Strait of Hormuz

by Davis Bunn

  Amin said, “Could you please explain what that means, you want to know him?”

  “My field is high-energy physics. I know everyone who is involved in this. By know, I mean I have read their work, or heard them speak, or met with them.”

  “You know their research,” Marc said.

  The scientist shot him a quick glance, tight and worried, then away. He continued to direct his words at the empty space before him. “It is like a signature. A fingerprint. And Dr. al-Farouz has none.”

  Amin’s voice held the gentle tone of a supplicant. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Two years ago, he abruptly appeared. Before, nothing. Suddenly he was everywhere. So I asked. Of course I asked. Who is this man? His credentials were impeccable. He completed his doctoral research in applied high-energy particles at age twenty-two. Twenty-two. That is astonishing but not unheard of. According to my research, Hesam al-Farouz did his postdoctoral research at Tehran, then vanished. For almost twelve years, there was nothing. Then two years ago, he pops up. Like I said, now he is everywhere. I spotted him at conferences in Paris and here and Zurich and Bonn. Never America. Never England. But elsewhere, yes, he comes and he shakes the hands and he smiles his handsome smile. The conference list of attendees state he is now on the faculty of Isfahan University.”

  Amin frowned. “But this would be a normal cover for a scientist attached to a secret nuclear weapons program, no?”

  “Of course it would. But why has he suddenly popped up again? There is no other such person anywhere in Iran. If a person enters into their secret work, they remain secret.”

  “You have checked?”

  “Of course I checked.” He wiped at a faint sheen of perspiration. “I spoke with an associate at Isfahan. There is quite a good department there. Not cutting edge, but they know things. They are focused on applications. Medical, communications, cryptography, like that. I ask someone I know. I was told not to ask. My contact refused to even speak with me again. About anything.”

  Marc said, “You think the man’s background has been manufactured.”

  “It is all so perfect. And that bothers me. Nothing in physics is perfect. If it was, we would all know the answers and we would all agree. But we don’t agree, and the answers take generations to become clear. And here is this man. He has never taken a wrong step. But there is no research bearing his name, no one who will speak of his work, nothing. If you wanted to make a man appear to be a bomb maker, what would you say? He is brilliant and he is well trained and he has spent his life never making a wrong step.” He met Marc’s gaze with worried intensity. “This Hesam al-Farouz is perfect. And he also is a ghost.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  An hour later, they were joined by Bernard Behlet and headed out in both Mercedes. Bernard grew distinctly uncomfortable as they crossed the border into France and turned away from the glitz and glamour of central Divonne. “Why are we here?”

  “I told you,” Marc said. “You need to understand how certain sources have come to us.”

  “I trust you.” Bernard scanned the rain-swept slum, his uncertainties apparent. “I trust your sources.”

  “In this case, it’s not enough. You need to be convinced enough to satisfy your superiors.”

  “Without ever telling them precisely what you observe this evening,” Amin cautioned. “Or even where it is located.”

  “How can I say that when I don’t know where we are?” Bernard took in the dank surroundings and the kerchiefed women and the suspicious glares of passersby. “I have lived across the border most of my life and I have never been here.”

  Marc motioned toward the building’s entrance. The two vehicles pulled over, and the occupants climbed out. The men walked up the three flights while Rhana and Kitra shared an ancient elevator with two ladies in Pakistani scarves. Marc waited on the third-floor landing with Amin and Bernard, and pried open the rusting accordion doors. They entered the chapel together, but once inside, Kitra said, “Rhana and I need a moment.”

  The elegant woman had scarcely spoken a word all day. She seemed to drift, carried along by swirling currents.

  Marc drew Bernard into the chapel, and they found places in the back. Bernard joined in the singing, but faintly. When it was over and the people had dispersed, Marc asked, “Do you understand what is happening here?”

  “An astonishment,” the Swiss agent said, staring at the front of the room toward the cross. “Never in all my days did I think I would witness such a thing.”

  “You also understand why you can never tell anyone about this,” Amin warned. “You would not just be risking their lives, but the lives of clansmen and families, reaching thousands of miles.”

  “I accept this,” Bernard replied solemnly. “No one will know.”

  Marc related what they had learned from the Lebanese financier. He then described their meeting with the physicist at CERN. Bernard listened in silence, then asked, “What do you need from me?”

  “I want you to take another look at Hesam al-Farouz.”

  Bernard nodded slowly. “My superiors have learned precisely what you already have heard. That the man is recognized as a nuclear physicist. He is a member of the ruling council. But if what you tell me is true, all of this is a ruse.”

  Amin agreed. “If Hesam al-Farouz is the public face of a myth, it changes how we must look at all that has transpired.”

  “Everything changes,” Marc confirmed. “Including the attack at the spa. He wants us to look in this direction. Hunt him down. Stop the ship. Expect an attack, one that he leads.”

  “So while the West’s armed might gathers in the Strait of Hormuz and takes an action that defines international war,” Bernard countered, “what do you expect our ghost to do?”

  “I cannot tell you that. Yet.”

