Strait of Hormuz Read online

  © 2013 by Davis Bunn

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6279-0

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Author photograph by Angel Grey

  Praise for Lion of Babylon and Rare Earth

  “Description is so vivid you can smell the food and choke on the desert sand. . . . Bunn’s fans will leap for this precise and intricate tale of cross-cultural friendship and loyalty in the heart of the Green Zone.”

  Publishers Weekly on Lion of Babylon

  “Readers who were introduced to Royce in Lion of Babylon will be glad for this new adventure in which they will get to know him even better. Thorough characterizations, a fast pace, and attention to detail make this a sure bet for fans of Christian suspense stories. . . .”

  Library Journal on Rare Earth

  “This exciting, action-packed thriller features a strong sense of place in its depictions of the people and politics of the Middle East. It is sure to please [Bunn] fans and win him new ones.”

  Library Journal on Lion of BabylonSelected by Library Journal for the 2011 Best Book Award

  “A fast-paced, gripping thriller, Lion of Babylon is rich not only with adventure but also with visual details and dramatic, snapshot insights into the Middle East, its traditions, history, and people.”

  Phyllis TickleFormer Sr. Consulting Editor at Publishers Weekly

  “A phenomenal read. Lion of Babylon is far more than simply a great thriller. This book delves into a series of crucial issues, and does so with a sensitivity that left me literally stunned. Bunn tells a story that grips the reader and refuses to let go. . . . The descriptions are beautifully crafted, the characters vibrantly drawn.”

  Keith HazardDeputy Director (ret.), CIA

  “Lion of Babylon is a terrific book, deeply moving with new insights into important connections between the world’s faiths. . . . I have long admired and appreciated Davis’s work and I will say I think this is his finest.”

  Jane KirkpatrickNovelist and Speaker

  This book is dedicated to the next generation of readers. With appreciation for the enthusiasm of those who are especially close to me:

  Guthrie and Jill

  Riley and Diane

  Macon

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Lion of Babylon and Rare Earth

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  About the Author

  Books by Davis Bunn

  Back Ad

  Back Cover

  Chapter One

  Marc Royce had never been to Switzerland before. He was there without backup. He was not prepped. He had come because the one person in the world he could not refuse had asked for his help. Urgently. Marc checked his watch, then pressed his phone’s automatic dial. The ambassador answered instantly. Marc said, “I’m in place.”

  “Hold one.” Ambassador Walton did not bother to muffle the phone as he asked an unseen associate for an update. He told Marc, “The target is inbound from his residence in Montreux.”

  “You have monitors in place?”

  “We are tracking his cellphone. His GPS now belongs to us.”

  Which was interesting, given how Walton had refused to involve Swiss intelligence. There was a leak inside U.S. intelligence, of that Walton was absolutely certain. How or where their service had been breached, Walton had no idea. But Marc’s target held such vital national importance that Walton had asked him to go in alone and unaided. He had come to Geneva without even alerting his embassy, which was a serious breach of protocol. But Marc was also no longer officially part of any intelligence agency. He had been fired and dumped on the side of a Washington highway. By the same old man who now coughed into Marc’s ear. Which meant his superiors could not be reprimanded, since he didn’t have any.

  Marc heard a new strain to the ambassador’s voice, a hint that age was assaulting even this old warrior. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Focus on staying alive,” Ambassador Walton replied. “You are good to go.”

  Marc left a ten-franc note anchored beneath his coffee saucer and headed across the street to the lakeside promenade. He said into his phone, “Don’t you think now is a good time to tell me whose lead I’m following up here?”

  Walton suppressed another cough. “An old friend reached out.”

  Which was all Marc had gotten the last time he had asked. “Must be a good friend for you to give it this much credence.”

  “He was and he is.” The old man hesitated, long enough for Marc to assume he would not get anything more. But Ambassador Walton tended to relax his iron-clad grip on intel when his agents were walking into danger. “He’s a British industrialist. A source I’ve known and trusted for twenty years. We’ve long suspected he also supplies intel to Mossad.”

  “Why isn’t Mossad checking this out themselves?”

  “A question I’ve been asking ever since he contacted me. Two possibilities come to mind. First, Mossad knows something we don’t and want to rope us in. And second, they don’t trust the source.”

  “Meaning he could be the leak?”

  “Doubtful. But right now I am not ruling out anyone except us. And I only include you be
cause you don’t know enough to be a threat.”

