked, first in English, then the other tongues, “Where are you from, Marc Royce?”
“Baltimore.”
“And you travel a great deal with your work, yes? Where have you been recently?”
“Kenya. Before then, Baghdad.”
“You have visited with communities of the faithful in both places, yes?” The elder gestured toward the podium. “Please. Come and tell us what you have learned. Speak with us of your faith. Let us hear where you stand. What issues you find before you this day. Let us see your heart.”
Marc stared out over the gathering for a time, before allowing his gaze to rest upon Kitra. And in that moment he knew what he needed to say. “There is a word I hear in many churches these days. That word is discipleship. It is something I have studied, and something I thought I understood. But until this week, I do not think I ever truly lived the word. Now I feel as though I have only glimpsed one tiny fraction of what discipleship truly means.”
He waited for the elder, then Amin, to translate, and continued, “There is no single meaning to discipleship. There is no single lesson. It is a series of stages that I must go through for the rest of my life. How can I love better, serve better, and understand more? How can I grow in wisdom, help others, give more?”
The elder translated, then said, “And now, my brother—you do not mind if I call you that, yes? For I feel a kinship between us. You and I, we are both seekers of truth. Tell us, my brother, what lesson are you now facing on the path of discipleship?”
“I must learn to follow Jesus even when it is painful to do so,” Marc replied.
The murmur among the congregation started before the translations were complete. Marc went on, “I have spent my entire adult life training to be a warrior. To analyze and fight and succeed. To control risk and battle danger. And yet there comes a moment when I must go against my training. When I must accept that events are not to be fought against, but rather accepted in prayer. That at such times I cannot retreat into the safety of coldness and anger and still remain a faithful servant.” He waited for the elder and Amin to translate, then finished, “There is no harder lesson for me to learn than to recognize the moment when I am called to be weak.”
The group was quiet for a long moment, then several began to nod, to whisper to each other.
The meeting was followed by a meal, when any number of people came over and thanked Marc in a myriad of tongues. There was another time of prayer and singing, and afterward they departed, slowly, reluctantly, until the hall had emptied.
Nine of them gathered in the elder’s office. He made tea and served them by his own hand. When all held a steaming tulip glass and the room was filled with the fragrance of boiled mint, he said to Marc, “I thank you for the gift of your thoughts put into words.”
“It was an honor to be asked.”
“We have seen into your heart, Marc Royce. We have glimpsed the soul of a brother in Christ.” The elder paused to sip noisily from his glass. “Now tell us how we can help you in this hour of weakness.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
That night Marc slept in snatches. He woke countless times, hoping against hope that Amin would call and report the impossible. That the fragmented clans, the secret connections, the unnamed allies had come up with the news he needed. Either that, or Walton would phone him and say all was well, stay where he was, do the work, complete his assignment.
Finally in the predawn gloom he rose and went down to the hotel gym. He attacked the weights and the heavy bag with a ferocity fueled by grim desperation. He returned to his room in the gray light of a windswept dawn. Rain rattled the window as he showered and dressed. Knowing all the while he was just marking time.
He phoned the three numbers he had for Walton, his home and office and cell. He left messages in all three places, not bothering to hide his anxiety.
As Marc finished dressing, the hotel phone rang. There was a bleak mockery to the sound, for he assumed it would be Kitra. Telling him it was time to meet. Marking the start of another day, the one that would probably tear them apart, wreck the myth of their being together, even in prayer. She would leave when he did, return to the kibbutz, resume her life, and meet a man . . .
His hand remained poised over the phone, halted by a sudden thought. Why didn’t he simply go? What was keeping him? Loyalty to a man who wasn’t there when Marc needed him most? Allegiance to a cause? How was that possible, when a superior officer had said his work was useless and he had nothing of value to offer?
The phone stopped ringing. Marc remained where he was, his hand holding empty air. Kitra would accept him with open arms. She needed him. What held him back?
The answer was there as well. Dismal as it might seem on this rainy morning. He was that most unfashionable and outdated of souls, a patriot. Even when he was excluded from the fight. Even when he had nothing of value to offer anyone. He remained at his core a man who would lay his life down. Not for Israel. For America.
The phone rang again. Marc picked it up and said, perhaps for the last time, “Good morning, Kitra.”
“Hello, Marc. How did you sleep?”
“Not well. You?”
“The same. I have just received a call from Rhana. She is downstairs and wants to join us in our prayer time.” When he remained silent, she added, “I hope I did right, telling her of our meeting.”
“Yes. Of course.” But he had no interest in sharing his time with Kitra. Even so, he could think of no good reason to refuse. “Tell Rhana she is welcome.” As he started to hang up, he heard Kitra call his name. “Yes?”
“There’s something else,” she told him. “Amin is with her.”
Rhana had no idea why she had come. She did not regret her decision so much as loathe her own need. And that was what had driven her to rise the hour before dawn. To her surprise, she found Amin in the hotel lobby, apparently drawn by the same remarkable desire. To join with two Westerners they hardly knew. And pray. Something Rhana had not done in years.
Rhana and Amin were welcomed by Kitra. Rhana was offered the nicest chair facing the parlor’s rain-streaked French doors and the gray morning light. Marc arrived and helped Kitra serve them coffee. Then Marc began, “Last night I learned that my closest ally in the intelligence field is gravely ill. You heard him on the phone yesterday. His name is Walton. I’ve alway
s had trouble calling him my friend, because when I was at my lowest, he fired me. But I know now that this is who Walton is. He is defined by his work and his mission. He has sacrificed men to the cause before, and he did it again with me. He never apologized for his action, and now I understand why. He did what he had to do. Only it may be too late for me to tell him . . .”
Rhana turned her face away. Marc’s raw honesty threatened her. He represented everything she had drifted from. Everything she was not. Everything that had frayed her night, drawn her to this place, almost against her will.
She turned her gaze to the French doors. She had stared at her lifeless reflection in the glass of her own room most of the night. It seemed but a faint tracing of all she had once been. Of course she had come and joined them this morning. What choice did she have?
Marc went on, “Towards dawn I was hit by something I’ve been avoiding. What am I going to do when Walton is gone? I’m not in, and I’m not out. But the truth is, I love this situation. I was born for this. I am an outsider to my core.”
Many of the events that had scarred Rhana were the fault of others. But it did not change her mistakes. It did not excuse her choices, so many of which had been self-serving and wrong.
Marc Royce sat across the low table from her, his strong shoulders bowed. Kitra Korban sat closest to the balcony doors, her face creased by sorrow and regret. They were caught up in forces beyond their control. They were not merely sad, they were wounded. Just like she was. And yet they did not use these torments as a reason to turn from God. Just the opposite. They were seeking him. They prayed to know his will.
Marc said, “I know this is not what we’re supposed to be talking about. I should—”
Kitra interrupted, “This is exactly what we are here to discuss.”
“We were going to ask about God’s will.”
“Which is precisely what you are doing. Your world is in upheaval. You have been ordered home. You feel called to stay. You have a job to do. Even when no one wants your help. And the man you feel closest to professionally is gone. You are alone.” Her voice seemed wrenched by Marc’s pain. “We have come back to the same issue. Only from a different direction.”