by Davis Bunn
Kitra could hear the tremors in her words. “Tell me.”
“You must ask the one question I have spent my entire life running from.” Rhana’s gaze was a burning flame. “You must ask which direction will lead you closer to God. Because if you take the other direction, even if you win, even if you gain everything that you use to define success, you lose. And your days will become nothing but ashes. And your memories will be—”
“Stop,” Kitra whispered. “Please. Stop.”
“Ask for God to make a clear path forward.” Rhana laid a hand on Kitra’s forearm resting on the balcony railing. “Then you must wait. And he will answer you. How do I know this? Because once more my father’s memory is alive in my heart. What I thought was lost forever is with me again. Yet I know it has been there all along. Waiting for me to stop giving in to the wrong voices, taking the wrong paths. And instead heed the one voice that will give me the two things I forgot I even needed. And in the future, when your days are coming to a close, be that tomorrow or fifty years from now, you will know peace.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kitra and Rhana remained in the bedroom, seated now by the balcony doors. Marc entered twice, once to bring them cups of mint tea and again to offer refills. Otherwise they were alone. Rhana threaded together the rest of the evening with old memories, tales from her childhood. The way she spoke left Kitra certain that Rhana had not shared these memories with many people and not for many years. The woman’s voice became musical, and the shadows lifted from her gaze. Even her visage changed, revealing the beautiful young woman she once had been. Kitra listened and felt the wounds of her own confession gradually beginning to diminish.
The call came through three hours later, just after eleven. Kitra’s phone read simply International. She carried the phone into the parlor, where she found the men poring over maps that Bernard had brought. The injured detective was stretched out on the sofa.
Marc nodded to her.
She touched the connection. “Kitra Korban.”
“It is good to know you have managed to survive,” the gruff voice said. “So far.”
“A moment, please.”
Bernard took the phone from her and put it into a portable speaker system, with a Bluetooth microphone in the middle of the dining table. Amin helped Remy rise to a seated position. Marc said, “Testing, testing.”
The gruff man switched to English and demanded, “Who is that?”
“The guy whose life you saved,” Marc told him. “Thanks.”
“Agent Royce. Yes. Good evening.”
“I owe you.”
“It is good when debts are acknowledged. Are there others with you?”
“Four. Bernard Behlet, FIS. Inspector Remy Reynard, Geneva Police. And two allies from inside the Iranian diaspora.”
“Am I right to assume one of these allies is Rhana Mandana?”
Marc waited for Rhana to nod before replying, “That’s an affirmative.”
“I assume there is a purpose for this call.”
“May we ask your name?”
“You may call me Chaver.” The man turned the ch into a soft guttural sound.
Kitra said, “‘Chaver’ is Hebrew for friend.”
Marc said, “Let me start with a sit-rep.” Chaver made a sound indicating his agreement. Marc began with the explosion at the Geneva gallery and finished with his report to the U.S. ambassador. He left little out. He did not mention Amin by name. He did not name the Divonne church. Other than that, it was complete.
When he was finished, Chaver said, “Wait a moment.” The phone went dead.
The room remained silent until Rhana murmured, “What is happening?”
“He has others in the room with him,” Marc said. “They are reviewing what I told him, to see if there’s anything they didn’t already know. And if there are any holes.”
Bernard asked, “Do you think he already knew about Hesam?”
“I’ll ask,” Marc replied, “but I doubt he’ll say.”
Which was precisely what happened. When Marc posed the question, Chaver said it was not time for him to divulge such information, and then, “All right. We have your report. Now give us your assessment.”
“If there’s a nuclear warhead being readied,” Marc said, “I gather you and the Americans will take it out.”
The speaker phone crackled softly. Otherwise there was no response.
“Ditto for the risk of something being on the container vessel you’re tracking from Pakistan,” Marc went on. “I assume U.S. ports are being carefully monitored. If a ship bearing missile components is approaching the Strait of Hormuz, we don’t serve any further purpose. We can all go home.”
The man did not respond.
“The question is, what might we have gotten wrong?” Marc said. “Everything about this Hesam and his actions have been lies. Nothing is as it first appeared. So the risk is he’s playing a shell game on the high seas. We need to ask, what if the U.S. port has never been his target?”
The phone connection remained silent.
“What if the target is somewhere else?” Marc continued. “The Iranians’ official line is that the U.S. and Israel are so closely intertwined that an attack against one is an attack against both. What if they never intended to attack the U.S. directly? What if they had always intended to go after Israel?”
There was a creaking sound, as the man must have shifted his weight. “That is the specter that has robbed my nights of peace.”
“Everything about this guy has been laced with subterfuge and false trails,” Marc said. “To make a head-on assault on American soil goes against everything they assume. They know full well the Americans would retaliate by invading Iran. The ayatollahs and the Revolutionary Guard would be wiped off the map. They know this.”
“We agree.”