  Marc waited, fearing the Swiss agent would demand more information. Which he did not have. It would be right for Bernard to question his assumptions, and dismiss the information gained from a Lebanese banker and the physicist. Both of whom had been drawn together by the invisible thread of faith. It would be a thoroughly Swiss response to say the logic did not stand up.

  Instead, Bernard turned to Amin. “Why are you involved in this?”

  Amin smiled thinly, as though having long waited for this very question. “You are right to ask.”

  “I mean no offense.”

  “None is taken, I assure you.”

  “But you also have remained hidden. Why do you now reveal yourself? Why do you risk your associates, your—”

  “The correct term,” Marc offered, “is members of his faith community.”

  “My brothers,” Amin added. “And my sisters. In Christ Jesus, the risen one.”

  “Amen,” Marc said.

  “Understand this,” Amin explained. “Our aim is not to stop a single terrorist act. No matter how bad. For by revealing ourselves, we risk having word reach the people who seek to destroy our communities. To rip apart the churches that are rising up in all these nations. To demolish the hope we offer, to pretend that our faith has no place in their realms.”

  “Then what . . . ?” Bernard caught his breath. “Ah.”

  “You see, don’t you, Agent Behlet? Our aim is much higher. There is one purpose great enough to justify such a risk. We seek to bring down the Iranian government. We want to end a regime that has lost its right to rule.” The man’s words carried no additional volume. But the burning flame in his gaze ignited a flame in Marc’s heart. “We seek to establish the impossible. A regime that welcomes our presence. A nation that is open to the presence of Jesus. A democracy. In Iran. At the center of the Muslim world.”

  “There is more,” Marc said, “isn’t there?”

  Bernard said weakly, “More?”

  Amin’s eyes fastened on him with the force of a blow. But he did not speak.

  “You want to establish yourselves as allies of our governments,” Marc said. “You want them to see you as people who
can be trusted. A network worth preserving. You want our protection. You want us to treat you as allies, and your cause as worthy.”

  “Dreams,” Amin said quietly. “Goals we have carried for twenty-five years. And never spoken of to anyone beyond our community before this night.”

  Bernard nodded. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Marc has already told you, Agent Behlet. A new work-up on Hesam al-Farouz.”

  The Swiss agent’s brow furrowed. “I have already given you what I obtained. The man is—”

  “Totally clean,” Marc finished for him. “Made to lead a nuclear attack on the West. I know. Like he’s got a target painted on his chest. Forget all that. I want you to do a new scan. One that totally discounts the obvious.”

  “And look for what, exactly?”

  “Like I said,” Marc replied, “I don’t know yet what that is. But I beg you to put this pursuit in motion.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Two women with the finely sculpted bones of tribes from the Horn of Africa were slicing bread and mixing salad as Kitra and Rhana slipped into the kitchen. They offered a musical greeting and returned to their work. Clearly the arrival of visitors seeking a quiet corner was nothing new, though these particular ones drew second looks from under their headscarves. Kitra drew out a chair from the long central table and directed Rhana into the seat. “Would you like tea or something?”

  The older woman looked around in confusion. “Why am I here?”

  Kitra took that as a no and sat down across from her. “I thought it might be nice if we had a moment away from the others.”

  “No, I mean, why am I here? In this place?”

  “Because you chose to stay. To come with us. Marc said you could go back if you wanted.”

  “Go back to what?” The last word almost broke her.

  “Do you want to tell me what is wrong?”

  Rhana dropped her head. “I can’t.”

  “I understand.”

  Rhana shook her head. “How can you possibly know—”

  “You fear your entire life is one giant mistake. And every direction you might choose would only take you deeper into the mire.”

  Slowly the woman lifted her gaze.

  Kitra went on, “You have spent a lifetime building walls to hide your secrets. And suddenly the walls are gone. And nothing is as you expected. You thought . . .”

  “I thought I would have won,” Rhana whispered.

  “Yes. Yes. I do understand.”

  This time, the words were a plea. “But how can you?”

  “Because I have done the same. Oh, not your exact mistakes. But I too have done many right acts for the wrong reasons.” It felt to Kitra as though she were breathing in glass fragments. “I received a phone call from my brother. Serge called to say . . .”

  When she stopped, Rhana pressed, “Yes? To say what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Well, it does. But not to this . . .” Kitra dragged in another painful breath. “In the middle of our conversation, I remembered something I had done my best to forget. How I manipulated my brother. My good, trusting brother. My closest friend, the man who would do anything for me and always has. A few years ago, I told him I was going to Kenya. And I waited for him to insist that he was coming with me. When he did, I argued and I fought, but all the while I was doing it to protect me.”

  “So that you could say you did your best to shield him from whatever came next.” It was Rhana’s turn to say, “I understand.”

  “I almost got Serge killed. If Marc hadn’t risked his life to identify and hunt down the kidnappers, my brother would have been lost. Forever.” She looked at her hands clenched on the table. “And then I tried to do the exact same thing to Marc.”

  “How can you possibly think such a thing?” Rhana sat forward, her face wreathed in genuine astonishment. “Marc Royce came to Geneva because of his government. You traveled from Israel to save him.”

