by Davis Bunn
Marc nodded slowly. Taking in her words. “Do you have anything further to add?”
“Not today. I have nothing to say about myself.” She waved it off. “Finish with your thoughts.”
“I’ve finished. You said it all. I am in desperate need of God’s guidance.”
Amin spoke for the first time that morning. “As are we all.”
Rhana opened her mouth, but it was as if the words were denied her. The thought took shape in her mind, I want to confess. But where to begin? How she had spent an entire life using her losses as an excuse for self-indulgence? How she had defined herself by luxury, surrounded herself with every conceivable extravagance. She had claimed it was all for revenge, for this one moment when she could treat her enemies as she and her family had been treated. And for what? So she could gather in a ratty third-floor apartment in a Divonne slum, surrounded by Christian outcasts from all over the Muslim world, and know that they were the rich and she the one who had nothing?
Marc said into the silence, “I suggest we pray. I’ll start. Anyone who wishes is welcome to speak.”
In the end, though, his was the only voice. Why neither Kitra nor Amin prayed, Rhana did not know. She could scarcely make out a single word that Marc said. For as she shut her eyes, Rhana found herself filled with an all-consuming fear. That she had left it too long. That she had taken it too far. That she was lost. That there was nothing for her but to continue down the opulent road she had set for herself, until it ended in a gilded tomb—or merely an undiscovered body. Forlorn, abandoned, and unsung.
Marc gave the silence a few beats, then spoke the Amen and everyone lifted their heads. But Marc continued to study his hands. Rhana inspected him. Everything about Marc Royce was strong and hard, except for his eyes and his voice. Marc Royce was not built with the perfect angles of a gym rat. He was hard because his work required it. He treated his body as an instrument that could be applied to a particular task. She admired him. What was more, she trusted him. She wanted to open up to this Westerner and confess just how lonely and frightened and empty she felt, how much she longed for what he had—the ability to remain open and vulnerable and caring. Even when it hurt, even when . . .
Amin broke into her thoughts, asking Marc, “Why are you still here?”
“My job isn’t done.”
“But if you stay, you endanger your career. You risk losing any chance of returning to the intelligence services. You make enemies you cannot afford.”
“It’s what I’ve been wrestling with all night.” Marc’s voice was so low his words were almost lost to the rain. “But my job here is not done.”
“What, then, is your job?”
“The same as it has always been. To protect the innocents. To serve my country.”
Kitra’s slight gasp was the sound of a woman on the verge of a sob. Marc lifted his head finally, revealing the depth of his pain. Rhana could see how much he loved Kitra, and yet knew he accepted the loss of her. He prayed not for what was denied, but rather for wisdom. Rhana had never felt more ashamed.
Marc forced his gaze back to Amin. “Say I go home. They close the Strait, they invoke an act of war, they make their assault. Then the Iranians still manage a successful assault. From a different angle. And say I am proven right. If there is even a shred of hope that I might have prevented it, how would I live with myself?”
Rhana kept her gaze upon Kitra. The young woman stared across the parlor, seeing nothing. Her eyes blinked and blinked, as though struggling to clear away the interior reality that attempted to blind her. Rhana knew exactly how she felt.
Amin said to Marc, “Do you recall what you asked of the elder last night?”
“Of course.”
“Remind us. Please.”
“I asked for cold, hard evidence of what is inside those North Korean containers, and confirmation of where they are headed. We need to obtain a clearer sense of who our enemy really is. What is Hesam al-Farouz’s role in all this? Washington is sold on him being tied to Iran’s secret nuclear program. Is that true, and if it is, is that the only truth? We need to assume Washington has the nuclear side down cold. The question is, what else is there? In taking their single-minded approach, what could they be missing?”
“Your questions are good ones,” Amin said and rose from his chair. “Come, let us see if we can find some answers.”
They left the hotel together, Amin ushering them into one Mercedes, the second one following. Marc sat with Kitra and Rhana in the back, Amin up front with the driver.
Rhana said, “What possible good does it do us to be crammed into this one vehicle?”
“Patience,” Amin replied.
Marc guessed, “We’re being followed?”
“So it appears,” Amin said. “We will soon know.”
They joined the early rush of traffic headed toward the industrial zones beyond the airport and the UN district. Amin lifted his phone, spoke briefly, then nodded to the driver and said a single word, which Rhana translated as “Now.”
They turned into a narrow cobblestone lane. The second Mercedes swung wide, which required it to reverse in order to take the corner. Horns blared and brakes squealed. Their own vehicle exited the lane and rejoined the flow, now moving back toward the lake. Two blocks later, their Mercedes pulled to the curb. Amin said, “Everybody out, please, and swiftly.”
An SUV taxi halted in front of their parked vehicle. Two men and two women climbed out and wordlessly took their places in the Mercedes. Amin gestured his group into the taxi. Fifteen seconds later they were off again.
Geneva’s high-rent commercial district was at the tip of the lake, where the Rhone flowed out and meandered back through the city and finally entered France. A series of medieval bridges crisscrossed the three outgoing flows, creating fanciful islands that once had housed the guilds and the royal palaces.
