Strait of Hormuz Page 3

  “Not at all.”

  “And yet there she was. Right in the nick of time.”

  Marc described the explosive charges and the laser triggers. “They knew I was coming. They obviously planned for me to get blown up, make it look like I had come there to murder him and got caught in my own blast.”

  The man in the charcoal jacket asked, “Your associates in Washington were tracking the gallery owner’s car?”

  “Tracking his cellphone. The killer or one of his accomplices drove it to Geneva from Gollet’s home as a decoy. Did you find the car?”

  “Abandoned at the train station. Wiped clean. No prints.”

  The police inspector bitterly disliked this exchange. He reinserted himself with, “Here is what I think happened, Mr. Royce. You were sent by outside forces not to buy anything at all. You came to murder a Swiss citizen. Which you did. And Ms. Korban was sent to stop you. Why? Who knows. Perhaps the deceased was an ally of her own country’s security. Perhaps something else entirely. But her arrival interrupted your destruction of the gallery, which meant you could not get away, not without killing the woman who came to warn you.”

  Marc was fairly certain the officer did not actually believe what he had suggested. But he was a cop, and he was a professional at placing blame. Marc replied, “Sorry, you got every bit of that wrong.”

  Marc assumed the well-dressed man was an agent with the Swiss FIS, the country’s lone intelligence agency. Swiss intel was generally a closed door, as in nothing came in or out. Because of Switzerland’s willingness to help tax dodgers and criminals hide away their money, and because they refused to accept court documents from other nations as legal requests, most nations refused to share any intelligence, under any circumstances, at any time.

  Which made the elegant man’s next move very interesting indeed.

  He led Marc into the police inspector’s office. A brass plaque on the door informed Marc that the chief inspector was named Remy Reynard. The elegant man did not introduce himself. He unlocked Marc’s handcuffs, slipped them into his pocket, and pointed at a steaming plastic cup and wrapped sandwich on the edge of the desk. “These are for you.”

  “Thanks. Could you please make sure Kitra has been given something?”

  “Already taken care of.” The man picked up the phone on the desk and said, “He’s here.” He listened a moment, then handed the receiver to Marc, walked out and shut the door behind him.

  Marc inspected the sandwich. It looked like it had spent so long in the wrapper the lettuce had molded to the plastic. He said into the phone, “This is Royce.”

  “Hold please for Ambassador Walton.”

  He took a sip from the plastic cup and grimaced. The coffee was vile. He dumped it and the limp-looking sandwich into the inspector’s trash can.

  “Marc?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Roger that. But I can’t say who might be listening in. I’m still inside—”

  “I know where you are. I’ve been assured this call is confidential.” Walton’s voice had turned reedy, and his breath came in tight little puffs, like he had to battle for air. “On this side we are joined by an assistant director of Homeland Security and a rear admiral who heads a section of DOD intel. Everyone hear me?”

  A man and a woman both responded with affirmatives. Walton said, “Tell us what happened.”

  Marc hesitated.

  “We’re waiting, Marc.”

  “Sir, permission to ask a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Do you intend for me to remain in-country?”

  Walton hesitated, as though giving his associates a chance to reply. “Affirmative.”

  “Then I think we should have their intel operative join us for the discussion. Otherwise we run the risk of my being driven to the border and getting kicked out.”

  Walton gave that ten seconds. “I agree. Comments, anyone?”

  The man’s voice said, “It’s a risk.”

  “It’s trumped by what we currently face,” replied the woman. “Invite him in.”

  Marc walked over and opened the door. The agent stood across the bullpen, arms crossed, listening to the inspector. The policeman looked irate, probably because Marc had been released from the cuffs and granted use of the inspector’s office. Kitra sat on the hard wooden bench by the side wall. She looked tired and worried and very small. All three faces turned his direction when Marc stepped out.

  Marc signaled to the agent. “Can you join me for a moment?”

  “What is this, a private gathering in my office?” The inspector’s voice rose to where the entire bullpen observed the exchange. “You want me to cater in something, perhaps? A nice fois gras, a carafe of wine?”

  The agent shut the door behind them, and Marc hit the speaker button. “We’ve been joined by—sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Bernard Behlet.”

  Walton demanded, “You’re Swiss intel?”

  “FIS. That is correct.”

  “My name is Walton. I am special adviser to the White House on matters pertaining to international—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Ambassador.”

  The phone went silent, then Walton said, “Explain.”

  “You were formerly director of State Department Intelligence, the smallest of the American agencies. We met once, actually.”

  “Sorry, your name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “There is no reason it should, sir.” The man’s voice held the calm strength of someone long used to dealing with power and egos. “I was on temporary duty at our Washington embassy and accompanied our ambassador to a reception in the State Department’s formal chambers.”

  “Right. Very well. Let us proceed. With me are two senior directors involved in the current situation. We want to begin by asking Marc to tell us—”

  “If you will excuse me, sir, I think we should invite the police inspector to sit in as well.”

  The DOD officer growled, “Oh, good grief.”