  “But it’s the same thing. The truth the world sees is built on lies. I came because I want him to change his mind. To make him see me and want to return with me to the kibbutz.”

  Rhana gave a soft breath of understanding. And nodded.

  “I manipulate. I manage. I control. I fight. I say it’s for the kibbutz. But it just gives me a reason to be who I am, to steer things my way. And now . . .”

  Rhana’s gaze focused on the distant unseen. “Now you see the lies for what they are.”

  Kitra reached over and took the woman’s hand. And waited. She was not going to ask Rhana to talk. It was the older woman’s decision. Besides, she needed a moment to fit her heart back into the hollow space at the center of her being.

  Rhana whispered, “I cannot any longer remember my father’s face.”

  Kitra freed one hand to wipe her eyes. The prospect of telling her own father the truth melted her resolve. And she would tell him. She had to. And Serge. They all had to know. So she could ask their forgiveness. She wiped her eyes a second time.

  Rhana said, “It does not matter any longer whether I exact my revenge. The act has lost all meaning. Everything has.” She focused on Kitra. “I did as you just described. I turned my loss into an excuse to live a life of shameful indulgence.”

  “Would you like to pray with me?” Kitra asked. “Two lost and wandering souls, asking for forgiveness and wisdom?”

  “It is too late for me.”

  No smile should dislodge so many tears. “With all my heart and mind, I tell you, you are wrong.”

  Rhana looked at the hand holding her own. “How can we know if God hears? Or if he even wants us to speak?”

  “Because,” Kitra replied, “everything we have done has been leading to this moment. When we confess our helplessness. And ask for help. Strength. Wisdom. Healing.”

  “Impossible. What you say . . . it cannot happen.”

  “By man, by logic, by what we deserve. Yes. You are right. But with God, all things may come to pass. Even this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clouds reduced the sunset to the gradual darkening of the already dull sky.

  They sat in the apartment assembly hall, sipping mint tea from tulip glasses, isolated by choice and a sense of helpless foreboding. Another group of believers filtered through the rear entrance, and preparations began for the evening service. Marc was about to admit defeat and suggest they return to the hotel, but his phone rang and the diminutive banker asked, “Where are you now?”

  “Sitting in the Divonne church hoping against hope.” Marc covered the phone and told Amin, “It’s Sayed.”

  The Lebanese banker could not have sounded more pleased. “And where else on earth could you find a better place to do just that?”

  Marc did not attempt to hide his desperation. “Please tell me you have something.”

  “Two things. Perhaps neither are important. But I and my friends thought it was worth passing on. First, you asked me what the other factories in this North Korean compound produce. One older facility produces agricultural machinery. It is best known for industrial blowers.”

  “Blowers,” Marc repeated. Hunting the floor by his feet.

  “Great beasts of machinery. Used for drying grain, I understand.”

  Marc rose and crossed to the window, his mind scrambling for answers. “And the other matter?”

  “I have just learned that a second ship set off from Karachi on the same day as the vessel carrying the suspicious containers. Which is not important, except that both set sail hours after the money was transferred to our enemy’s account.”

  Marc began pacing up the side aisle. “I don’t follow.”

  “It is actually quite an old vessel, but newly refitted. As a research vessel. Licensed to the University of Hyderabad. I am looking at a photograph of the ship now. It appears almost intentionally ugly. The long bow is equipped with two cranes.”

  “Tell me more—why is this significant?”

  “First, the size. At two hundred and sixty
feet, it is extremely large for a relatively poor university. Secondly, its purpose. The vessel is licensed to study coral-reef formations and fishing habitats.”

  “And?”

  “The University of Hyderabad does not have a marine studies department.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “I checked,” Sayed replied. “Most thoroughly.”

  Marc felt the heat of the chase begin to boil up inside him. “This is it. Our target. This vessel is what we’re after.”

  “That was precisely my own reaction upon receiving this news. The ship’s destination is Mauritius.”

  “It’s a decoy, and it’s a good one.” Mauritius was surrounded by vast stretches of the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles of nothing. Marc said, “Hold one moment,” then hurried across the sanctuary to Bernard and Amin. He summarized the discussion, put the banker on speaker, introduced Bernard, and said to them all, “What does a research vessel have onboard?”

  They were all silent for a long moment, then Sayed said, “I am sorry, but I do not see—”

  “A lab,” Marc replied. “The vessel will be equipped with a lab.”

  Bernard rocked back in his seat. “Of course.”

  Marc asked, “What else does North Korea have in spades?”

  “Chemical weapons,” Bernard breathed.

  Over the cellphone’s little speaker, Marc heard the banker’s gasp. He demanded, “Iran has a chemical weapons operation, right?”

  “Most certainly,” Amin confirmed. “Very secret. But present.”

  Bernard said, “My superiors will want concrete confirmation.”

  Marc’s adrenaline-amped mind had already reached that conclusion. “Hesam al-Farouz may be our answer.”

  Amin frowned. “I do not follow.”

  Marc said, “Look for a top scientist within the chemical weapons division, a manager, a Revolutionary Guard overseer, who was there one day and vanished the next. Someone who with a bit of plastic surgery could be made to look like our guy.”