by Davis Bunn
An hour later, Marc was seated in a vehicle driven by Amin and parked at the curb in downtown Geneva. Marc turned in his seat and said to Bernard, “Please thank your superiors for setting this up.”
“They want their pound of flesh in return,” Bernard cautioned. “They want regular reports. They want to be involved. They want discreet recognition. They dislike being treated as a pariah by the international intelligence community. They want to use you as a lever to open the door.”
“No problem,” Marc replied, and saw no need to add the obvious, that first the group had to succeed.
The Geneva station of the United Nations was, after New York City, the second largest of its four major sites. The UN’s central offices were housed within a mock Grecian structure known as the Palais des Nations. The UN’s Geneva arm oversaw a myriad of programs and funds, including the European Economic Commission, the Office of Humanitarian Affairs, the International Trade Center, and fourteen other august bodies. The top representative of the U.S. government to Geneva held the same senior level as the UN ambassador in New York.
Bernard’s phone rang. He listened, then announced, “The ambassador’s limo is pulling up now.”
When Amin started to open his door, Marc said, “Not yet.”
They watched as the driver rose from the armored Caddy, opened her door, accepted her umbrella, and shut her inside the vehicle. Then he remained standing there, waiting in the rain.
The Swiss-based U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations was a stern, gray-haired woman named Samantha Keller, Bernard had told Marc. The diplomat had served as professor of international law at Columbia University before becoming a UN assessor of human rights violations in Bosnia and then a director of the World Bank.
“All right,” Marc said. “Let’s move.”
The driver watched them approach in stony silence. Marc stopped in front of the man. “I believe the ambassador is expecting us.”
“She’s due at an event in twenty.”
“Understood.” Marc walked around to the car’s other side, opened the rear door, and slipped inside. Bernard settled himself on the jump seat, Amin in the front on the passenger side.
She had a linebacker’s jaw and an energy that punched through the dusk. The woman’s gaze, hard as sword steel, matched the voice that barked, “Which one is Royce?”
“That would be me, ma’am.”
“I’ve worked with Ambassador Walton on three occasions. He impresses me. I expect you to do the same.” She leaned forward a fraction, enough to look around him at Bernard. “You are Agent Behlet?”
“Correct, Madame Ambassador.”
“Your superiors at FIS could not have stressed the importance of your information any more highly. I hope they’re right in their assessment.” She indicated Amin. “And who is this?”
“He is not here,” Marc said.
She was singularly unimpressed. “You cloak-and-dagger boys are all the same. All right. Tell me why I’m going to be late for a meeting with the NATO chief.”
“Does the name Hesam al-Farouz mean anything to you?”
She glanced at her watch, a diamond Rolex. “I’m waiting, gentlemen.”
Bernard unzipped his pouch and handed Marc a file, which he passed on to the ambassador. “The man is a myth from beginning to end. He has been manufactured by the Iranian authorities. He is part of a larger ruse.”
“I’ve been granted access to the White House file,” she snapped back. “Al-Farouz is a nuclear-weapons expert.”
“He did not even exist until three years ago. They have put together a fictitious history designed to entrap us and draw us in.” Marc tapped the file. “This is the man’s true legacy. His background is not nuclear.”
She started to open the file, then decided against it, laid her hand on the cover, and stared at Marc.
“The man detailed in this file went straight from university into the elite Revolutionary Guard force known as Quds. That was nine years ago. He moved to Qom. Three years ago, he died in an automobile accident.”
“Then why are we discussing him?”
“Because,” Bernard said, “this supposedly deceased officer bears a striking resemblance to Hesam al-Farouz. If one removes the beard, applies face-recognition software, and factors in what could be done with plastic surgery, the two men could be twins.”
Marc nodded to Amin, who said, “The Quds is the elite element of the Revolutionary Guards, sometimes described as the successor to the shah’s Imperial Guards. It is very small, very tightly organized. All but three of the current Revolutionary Guard senior leaders come from the Quds force.”
Marc added, “The Quds are responsible for protection of the ayatollahs. They have a second role, seldom discussed. They hold control of what is known as unconventional warfare.”
“Meaning nuclear,” the steely woman said.
“No, Ambassador Keller. Nuclear is controlled by the Missile Division.”
“Then what—?” But she stopped abruptly as Marc reached to his left. Bernard had the second file ready. “The Revolutionary Guard is not just working on nuclear arms,” he continued. “For the past eight years they have brought a secret facility online near Damghan. This facility falls under the direct control of the Quds. The Damghan base is producing chemical weapons.”
The woman breathed a quiet breath, a huff of what could have been surprise, or concern, or both.
Marc went on, “These weapons of mass destruction are focused on smallpox. According to UN regulations, usage of smallpox in offensive weapons is universally outlawed. What makes the Iranian efforts especially lethal is, they are mixing smallpox with biotoxins. The problem with biotoxins is that they must be ingested directly. An infected victim cannot make anyone else sick. But when joined with smallpox, this means an entire population could be eradicated. They—”
“All right. Enough. Are you telling me the missiles are intended to carry biochemical weapons and not nukes? If so, what difference does any of this make, except to add further urgency to our efforts on the high seas?”
