by Davis Bunn
“Which confirms your suspicion that Mossad shares your confidential source,” Marc said. “And he doesn’t care if you know. Or maybe even, he wants you to know. Which means Mossad does as well.”
“I agree on all counts.”
“How did you two link up?”
“Sir Geoffrey approached me directly during the last spate of security breaches, back in the late eighties. It was as bad as the WikiLeaks scandal, only far more personal. His father was American, his mother linked to one of London’s oldest Jewish families. At that time, the British secret service leaked worse than our own services. Sir Geoffrey asked that I never officially place him on our books. He operates at the level of prime ministers and presidents. Extremely rich.”
“Where’s the meeting to take place?”
“He is sending his private jet to collect you. It is landing in, ah, twenty-two minutes. He would not say where exactly the meeting is taking place, which means you are going in cold.”
A man who sends a private jet to carry them to an undisclosed location suggested someone who knew the value of secrets. Marc started to point this out, but was interrupted by Walton’s cough. “Are you ill, sir?”
“I can’t seem to shake this cold.” The old man wheezed hard. “And I don’t have time to do what the doctor wants, which is to lie down.”
“Maybe you should.”
“First we must save the world. Good hunting.”
The jet was a new Gulfstream IV, one of the world’s largest private jets. The tables were burl veneer, the cup holders sterling silver, the seats ivory doeskin. Once they were airborne, the copilot offered them champagne, coffee, meals, then slipped back inside the cockpit and left them alone.
Kitra took in the luxurious cabin and said, “I really don’t have the clothes for this.”
“I doubt seriously,” Marc replied, “that how you’re dressed will make any difference.”
“I don’t mean with me. I mean, at all.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve never considered clothes very important. I know a lot of girls did. It was something I saw in the movies and on the television. I always thought of it as another of the odd things about life beyond the kibbutz. How women could spend hours at the mall, buying things they didn’t need.” She was seated directly across from him at the jet’s front table. She avoided meeting his gaze by watching clouds beyond her window. “The Valentino you ruined was the first designer outfit I’d ever owned. I enjoyed picking it out. I didn’t expect that, how much pleasure could come from shopping.”
“I’m sorry about your suit. I really am.”
“Why did you throw me into the lake?”
“Revenge.”
Her lips compressed, hiding the smile that dimpled her cheeks. “You are so dead. Give me your gun.”
“I pushed you in the lake to protect you from the blast. I stayed on the sidewalk to shield you from incoming danger. I didn’t think it through. It just happened.”
“You did what you did because it’s who you are.” Her face went solemn. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you in the police station, in front of all those people.”
“You had every right.”
“It wasn’t because of the outfit.”
“I know.”
She studied him for a long moment. Sunlight through the window turned her gaze impossibly clear. “I was wrong to expect you to join me on the kibbutz.”
He did not know what to say.
Kitra went on, “You are who you are. An agent for the United States government. A man who is loyal to his cause and his nation. You would perish in the Judean plains.”
He tasted words, but could not bring himself to speak.
“I will do this with you,” Kitra continued, “because I am loyal as well, to my country and my cause. Because this is bigger than us, or our needs, or our pain, I will help you. And then I will go home.”
“I understand,” he managed.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes. I wish I didn’t. But I do.”
“Will you be strong for both of us?”
“Kitra . . . I don’t . . . I can’t be certain.”
She nodded slowly. “Will you at least try?”
They were escorted from the jet and bundled into a waiting Mercedes S-500. A customs official waited until they were inside the air-conditioned limo to request their passports. Marc saw their driver cast a condescending glance over Kitra’s cotton shirt and drawstring pants and sandals, and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
The drive from the Nice airport took just under an hour. Marc spent the time passing on Walton’s intel regarding the man they traveled to meet. Sir Geoffrey Treadwick was chairman of a company founded by his maternal grandfather. He had taken over after the sudden death of his father when Geoffrey was only twenty-nine, and built it from a supplier of automotive and truck components into one of the world’s largest conglomerates. He oversaw more than a hundred companies in virtually every country in the world. His passion was art. He had begun collecting as a teenager, when he had spent a small inheritance on the only artwork he could afford—drawings from second-rate impressionists and oils by a few modern artists that caught his eye. He proved to be as astute in his tastes as in his business, for by his twenty-second birthday his collection was estimated to be worth five million dollars, more than ten times what he had spent.
His most recent acquisition had been Edvard Munch’s famous pastel entitled The Scream. The dramatic twelve-minute bidding at Sotheby’s had set a new world record for art sold at auction, and the buyer’s identity remained a closely guarded secret. Unlike most serious collectors, Sir Geoffrey had no interest in sharing his acquisitions with the general public. He was patron to no museums. He loaned out none of his works. Very few people were ever invited even to view his collection. Those few who did spoke of his treasures in hushed tones.
Sir Geoffrey’s yacht was moored at the point where the longest harbor pier joined with the road lining the quayside. Across the quayside’s avenue sprawled cafés and hotels and piazzas and fancy shops and the kind of people who never bothered to check prices. Passersby pretended not to stare as two uniformed sailors saluted Marc and Kitra and ushered them across the sidewalk, lifted the embossed rope guardrail, and led them onboard. Only tourists gawked in Monte Carlo.
