by Davis Bunn
“That’s it? Yes?”
“That’s enough, if he asks the right question. And I hope you tell him the same thing, Ms. Korban. Your friend is heading into serious danger. He needs someone he can trust to watch his back. It might just keep him alive.”
Marc’s meeting with the U.S. Embassy officials in Bern proved utterly futile. The CIA station agent and the ambassador had obviously been briefed by Washington, which meant they were not free to voice the rage they both felt over being kept out of the loop. The fact that Marc could tell them nothing, and Washington had obviously ordered them not to ask, only made things worse.
Marc took the next train back to Geneva and walked to the hotel where he and Kitra were booked. He had never felt so conflicted in his life. He could not wait to see Kitra again, and yet he dreaded it in equal measure. He half hoped she had already decided to return to Israel—for both of their sakes, even though it would break his heart once more.
He was about to enter the hotel when he spotted her. Kitra was seated in a café fronting the plaza and the traffic. She was turned so that her face was directed toward the sun, her chin tilted upward. She wore dark sunglasses, but Marc thought her eyes might be closed. He stepped back down to the street and recalled the first time he had ever seen her. She had been serving as a nurse in a Kenyan refugee camp, in the shadow of an erupting volcano. Her brother had been kidnapped while tracking the theft of rare earths. She had been frantic, and utterly alone. Then, when all had seemed darkest, Marc had arrived and brought her brother out safely and helped her establish a new commercial lifeline for her kibbutz. Now, as he studied her profile, he understood why his heart felt so heavy. He knew she was sad, that he was the reason for her sorrow. It was all his fault. And he could do nothing about it except send her away.
But he could not do that again. He did not have the strength.
She must have sensed him, for she jerked slightly as though coming awake, and turned toward him. There was no greeting in her features. If anything, the sad lines around her mouth deepened.
Marc entered the café’s veranda. “May I join you?”
She gave a nod. Marc took that as the only invitation he was going to receive, and seated himself. When the waiter appeared, he ordered an omelet with herbs and salad. He asked, “Did Agent Behlet speak with you?”
“For almost two hours.”
“May I ask what he said?”
Her voice took on a hollow singsong. “As of last year, the nation’s intelligence agencies have been merged into one new organization called the Federal Intelligence Service, or FIS. In French, Service de Renseignement de la Confederation Suisse.” Her accent was impeccable. “I don’t remember the German and couldn’t pronounce it if I did.”
“I was talking,” Marc said quietly, “of the threat.”
She waited while the waiter set down his meal. “Is it real, Marc?”
“Very.” He forced himself to take a few bites. “The final components required for Iran to deliver a nuclear threat to U.S. soil are now on the high seas. If our military takes over, the result will be global destabilization. Possibly a regional war.”
“The authorities in Singapore can’t help?”
That was the only bit of useful intel that had come from his morning at the embassy. “It appears we missed them by a day. Two hundred and eleven vessels came and went in that time, everything from fishing dhows to the largest container ship in the world. We think they off-loaded to a small private vessel, then halted again in Malaysia and changed vessels a third time.” Marc nodded his thanks as the waiter refreshed his water glass, but made no move to eat more. “Which is both good and bad. Bad, because we can’t track the ship. Good, because it adds a couple of days. Maybe.”
“How long do we have?”
Marc described the discussion in the police inspector’s office. “If we haven’t ID’d the vessel, in six days the U.S. Navy will close the Strait.”
She inspected him for a long moment. “Eat your meal.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You look half starved. And exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?”
Marc stared out over the piazza.
Kitra slid the plate and the salad bowl closer to him. “Eat.”
He did as he was told. “The ambassador met me at the service entrance with a Marine guard and took me straight to the comm room. I spent over an hour on the secure phone. Walton claims nobody in Washington believes the Swiss investigation will lead anywhere. The one connection they had to the money trail has been blown to smithereens. Even with Agent Behlet’s help it would take weeks to unlock the Swiss system and give us access to the gallery owner’s financial transactions.”
“Bernard says he has already looked at them.”
Marc stopped with his fork in midair. “What did he find?”
“Eat and I will tell you.”
“You sound like my mother.”
That was enough to draw a slight smile. Then her lips crimped into a tight line. “Behlet assures me the money trail goes nowhere. All he has is a list of attorneys and shell corporations. He says they broke a dozen laws accessing this information.” She opened her handbag and set a sheaf of papers on the table. “This did not come from him.”
“Don’t worry.” Marc made the pages disappear. “Can I ask you something?”
“All right, yes.”
“Why are you here?”
She was silent for so long Marc feared she might be deciding how to tell him that she was leaving, that she never wanted to see him again. And he would tell her that she was right, that she should go, and that it was over. All the words formed in his brain and cascaded across his heart like lead rain.
But when she spoke, it was to describe the phone call. Marc had difficulty focusing on what he was hearing. “A man we assume was from Mossad gave you a phone number and told you to tell me the one word yes?”
“That is correct. He also said you were headed into danger. He said . . .”
