Strait of Hormuz (Marc Royce)
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Investigating the funding of Iran's nuclear program, Marc Royce must rely on an old ally to help him uncover the truth--before it's too late.
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
that he had in fact now had the castle’s front perimeter ringed by allies. “All right. We are going to go inside and get ready to move Sir Geoffrey.” The industrialist waited for them in the front lobby, his urbane demeanor in tatters. Sir Geoffrey was a man afraid for his life. “Are you sure we must proceed with this?” “I can’t tell you what to do. But there’s no other way to determine if we face a real threat.” Marc turned to the hovering duty manager and attendant and said, “Give us a
defines boredom. The stench of cleaning fluid and smugness follows me everywhere. I was delighted to see them scurry about in fear after you bombed the gallery in Geneva. It was a proper blow for us all. Delighted.” They were seated in plastic chairs so overused the legs splayed like weary fat men. The plastic tabletop between them was supported by rusting metal legs. They were surrounded by a sea of satellite dishes and microwave antennae. A dingy cupboard held an electric kettle and an
Bernard settled himself on the jump seat, Amin in the front on the passenger side. She had a linebacker’s jaw and an energy that punched through the dusk. The woman’s gaze, hard as sword steel, matched the voice that barked, “Which one is Royce?” “That would be me, ma’am.” “I’ve worked with Ambassador Walton on three occasions. He impresses me. I expect you to do the same.” She leaned forward a fraction, enough to look around him at Bernard. “You are Agent Behlet?” “Correct, Madame
honor for a very long time.” Dov pointed beyond the bow, out over the empty sea. “Our friends have located the research vessel. They did a flyover at thirty thousand feet—nothing to raise alarms. The boat is thirty miles out and closing. But there is a mystery. It travels at a tourist’s pace. You understand?” “The ship is in no hurry,” Marc replied. “Maybe it wants to enter the Strait after dark.” “The Gulf of Aqaba is tightly patrolled at night,” Sandrine said. “Tourist vessels are forbidden