The boat was a floating palace. Sir Geoffrey was a professional at putting people at their ease. He settled them on the foredeck and had his staff extend a broad canopy, which blocked the seafront avenue and the glitz from view, and granted them an uninterrupted panorama of the harbor, the lazy sailboats, and the Med. A cold lunch was swiftly set in place, smoked and poached salmon, tongue in aspic, salads, fruit, and the largest cheese board Marc had ever seen.
Geoffrey shooed away the staff and served them himself. He moved with the ease of a man long accustomed to playing host to the world. Kitra gradually relaxed, and even smiled a time or two. Marc was content to sit and wait for this man to make the opening move.
Kitra, however, did not share his patience. When the industrialist finally filled his own plate, she said, “Don’t you think it’s time we stopped this waltz?”
His smile seemed genuine. “I always did appreciate the direct manner of your people.”
“Some would call us brusque.”
“And there is nothing the matter with that. Far from it. The older I grow, the more impatient I become to fill my remaining hours with words and deeds that carry meaning.”
“Will you tell us why we are here?”
“Because I may have something of value. But your respective governments do not agree. And because I know of the current rash of leaks, I insisted that any contact lay outside the purview of your intelligence agencies.”
Kitra persisted, “But you specifically named me, Sir Geoffrey. How is that possible?”
“We share a common ally. As I do with your silent young man.”
“If you are referring to the man who ordered
me to Switzerland, I do not even know his name.”
“You will. In time. If it is necessary.” His gold cuff links sparkled as he dabbed his lips with the napkin. “It took me almost six years.”
“What is your connection to Israel?”
“Officially, I have none. Unofficially, my mother’s family was Jewish. Sephardic. They converted in the late middle ages, when the British crown offered the Jewish community three choices. Convert to Christianity, leave, or die. Most Jews returned to their faith and their synagogues once the ban was lifted. My own forebears decided it was better to let their roots remain hidden.”
Marc knew his silence was making their host uncomfortable. But for the moment, it seemed useful to let Kitra play lead. She asked, “Do you know who blew up the gallery in Geneva?”
“Not for certain. But I can guess.”
“Will you tell us?”
“Of course.” His tone hardened. “Our enemies.”
Kitra nodded slowly, as though he had given the answer she had expected. “Is that why we are here?”
“Indeed so.” He set down his linen napkin and rose to his feet. “I suppose now is as good a time as any. Would you come with me, please?”
The Rodin was not a large piece, scarcely three feet tall. The dancer was frail and young and delicate. She waited for the chance to grow wings once more and fly to music Marc could almost hear. There was no reason for the art to make him sad, or wish for a chance to hold the woman next to him.
Sir Geoffrey said, “I understand you entered the Geneva gallery.”
Marc cleared his throat. “I did, yes.”
“Can you identify this item?”
“I saw a bronze statue of this dancer. But only for an instant. I don’t know anything about art. I can’t say if it was this specific item or a duplicate.”
“You know nothing about sculpture and yet you are moved by this, yes? Don’t deny it, Mr. Royce.”
“I’m denying nothing. It doesn’t take an expert to appreciate beauty.”
“Indeed not.”
Kitra said, “I saw it too. From the doorway. I think this was it.”
“I am assured it is. I was merely seeking confirmation that such an item did indeed reside inside the gallery just prior to the blast.”
Marc asked, “How did it get here?”
“There is a woman I have known for years. A Persian. Her name is Rhana Mandana. It is a distinctly Persian mockery, to change one’s name to something that rhymes. It means the queen of style, or something similar. Rhana is a leader in the international arts community, one of perhaps two dozen gallery owners who could approach me day or night and I would take their call. She is based in Lugano. Her clientele is legendary. Saudi princes, Nigerian oil kings, Chinese billionaires—her list contains many of the world’s richest and most powerful names.”
They were both watching him now. Marc said, “Persian.”
“She does her best to hide her past, but I made it my business to check it out. I could not be seen to do business with a source of potential scandal. She was born with the name Maliheh. Members of her family were very high up in the revolution that overthrew the shah. She broke with them and fled the country. She married into money, a Swiss baron. He died quite young, and she opened the gallery. That was twenty-three years ago. Since then she has gone from strength to strength.”
“Any indication she does business with the dark side?”
“None whatsoever. And I have checked, believe you me. As have others. There has never been a whiff of anything approaching impropriety.”
“Until now,” Marc said.
“Yes, well, precisely.” Sir Geoffrey revealed his first moment of uncertainty. It did not suit him. He was bluff and hearty and robust, with a full head of grayish-blond hair and the ruddy cheeks and the heavy limbs of a man who lived a full life and loved every minute of it. Worry rested upon him like a borrowed cloak. “It leads one to wonder.”
“Whether she perhaps sought you out specifically,” Marc said, filling in the blanks. “Whether she knows about your contacts. Whether she is more than she seems, and on many levels.”
