by Davis Bunn
“Because I am now authorized to give you whatever you want. Unofficially, of course. Completely off the record. But the normal Swiss reserve and obsession with laws and protocol, none of it applies any longer. My superiors are asking that you please pass this on.”
“Superiors in the reinsurance group, or FIS?”
“My friend, I am referring to people so high up the ladder, such designations no longer matter.” He shifted from his place by the wall. “I believe the good inspector has decided to rejoin us.”
Marc sat and waited while the inspector and the federal agent exchanged pleasantries in French. When the inspector gummed his dry lips and nodded toward the side table, Marc held the cup of cold water while Remy drank, then refilled it and held it again.
Remy asked hoarsely, “The two Rolls?”
Bernard showed his customary humor. “I would tell the good inspector to let us worry about such matters and rest, but he is a policeman, and he will heal more swiftly if he is involved.” He then spoke in English to the inspector, “The cars were reported stolen two days ago in Paris. They bore limo tags stolen from a business in Zurich.”
“And the gunners?”
“Nothing so far. No names, no records. But Interpol is involved, and we have widened the search.”
Bernard left to find a nurse, and Remy gave the silence a long and grateful moment before saying, “I disliked you the first moment I saw you.”
“I know.”
“I saw a warrior. A foreign warrior. On Swiss soil.”
Marc nodded. “It didn’t matter whether I was involved in the blast or not. I was a threat to your peace.”
Remy studied him. “I was wrong.”
“No,” Marc said. “Actually, you weren’t.”
Their conversation was cut off by the doctor’s arrival. In the middle of his examination, Marc’s phone rang. He expected it to be Kitra, but did not recognize the number. “This is Royce.”
“Agent Royce,” a male voice said, “I am the friend of Rhana. Perhaps she mentioned me.”
“Just a moment.” Marc stepped through the doorway. As he did, he murmured to Bernard, “It’s him.”
The agent followed him from the room. Marc said, “Rhana told us you might make contact.”
“And here I am.”
He held the phone so Bernard could listen in. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with the attack.”
“We did nothing. We played no role, except as observers. We are after the same thing as you, Agent Royce. We hear the ticking clock. We need answers.”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Amin Hedayat.” His tone showed mild humor. “In Farsi, it means ‘honest guide.’ Which I hope you will find me to be.”
“Who attacked us?”
“Their leader is known as Hesam al-Farouz. It means ‘Sword of Triumph.’ He is rumored to be a member of the Revolutionary Guard’s high council. He trained as a physicist and has been spotted at several international conferences on nuclear science. But we have no background on him whatsoever. We do not know where he came from or where he trained. Nothing. We are operating on rumors, and this worries us.”
“His men were very professional.”
“You will please inform us if they reveal anything, yes?”
Marc replied, “That depends.”
“Trust for trust, yes, I quite agree. In Iran we have a saying: When you most need a friend, it is too late to find one. Meaning we must prepare now. The clock is ticking, Agent Royce. Please join me outside. Alone.”
“How will I . . . ?”
But the man was already gone.
Bernard accompanied him down the stairs. “They are going to make Remy into the nation’s hero. Our minister of the interior is on his way down as we speak. The evening news will announce that Remy will soon receive the nation’s highest civilian medal for valor. I assume you have no interest in receiving a medal of your own.”
“Absolutely not,” Marc said. “I wasn’t there. How could I be rewarded for something I didn’t do?”
“But you did, and everyone knows it. The minister will want to have a word.”
“Tell him to call Washington. I plan to be otherwise occupied.” He stopped by the front doors. “The man said I needed to do this alone.”
“As I said, this is a national terrorism issue. I must insist.”
“Not this time.” Marc lifted his phone, hit the code for Bernard’s cell. When it rang, Marc slipped the phone back into his shirt pocket. “He didn’t say anything about you listening in.”
He walked outside where he had time for one breath and one blink at the late afternoon sunlight before a dark Mercedes SL500 swooped in on silent wings. Marc opened the front passenger door and noticed the thick dimension, the heaviness, the precise balance of the hinges. He slipped inside. “Nice ride.”
“Thank you, Agent Royce. It is yours for the duration. Midrange bulletproofing.” He pulled away, slipped out of the hospital drive, and joined the city’s fray. “Ms. Korban may find the Ferrari a bit too vulnerable, after yesterday’s mayhem.”
“You operate a limo company?”
“Limos, taxis, corporate buses,” he said while expertly navigating through the traffic. “We have allies and partners in Germany and Holland and California and Minneapolis and Michigan and Washington and Canada. We are the Persian diaspora. We fled in the chaos between two oppressive regimes. Where we landed, we sought to hide in plain sight. From the moment we planted new roots, we shared one dream: to bring down the fanatics and build a democracy in our homeland.”
“Rhana told Kitra about her father, the pastor. You are part of the Christian immigration?”