They halted before a building whose ancient stone walls had been hollowed out and rebuilt to house one of the city’s many private banks. They followed Amin to a side portal. He spoke into the intercom, and they were admitted by a burly guard. As they waited for the man to call ahead, Amin explained, “This is the unseen face of Swiss banking, the door that only opens to the wealthiest of clients.”
An elevator silently took them up several floors. As they entered a penthouse office suite, Marc’s phone rang. He checked the readout and said, “It’s Bernard.”
The Swiss agent greeted him with, “I am at the hotel. You are not.”
“We got called away to an early meeting.”
“And you did not wait for me.”
“No time. We’re being tracked.” Marc described Amin’s strategy for freeing them from their tail. “Can you help?”
“Most certainly.” Bernard surprised him by chuckling. “My nose is itching. My nose rarely itches. It waits for moments when I sense my team stands on the verge of something big. Let me speak with Amin so we can arrange for the trackers to be tracked.”
As Amin finished speaking with the Swiss agent, a secretary ushered them into a vast corner office. One set of windows overlooked the lake turned slate gray by the weather, another showed the Parc des Eaux Vives, the most exclusive residential area of this opulent city. The gilded ceiling held three crystal chandeliers. The carpets were silk. Rhana took a long moment to inspect the three oils, none of which Marc recognized, but when she finally allowed their host to usher her into a seat, she declared, “Monsieur has exquisite taste.”
“And you, Madame Mandana, have been known to me for years as a purveyor of only the finest and most exquisite of works.” He was as refined an older gentleman as was humanly possible, every inch of him a work of extensive effort and money. His small feet were housed in polished loafers as delicate as ballet slippers. He bore a frosting of silver hair, two streaks that joined in the back forming a white crown. He barely reached Marc’s rib cage, his handshake had the fragile quality of a butterfly’s wing, and yet his presence dominated the room. “Sayed
Al-Rashid at your service.”
He shooed away his assistant and served them coffee by his own hand. Marc guessed his age as early seventies, and yet he moved swiftly about the low table. Once he was assured that they were comfortable and served, he took the seat next to Marc and asked Amin, “How should we proceed?”
“Allow me.” Amin put down his cup and looked around the group. “I have known Sayed Al-Rashid for twenty years. He is a principal backer of our efforts. I trust him with my life. I urge you to do the same.”
The little man showed the ability to bow elegantly while remaining seated. “I and my family have been followers of Jesus since many years. I am Lebanese by birth, raised in Canada. We Lebanese are merchants and travelers by nature. I am a specialist in finance law. I work with clients from all over the globe.”
“Including Pakistan,” Amin inserted.
“Indeed so. But there is another layer to my commercial activity. A secret layer. One that very few people can ever know about.”
“We will never divulge your name,” Marc assured him.
“Very well. You must understand, Mr. Royce, that the community of Arab believers shares a very rare trait. We are supporters of the West. We admire your lofty aims, even when we despair over some of your actions. We yearn for what you so often take for granted, the freedom to practice our faith, to live our beliefs, and to be treated with respect and equality by our neighbors. This can only come through a true Western-style democracy. This is why so many Arabs fear and despise you. Democracy carries with it not only freedom but choice. You have the ability to choose your lifestyle and direction. We envy you this freedom. We seek it for ourselves. We are, in short, your natural allies.”
Sayed could no longer remain seated. He bounded to his feet and began pacing back and forth between them and his desk. “There is a new phenomenon rising in the Arab world. One that many oppose. People within the Muslim community are coming to recognize Jesus. Yes. There, it is said. The impossible is happening. And with this comes a dread realization among our opponents, that the message of Jesus and the gift of salvation carries significance for all people in all nations.”
The man, Marc decided, would have made an amazing pastor. His energy was captivating. He invited the listener to agree with him. He willed it.
Then Marc noticed Rhana.
The elegant woman appeared to have shrunk inside herself. Her features had become hollowed, as though the banker’s words pummeled her. Her gaze flickered about the room like a captured animal, desperate for escape.
Sayed went on, “So they call the West their worst enemy, and they persecute the believers they can identify. But they cannot locate most new believers. If they could, they would wipe us out. That is why our secret is so precious, Mr. Royce. That is why confidentiality is so vital. What I am about to tell you carries the lives of many, and the hopes of even more.”
Marc forced himself to turn from Rhana. “I understand and will respect your need for secrecy.”
“I believe him,” Amin assured their host quietly.
“Very well.” The man plucked a file from his desk and returned to his seat. “Here is the manifest for your missing containers.” He reached toward Marc with several sheets of paper. “As you can see, everything is very clear. Machine parts for oil pumping stations. The North Koreans manufacture them under contract for a Chinese conglomerate. They are sold all over the world. Everything is aboveboard.”
Kitra asked, “So why are the Western governments so concerned?”
“Because, my dear, these containers come from a cluster of factories that form the center of all North Korean nuclear activity. That is the only reason the West was alerted at all. Because of their point of origin.”
“And then they went missing in Singapore, and everybody went ballistic.” Marc studied the pages before him, the originals in Korean, the second set in Arabic script, the third translations in English. All of it gibberish. “What if it’s all a ruse?”