“Kitra, it’s important I know everything.”
“He said you needed me to watch your back.”
“And you’re sure this man was the same one who came to see you in Israel?”
“Positive.”
Marc tried to tell himself there was no reason for him to feel so elated by her staying. They were, after all, not a couple. They never would be. But the words did not stop his heart from soaring. “Describe him, please.”
“I already did. Once for you, and about a dozen times for the police.”
“Once more, please.”
She did so. “I had the feeling he wanted to be my friend. And yours. He didn’t come to the kibbutz just to deliver this message and ask me to make the trip.”
“He wanted to get your measure,” Marc suggested. “He wanted to scope you out, see how you’d handle yourself in the field.”
He could see the information impacted her deeply. “They know, don’t they? The Israelis.”
“Probably for a lot longer than the Americans. This is their backyard, and they’ve been warning about Iran and nukes for years. Sure they know.”
“So why are they leaving you here alone?”
“Same as the Americans. They don’t think this is going to lead anywhere. But they have to be certain.”
“What are we going to do?”
It was a hard question to hear. He was trained to assess, measure, decide, and act. But there was no direct way forward. No clear avenue to take. Neither about the threat nor about them. To speak was to admit defeat. He sighed, “I have no idea.”
Chapter Five
Rhana Mandana left her home in the burning chill of predawn. The stars were out and the roads empty. She entered Lugano and drove to the back of her gallery, where she opened the car’s trunk and then coded her entry into the warehouse doors. She had called ahead, so the guard merely stepped into the warehouse, offered her an alert greeting, then departed. He was well used to such visits and knew her desire fo
r privacy. She cut off the security cameras, entered the cage, wrapped the selected artwork in a packing blanket, and carried it out to the car. The item was quite heavy, and she was out of breath by the time she shut the trunk lid. Rhana reentered the shop, closed the cage, restarted the cameras, and resealed the rear entry. Then she left the city and joined the highway headed south. It was her favorite time of day for a drive.
She obeyed the speed limit to the border with Italy, was waved through customs, then pulled over and dropped the Bentley’s convertible roof. It was still quite cool, but she was dressed in a leather driving jacket, with a cashmere scarf knotted tightly over her hair. She turned up the heater, slipped back onto the highway, and unchained the beast under the hood. The Bentley’s turbocharged W12 roared with delight and accelerated the four tons of metal and luxury to a hundred miles per hour in less than ten seconds.
Her father had always claimed that danger was the most intense of all spices. Her mother had hated such comments, especially when he enlisted his only daughter in his games. Her brother had been much more like their mother, conservative and hesitant and carefully measuring every step. Little good it did them. No, their father had been right all along. Risk could be an exquisite pleasure, so long as it was taken on her terms, and done with an elegant flair.
Her name was a private joke. Rhana Mandana. In Farsi, her mother tongue, it meant “the sublime princess.” The few Persian customers who had the funds to be her clients loved the lyrical play on words. Farsi was a tongue made for poetry. Rhana Mandana was her legal name now—she had changed it the year she had arrived in Switzerland. Her birth name was Maliheh Masoumeh, which translated as “beauty in sinless innocence.” The name had become a bitter lie. Rhana was well rid of it.
She joined the highway heading west from Milan and pressed the accelerator further toward the floor, lifting her speed to over two hundred kilometers an hour. Almost fast enough to flee the memories.
When she approached the outskirts of Genoa, she turned into a nameless rest stop and reached into her purse for the phone. It was a risk to contact these people, especially now, when death was close enough to breathe down her neck. But she had outrun all the other early morning traffic. And she was using a cheap phone she would immediately destroy. She dialed the number from memory.
She had not heard the voice in eight months. But she recognized it instantly. He answered sleepily, “Yes?”
“This is Rhana.”
“Good morning. You are well?”
“The moment we have expected and feared is arriving.”
The man was silent for a fraction of a second. In that instant, all drowsiness vanished from his voice. “You are certain?”
“I am.”
“Tell me why.”
She described the Geneva gallery’s destruction and the man who had phoned her.
“I saw the newscast,” he said to her. “I was concerned they might have taken you as well.”
“I am well. For now.”
“Where are you?”
“Genoa. Turning north on the highway to France.”
“How can we contact you?”
“Best if you do not.”
“Understood. What do you need?”
“A team in place to assist me if this is indeed the moment we have planned for. Close enough to move fast.”
“I will attend to this matter myself.”
“You will be ready when I call?”
“My dear Rhana, I doubt seriously that I shall sleep between now and the end.”
She cut the connection, and discovered that her hands trembled on the wheel. She rose from the car and paced a slow circle around the parking area. Only when her tremors had passed did she return to the Bentley and the autostrada. The man’s final word resonated through the dawn-streaked sky. More than likely her phone call did indeed mark the beginning of the end for them both.
There was nothing for her to do but take what small pleasure she could from this life’s final danger.
Rhana entered France and took the hairpin descent from the main highway into Monte Carlo. Beyond the sunlit roofs sprawled the lazy blue Mediterranean.