“We are, and it amazes us that Rhana would share her most carefully guarded secret with a complete stranger.” Amin Hedayat was in his late fifties or early sixties, and spoke with the ease of a man who had made himself comfortable in many tongues. He wore a black double-breasted jacket and woven gray tie and carried himself with the air of one who was at ease with wealth and power. Amin was far more than a limo driver. “Those Christians who did not escape before the imams took over are lost to us. We will greet them with gladness and tears on the last day. Until then, we seek to reclaim our beautiful land from the fanatics who would like to pretend we do not exist.”
Marc disliked the isolation created by the bulletproof glass. “Why am I here?”
“We have questions, Agent Royce. Things that do not add up.”
“I’m listening.”
“And so are others, I suspect.”
In response, Marc pulled out the cellphone and set it on the padded armrest between their seats. “I ask again, why am I here?”
Amin Hedayat eyed the cellphone as he would a roach that had dared enter his pristine vehicle. But he did not protest. “Questions, Agent Royce. Many questions, few answers. What do you know about the Revolutionary Guard?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Their full name is Sepah-e Pasdaran-e Enqelab-e Elami, which translates as the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. Whatever ragtag rabble they might have been when they stormed the U.S. Embassy and held your people captive, now they are transformed beyond recognition. They number over one hundred and fifty thousand active personnel, and also control the Basij militia, similar to your National Guard, which gives them access to another half-million men.”
Amin drove slowly past a lakefront park. Beyond the thick windows stretched an emerald lawn and groomed shrubbery and laughing children and sparkling waters. Everything neat and orderly and utterly removed from their discussion. “The Guards have taken an increasingly assertive role in every aspect of Iranian society. They have forced successive governments to grant them even more power, especially since the riots of four years ago, because they are all that stand between the regime and defeat. Since the 2009 election, they have become so powerful we believe they actually surpass the clerics in Qom. They operate a multi-billion-dollar business empi
re, second in wealth only to the national oil company.”
“I am still waiting,” Marc said, “for the questions.”
“Let us assume for the moment that the rumors are correct, that Hesam al-Farouz is indeed a leader of the Sepah. That is how opponents of the regime refer to the Guard, by the way. Using that name is a declaration of where one stands. Regime backers call them the Pasdaran.” He held up one manicured hand to halt Marc’s comment. “Yes, yes. Questions. The Sepah is split into three distinct groups. The main group contains the Guard’s land, naval, and air wings. A much smaller unit is called Quds, or Special Forces. The third is the smallest of all, and is known as the Missile Forces. When Iran began its nuclear-enrichment program, the missile group was granted special status. They are an elite, secretive force that answers directly to the ayatollah and no one else. Their connection to the Sepah, the rest of the Guards, is marginal. They are universally loathed.” Amin turned on his left-turn signal and took the United Nations exit. “You can guess what I am about to disclose.”
“You have a spy inside the missile group.”
“No, Agent Royce. We have several. And none of them report to us any unexpected activity. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“If they were planning to set off a bomb, there would be movement.”
“There would be ferment. There would be exhilaration. They would say nothing, and few would know anything. But the tension would be felt, be tangible.”
“You’re certain what your people are telling you is correct? They haven’t simply been identified and forced to lie?”
“They are at different levels in different compounds. Scientists and military officers both. I tell you this without doubt. Nothing is happening.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because we can confirm something you may already suspect. Nine containers of dubious nature were shipped from North Korea and lost in Singapore. A gallery in Geneva that was used as a financial conduit has been destroyed. And then our dear friend Rhana, an art dealer in Lugano, has been handed an entire gallery of stolen merchandise and told to turn over to our foes a hundred million dollars. And they say it is extremely urgent. Words they have never used with her before.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to play the cynic. But there are people in Washington who think we’re chasing our tails. For all we know, it could be nothing more than an international art theft.”
Amin pulled to the curb across the street from the American legation to the UN. “And they could be right, except for the missing containers.”
“And the timing.”
“Yes, I agree. That they would demand payment so quickly just as the containers go missing is a concern.” He slipped two pieces of paper from his pocket. “Trust for trust, Agent Royce. This is Rhana’s Cayman account number. The bank, we are led to believe, is secretly controlled by your government. This morning Rhana gave Hesam al-Farouz access to the funds. We urge you to track the money and see where it goes.”
He handed over the second slip. “Rhana uses a new phone each time she contacts Hesam. The next time she speaks with him, she will call from this number. Tell your people to be ready. We will be able to give them only a few moments’ notice.”
Marc opened his door. “I’m on it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Early that evening, Kitra accompanied Rhana to a gallery opening. She had no interest in attending, but even less in being left alone and reliving the previous day’s aftershocks. She had spoken briefly with Marc, just long enough to hear that the police inspector had awakened and was expected to make a full recovery. As though the policeman’s condition was what she had been waiting all day to hear about. Afterward she sat in the chair by her balcony, gripping the armrests, waiting for the shudders of fear to subside.
Rhana clearly remained shaken by the attack as well. As they settled into the Mercedes limo to go to the gallery, the woman drew in close and said, “Thank you for not making me do this alone.”
“Why are we here?”
“Because I was asked. Told, actually.” She lifted a finger as the driver slipped behind the wheel, and did not speak again until they arrived. As they rose from the limo and entered the elegant gallery, she went on, “I received a call from my contact. I was to be here, at this hour.”