The banker settled back in his seat. And smiled.
“What if it’s all an elaborate hoax,” Marc went on. “What if they planned this from the beginning, playing on our greatest fears, willing us to look in the wrong direction?”
Their host nodded agreement. “A shell game would be ever such a Persian gesture. Slipping the dagger into the Western heart while the eyes are watching the wrong hand.”
Amin asked, “How do we proceed?”
Marc could come up with only one slender thread. “Hesam al-Farouz. My sources in Washington have been shut down. I need a full work-up.”
Sayed and Amin began speaking softly in Farsi. Amin nodded at something the banker said, and announced, “Sayed has an idea.”
“A possible contact,” Sayed confirmed. “A friend in the cause. Someone who might aid us in glimpsing behind the veil. Because I for one believe your fears are justified, your theory correct.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
As they left the bank, Bernard called with the news that all those tailing them had been arrested. “There were, in fact, four teams. Two watchers each. Very professional. Here is a strange thing. Two of the teams are Iranian. Two are Pakistani.”
Marc thought of the Divonne chapel service and standing at the podium, looking out over the sea of faces representing so many different ethnicities, yet a thread stronger than steel pulling them together. But what his little group was facing now was the flip side of the equation, he knew. Nations bound together toward the common intent of spreading darkness. “How long can you hold them?”
“A few hours only. All have diplomatic passports. Their embassies have already lodged protests. Consular officials are now rushing down from Bern. I am personally supervising their questioning. It is doubtful we will learn anything. But we will have sent a clear message to the embassies that these actions are unacceptable. They will be escorted to the airport, and there they will remain until their flights depart.”
“Thank you,” Marc said. “For everything.”
“I assure you, my friend, the people I answer to are increasingly irate over the actions of our foes.”
Amin had stepped away from the others to take a phone call. He approached Marc to say, “Sayed has located us a source. We need to leave now.”
Marc related this to Bernard, who replied, “You will report back to me immediately, yes? In the meantime, I will return to the useless interviews.”
Amin drove the Mercedes, with Marc settled into the middle of the rear seat, Kitra on his right, Rhana to his left. The woman bore the same haunted expression as the previous night. He said softly, “Perhaps you would want to go back to your hotel?”
She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. She responded only with a quick but firm shake of her head.
He hesitated, then decided he owed her a final warning. “Things could get intense, Rhana.”
“How do you describe events up to now?”
“We’ve kept you safe. We’ve shielded your involvement. If you stay, they’ll know you are with us.” He let that sink in, then repeated, “Intense.”
She turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed from too many sleepless hours. “I owe people who are gone. I will be staying.”
He nodded. He had done what he needed to do. The decision was hers.
Marc savored Kitra’s closeness. She smelled of a lovely blend of lemons and sage and youth and feminine allure. He knew he should not let her invade his concentration. But then she shifted slightly and seemed to melt to him, just for a moment, before drawing away again. And he was glad he sat where he did. Very glad.
The village of Meyrin was located on the border of the Canton of Geneva, still containing remnants of its farming origins. The outskirts were dotted with vineyards and orchards and traditional wooden chalets. But the more recent portion of the town had overwhelmed its origins. Meyrin was a faceless commuter city, filled with bland apartment blocks and tight little postage-stamp parks and new shopping streets and office buildings. The only standou
t feature of the nondescript new city were the signs for CERN, the world’s largest particle physics laboratory headquartered in Meyrin.
They entered a bland café situated across the street from a dozen identical office buildings. The compound was ringed by a park, and between the park and the street was a security fence topped with warning signs. Marc spotted nine different patrol vehicles in less than fifteen minutes. Sentry cameras stood atop tall poles. The guards manning the front gate were armed and extremely alert.
Most of the people seated in the café bore an air of preoccupation. Many of the tables held worksheets covered with indecipherable mathematical symbols. The conversations were muted and intense.
The man who approached them was dark-skinned, dressed in the garb of a professional nerd—shapeless jacket over a gray T-shirt, corduroys, Birkenstocks. He moved swiftly between the tables, shook Amin’s hand, surveyed the others, and demanded, “We are safe?”
“These are friends,” Amin assured him. “There are more friends guarding our perimeter.”
The man dropped into a seat, declined Amin’s offer of tea, and said, “I have only a few minutes.”
His accent was a peculiar blend of many cultures. Marc had known this in other scientists. They were born here, studied there, did their postgraduate work somewhere else, accepted appointments in a fourth country, and learned languages with an impatient facility. Their real focus never changed. Their first language was the impossibly difficult tongue of higher mathematics.
Amin said, “We are most grateful that you agreed to join us.”
“Our contact tells me you wish to know about Hesam al-Farouz.”
“That is correct.”
“Yes, well, so do I.”
Amin glanced across the table at Marc, gestured with two fingers, inviting him to take charge. Marc shook his head. The scientist had not looked directly at anyone except Amin. The scientist sat with his back to the rear wall, studying every face that went by, as well as the street and the misting rain. He did not want to know them.