“Let’s say the U.S. Navy boards the container ship they’re tracking. They find nothing. Iran responds with a formal protest to the UN. And while the right hand is waving this red flag in the face of the world, the left hand—”
“Exactly,” Chaver confirmed. “Where is the left hand?”
Marc hesitated, then confessed, “I’m unable to reach Ambassador Walton.”
“The ambassador, I’m sorry to say, is out of the equation.”
The quiet finality was chilling. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s a fighter.” The voice carried the soft sibilance of Judean deserts. “He’s down but not out.”
Marc released a breath of tension. “Admiral Willits has ordered me home.”
“So I have been informed.” Chaver was silent for a long moment, then added, “Your future is not as bleak as it probably looks from where you’re standing.”
“Not reading you—”
“Admiral Willits will be required at some point to confirm that their first direct identification of their target, Hesam al-Farouz, came from you. Your work was valid. You flushed him out. You sent him scampering back to Iran by way of the first flight out.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“It’s how you can paint it. And I will back you up. So will your ambassador there in Geneva. What I’m saying is, if you obey their orders and go home, you still have a career. You’ve earned a ticket back into the intelligence community.”
Marc felt the temptation gnaw at him, a grinding in his gut. He knew the man was offering him the perfect out. He had orders. He had a future. He had a choice.
But he also had a job that wasn’t finished. He knew what it was like back in Washington. The senior officials had massed up behind the party line. They had taken aim. They were waiting for the green light. Anyone who offered an alternative viewpoint at this stage was just so much cannon fodder.
They were probably right. But what if they weren’t? What if they were missing something vital, something that could kill uncounted innocents, presage something even worse? Marc decided, “I need to stay in the hunt.”
This was clearly what the m
an had been waiting for. “Then you and your team must travel south at first light. My allies and I are facing the same battles here in Israel. All the big guns are lined up behind the number-one fear, that the Iranians are three days from having a working nuclear weapon.”
“And when we arrive—”
“We need you to do what we officially have been ordered not to do. Are you willing?”
Marc glanced around the room, then replied, “Absolutely.”
“That is good to hear, Agent Royce. Regardless of what happens now, you and your team have earned my nation’s gratitude.”
“Will you answer one question for me?”
“Perhaps, Agent Royce. Ask and we shall see.”
Marc rose from his seat to stand over the map of Israel. “Chaver, can you find out for me what direction the wind blows in Israel at this time of year?”
Marc bade the others good-night and retreated to his room. He stood for a time by the open balcony doors, letting the rain blow against him, wishing it had the power to wash away the conflicting emotions whirling through him. The longer he stayed in Kitra’s presence, the harder it became to see any other life than one that included her. It was only then, as he stood and endured the windswept storm, that he realized they had failed to pray together. The people and the tide of events had swept them up, and he had forgotten their agreement. It unsettled him, because there was no telling what else he had failed to do. Or see. Or anticipate.
He pushed away the fears as best he could, pulled out his phone and keyed in the number. When a sleepy British voice answered, he asked, “Is this Sir Geoffrey?”
“Who is asking at this time of night?”
“Marc Royce, sir. I apologize for the hour. We met—”
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Royce.” Every vestige of slumber vanished. “You are the extremely capable young gentleman who saved my life.”
“Only after I was at least partly responsible for putting you in harm’s way.”
“Young man, I signed up for that when I first made contact with your agencies. Remember that. I came to them. And you understand why, yes?”
“You are a patriot.”
“Well, yes, that and more, Mr. Royce. And I thank you.”
“Please, call me Marc.”
“Yes, Marc. I am convinced that the only way for the human race to reach its full potential, and possibly even survive at all, is through the implementation of democracy around the globe. People must take responsibility for their lives, for their governments. Leaders must be held accountable to the people they rule. For this principle I would willingly sacrifice my life.” He paused, then added, “Of course, it is far easier to hold forth this way when I’m safely ensconced in my London townhouse and don’t have bullets raining around my head.”
Marc found himself liking the man immensely. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, my dear boy. Ask away.”
“We need to go off grid, and we need some supplies when we arrive at our destination. Urgent supplies, brought to us in total secrecy.”
“Wait, let me find a pen and paper. . . . All right, what precisely do you have in mind?”
Marc sketched out his needs and where he needed the supplies to be delivered.
“I don’t see how that should be a problem. When do you need this delivery?”
“Noon today.”
“Then I had better get cracking. Can I reach you at this number?”
“You can. I’m sorry to bother—”
“Don’t give it another thought. Am I to assume someone is going after the men who attacked us at the spa?”
“Yes, their superiors. We hope.”
“I thoroughly dislike being shot at,” Sir Geoffrey said wryly. “I would count it a pleasure to be involved, at least in some indirect fashion. Plus there is the small matter of a Rodin bronze now on display in my library. I understand you had something to do with that.”
“It seemed the least we could do.”
“My dear young man, being granted the company of a Rodin ballerina for my lifetime was as great a joy as my knighthood. Perhaps more. I’ll be in touch when I have something to report.”
