As they left the bank, Bernard called with the news that all those tailing them had been arrested. “There were, in fact, four teams. Two watchers each. Very professional. Here is a strange thing. Two of the teams are Iranian. Two are Pakistani.”
Marc thought of the Divonne chapel service and standing at the podium, looking out over the sea of faces representing so many different ethnicities, yet a thread stronger than steel pulling them together. But what his little group was facing now was the flip side of the equation, he knew. Nations bound together toward the common intent of spreading darkness. “How long can you hold them?”
“A few hours only. All have diplomatic passports. Their embassies have already lodged protests. Consular officials are now rushing down from Bern. I am personally supervising their questioning. It is doubtful we will learn anything. But we will have sent a clear message to the embassies that these actions are unacceptable. They will be escorted to the airport, and there they will remain until their flights depart.”
“Thank you,” Marc said. “For everything.”
“I assure you, my friend, the people I answer to are increasingly irate over the actions of our foes.”
Amin had stepped away from the others to take a phone call. He approached Marc to say, “Sayed has located us a source. We need to leave now.”
Marc related this to Bernard, who replied, “You will report back to me immediately, yes? In the meantime, I will return to the useless interviews.”
Amin drove the Mercedes, with Marc settled into the middle of the rear seat, Kitra on his right, Rhana to his left. The woman bore the same haunted expression as the previous night. He said softly, “Perhaps you would want to go back to your hotel?”
She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. She responded only with a quick but firm shake of her head.
He hesitated, then decided he owed her a final warning. “Things could get intense, Rhana.”
“How do you describe events up to now?”
“We’ve kept you safe. We’ve shielded your involvement. If you stay, they’ll know you are with us.” He let that sink in, then repeated, “Intense.”
She turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed from too many sleepless hours. “I owe people who are gone. I will be staying.”
He nodded. He had done what he needed to do. The decision was hers.
Marc savored Kitra’s closeness. She smelled of a lovely blend of lemons and sage and youth and feminine allure. He knew he should not let her invade his concentration. But then she shifted slightly and seemed to melt to him, just for a moment, before drawing away again. And he was glad he sat where he did. Very glad.
The village of Meyrin was located on the border of the Canton of Geneva, still containing remnants of its farming origins. The outskirts were dotted with vineyards and orchards and traditional wooden chalets. But the more recent portion of the town had overwhelmed its origins. Meyrin was a faceless commuter city, filled with bland apartment blocks and tight little postage-stamp parks and new shopping streets and office buildings. The only standout feature of the nondescript new city were the signs for CERN, the world’s largest particle physics laboratory headquartered in Meyrin.
They entered a bland café situated across the street from a dozen identical office buildings. The compound was ringed by a park, and between the park and the street was a security fence topped with warning signs. Marc spotted nine different patrol vehicles in less than fifteen minutes. Sentry cameras stood atop tall poles. The guards manning the front gate were armed and extremely alert.
Most of the people seated in the café bore an air of preoccupation. Many of the tables held worksheets covered with indecipherable mathematical symbols. The conversations were muted and intense.
The man who approached them was dark-skinned, dressed in the garb of a professional nerd—shapeless jacket over a gray T-shirt, corduroys, Birkenstocks. He moved swiftly between the tables, shook Amin’s hand, surveyed the others, and demanded, “We are safe?”
“These are friends,” Amin assured him. “There are more friends guarding our perimeter.”
The man dropped into a seat, declined Amin’s offer of tea, and said, “I have only a few minutes.”
His accent was a peculiar blend of many cultures. Marc had known this in other scientists. They were born here, studied there, did their postgraduate work somewhere else, accepted appointments in a fourth country, and learned languages with an impatient facility. Their real focus never changed. Their first language was the impossibly difficult tongue of higher mathematics.
Amin said, “We are most grateful that you agreed to join us.”
“Our contact tells me you wish to know about Hesam al-Farouz.”
“That is correct.”
“Yes, well, so do I.”
Amin glanced across the table at Marc, gestured with two fingers, inviting him to take charge. Marc shook his head. The scientist had not looked directly at anyone except Amin. The scientist sat with his back to the rear wall, studying every face that went by, as well as the street and the misting rain. He did not want to know them.
Amin said, “Could you please explain what that means, you want to know him?”
“My field is high-energy physics. I know everyone who is involved in this. By know, I mean I have read their work, or heard them speak, or met with them.”
“You know their research,” Marc said.
The scientist shot him a quick glance, tight and worried, then away. He continued to direct his words at the empty space before him. “It is like a signature. A fingerprint. And Dr. al-Farouz has none.”
Amin’s voice held the gentle tone of a supplicant. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Two years ago, he abruptly appeared. Before, nothing. Suddenly he was everywhere. So I asked. Of course I asked. Who is this man? His credentials were impeccable. He completed his doctoral research in applied high-energy particles at age twenty-two. Twenty-two. That is astonishing but not unheard of. According to my research, Hesam al-Farouz did his postdoctoral research at Tehran, then vanished. For almost twelve years, there was nothing. Then two years ago, he pops up. Like I said, now he is everywhere. I spotted him at conferences in Paris and here and Zurich and Bonn. Never America. Never England. But elsewhere, yes, he comes and he shakes the hands and he smiles his handsome smile. The conference list of attendees state he is now on the faculty of Isfahan University.”
Amin frowned. “But this would be a normal cover for a scientist attached to a secret nuclear weapons program, no?”
“Of course it would. But why has he suddenly popped up again? There is no other such person anywhere in Iran. If a person enters into their secret work, they remain secret.”
“You have checked?”
“Of course I checked.” He wiped at a faint sheen of perspiration. “I spoke with an associate at Isfahan. There is quite a good department there. Not cutting edge, but they know things. They are focused on applications. Medical, communications, cryptography, like that. I ask someone I know. I was told not to ask. My contact refused to even speak with me again. About anything.”
Marc said, “You think the man’s background has been manufactured.”
“It is all so perfect. And that bothers me. Nothing in physics is perfect. If it was, we would all know the answers and we would all agree. But we don’t agree, and the answers take generations to become clear. And here is this man. He has never taken a wrong step. But there is no research bearing his name, no one who will speak of his work, nothing. If you wanted to make a man appear to be a bomb maker, what would you say? He is brilliant and he is well trained and he has spent his life never making a wrong step.” He met Marc’s gaze with worried intensity. “This Hesam al-Farouz is perfect. And he also is a ghost.”