“Madame Ambassador, we don’t think the container vessel the U.S. Navy is tracking contains anything related to this attack. We believe it is all part of a complex smoke-and-mirrors ruse, designed to embarrass the U.S. government and sow confusion. So that when the true attack is carried out, our response will be slower, and the enemy will be hard to identify.”
Her horror was genuine. “Where are they attacking?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Gentlemen, that is not acceptable.” She was sitting forward on the seat, hands gripping the files in her lap.
“We agree.”
“The initial intel suggested an assault on an American port city. You’re telling me there is a different vessel out there, loaded with biochemical weapons and a reasonably accurate delivery system?”
Marc started to confirm, then stopped. Snagged by a half-formed thought. Something so vague he couldn’t even name it for himself. Hovering just out of reach.
When he remained silent, Bernard answered for him. “Perhaps this is the case, Madame Ambassador. Only perhaps.”
“While our entire defense system is looking in the wrong direction. Hunting for the wrong threat.” She tapped the files with a bloodred fingernail. “When can you deliver something concrete enough for me to run up the flagpole?”
“We think we have a lead,” Marc replied slowly, still trying to capture whatever that flash of insight might have contained. “But pursuing this further places us in jeopardy. We needed someone to have this information in case we go off the grid.”
“Gentlemen, you are hereby ordered to deliver the goods and remain safe in the process. Now, what further do you need from my end?”
“As of this moment, I am officially not reachable.” Marc told her. “It’s the only way I can remain beyond the control of Admiral Willets and his orders for me to return home.” He handed her a slip of paper with his new cellphone number. “Any
fresh intel without doubt would be most useful.”
“But be careful who you tell about us and what we are thinking,” Amin put in. “There are leaks within your system, and—”
“I’m well aware of this. All right. Find the real boat, gentlemen. Fast.”
Marc motioned for Bernard to open the door. “Thank you for your time, Madame Ambassador.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was the strangest telephone call Kitra had ever made. Bernard, Marc, and Amin sat with her. Inspector Remy Reynard had been delivered to the Geneva hotel by police ambulance and was now seated in a lounge chair drawn up by the balcony, his injured leg supported on a padded stool. Rhana sat to Kitra’s left. She hadn’t spoken more than half a dozen words since leaving the Divonne church and ate little. But she was there. Emerging from time to time from her internal struggle. Like now.
Kitra turned on the new cellphone Bernard had supplied. He had also provided six pages containing their names and new phone numbers, then asked them to destroy all other electronic devices they carried. He explained that these new phones were specially designed so that no viral software could be inserted.
Amin had asked, “Are we now being monitored by the Swiss?”
Marc replied, “Every gift in the intel universe comes with its quid pro quo.”
Bernard smiled and gave Marc a second sheet of paper. “Always a pleasure, doing business with a professional.”
Marc passed the paper to Kitra. “You understand what you need to do?”
“Yes, Marc. We have gone through this. More than enough,” she added, eyebrows quirked upward.
“Sorry. It’s a habit from my training. You repeat and you repeat and you repeat. That way, when the bullets start flying and people are on the verge of panic, they can still remember what needs doing. Hopefully.”
She caught the warning in his casual response. She was not just making a call; she was opening the door to whatever came next. And everything beyond that doorway shrieked with peril. She looked into Marc’s eyes and saw what he wanted her to see. That he was strong and ready and there for her. Which gave her the strength to nod. “I’m ready, Marc.”
“All right. Here we go.”
She dialed the number.
A man’s voice answered in Hebrew. A sharp, simple yes, tight as a bullet.
She responded in the same language. “My name is Kitra Korban. Recently I was visited by a man from your organization. He asked me to do something for him. I have done it. I need to speak with him. I have something to report.”
The man replied instantly, “You can give me the information.”
“That is not possible. I speak only with him.”
“What is his name?”
“I do not know. He did not tell me.”
The man scoffed. “You expect me to run around looking for a man without a name?”
“Yes, that is precisely what I expect you to do,” Kitra confirmed, looking at her paper.
The man hesitated, then said, “Describe this man.”
“Not tall. Maybe sixties. Very stocky. A birthmark or sun blemish on his forehead. He walks with a cane.”
“The man you describe has been retired. Since two years, he officially holds no position.”
Marc had warned her this might be the response, as there were clearly opposing forces at work in her country as well. “He came to me regarding a possible threat. I am calling to say he was correct, and that the threat is imminent.”
The man was silent a moment. “Where are you now?”
“Geneva, Switzerland.”
“Give me a number where you can be reached.”
Kitra did so. “This is extremely urgent.”
“I heard you the first time.” The man hesitated, then added, “The mark on his forehead is from a powder burn.”
Kitra clicked off and set down the phone. Forced herself to breathe.