  “Chief Inspector Reynard has a murder on his hands,” Behlet went on. “One of the country’s premier art galleries has been blown up. The main avenues fronting the lake were closed for six hours. The blast zone covered almost a square kilometer and included Geneva’s most exclusive shopping street. The city is in chaos. Reynard is already being pressured by the city council for answers. He has every reason to be your man’s enemy. If the problem you face is more than simply the theft of art and treasures—”

  “It is,” the woman said. “Much more.”

  “Oh, come on, Sarah. Do we even know who this man is?”

  “What I know is the clock is ticking, and we are desperate. Agent Behlet, bring in the inspector.”

  When the policeman was brought in and introductions made, Reynard barked at the Swiss agent in French. Behlet replied in English, “I know this is true because I have met Ambassador Walton and I recognize his voice. I also know because the number I was told to dial is the central line for the White House.” He handed over a slip of paper. “You can check online to confirm.”

  The inspector had the ability to frown from his receding hairline to his shirt collar. He did not like it, but he stifled further objections. Behlet said, “You may proceed, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Marc, brief us on what happened.”

  He laid out the events in the clipped manner Walton preferred. Starting with his arrival at the airport, the taxi ride, circling the gallery, seeing the rear door was ajar, entering, spotting the body, noticing the infrared trigger, seeing Kitra. The race for the door, the blast, and here.

  Walton said, “Kitra Korban, the nurse you worked with in Kenya?”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The woman said, “Who?”

  “Royce’s last assignment was in Kenya,” Walton explained. “He investigated a security corporation by the name of Lodestone.”

  “I remember this,” the woman replied. “The attemp
ted theft of rare earth. That was Royce?”

  “It was. Marc, what’s your assessment?”

  “I was set up.” He fought fatigue, hunger, a pounding head, and aching ribs as he said, “Even though we circumvented all regular channels, there was still a leak.”

  The admiral demanded, “How did this Korban woman find you?”

  Agent Behlet replied, “Ms. Korban states she was visited by a man her father said she must trust. He did not identify himself, but we must assume it was Mossad.”

  Marc said, “Mossad must also know about the leak, so they refused to send their warning through the same channels you distrust. Maybe they have some idea of who our target is.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Walton said, “Which means Mossad knows what we face.”

  “Of course they know,” the woman responded. “The threat originates in Israel’s backyard. They have to know, and they are obviously as concerned as we are, both about the leaks and the threat.”

  Bernard Behlet cleared his throat. “Might I inquire what it is that has you so alarmed?”

  “I for one would like to know the very same thing,” the police inspector agreed.

  “Tell them,” Walton said.

  “Are you both out of your minds?” The admiral’s voice carried the strength of pounded steel. “We already have a serious leak, we have a ticking clock, and you want to share this intel with strangers?”

  The woman’s voice was softer, but equally firm. “We face serious time constraints. And you heard our agent—”

  “Correction. Royce is no longer a member of the service. He was canned.”

  Walton corrected, “I dismissed him because I had no choice. He was facing a personal crisis—”

  “This is nuts.”

  “Correction. This is crucial,” the woman snapped back.

  “I do not concur. There is no hard evidence to connect any of this to Switzerland. Your ex-agent is operating in the wrong country.”

  Chief Inspector Reynard leaned forward and opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Bernard lifted one hand. Wait. Marc liked the man for his smooth control.

  Walton replied, “Marc Royce is trying to follow the money trail. The destruction of this gallery—”

  “Means nothing.”

  “With respect, I disagree,” Walton replied. “Regardless, we are proceeding.”

  “I object in the strongest possible terms.”

  “Duly noted.” Walton rarely barked, but he did so now. “Proceed.”

  The woman said, “Eleven days ago, nine containers left a missile factory in North Korea. The containers traveled by rail to Pyong Yang, where they were placed on a Liberian freighter. The manifest claimed it was bound for Karachi, Pakistan. Five days later, the ship radioed that it was experiencing engine troubles and put in at Singapore. Satellite photos indicate that all nine containers are now missing. We have not been able to locate them.”

  Walton added, “The factory makes motors and guidance systems for long-range missiles. Iran wouldn’t dare try and transship the whole rocket. It would be like painting a giant bull’s-eye on the side of the vessel. These motors are two generations further along than anything the Iranians have built. An Iranian missile equipped with this propulsion system has the capability of striking American soil.”

  The woman continued, “Just prior to this event, we received credible reports of a pending attack on a U.S. port. Atlantic seaboard. All indications point toward this incident being large enough to take out the entire city. We are talking about an unprecedented loss of American lives.”

  Behlet asked, “Where does the Geneva connection fit into this?”

  The admiral snarled, “It doesn’t. At all.”

  Walton replied, “There was fragmentary evidence of the gallery being a conduit for illicit funds used to circumvent the Iranian sanctions.”

  The admiral snapped, “I’ve seen your so-called evidence. There is nothing that makes a direct link between the gallery bombing and the missing shipment.”

  Marc countered, “But it does make for a perfect motive. They must be planning a major incident to set me up and blow up this gallery.”