Sir Geoffrey showed Marc tight approval. “I’m ever so glad you appear to be as sharp as Ambassador Walton described. Shall we return to the foredeck?”
When they were seated and coffee was served, Sir Geoffrey said, “The art world has suffered like everything else from the economic downturn, all but the very highest tier. This one level has become completely unhinged from reality. There are a growing number of new buyers, mostly Russian and Chinese, but the Arabs are back and the South Americans are showing some new financial muscle. They are desperate for safe places to park their money, and eager to show class by owning such items. For them, these works are not art. They represent two things: financial security and social leverage.
“Prices are rising so fast, no one can tell how much anything is worth. It’s more a question of who is in the market and how much will they pay. And because so many of these acquisitions are secret, where the buyer and the seller are represented by attorneys and payments made through numbered accounts, there is always the risk that the deals are, in fact, illicit.”
Marc had not been aware of the passage of time while they had been in the stateroom. But from the sun’s position he had to assume they had lingered downstairs for over an hour. It surprised him. Viewing the dancer in that very private space, situated on a coffee table beneath the chandelier, had made for a very intense experience. He stared over the bow, out to where the waters sparkled golden in the late afternoon light, and wished he could return downstairs. Nothing about this spectacular setting compared to that little bit of bronze.
Sir Geoffrey went on, “Several months ago, I began hearing rumors. Not even that. Fragments of sentences. But when put together, they suggested something quite disturbing. Items were being put up for sale, but it was all a myth. They did not change hands at all. Instead, funds were transferred from one place to another. Everything aboveboard. Taxes paid, commissions, the works. But in truth all that happened was, money was being funneled past the barriers intended to isolate Iran. We’re talking a few hundred million dollars, which is quite a lot, but not enough, say, to rebuild their oil industry or establish a new refinery.”
“And then you heard about the development of long-range missiles,” Marc said.
“At first I thought it was preposterous. But the intelligence community has wondered for years how North Korea managed to scrape up the technology and the money to manufacture such long-range missile engines.”
Kitra said, “So Iran has been using North Korea as a test site.”
“Perhaps,” Marc corrected. “We’re still lacking hard evidence.”
“I must say, the very thought of those two pariahs collaborating on a missile fills me with dread.”
“What do we do now?”
“That depends on whether Rhana has anything to offer, and if so, whether she will help us. Do either of you know anything about the art market?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Marc replied.
“I know enough to appreciate it, and nothing about buying it,” Kitra said.
“But you need to play the lead on this,” Marc decided. “In case I was tracked to the gallery.”
“I’m not doing this without you,” Kitra declared.
“I’ve been told I make a fairly good bodyguard.”
“You are that.” Kitra turned to Sir Geoffrey. “You want me to adopt a new identity?”
“If it can happen swiftly. And you’ll most definitely need to look the part—someone able to acquire high-end artwork.” He gave Kitra a careful inspection. “I suggest you return to Geneva wearing the height of fashion.”
“I am a product of the kibbutz,” Kitra said. “I have made a profession of being broke.”
Sir Geoffrey managed to bow from a seated position. “Perhaps you will allow me to assist you in that regard.”
“Excuse me, I need to check in.
” Marc rose and walked to the stern railing, back where his voice could be swallowed by the late afternoon traffic. He phoned Walton, summarized swiftly, then waited.
“I cannot get you and Ms. Korban papers in a matter of hours,” Walton stated flatly. “Once, perhaps. But not now. The trails are too complex. It would require at least a week, and that is only after I have received approval.”
Marc related what Kitra had told him about the mysterious caller, then said, “I’m thinking it may be time to phone that number.”
Walton mulled that over, then said, “Do it.”
Marc cut the connection, fished the paper from his pocket, and dialed. A man answered with one word: “Speak.”
“This is Royce.”
“What do you require?”
“A non-Israeli ID for Kitra Korban. She should come from old money. I’m her security.”
“Where are you now?”
“On a boat docked in the Monte Carlo harbor.”
“In that case, her return to Switzerland should be under the new alias. Give me four hours.” Instead of hanging up as Marc expected, the man said, “We have friends in common, Mr. Royce. And I’ve checked out your file. Your extraction in Baghdad was most impressive work.”
“Thanks. Where do we hook up?”
“Planeside at Nice Airport. I’ll be in touch.” The man clicked off.
Chapter Seven
Marc escorted Kitra to the Lanvin shop down the quayside from Sir Geoffrey’s yacht. The industrialist had insisted upon this designer because their clothes suited the conservative perspective of old money, elegant and refined. He obviously did considerable business there, for they were met at the door by the shop owner. The cultured older woman took Kitra under her wing and shooed Marc away.
He walked to a stylish café down the boulevard. Dusk arrived in the languid manner of the Riviera. Most of the people strolling along the quayside were decked out like walking flowers, in pastels and sandals and jewelry. Their footsteps formed a leather-clad rainfall upon the cobblestones and the sidewalk fronting the harbor. Their talk was beautiful, though he did not understand a word. French spoken in the fragrant Mediterranean air was like a soft aria. Even the laughter was different here, coming more easily than anywhere else on earth.