Marc expected the call to take some time, at least an hour, perhaps most of the night. So he suggested they continue with their routine and have dinner. Kitra confessed she was tired of the hotel’s rich food, and Amin said he would fetch a Middle Eastern-style meal. Bernard offered to help with the errand. Thirty minutes later, the two returned bearing sacks of aromatic dishes with which they covered the suite’s oval table.
They dined in elegant splendor, the balcony doors open to the night and the spring rain. Over the simple but delicious meal they went through the details of what they knew and what they needed, then set up a series of watches to stay on alert in case the call was delayed into the night hours.
The waiting and the weather pressed down on Kitra, and Marc noticed. “Anything the matter?” he asked, his voice low.
She disliked her inability to conceal her frame of mind from this man. “You mean, other than how we are hiding from gunmen, surrounded by risks, and fighting against a threat that could take thousands of lives?”
He ignored her sardonic tone. “It’s fine if you decide to go home, Kitra. I’ve told you—”
“I’m not leaving, Marc.” She forced herself to answer softly, to show a quiet determination in her voice as well as her words. A professional. “I am part of this, Marc. I am staying.”
Once they all had cleared the table, Rhana and Kitra retreated to the bedroom balcony. They stood watching the rain fall for a time, the silence comforting. Kitra said, “This morning I received two calls. One was from my brother, the other from the plant manager. I have been involved in setting up a new factory. The manager is desperate for me to return. There are problems.”
“There are always problems.” One businesswoman to another. “Do you want to discuss them?”
“Thank you, but the problems are not the real problems.”
“That too I understand.”
“My brother, Serge, urgently wants me to come home. He is strong and intelligent and courageous. People love him. But he is not a leader, not the kind that—”
“He does not see the way forward,” Rhana said. “He needs someone to point the way.”
It seemed that having this woman understand her would cause her emotions to rise. “All day I have been hearing these two men, my brother and the plant manager, continue to talk in my head. But they were not saying what they spoke on the phone. What they said was, You have a choice.”
Rhana wrapped her jacket more tightly about herself. “Was this your heart speaking, or your head?”
Kitra nodded. A very good question. It showed the woman understood not merely what Kitra was saying, but also what lay beneath the words. “The reason the plant manager called, and the problem that most troubles my brother, are one and the same. Our sales director—the plant’s main connection to the world buyers for the rare earths we process—has had a serious heart attack. It comes at a crucial moment. We have many new contracts that must be finalized, and our factory is late in coming online.”
“So it is true. They do need you. Desperately.”
“And yet my father could see to these things. He and my mother arrive back from France tomorrow midday. He is the community’s founder and leader. I know he will have answers. He and I work very well together. We argue, and yet there is mutual trust.”
She watched Rhana turn away slightly as she lifted her hands and swiftly wiped her cheeks. Kitra thought of the woman’s loss of family and knew they were communicating far beyond the words they exchanged. She heard the soft intake of breath and was somehow grateful that the older woman was there to shed tears for them both. Connected.
It gave her the strength to continue, “When we arrived at the church this afternoon, I realized what I really was hearing was that I had a choice. Did I want to return to the kibbutz?”
“Yes. You could easily fit into your salesman’s position,” Rhana said, nodding slowly. “Here is a job you could take, important work in which you would do well. You would be excellent at this. Better than anyone else, in my opinion.”
“It would give me the chance to . . .”
“To leave the kibbutz,” Rhana finished for her. “To leave and yet to remain in contact.”
“I would stay linked to my community.” There was no reason speaking these words should leave her breathless.
“And it frightens you to think on this, yes?”
“All my life, all I’ve ever wanted is to do what I am doing—to lead this community when my father steps down.”
With a nod, Rhana said, “Two things. First, being here in this place, isolated from your familiar world, cut off as much as could possibly happen, has given you a chance to see things from a distance. It has liberated you. You are free to ask questions you would otherwise run from. Or simply step over in the busyness of the day-to-day issues.”
It was Kitra’s turn to wipe her cheeks. “You speak as though you can read my mind’s script.”
“Second, you have arrived at a juncture. One of the hardest you might ever know. And why is this? Because both directions are correct. There is no right way, and no wrong way. You are free to choose.” She smiled. “Of course you are troubled.”
Kitra whispered, “What am I going to do?”
“If you are asking, which direction should you take, I cannot say. But I have spent all evening thinking on what you said to me in the church kitchen. And I feel that I can only tell you what you told me. The only way you will know peace is by asking a different question, one that you are running from. One that is even more frightening than the power of choice. We are strong and independent. We are daughters of cultures that expect women to be obedient and subservient. And we are neither.”
Kitra felt her body caught by tiny vibrations, as though she were a tuning fork and each of Rhana’s words were a small strike. “I was right to speak with you.”
“Here is the answer,” Rhana said. “I know it is the right answer because I have heard this in the words you shared with me. I can speak these words, though they are both new and alien to me. Like you, my vision is clouded. But I am tired of not seeing clearly, and not doing the right thing.”