  Marc did not take the bait. There was no need to look further than WikiLeaks to know how dangerous secrets could easily go public. He approached the gallery. “I’m in position.”

  “Target is twenty-four minutes out and closing.”

  Marc was hardly the only person walking along the lakefront with a phone attached to his ear. He was dressed in standard business garb, a dark gray suit and striped shirt and silk tie. He carried a slim leather briefcase slung over his left shoulder. He wished it contained a gun, but Swiss security made that impossible. The city served as a conduit for business from all over the globe. No one gave him a second glance as he walked along the line of tall, bulletproof windows. The interior looked dark, silent. “I see no guard.”

  “We’ve been over that. He relies on an electronic alarm system.”

  “I’m circling the perimeter.”

  “Roger that.”

  The side windows overlooked one of Geneva’s many piazzas. Marc turned another corner and entered a rear alley. The tight lane was shadowed from the morning sun. A restaurant’s trio of rubbish bins smelled of old food and disinfectant. Traffic echoed softly into his enclave.

  Then he saw it. “We have trouble.”

  “What is it?”

  “The perimeter has been breached.”

  “Show me.”

  Marc tabbed the app that turned his phone into a video camera with a live feed. He slowly panned the camera lens across the rear loading platform and the gallery’s rear doors. The steel portals were no longer sealed. He stepped closer and listened carefully.

  Marc said into the phone, “There is no alarm.”

  “Maybe it’s a simple fault.”

  “Negative. This place is otherwise as tight as a vault. And it’s wired. There are cameras in both corners.”

  “So security will have a record of your presence.”

  “The cameras have been on me since I crossed the street. That isn’t the point. You send me over, and the morning I arrive there is a break-in. They knew I was coming. Your own intel is breached.”

  “Withdraw.”

  “No. I’m here, I’m seen. I’m going in.”

  “Marc, wait—”

  He cut the connection, turned off his phone, and slipped it into his pocket. Any experienced operative knew the brass in their safe little bunkers responded to uncertainty by applying the brakes. Sometimes the guy in the field had to go with his gut. A successful operative was one whose hunches proved correct. They were the ones who made it home.

  Kitra Korban had never felt so totally uncertain or out of place. Not even when she had been kidnapped and held in the poisoned plains of western Kenya while just up the road a volcano cleared its throat. She had secretly yearned for the chance, just once, to walk along a pristine lane in a beautiful European city, elegantly dressed and drawing stares from people who did not carry the weight of a thousand lives on their hearts and shoulders.

  The air of Geneva was so different from the plains of Galilee. May was the first full month of the Israeli dry season. This year the rains had ended early. There was talk of a severe drought. Two of the kibbutz’s wells had already gone dry. Kitra’s kibbutz was an island of green in a hot and dusty land. There were problems with the new factory’s refining process. The shipments of rare earth arrived from Kenya faster than they could process them. Their potential customers were upset, the factory managers defensive and edgy. Everyone was exhausted, Kitra included. Other than the Sabbaths, she had not had a day off in seven months. They were working around the clock.

  Adding further to the uncertainty and turmoil, Marc had broken off their long-distance relationship. She had sensed this was coming for months. Marc was a member of the American intelligence community. He was a patriot. He was, in fact, a hero. For most of the past year, Kitra had hoped he would become her hero. But his decision was hardly a surprise.

  If only it did not hurt so much. Especially now.

  Recently she had pinned a postcard from her parents to her office wall. After a mild heart attack, her father had decided to take his first holiday in nine years. Her brother was gradually becoming accustomed to his new position as acting head of the kibbutz. Kitra had always assumed she would run their community, and someday that might still happen. But just then, her days and nights were taken with bringing the factory up to speed. The postcard had been of a Paris café. Kitra often stared at it, yearning for the freedom to enjoy an idle hour. Europe might as well have been on the other side of the moon. Until, that is, she had been asked to make this trip.

  The waters of Lake Leman sparkled across the way, blue as sapphires. In the far distance, the Alps gathered a morning crop of clouds. She passed a pair of lovers seated at a café. Being here in Geneva only amplified her longing for Marc.

  The precise clocks of this pristine city chose that moment to chime the hour. Kitra increased her pace, excited over seeing Marc again and dreading the encounter in equal measure.