  “The timing,” Behlet quietly agreed, “could be significant.”

  “We have three options that are now on the president’s table,” Walton said. “The Israelis have warned us that if we do not stop this shipment, they will bomb the Iranian nuclear facilities. All of them. Do I need to tell you what that means?”

  Behlet glanced at his associate, who had gone very still, and replied, “No, Mr. Ambassador. You do not.”

  “Option two. We stop every ship coming through the Strait of Hormuz, including those bearing the Iranian flag. Do you understand what that means?”

  “It is an act of war,” Behlet said, his eyes still on the inspector.

  The Strait of Hormuz formed the only sea passage between the Persian Gulf and the open ocean. Almost a quarter of the entire world’s oil was shipped through those narrow waters, making it the most strategically vital passage on earth. At its narrowest, the Strait was less than twenty miles wide. To the south, it was bordered by the United Arab Emirates, Oman, and islands belonging to Saudi Arabia. To its north ran the shoreline of Iran.

  Ambassador Walton confirmed, “The instant we board that first vessel, we will be officially at war with Iran.”

  “And option three?”

  “We determine where those containers are. We stop them.”

  “Walton, you’re wasting my time,” the admiral snapped. “I am out of here.”

  When the admiral clicked off, Walton sighed. “As you have probably detected, the military feels we should support an attack by Israel, and back them with a blockade of the Strait.”

  The woman from Homeland said, “Our last best hope of an alternative to all-out war is to track the money.”

  Walton said, “As of this morning we have put through official requests to the Swiss government for their assistance. We need the gallery’s funds and accounts to be frozen, and all recent transactions traced.”

  “I will see what I can do to speed things along,” Bernard said. “I will inform you through Agent Royce if anything turns up.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” Walton said.

  Marc asked, “How much time do we have?”

  The woman replied, “Tracking out the shipping time from Singapore, the earliest the vessel could possibly arrive at the Strait is seven days.”

  “One week, gentleman,” Walton rasped. “You heard the admiral. After that, the gloves come off.”

  Chapter Four

  The policewoman drove Kitra to the train station to retrieve her suitcase, then took her to a modest but very pleasant hotel between the station and the lake. Kitra twice started to ask where Marc was, but both times decided she was better off not knowing. Her hotel room had a narrow balcony overlooking a small plaza. She slept beneath a duvet as soft as a cloud.

  She awoke at eight forty-five the next morning, two hours later than normal, and that without an alarm or banging kibbutz bell or frantic knock on her door. She took a long bath in a huge tub and used every amenity the hotel had to offer—shampoo and conditioner and perfumed lotion and a fluffy white robe. She then dressed in fresh clothing from her suitcase.

  A room-service breakfast was served on her balcony. Below the wrought-iron railing, traffic swirled and people scurried. Between two high-rise office buildings she could glimpse the sparkling waters of Lake Geneva. It was her first free morning in nine months. The air was sweet, the day both warm and cold as only an Alpine spring could be. Kitra used the linen napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes, and told herself she had every right to be happy.

  When the knock came on her door, she assumed it was Marc. Her heart thumped as she crossed the room, which was simply ridiculous. She paused to check her reflection. What was sillier still was the fact that she had spent so much time on her makeup and clothing because of this moment. She wore he
r second-best outfit, a tan linen skirt and silk blouse and matching hose. If only there was something she could do about the hollowness in her eyes.

  She took a long breath, then told her reflection, “Don’t let him hurt you again.”

  But when she opened the door, she was startled to find it was the Swiss agent. “Good morning, Ms. Korban. Your associate has been called to his embassy. He asked me to speak with you.”

  “Marc is in Bern?”

  “Yes. Mr. Royce left by train two hours ago. He hopes to be back by lunch. May we speak privately?”

  Bernard Behlet might be a government official, but Kitra did not feel comfortable inviting him into her room. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  “Of course.” He swept his arm down the empty hall. “Please.”

  But as she gathered up her purse and room key, the phone rang. She motioned for Bernard Behlet to wait. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Korban, we met four days ago.” The voice was deep and spoke Hebrew with the guttural ease of a native Israeli. “At the kibbutz.”

  “I remember.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No. How did you find me?”

  “That’s not the question you need to be asking. Did Marc tell you what we’re facing?”

  “He started to.” She glanced at her watch. It was midday in Tel Aviv. “Are you calling from Israel?”

  “That’s not important either. Listen carefully to what Royce tells you, Ms. Korban. Then you have to decide. Are you with us or are you part of the scenery? We need to know this, and we need to know now.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Marc claims you are perhaps the most intelligent and perceptive young woman he has ever met. Ambassador Walton’s secondhand impression is precisely the same. Our reports from allies in Kenya mirror these assessments. Your kibbutz has riled a number of powerful people. I like that. It means you’re fighters. You stick up for your principles. That’s what we need.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “For you to pass on a message. Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

  “Wait . . . All right, go ahead.”

  He rattled off a number. “And tell Marc Royce yes.”