“He wants to meet you?”
“If so, it will be the first time I have ever seen him. I do not even know what he looks like.” She glanced swiftly about the gallery, then sniffed her disdain. “I have no knowledge of this painter, nor do I care. I do not deal in modern art. Normally I come to such events merely to be seen.”
Kitra had difficulty focusing on anything. The noise battered at her. She felt disconnected, and her mind kept replaying the distant ripple of gunshots. She jerked with fear when a waiter suddenly appeared and offered her a glass of champagne.
There was no evident shift in the elegant woman’s demeanor. She still surveyed the gathering with a cool, dark gaze. But Kitra sensed the change. An instant’s fear sliced through her calm. “What is it?”
Rhana waved and smiled to someone neither woman actually saw. “Phone your young man. Where is he now?”
“With the agent. Behlet.” Kitra was already reaching for her purse. “He said he would join us—”
“No, no, don’t make any sudden movements. Your every motion must carry a languid ease.” Rhana motioned to the painting with her untouched glass. “Tell him to come. Tell him . . .”
“Yes?”
A faint tremor rippled across Rhana’s features, the slightest indication of all she struggled to hide. “I can’t be certain. But tell him I think death has just entered the room.”
Kitra watched Rhana step into the tide of people and drift away. She made no attempt to follow. Instead she moved to the side window, where the night formed a dark mirror. As she coded in Marc’s number, she watched the reflection of a tall man slip through the crowd with a predator’s ease, taking aim for Rhana.
When Marc came on the phone, she discovered she had lost the ability to breathe. She gasped once, twice, then managed, “I’m so afraid.”
Rhana stopped before another painting, pretending she had not even noticed the gentleman moving toward her. He was Persian, she knew this instantly, a pure-blood Aryan, a member of the world’s most ancient race. And he fit the one bit of description she had of the man whose voice she heard in her nightmares yet had never met.
She stepped to the next painting, moving slowly, drawing farther away from where Kitra stood by the front window. Then the man stepped around the nearest guests and smiled. Rhana could almost imagine the blade slip between her ribs as the man said in French, “Madame Mandana, a pleasure.”
She took great assurance from how her voice remained steady. “Do I know you?” She cocked her head, eyebrows raised.
“We share numerous mutual acquaintances. Although one of them, Sylvan Gollet, sadly is no longer among us.”
She gave him the most brilliant of smiles, as though his latent rage remained unnoticed. “How very nice to finally make your acquaintance. What shall I call you?”
“Your doom, if I do not like your answers.” He had the olive complexion of most Middle Easterners, but his features were perfectly aquiline, like a Renaissance sculpture of a young boy. He would have appeared effeminate were it not for his razor-edged strength. And the blaze of fury in his gaze. “Tell me what happened at the spa.” The words came from lips that barely moved.
Rhana turned and walked slowly toward a rear alcove, astonished that her legs managed to keep her upright. The scent of dread and some ghastly cologne he wore threatened to cut off her air. She waited for him to join her, then answered, “That’s simple enough. Your men botched the attack.”
He stood against the rear wall, forcing her to remain with her back to the room. “Four men in two cars, a seventh assailant embedded among the guards, all of them highly trained. They failed. Do you know what that suggests to me?”
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br /> “That you should have prepared for greater opposition.” She managed to transform her fear into an outraged tone. “There were nineteen security personnel on duty!”
“Bored guards, most unarmed, who should have been overwhelmed by my men.”
“I always assumed you were too much a professional to make such an assumption,” she snapped.
“I am the consummate professional. Your life depends upon that.”
“There were six former Swiss special forces among the nineteen. Not to mention a former agent of the FIS, a former member of U.S. intelligence, and a police inspector.”
His gaze tightened. “And how do you know this?”
“The U.S. agent is that young woman’s bodyguard. He told us afterwards.” Then she amended, “Actually, he was formerly an agent. He was fired. Now he freelances.”
“Who is that woman?”
“Daughter of a French industrialist. I suspect she has Jewish blood.”
“Her arrival at this point did not raise your suspicions?”
“Of course it did. Why on earth do you think I brought her here? I need to know what is happening. For all our sakes!”
“Keep your voice down. Why was there a police presence at the spa?”
“Some rumor of a robbery. He interviewed several of the patrons, asking if any—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that.” He was dressed in a suit that fit him like a second skin, black with a black woven pinstripe, and a black shirt. His cuff links held diamonds, as did the face of his watch. They caught the light as he adjusted the knot of his woven silk tie and shook his head. “Rhana, I am wondering what I should do with you.”
“You seek to punish me for your failure?”
“You were the one who suggested the spa as a location for our trap.”
“And you were the one who came unprepared.” She started to turn away. “You have your money. Leave me—”
“Stay where you are.”
Reluctantly she turned around. What choice did she have? He did not merely command. He dominated. She had known such people all her life. Persians who had taken control not just of her nation, but her soul. “I do not know why you risked coming here.” She was shocked at her own temerity in the face of the evil power in front of her.