  Marc tensed as the city’s clocks began their hourly clamor. The Swiss attention to detail could be infuriating. Then he returned to his inspection of the gallery’s rear doors. The steel had been punched by two blasts, probably from a shotgun holding solid rounds. Despite weighing over half a ton, the doors swung in with fluid ease. He stepped inside.

  The gallery’s chamber was a concrete cube, windowless and neat and precisely lit. Shelves held a wide variety of treasure and art. In the stockroom’s center, three easels supported a massive canvas. Lights on tripods were positioned like a Hollywood film set readying for a close-up. An artist’s table contained a variety of brushes and bottles. A magnifying glass was positioned above the center of the painting. The chamber smelled of cleaning fluid.

  Marc clicked on his phone and hit the speed dial. When the ambassador answered, he asked quietly, “Where’s the target?”

  Walton’s anger lowered his voice an octave. But the man was a pro. He had sent an operative into Indian country. Now was not the time for futile arguments. “Nine minutes out, maybe ten.”

  “Rate of speed?”

  “Hold one.” Walton returned swiftly with, “Holding steady at one-ten klicks.”

  A hundred and ten kilometers per hour was about seventy mph and ten klicks under the limit. “If the gallery’s alarm had gone off, the company’s owner would be pushing harder to arrive.”

  Walton hesitated, then said, “You have six minutes to complete your mission.”

  Kitra stood across the street from the gallery and searched the area for Marc. The morning rush-hour traffic competed with the continued ringing of all the city’s clock towers. She felt both exposed and confused. Even so, she remained where she was. A man’s life hung in the balance.

  It had started with a phone call from her father thirty-one hours earlier. He had used the same voice as when he took on the Israeli government, keeping his community intact and alive. He had told his only daughter, a man is coming to see you. Do whatever he says.

  Before Kitra could recover enough to ask what her father was talking about, he had hung up.

  A few moments later, the man had knocked on her open office door. He had refused to give his name. Instead he simply told her that the next morning, at precisely three minutes past the hour, Marc Royce would enter Geneva’s most exclusive art gallery, and die.

  Just like that, her life had flown into an entirely different orbit. Bringing her to this point. Standing on Geneva’s fashionable shopping street, desperate to save Marc Royce. The very same man she had recently told she never wanted to speak with again.

  Marc slowly pushed through the leather swinging doors and entered the gallery.

  The rooms were high-ceilinged and impossibly elegant. The art on the walls was powerful and distinctive and expensive. Three chambers opened into one another, each framed by a mock passage and a single stair of polished granite. The middle room was dominated by a crystal dais, upon which was poised a bronze Rodin ball
erina.

  Marc gave the dancer a single glance before his attention was caught by the corpse.

  The desk was positioned in the central room, so that the gallery owner could watch the doors and survey all three chambers. In the tight space between the filigreed legs and the window lay the body.

  The man wore a pinstriped suit and highly polished shoes. His impeccable shirt and tie were stained by the blood that spilled from the wound to his chest.

  Marc lifted his phone. “The target is not in the car.”

  “Repeat.”

  “Sylvan Gollet is here. And he’s dead.”

  “Show me.”

  Marc hit the camera app and started around the desk. Then the light flashed, and he knew he was a breath away from a death all his own.

  The light was a laser trigger, mounted to a compact charge. The package was fitted into the corner of the room and pointed straight down. Aimed precisely at where he now stood.

  When the city’s clocks finally went silent and Marc had not appeared, Kitra decided she had no choice. She crossed the street and pushed on the gallery door. To her astonishment, it was unlocked. She was surprised because the man who had come for her had described the situation in precise detail. The gallery would not open for another hour. Marc intended to break in and retrieve data from the gallery’s computer. He was in Switzerland on false papers. He would not answer his phone or check his regular email account. He was operating outside normal intelligence channels. He would view anyone who approached him as an adversary. But the man asked her to travel so as to warn Marc that his enemies knew all this and were waiting for him. If Kitra did not reach him in person and in time, he would die.

  Only there was no Marc. And the door opened easily.

  Kitra remained where she was, halfway through the entrance, and called out, “Marc?”

  He saw the front door swing open, and he heard the most beautiful voice in the world call, “Marc?”

  He had already taken two steps before the trigger clicked. He then heard a further two clicks, meaning three charges were now primed.

  He saw Kitra’s lovely features grow tight with shock. It was impossible that Kitra was here, yet he knew also that he had no time for thought. Not if they had any chance of survival.