Chapter Thirty
The Geneva authorities did not permit flights to land or depart between ten at night and five thirty in the morning. Amin met the group at the hotel at a quarter to five and ferried them through silent, predawn streets to the private air terminal. Inspector Reynard led in a police vehicle, his badge clearing them quickly through customs and out onto the empty tarmac. The sky was gradually clearing, the clouds pulling back with reluctant grace. The air still carried the sweetness of the previous day’s rainfall, not quite overcome by the strong overlay of diesel fuel from the large jets warming their engines by the main passenger terminal.
Right at five thirty, a sleek white needle dropped from the sky and pulled over to where they waited by the private jet terminal. The stairs descended to reveal a grinning Carter Dawes.
Reynard took the opportunity to shake the hand of each in turn, saving Marc for last. “I must tell you I was wrong about you.”
Marc liked the man’s grip, solid and sparse. “No, you were following protocol, just what you should have done given the circumstances.”
Reynard leaned on his good leg and smiled crookedly. “I was trying to apologize.”
“No need.”
“You really should come back again, you know. Enjoy our hospitality.”
“I’d like that.”
“Of course, after all this, you may find Switzerland a little boring.”
Marc picked up his bag. “After this, boring will be exactly what I’m after.”
As they found their places in the jet, Marc could see that the women were unsettled by the speed of events, maybe even Bernard and Amin. Both men hid their unease with the pretended calm of professionals. But Marc knew what the group was feeling. He felt it himself. Things were not totally under control, had not been since he had arrived in Geneva at the start of this mission. And they were headed now into more uncertainty, with even greater implications—for good or for evil.
When they had reached cruising altitude, he went up front and spoke at length with Carter Dawes and a copilot Carter didn’t bother to introduce. Bernard and Amin had come forward also and stood in the doorway to listen. The daylight strengthened, and soon they left the Alps behind, swooping high above the French Riviera and out over the crystalline blue of the Med. Marc returned to the main cabin and told Kitra and Rhana they had three hours and suggested they rest. He folded back the table and joined two seats together, forming a padded leather bed. He lay down, not expecting to sleep, but in less than five minutes he was out.
He awoke to the sound of Rhana Mandana talking on the pilot’s phone. She spoke in Arabic, then French, then back to Arabic again. She sounded chipper and brisk to Marc. He walked to the galley at the back of the plane, where the pilots had laid out a large coffee thermos and a tray of sandwiches. He glanced at his watch. He had slept two hours. He ate a sandwich and downed two mugs of coffee. He should have felt more refreshed than he did. But a nap at thirty thousand feet had little effect on the burdens he carried. It did, however, he was glad to note, make his mind sharper. He refilled his mug and stared up the main aisle to where Kitra lay, still asleep. A blanket covered all but her head. She was curled up like a dark-haired kitten, her face a porcelain oval in the light through the side window.
He forced his gaze away when Amin started toward him. “Rhana is making reservations for us at the Ritz-Carlton.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“This place is extremely expensive. She says she will handle it. I would like to ask . . .”
“If I’m able, I will make sure she is reimbursed.”
When Rhana completed her call, Marc accepted her place in the fold-down navigator’s seat between the doorway and the pilot’s berth. The jet’s phone was bulky and connected by a coiled cord to the main radio. He called Walton’s cel
lphone, and when the answering service picked up, he left another detailed message. He then phoned Ambassador Samantha Keller in Geneva on her direct line. When a young man answered, Marc identified himself and asked to have a word.
The man had clearly been prepped, for he responded with “Yes, sir. Hold, please.”
Thirty seconds later, the ambassador said, her voice low, “I am in a meeting and cannot talk.”
“Can you listen?”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re about twenty minutes out from landing at Sharm el-Sheikh.”
“Do you have anything new?”
“Only that some portions of Israel’s intelligence community share our concerns enough to send in several undercover agents. We will liaise with them and start the hunt.”
“For the missing research vessel?”
“Affirmative.”
“I thought the target was the . . . the other direction.”
“We assume you will be covering the American seaboard. We are looking at alternative sites.”
“Understood.”
“Do you have any update?”
The ambassador lowered her voice to a shred of sound. “Interception of the original vessel is imminent.”
“Any change in the timeline?”
“Formal military warning goes up in eighteen hours.” She gave that a beat, then went on in a more normal tone, “I have heard this morning that your friend’s health is improving. They’ve moved him from ICU to a regular wing. He still has a pulmonary infection. They were concerned about his heart. This is no longer an issue.”
Marc breathed somewhat easier. “This is good news. Very good news.”
“Here’s something less positive.” She lowered her voice again. “The admiral is gunning for you.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“Your only hope of reviving your career is to bring in the goods.”
“Madame Ambassador, my career is not the issue here.”
She was silent for a moment, then, “Walton is fortunate to have you on his team. As am I. As many others will be. Good hunting.”