The berth holding Sir Geoffrey Treadwick’s yacht stood alongside the Riviera’s most famous beach and cost more than a Manhattan apartment. The vessel measured two hundred and seventeen feet, and was sculpted from steel and carbon fiber and teak and chrome and money. A sailor in pressed whites was scurrying down the gangplank before Rhana cut the engine. She opened the trunk and asked his help carrying the blanket-wrapped item onboard. The sailor radioed for another mate to come take her car, then led her up the gangplank.
Sir Geoffrey was there to greet her. “My dear Rhana, what a delight. Have you eaten?”
“Not since last night.”
“Then we must do something about that. How do poached eggs with truffles and caviar sound?”
“Perfect.” She allowed the portly gentleman to peck both her cheeks. “You are looking splendid, Geoffrey.”
“I’m not. I’m too pale and I haven’t exercised in weeks. But your presence will prove a tonic.” He gestured to the sailor still holding the parcel. “What have we here?”
“Something for your eyes only.”
“Take it into the stateroom.” To Rhana, “Shall we leave it until after breakfast?”
“Business first, truffles later.”
“This way, then.” He led her through the main living area and along a hall as broad as a manor’s. The walls displayed a king’s ransom in art. It was a testimony to Sir Geoffrey’s wealth and obsession that he would display such artwork on a boat he used only four or five times a year.
The stateroom dominated the stern’s main deck, with a sweeping view over the harbor and the city and the hills. Rhana directed Sir Geoffrey to shift a table over so that it was centered directly below the crystal chandelier. She waited until the sailor departed before unfastening the wrapping and letting it drop to the floor.
“Oh, I say.” Sir Geoffrey circled the sculpture. The bronze glimmered in the lights like the jewel it was. “Is this genuine?”
“I am assured it is.”
The polishing had never been completed. Some critics claimed it was because Rodin had been overtaken by illness, and released the ballerina only when he feared he would not survive. But Rhana thought otherwise. The rough texture in certain places only added to the piece’s distinctly human nature. The fragile figurine remained poised in that singular moment between rest and flight. Rhana shivered with the joy she knew only in the presence of such sublime art. Rodin had not created a sculpture. He had captured life itself. She could almost hear the music that would bring the dancer into motion.
Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. Rhana liked him the more for his unabashed emotions. “This is magnificent.”
“It is. Yes.”
“Rhana, you must be aware, at auction this one piece could fetch your entire asking price.”
“Not without provenance. Which it does not have. And then there is the matter of confidentiality.”
“Of course.” He continued to stare at the sculpture. “This came from Sylvan’s gallery in Geneva?”
“It did. Yes.”
“Did you . . . ?”
She appreciated how he did not allow himself to complete the question. “Sylvan might have had some very serious weaknesses, but he remained a dear friend. I had nothing to do with the blast. And don’t bother asking how I came to possess these items. The answer is, I don’t know. And even if I did, to tell you would be to sign my own death warrant.”
“Yes. Of course.” He spoke to the bronze dancer and not to her. “You are offering me everything from Sylvan’s gallery?”
“As far as I know. Every item in his collection at the time of the blast.”
“Then what are the police pawing through?”
“I assume they are fakes. From what I have heard on the news, there is nothing left of the establishment except charcoa
l and puddles of molten bronze.”
“Am I in danger, Rhana?”
“No one knows you are taking possession.”
“No one can ever know.”
“Precisely. For both our sakes.”
“How do you propose to pass them to me undetected?”
Midway through her explanation he managed to drag his gaze from the bronze. “That is an excellent plan.”
“Thank you. I thought so.”
“I accept your offer. Where do I send the funds? Your usual accounts?”
“Not this time. I have a shell company in the Caymans.” She slipped the paper from her pocket. “As far as I know, there is no connection between me and those accounts.”
“I will have the funds transferred by close of business today.”
She thanked him and allowed him to lead her back to the main deck, but only after she had bade the dancer a fond farewell. She ate a meal she did not taste and then allowed Sir Geoffrey to usher her personally back to her car. She did not breathe easy until she was back through the Swiss border crossing and on her way home.
She was taking a huge risk, and it had nothing to do with Sir Geoffrey keeping the art a secret.
In fact, her only hope of survival lay in his doing the exact opposite.
Chapter Six
Marc went for a run along the lake’s perimeter. He was in the shower when his phone rang. Walton said, “I may have a lead.”
“Why does that leave you sounding so worried?”
“You mean, other than facing a possible nuclear threat and all-out war with Iran?” Walton wheezed noisily. “I have received a call from the contact who directed me to the Geneva gallery. The man’s name is Sir Geoffrey Treadwick. He has a possible lead. Emphasis on the word possible.”
“Do you want me to follow up?”
“I have convinced him that you are both legitimate and highly discreet. He has agreed to a meeting.”
“So what is the problem?”
“He has agreed on one condition,” Walton replied. “That you bring Ms. Korban.”
Marc was silent. Thinking.
“I told him nothing about the lady,” Walton went on. “He already knew.”
